By Cris Kane 
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I was dreading this tech expo. Another out-of-town trip to another interchangeable hotel, with the same old overpriced mini-fridge and the same old hotel-TV porn. Eating at the same old breakfast buffets where you would run into the same old reps who were at the last convention, all hoping to find some new product that truly excited them.

It was the first full day of the conference and I was already bored stiff—or, more accurately, bored flaccid. Nothing aroused my interest as I wandered from booth to booth in the vast convention hall, hearing pitches from either droning geeky techheads with few presentation skills or perky actors and actresses who could memorize their spiels but had no clue what to say if you asked a follow-up question. I was already lugging around two plastic bags stretched to their limits with pamphlets and presentations and souvenir t-shirts and drink koozies. I had taken them all, just to be polite, but I planned to chuck most of them in the trash rather than bothering to tote them back to my room.

I was feeling like a nap and was just about to exit the ballroom when I noticed a lantern-jawed young man seated at a booth getting little attention at the moment. The guy had a movie-star face but an appropriately casual, approachable attitude, and his strawberry-blond hair was short enough to suggest serious business but shaggy enough to convey a rebellious streak. (After all these years, I now found myself more fascinated by all the subtle ways that companies tried to manipulate you into checking out their products than by the products themselves.) His company polo shirt was stressed impressively by his shoulders and pecs, while tapering to a narrow waist that tucked into khaki cargos. His hands were pressed against a stool behind him and he was slowly raising and lowering himself, working in some exercise for his stand-out triceps while he waited for people to drop by the booth. He had earned my attention, so I walked over to chat.

As I approached, he stood up and grinned, creating two deep dimples on his cheeks. I pointed to the banner behind him which contained nothing but the letters “NU”. “What’s NU?”, I asked.

“I dunno, what’s new with you?”, he replied a bit stiffly, with the weariness of someone who has been making the same lame joke all day.

“Actually, it’s Nu-You. The N is the Greek letter nu,” the guy explained, gesturing to the single demo model which sat on the table in front of him. No wonder the guy wasn’t getting much traffic. All he had on display was one little black rectangular product which looked like just another iPhone knockoff. Still, I wasn’t about to end the conversation so quickly. Nobody who looked as stunning as this guy would ordinarily have any reason to speak to me in reality, but now for a few minutes in this artificial setting, his job required it.

“Okay, I’m game, give me your sales pitch,” I told him.

“You just need to try it. The product sells itself,” the guy assured me.

I had heard that before, but it usually preceded a long-winded pitch. Here, this guy let the statement speak for itself.

“All right then, who is it for?”, I asked.


“And how much does it cost?”

“Each unit is two-point-three million dollars.”

I stared at him blankly.

“But we’re hoping to get that under two million once we are fully operational.”

A laugh percolated through my body, starting with a subtle vibration in my chest until it built to a chuckle and finally to a cackle that sliced through the loud murmur that constantly filled the hall. I picked up the sample unit, which was attached to the tabletop with a reinforced cable. “So it’s for anyone…as long as they have two million dollars.”

The guy just grinned knowingly and asked, “Would you like to take a demo with you tonight?” He reached underneath the table and unlocked a safe from which he brought out a black box identical to the one on display. He handed it to me, saying, “Take it to your room and try it. Bring it back to me in the morning. Tell me what you thought.”

“You’re giving me a two-million-dollar demo?”

“Two-point-three. Yes.”

“How do you know I won’t just wander off with it? Or take it back to my company and reverse-engineer it?”

“You’ll be back.” He seemed awfully sure of himself and his product.

He had certainly created an aura of mystery that piqued my interest, but I needed some kind of clue what it did. “Is the inventor of the product here? I’d like to speak to him.”

“You already are,” said the young man. He smiled and crossed his mighty arms across his chest, his biceps pushed out proudly. Wow, you didn’t find many tech geniuses who looked like they should be runway models.

I walked away from the booth with a skeptical smile, stuffing the Nu-You Whatever-It-Was into one of my bags. I thought of grabbing some food, but by this point I was too curious. I needed to investigate the mystery doohickey right away. I headed straight to my room, kicked off my shoes and rested my back against the bed’s headboard.

I switched on the device and saw the “NU” logo pop up, followed by a screen asking me to select my gender. I clicked on “Male” and a new screen appeared, asking me to select the gender of the person I was looking for.

This was the guy’s revolutionary product? Hooking people up? Had he never heard of Tinder and Grindr? I almost tossed the gadget aside then and there, but maybe he had come up with some novel twist. Still, one that was worth two million a unit? I had to find out what that might be. I clicked that I was interested in finding a male.

