The trouble with Jason

by BRK

 Joey is feeling a little overstimulated by all the competing transformations his hot friend and coworker, Jason, is being given by their bosses—especially since Jason himself not only is completely clueless that he’s being changed at all, but seems to flirt without knowing it, too.

Added: Jan 2016 4,501 words 11,269 views 4.7 stars (6 votes)


The problem wasn’t that our cantankerous two founding partners at the tiny little elite body mod firm I work for had decided to periodically morph Jason, our boyishly handsome college jock receptionist, as a way of showing off our ludicrously expensive transformation services. After all, Jason had gamely agreed to be TFed as part of his hiring contract. Though because they always used the “stealth” setting on his mods, with the idea that he’d be relaxed and casual about his new body (because he’d “always been that way”), he kept wondering when they were going to get around to do the TF. The suspense was killing him.

No, the problem was that neither of them ever agreed with the other on anything, including Jason. In fact they hardly ever spoke with each other at all, but just charged ahead separately with whatever idea came into their head, whether it was a new marketing project, or an idea for a line of orange-tinted eyes, or the whatever the latest receptionist mod might be that was guaranteed to show off the firm’s capabilities. Which meant that every week one or the other of them ordered some new change to Jason without consulting the other. Or setting foot in our understatedly posh offices high atop New York’s swank Waterbury Building to see the results: they both worked from their mansions, one in California, the other in Bali, and since (ironically) they took most of their meetings wherever they happened to be in the world, which was almost always someplace other than here, our offices were usually pretty quiet. Either way, constant dueling morphage didn’t always—well, you’ll see.

Actually, the real problem, from my perspective, was that as I got to know the real Jason over countless conversations, at first perched on the corner of his desk during my breaks, then over regular noontime repasts in the ritzy sandwich shop downstairs (which fortunately offered discounts to building tenants) and graduating to hanging out after work doing buddy stuff and Monday nights over at his place watching football, I had managed to fall in love with Jason, though he, at least, seemed cheerfully oblivious. To him I was obviously just his pal Joey, the graphics dude. I was pretty sure he was straight, but I honestly couldn’t tell if he was just a relaxed bro that didn’t mind chilling with a reasonably butch gay guy, or he was oblivious to the whole concept of sexual attraction, possibly as a defense mechanism as a result of being so fucking hot.

So he’d pop by my nice office off the corridor leading out of reception every so often to shoot the breeze before we headed off for roast beef sandwiches and curly fries. And while I’m sitting there at my desk, dealing with the brain wrench of sudden and awesome changes to his deliberately-designed-to-be-a-cock-stiffener of a bod, he’s just as clueless about my passion as he is about his own fantastic mutation.

Take last week. One of the partners—Lutteredge, I think; when it comes to the art of mutation muscle had always been his strong suit, not to say obsession—had clearly put through a pec upgrade for Jason, because when wandered into my office at around 11:53 that Monday, a rapacious-pirate grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye that told me he had wild stories to tell me about his party-adventure weekend, I couldn’t help but notice that his pecs were about twice as big as they’d been at our Friday night poker game, and were now the size of oversized honeydew melons. Except that Lutteredge had probably forgotten, or had never noticed on the weekly spec sheets he barely skimmed most of the time, that the other partner, Keaveney, had upped the quantity of his pecs to three last week. So Jason’s crisp saturated-cobalt custom tailored dress shirt was, shall we say, kind of full—at least up top; below it tapered dramatically to Jason’s tight 30-inch waist. His colorful tie, with a surfer-jams pattern on it, draped over his middle pec and hung off it like a waterfall.

I know, I know, I shouldn’t have noticed them at all, right? These stealth changes would be pretty meaningless if everyone else noticed you were suddenly different, after all. No one’s supposed to recognize the mods, not if they’re set not to be noticed; or notice that someone has changed. But somehow I do. I caught a glance of a secret company document once that admitted about 1 in 100 million were immune from the stealth effect. I immediately understood that I was one of them. Since then I’ve often wondered if the company knows about me. Am I some kind of control? Was someone watching my reactions?