I glanced across the room at a mirror above the desk. I definitely was going to need some kind of miracle technology to find a date the way I looked these days. It was a wonder I’d ever gotten laid at all. My thinning blond hair hung at random angles across my forehead. I’m not sure why I still kept my mustache, since it was so close in color to my skin tone as to be nearly invisible. I had a rare combination of a heavy brow, a bulbous nose and a weak chin which made my head look top-heavy, as if my forehead were several feet closer to you than my chin. The drab clothes hanging unflatteringly over my gaunt frame were a study in shades of tan and had been chosen not for fashion but for how wrinkle-free they stayed with all of the packing and unpacking I needed to do in my travels. In short, I was a real boner-killer.

If I hadn’t already felt hopeless, the next screen offered more discouragement. Under the banner “Choose Your Model”, the screen showed a dozen thumbnails of men who ranged from handsome to extremely handsome to painfully handsome. I scrolled down to discover dozens more thumbnails, some of which were grayed out with the words “IN USE” superimposed over them in red.

Curious, I clicked on one which caught my eye, and the photo enlarged to full-screen. Staring seriously back at me was a young man, maybe college age, maybe still in high school, his black hair thick and neat, black eyebrows resting heavily over deep, probing eyes. His long straight nose led to slim lips with just a touch of a cocky smile, and his chin was firm but still boyish. He wore a crop-top mesh workout shirt exposing part of his eight-pack before it disappeared again into his bulging silver Lycra shorts. Powerful arms hung out from each sleeve, both fists clenched with determination.

Below this photo were two buttons: “Choose” and “Back”. I chose “Back”, but instead of taking me to the previous screen, it showed me the back of this same young stud. Damn, those shorts looked spectacular pulled tight across his muscular ass, and I scrolled down to inspect his well-defined cyclist’s calves. The pressure in my pants was growing painful, so I unzipped and let my five-inch hard-on breathe. These photos were already bringing me so close to the brink of orgasm that I might not need to hook up with anyone, but a device that can show you photos to jerk off to was not worth two million bucks. Nearly everyone in America was already carrying such a device.

I stripped off my pants and unbuttoned my shirt. I was down to my boxers when I noticed a red countdown flashing over the photo onscreen. It was at five and ticked down once a second. I picked up the device and stared at it as the count reached zero and displayed the message, “Model Chosen”. A red line appeared onscreen and panned down, emitting a red laser-like glow which crossed from my head to my toes, as if my entire body were being dragged across a supermarket checkout scanner. Another message appeared: “Alteration Commencing”.

A sharp electrical jolt from the device zapped me. I fell back on the bed, woozy, and it felt like tiny ants were invading under my skin. I wondered if these were those nanobots which I’d been hearing about at conventions for years but which never seemed to emerge in any marketable technology. I swore I could even see whatever they were marching from my hand and up my arm before spreading slowly through the rest of my body. There was something undeniably creepy about what I was seeing, yet my mind simultaneously experienced a rush of endorphins that gave me a feeling of unfathomable bliss.

I leaned against the headboard again as the sensation washed over me. Through fluttering eyelids, I could see the mirror on the wall and began to notice changes happening to my body. My sunken chest seemed to be inflating itself like an airbag, and my belly button was soon surrounded by ab muscles that appeared to be surfacing from underneath my skin. My shoulder muscles thickened into meaty curves and my biceps became like stone. My hair and eyebrows darkened from dishwater blond to middling brown to coal black in a matter of seconds. My potato of a nose grew sleek and slender and my pathetic chin shifted down and forward, baby cheeks speckled by a hint of stubble. From across the room, my eyes looked dark but with a fascinating sparkle. I was now staring at the young man from the device, only he was me. Or I was him. Or something. When I had gone to the “Choose Your Model” page, I thought I was choosing someone to meet, not someone to become.

I swung my legs off the bed, making contact with the floor sooner than expected. My legs hadn’t just packed on muscle, they had grown longer. As I stood to my full height, I realized my whole body was taller and perfectly proportioned. With a swagger that came naturally to this new shape, I crossed the room and inspected myself in the mirror. I looked like a wholesome All-American jock, but the thoughts racing through my head were anything but wholesome. I lowered my Jockeys and unleashed a nine-inch cobra which whapped hard against my deeply-etched abs and deposited a sticky dollop of pre-cum above my navel.

I wrapped my right hand around my cock. It was a boy’s hand, soft and smooth, unlike my usual veiny and rough mitts. Aside from a light crop of hair on my forearms and a thick bush of black pubes around my dick, this new body was hairless, creating no distractions from the sharply defined muscles on display. I began to stroke myself vigorously, while my left hand explored this fresh terrain, eventually finding its way into my tender—and reborn virgin—ass. Ooh, that was going to need attention soon.

My eyes lingered on the face in the mirror, its youthful cuteness caught in mid-evolution to chiseled beauty. That was the trigger to launch my cum spurting skyward, coating my hand, my chest, my bare toes, the carpet beneath me, the unused ice bucket, and the flat-screen TV. I fell back onto the bed, arms spread, brain tingling, dick still pumping. I must have laid there for ten minutes, reveling in what I had just experienced. Eventually, the jism on my torso began to harden and I felt the need to clean it off. I loped to the bathroom and took the longest and best shower of my life, scrubbing every new curve thoroughly until my focus returned to my cock, which had regained its rigidity. I couldn’t resist stroking it and was soon on my way to another earth-shattering, wall-splattering orgasm. As I watched the thick white cream blasting forth and being washed down the drain, I had no idea my body could store so much sperm. Then again, this was not really my body. Or was it?

I wiped the condensation off the bathroom mirror and looked closely into—his? my?—deep blue eyes. I could see no trace of myself in the person looking back, but I knew I was in full control. Realizing I had not yet spoken, I said, “Hi there” to my reflection, and a youthful tenor ricocheted off the bathroom tiles, completely unlike my own raspy, cigarette-ravaged baritone.

I enjoyed my stroll back to the main room, my long cock slapping against my damp leg with each step. I pulled open the drapes, shoulders flung back to display my muscles at their best in case anyone in the apartments across the street wanted a cheap thrill. I lay on my stomach across the bed’s white comforter, feet crossed and hanging off the edge of the mattress. I picked up the Nu-You device and saw the notification “Alteration Complete”. The photo of the stud I had become was now grayed out with “IN USE” over his face. A button labeled “Find Partner” blinked at the bottom of the screen. When I clicked it, all of the faces which were previously grayed out as “IN USE” became full-color, while the other images were marked “UNAVAILABLE”. For a product that wasn’t on the market, there sure were a lot of people using it.

“Duh!”, I realized. Obviously I wasn’t the only one with a demo of the product. The guy in the booth must have given sample devices to everyone he met at the convention, and now they were all trying it out. My cock grew hard again simply at the thought of so many people simultaneously going through the same sort of metamorphosis as I just had. Unconsciously, my hips began surging forward and back against the comforter, nursing along my latest erection as I scrolled through the faces of all the men who were available. It was like browsing the world’s sexiest smorgasbord, and I wanted to eat everything I saw.

I first focused on a shirtless surfer dude with killer abs and sun-bleached hair, but his picture faded out and became “UNAVAILABLE” before I could choose it. My attention then shifted to a deeply-tanned weightlifter in a fluorescent orange tank top. I touched his photo on the screen and was alerted that he was in my hotel. Another click sent him “my” photo and an inquiry whether he wanted to meet up.

I waited and waited, starting to feel rejected despite it not actually being MY body he was rejecting, but a message eventually popped up, indicating that he did want to hook up. A box appeared asking if I wanted to send him a text, but before I could type a character, I received a message from him:


I typed my reply:

“Yeah. Do you want to come to me or should I come to you?”

I waited for nearly a minute before I got this message:


That was an interesting quandary I hadn’t anticipated. I had a lot more muscle and had grown a few inches, so my normal clothes would no longer fit. This body deserved better than my sad wash-and-wear wardrobe, but I had few options. Eventually, I pulled on some gray sweatpants and rubber flip-flops from my suitcase and an XXL t-shirt I’d been given as a freebie at the convention. Not exactly Armani, but at least I was presentable enough to walk the hallways and ride the elevators.

I knocked on the door of his room and heard heavy footfalls from inside. The door cracked open and I had to look up to see his brown eye peeking through. “God damn,” he said with a low rumbling chuckle, then swung open the door just enough for me to enter.

The room was dark, with the shades pulled and only the light of the muted TV casting shadows on our bodies, but he was indeed an amazing specimen in person. My boyish soccer-player’s muscles appeared anemic beside this naked, shaven-headed giant who looked ready to become the next Mr. Universe. His massive arms swung wide as he waddled toward me, sporting a long curving dick that made my impressive cock also seem puny.

“You ever done this before?”, he asked me with innocence and genuine curiosity.

“I don’t think it’s ever been technologically possible before.”

“No, I mean…had sex…with a guy?” This mountain of a man seemed positively skittish.

I smiled and nodded. “Oh, that. Yeah, here and there.”

He said, “Then maybe you should take charge.”

I walked over and knelt before him, inserting the head of his cock into mouth, tongue circling it masterfully. I got the immediate sense that the young man I was currently inhabiting had a lot more experience in this department than I did. I had to assume that this was not the first time this body was “IN USE”.