Jason certainly didn’t know he was suddenly smuggling soccer balls in his custom-fitted dark blue Hugo Boss Oxford, since the stealth function not only made him not notice his body was suddenly different but seemed to sort of suppresse the extremity of whatever had been modded for him, and increasingly so in proportion to how extreme the mod was. All he knew, and all anyone else who’d meet him would know but me, was that he was kinda big up top, and that that having three pecs was very hot—but also very much No Big Deal.

I glanced up from my monitor, saw him, and stared. “Hey dude,” he said casually, hands in his pockets, leaning on the doorframe. His green eyes glinted. His thick, silky blond hair was getting long lately, just brushing his bulging traps, and suddenly I wanted to run my hands through it…while cumming all over his impossible chest and chiseled abs. His body—fuck! Between these changes and all the others that had been allowed, deliberately or through neglect, to “take” rather than being undone—fuck. He looked like he had been custom designed to mash every one of my buttons, and then make new ones and mash those, too. My office, the envy of anyone who saw because of how open and airy it was, suddenly felt warm and close. My dick inflated in my boxers like a life raft, making me very glad I was sitting down and wearing my looser-fitting dress pants. And Jason, the fucker, just stood there, smiling, totally used to everyone looking at him in exactly the way I was doing. It was just one of those things, like being good at math. Or being so hot you made straight guys pregnant.

I closed my mouth with an effort. It had been hanging open. “H-hey,” I said weakly. I had tried to make it a rule not to bring up his mutations because for him it was normal; but my mouth just started talking anyway. “You, uh, been working out? Because you’re looking kinda huge there.”

“Shut up,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “You know everyone always asks me that. Geez, I haven’t done a bench press since I passed a hundred inches.”

I was staring at his chest. The shirt was…distracting, and not just because the deep blue color really set off his creamy Nordic features and rich, golden hair. My eyes slid across the expanses of taut, closely woven dark fabric as it strained slightly across his pecs, catching on the rowdy jams-patterened tie that hid the placket closely traversing his middle pec. But even as the shirt (and everything else) was making my insides feel very funny, the tastefully uncorporate tie was reminding me that this was my goofy work pal Jason I was ogling.

I swallowed and recollected myself, and with a certain amount of mental effort forced myself to shift into “casual buddy” mode. “Just sayin’,” I said, turning away from them—I mean, him—and pretending to fool around with one of our demure, coded ads for a top men’s fashion website. “Whoever did your implants should put you on his billboards,” I went on jokingly. “He’ll make a mint.”

“Ha, ha,” Jason said, moving over to the extra chair next to my desk and dropping into it. His amazing body was just there, right there in my peripheral vision. “I’ve never heard that one before.” He scoffed. “My eighth-grade football coach made the ‘implant’ joke my first day at practice.”

The stealth setting comes with new memories? I hadn’t really realized that, though now that I thought about it I guessed it would have to for the subject not to notice. I tried focusing on my screen but wasn’t really seeing it. “C’mon,” I said, pretending to type something important. “You do have the hottest pecs of anyone I know. You should be proud.”

Jason shrugged is broad shoulders. “I am,” he admitted matter-of-factly. A thought seemed to occur to him. “Hey, when they do my mods, you think they’ll make them bigger?”

I looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “Bigger?” I said, surprised.

He smiled crookedly at me. He really was devastatingly handsome. He had been very good looking before he was hired, for that matter, but they’d given him a few subtle mods right at the start that made him so beautiful it just melted your heart. I got lost in his emerald green eyes for a minute, but he was used to that from pretty much everyone.

His expression soured a little. “Probably not, right?” he said. He looked away, toward the door and the general direction of the partners’ always unoccupied offices. “Probably they’ll make them smaller. Or drop me down to two.”

“Booo-ooring,” I called.

Jason grinned, then added unexpectedly, “Hey! Did you see that Lutteredge was in this morning?”

I was so surprised that I not only turned to look directly at him, but kept my eyes on his face the whole time. “No way! He was here?”

Jason nodded affirmation. “Yup! Met with a couple of very well-dressed swells in his office, showed them some specs, and then breezed out to lunch with them.”

“Wow,” I said. My mind was spinning. I hadn’t actually laid eyes on Lutteredge in months. “Is he coming back after lunch?” I’d been bugging him for the Esquire print ad copy for several days, and he’d kept forgetting to email them to me. If I actually got in his face, I might be able to finalize the ad in time for the insertion date.