The man I was blowing put his hands on my shoulders and began a monologue interrupted by frequent gasps as my tongue-bath became more intense.

“I’m not a big—ooh—technical guy. I’m more of a—aaah—salesman. So when—oh!—I started playing around with that—oh my god—thingamajig, I didn’t realize what I was doing. I hit the wrong button and—owww—before I could—oh, fuck, you’re good—before I could stop it, my body looked like this and my brain was—oh, Jesus!—was full of all these images of naked guys. Ho-o-o-ly shit!”

I hadn’t expected him to come so quickly, but those images of naked guys must have gotten him well-primed before I even entered the room. A lot of spunk surged down my throat before he pulled his cock from my mouth. He dropped to his knees and stared with fascination at his mighty organ as its output slowed and it shrank to a mere seven inches.

We took a breather, cuddling on the bed, after which I gave him some quick pointers on how he could satisfy me. He seemed at war between his usual self, which thought that what I described sounded awfully painful for me, and the impulses that came pre-installed with his new body, which were already launching his cock into another upward trajectory. Horniness won out, as it usually does, and although he was awkward at first, by the third time he was finding new twists I’d never even thought of.

We ordered from room service. I had to pull on my clothes and answer the door to keep out the delivery boy. I overtipped him so he would go away quickly. As I glanced down the hall, I noticed a number of semi-clad men and a few nearly-nude women knocking impatiently on different doors.

My companion didn’t want to give me his name, and I never mentioned mine either. We spent the night together, chowing down on room service and watching a movie—a normal one, because we couldn’t imagine any porno living up to what we had just done in real life, if you could even describe what was happening that night as “real life”. After a couple of beers, he tentatively asked if I would mind fucking him in the ass, so he could know what that felt like. I led him gently through the experience and, although he seemed to be enjoying himself, I doubted he would be going back to it on a regular basis once he returned to his own body. But who knows? Stranger things have happened. Like this entire night, for instance.

Suddenly I wondered, what if he didn’t return to his own body? What if we never changed back to our original selves? The device itself offered no instructions and came with no explanatory booklet. I booted up his laptop, but Nu-You had no corporate website, no online presence at all. I figured I would just have to wait and ask Mr. Nu-You at his booth tomorrow, but I got my answer sooner than that.

We had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, but I awoke around dawn to find myself entwined with a stranger. Interestingly, the man I had shared last night with turned out to be young and blond and quite a looker with a slim but very fit body. I could feel myself growing hard as I checked him out. Without any changes at all, he’d have been a nice match for the dark-haired hunk I had been last night. I was glad I woke up first, because I could sneak away without him ever getting a look at the letdown that would be the real me.

Then an idea hit me. Maybe I could switch myself back to last night’s body and fuck blondie this morning. Sure, he had said he was really straight, but after last night, he had to be reconsidering his options. Sadly, as I checked my device, I found an alert in red letters: “TRIAL PERIOD OVER—RETURN DEVICE TO NU-YOU”, followed by fine print detailing dire penalties for failure to return the device. I imagined that, if you didn’t bring it back in a timely manner, it would self-destruct, “Mission: Impossible”-style.

Two million dollars, up in smoke.


I slipped on my now baggy t-shirt and sweats and made my way back to my room, letting my mind drift. I already felt a bit sad, marooned back in my real body, and saw how using Nu-You could become incredibly addictive. You could really spice up a relationship if, every so often, one or both of you swapped into another body.

Or imagine installing Nu-You suites in every hotel in the country. Business travelers could become a different person every night and fuck other people who also weren’t themselves. You could mentally detach and rationalize to yourself that you weren’t REALLY cheating on your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your husband, your wife. It was just those sexy avatars who did it. In-room porn rentals would plummet.

But how could you control the technology? How could you be sure that someone wouldn’t use it to disguise themselves to rob banks or commit murder? The exorbitant price would tamp down demand somewhat, limiting the market to the very wealthy, but that would also make those elite owners prime targets for thieves who wanted to get their hands on a Nu-You for their own purposes. The liability costs alone would be enough of a nightmare to make any sensible investor leery.

I got dressed, putting my drab old clothes on my drab old self, and wandered back to the exhibition hall to return my Nu-You device. Looked like I was going to have to wait a while, though.

Mr. Nu-You was besieged at his booth, surrounded by dozens of potential investors, some barely dressed, begging to get in on the ground floor—and, more importantly, desperate to sell their cars, mortgage their houses, or liquidate their 401Ks to reactivate their devices immediately.

And no one was more frantic than one young blond looker with a slim but very fit body.

Finally, a convention with a little excitement.

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