But Jason was shaking his head. “He had me book him on a flight to Paris this afternoon,” Jason said. “Told me he was leaving for JFK straight from the restaurant. His assistant had his bags and everything.”

I nodded, frowning. Any other time, I would have distracted myself with thoughts of Ramón, the assistant, who was just as hot and just as augmented as Jason (mostly by way of clothes-stretching muscle, as that was Lutteredge’s specialty). But I was thinking that Lutteredge might have his notes for the ad on the computer in his office. He was kind of vague most of the time and easily distracted, especially by his own augmented assistants. With meetings and travel on his mind as well, I thought the chances were pretty good he hadn’t remembered to log out before heading to lunch and then jet-setting to Paris, so I just had to catch his computer before it went to sleep and locked up.

“C’mon,” I said, standing up suddenly and grabbing my tablet, which was sitting next to the high-powered graphics workstation I used for most of my work. Jason rose with me, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I gotta check on something and then we can go to lunch,” I explained. But as I said this my eyes fell to Jason’s amazing chest. He was (lately) a couple inches taller than I was, so they were perfectly located to grab my attention and hold onto them in much the same way that my dick wanted to be grabbed and held onto right now.

“You want to touch them, don’t you?” he said, sounding half amused and half resigned.

I swallowed. “I just—they look…firm,” I stammered.

“Everyone wants to touch them,” he said, almost as a sing-song. Was he taunting me a little? I lifted my eyes to his, and he was smiling—affectionately, I thought.

“But you’ll let me touch them because you like me,” I wheedled.

Jason shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Too complicated. Actually I don’t let friends touch them at all. Just hookers,” he added seriously. I gaped at him, and he threw back his head and laughed. “Your face!” he said, obviously delighted. He dropped his heavily muscled left arm over my shoulder. “C’mon,” he said. “I’m starved. Let’s check on whatever you need to check on and get out of here.”

Jason was a little dubious when I darted into Lutteredge’s huge, dimly lit, and very old fashioned office and plunked down into the big leather desk chair, even after I explained about the ad copy. But he sat patiently in one of the posh green leather visitor’s chairs and watched as I checked the boss’s desk computer. Yes! I thought, doing as little internal happy dance. I’d been right about him not signing out. I wiggled the mouse to make sure it stayed awake and then started trolling through his files, quickly finding the folder for the ad. There were, somewhat to my surprise, some notes in there, and though they weren’t finalized they were enough to at least get me closer to the finished product. I shared the file onto my tablet across the wifi, and smiled at it showed up there. “Got it,” I muttered.

I closed the windows I had opened and was about to get up when my eye caught on an icon on the desktop. It was a shortcut, and label simply said, “Link to mod app”. I blinked at it. Instead of double-clicking on it to open the app, I followed the shortcut and found the folder containing the app itself. It was empty except for a file and two folders, marked “Clients” and “Employees” respectively.

The file was the transformation app itself, labeled “Mod app” and with the firm’s logo as an icon. I knew it didn’t require anything but itself: though I hadn’t seen the app before, I knew the partners worked the transformation mods remotely across secure internet connections to a set of servers installed in some secret location. They needed only some front-end software on their end, and this was it.

So the app didn’t exactly surprise me. It was the labels on the three files in the “Employees” folder that made my heart start pounding nervously in my chest like it was being forced to perform a tarantella. One was called “Bennett_Jason key.tfm”. One was called “Cordova_Ramón key.tfm”. And one was called “Pollard_Joseph key.tfm”.

I stared at my own name in real shock. My mind seemed to fill with fast-expanding, quick-set foam, like the kind you use to fix flat tires. Nothing happened in my skull for—well, I don’t know how long, probably only a good ten or fifteen seconds, but it felt longer.

“Hey, buddy,” Jason tried after a moment. “You okay? ‘Cause, I don’t really want us to be here hacking Lutteredge’s shit if he does come back from lunch. Right?” I glanced up and blinked at him. I registered him as if he hadn’t been there. Jason. Lutteredge’s office. Right. We were in Lutteredge’s office, for—some reason?

Jason looked concerned, and only partly because of whatever had showed on my face when my brain had broken a minute earlier. “So,” he went on slowly, nodding toward the open door behind him, “maybe we should…?”

I caught my breath. “Right.” I quickly returned my attention to the screen and, feeling a faint dampness on my forehead, shared all four files into a new folder on my tablet, more or less without allowing myself to think about what I was doing, or why there was a mod file with my name on it. Especially not that. But there was no way I was not checking the log associated with my key file for what, if anything, had been done to me. Looking back on my reaction, I think it had mostly to do with my having hitherto unconsciously assumed I was essentially off the table and excluded from whatever internal shenanigans the partners were up to, since (a) I was one of the rare one in a million that was exempt from the stealth mode, (b) I wasn’t eye candy for the clients like Jason and Ramón, and (c) I knew for damn sure there was no “mod me please” clause in my contract like there was in Jason’s. Seeing my name on that key file was the first sign I was probably incredibly wrong, and by “sign” I mean it like a drunk crop-duster smashing straight into that huge honkin’ billboard in the middle of old Harry Mead’s field that sure as fuck wasn’t there yesterday.

Once the share was complete and the files were on my tablet I jumped up as if the desk chair were suddenly drawling with fire ants. “Let’s go,” I said, walking swiftly out of the office—and almost right smack into Amy Banks, the cute little accounts payable lady whose office was on the other side of the floor from mine. Jason, who’d been following right close me, very nearly plowed into me.

“Hey, Amy!” I said cheerily, in that way you do when you’re trying really hard to act innocent. “What’s up?” Jason was right behind me—I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“Oh, hey, Joey!” Amy said, startled. She gazed up at me, wide-eyed. Amy was a small and perky type, barely coming up to my neck. The word “pixie-ish” had been heard once or twice with reference to her, never from me of course. “Um, is he in? I heard he was in today, and I wanted to go over some—”

“Nope,” I interrupted, “just missed him.” I edged around Amy, intending to exhibit the emptiness of Lutteredge’s old-fashioned, creepy star chamber of an office, only Jason was still blocking the entrance.

“Oh,” Amy said. “Hi, Jason,” she said, staring right at where his pecs were almost, but not quite, straining his high-end tailored dress shirt. To be fair, they were at her eye level, but still. Irrationally, I felt a pang of what I was unwilling to call jealousy. I had claimed those pecs for myself, and they were off limits to everyone else. They were mine to stare at, whenever I could get away with it. And touch, if I could ever talk my friend the cocktease around to it.

“C’mon, Jase,” I said irritably, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the elevators. “Those subs won’t eat themselves.”

Jason let himself be dragged away. “Bye, Amy,” he called back to her, waving amiably. She was still staring after him, looking star-struck. I growled a little somewhere deep in my throat.

Jason felt like hot dogs, as it turned out, and it was a very nice day, so we headed over to the little park a block from our offices. We bought a couple dogs each from a cart near the entrance and sat on either side of an L-shaped marble bench facing the large grassy area that made up most of the block. As Jason munched away at one of his relish and onions dogs, contentedly watching a dozen or so office workers making impromptu picnics in the lawn and arousing the curiosity of a few local squirrels, I took a few nervous bites of a plain frank from its cardboard holder, while with my free right hand I noodled at my tablet as it lay in my lap.

Bracing myself, I opened my key file. The mod app launched and went straight to the history of changes made using this key. The log, however, was mostly empty. There were only two changes recorded. The first was Package 1A, which I knew was the starting-level vanilla attractiveness upgrade: looks, fat-burning metabolism, and your basic Michelangelo’s David proportions, except with a porn-star’s dick. I felt the latter twinge interestedly in my slacks. This kind of blew me away. I’d always been proud of my body: hey, I was cute, I was buff, I was hung, what more could a randy gay teenager ask for? Or a randy young adult, for that matter. It was wild to think I’d really only had it for a couple years. My great body, which I’d been enjoying all my life, turns out to have been an employee perk. I grinned. This was… kind of cool, actually.

“Something funny?” Jason asked. He’d finished the first dog and was eyeing me with amusement. I knew he was thinking I needed to get my head out of the computer and enjoy the beautiful day. I just smiled at him and looked back down. He tsked.

“Gimme one minute,” I hedged. I set down the hot dog and picked up the tablet in my left hand, bringing it closer as fascination washed through me. The second change in the log file was, if anything, even more interesting. The code simply sat “TFX-ST Exempt Level VII.” I knew from other records I’d seen that the “-ST” suffix meant stealth mode. So this meant—I looked up, staring unseeing into the grassy park. This meant that my exemption from stealth mode wasn’t genetic—it was a mod!

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

But even as I started to wonder at the partners’ motivations for dropping this particular mod on me, of all people, something shifted in my brain, something like a revelation. It was slowly dawning on me. It had taken me a while to get past everything else, but I was finally focusing on what exactly I was holding in my hand. I had the mod app…and I had the key that let me apply that app to my body.

My heart started pounding like mad. An insane impulse took me. I wanted this. I wanted to do something radical, demented, just because I could. My augmented, employee-perk cock was rock hard. I opened up the main part of the app, scrolling through progressively more and more radical mods. I saw one that would be awesome and crazy beyond any doubt, at least for me. Crazy awesome. I had to. After a second I glanced over at Jason. He was still watching me, still mildly amused. “What?” he asked, almost laughing at my manic behavior today.

“Has anyone ever given you shit for—” I nodded at his oversized pecs. “—being unusual?”

His beautiful brow creased slightly behind the stray locks of thick blond hair that the light breeze had loosened. He lifted a hand and tugged the cascade behind his ear. “You mean, big?” he asked gamely.

I shook my head slightly, pulse still racing. “I mean, three,” I said, hesitant to call attention to it.

“No, not at all,” he said immediately. “People don’t really notice it, to be honest, even if I’m bare-chested. That or being big. Though anyone who likes pecs tends to think they’re… nice to look at,” he added with a smirk.

“So,” I pressed, “even though you’re the only guy with three pecs anyone’s ever met, no one has called you a freak or treated you weird because of it?”

Jason’s brows were now pressed hard together. “Right,” he said, no longer amused. “Joey, what’s this about?”

I ignored him for a second and, sweat beading my forehead, pressed the entry for the mod on my tablet. Instead of activating directly, a dialog box popped up. I thought I was getting flagged for unauthorized use, and my heart was in my throat. But the dialog box just said, “Apply mod as of what date?” Underneath it was a box with a date. The default date provided was nine months before I was born.

Suddenly it made sense. The mods weren’t applied in real time and then propped up with false memories. They were applied in the past and then real memories fell into place afterwards as a result!

“Joey?” came Jason’s voice. For an unflappable guy he sounded almost upset.

Without allowing myself any more thought I clicked “okay”…

…and let both my right arms drop into my lap, as I barely managed to keep hold of my tablet with my front left hand. I gasped, feeling a rush of memories and emotions and sensations all roar through me at once. I looked down at my amazing, four-armed body, perfectly set off by my specially tailored four-armed dress shirt, still with the proportions of porn-star David. I rubbed my rear biceps against my front triceps and that very nearly put me right over the edge, and I suddenly had to keep myself from cumming in my slacks. I managed it, but it was a near thing.

I turned to Jason, who was leaning toward me to rest a warm hand on my newly doubled shoulder. “Joe?” he asked. I stared into his eyes, remembering how I’d jacked off to him only the night before, except now also I remembered doing so with two left hands.

Being four-armed in high school. Guys on my baseball team loving it. Four-armed as a kid, trying to sneak cookies with my back hands while I distracted Mom and Dad with the front ones. Somewhere there was a box of snapshots with Mom’s favorite baby pic of me, the one where I’m clapping gleefully with both sets of hands.

“I just wondered,” I rasped softly, “if it was like me and…the arms.”

Jason’s concerned expression relaxed into a smile. “Sounds like it, from what you’ve told me,” he said, sitting back and making a show of looking me over critically. “Especially the bit about people who like arms finding them…well, you know,” he added. Then he winked at me.

And for the life of me I still could not figure out whether he was playing with me or flirting. All right, Mr. Cocktease, I thought to myself, lifting the tablet back up and looking for Jason’s key file. You’re next.


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