Customer Service

by Cris Kane

I pulled up to the gate in my rusted-out Mazda and pushed the buzzer for the intercom. When I didn't get an immediate answer, I double-checked the address, never having been to this part of Beverly Hills before. Finally, a deep voice crackled through the speaker. "Barry?"

"Uh, no, I'm Cameron. Barry couldn't make it today." My boss Barry usually did this kind of customer service appointment for our elite clients himself, so I was stunned when he asked if I could go instead this time.

I could hear the guy at the other end mutter "Shit" to himself before saying, "Okay, Cameron, come on in."

I heard a buzz and the wide gate swung open, revealing a lush rolling lawn sloping upward to a stunning modernist mansion. Whoever lived here must be flabbergastingly rich. I parked in the driveway and walked to the front door, feeling extremely underdressed in my hoodie, board shorts and Vans slip-ons, until I saw the man of the house straddling the front doorway wearing nothing but a pair of orange briefs.

I had lived in L.A. long enough to become pretty blase about seeing famous people, but this was a major exception. Shane London had been my first major celebrity crush. He was only a couple of years older than me, but by the age of seventeen, he had already become a huge star playing Trace McCoy, the teenage sleuth who could turn invisible on the hit show, "Untraceable". As a short, scrawny geek in rural Idaho, deathly afraid that my peers would discover that I was gay, I would watch that show alone in my bedroom and nurse two impossible fantasies: that I could be Shane London or that I could be invisible.

Shane could scarcely have been more visible as he waited for me at the door. He stood over six feet tall, his well-defined muscles offering a thorough anatomy lesson on his lanky, no-body-fat frame. His shaggy brown hair was slicked back from a face that had only grown more handsome as he hit his mid-twenties. He stared at me with the slight smile of someone who was a bit less than bright or a bit more than stoned.

Phone Home - Part 2

Read Part One Here

It’s been a week since the serendipitous selfie placed me in the body of a fine young brown skinned man. Ever since then, I’ve been obsessed with becoming him again. I want that body & deserve to be him. Since that fateful few minutes, things just haven’t been the same. Every time I look in the mirror, I’m repulsed by the creature staring back at me. Pasty, dry skinned and puny. Something about being in that other guy’s body has me turned on so strongly; yet, despite my best efforts and numerous selfies, I haven’t been able to return to him. I was about to give up when fate surprised me yet again. I was sitting in my bathroom on my toilet tinkering with the damn phone when all of a sudden I caught myself accidentally taking a picture of my groin and legs. Then, I blinked.

 

When I opened my eyes, I was shocked to find out that I was wearing rain boots and jeans. There was also a computer at the base of my feet. “No way.” I said aloud to nobody… then that’s when it hit me. I’m back in the other guy’s body. I quickly jolt up and I stand up, a little taken aback by my center of gravity, and disoriented not sure exactly where I am… I see a sign. I’m in a hotel. Deciding that I should pack up and find a bathroom, I begin to pick my computer up and stuff it in the backpack that was next to me.

 

I look at my brown hands. My short fingernails. I’m in awe. I’m actually back home. I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the texture of my new mouth. I can feel my dick getting excited – happy to be under my management. I see that I have on a blue watch. It’s exactly 1:05PM. Suddenly, a memory jogs into my head. I was getting ready to do a Skype call with Ariel. My girlfriend. I smirk, happy that this body’s memories are coming through to its new owner. I decide to head to my hotel room, and get ready for my Skype call.

The Ride Home

by Carlos Palanca

Friday afternoon, I was riding on the monorail on my way home from work. It was crowded as usual since most of the people was already on their way home from school or work. If not, they were on their way somewhere to spend their Friday night.
The train just stopped on a station that was third to the last station. Most of the people get off this station since the street below this station is road going outside of the city and into the suburbs area. As the area got more spacious as a large crowd exited, a man in a green hoodie, sweatpants and with two large bags entered the train. He was huge. You could see his bulging muscles wanting to burst out of his clothes. I don’t know whether I was intimidated by his size or just curious of where he was going with those bags. Suddenly, he noticed me looking at his bags. I looked away. Even though, I was looking at different direction, I could still see his reflection at the pole in front of me. He was eyeing me like he was angry with me for looking at his bag. Then his eyes focused on my backpack. He picked up his bags and approached me. I was nervous and scared at the same time like I had the feeling that he was going to beat me up or argue with me in front of the old lady and her cat beside me.
“Hey man!” he said.
“Hi” I said nervously.
“I know that you have been looking at my stuff” Oh no! Here we go! He’s probably going to punch me right now. I thought to myself. “Dude, relax. I just want to talk.”
“Okay. So you’re not mad at me for looking?” I replied.

The Recruit

by Cris Kane

"So, is it true? Ya know, about the formula?", Casey asked eagerly, kneeling on the bed of the San Diego motel room, his lithe body dressed in nothing but his camouflage-patterned briefs.

"What formula?", said Andre, the incredibly muscular young man wearing nothing at all. Andre stood by the window, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks as the morning light seeping through the blinds cast flattering shadows across the impressive contours of his body.

"You are such a bad liar!", Casey giggled, rolling onto his back. "You do that scratching your face thing every time you fib. You must be terrible at poker."

Seanday Special: The Other Mitchell Part4

Read The Other Mitchell: Part1, Part2, Part3

Isenberger left, flanked by two others and slammed the door. I pulled back the sheet I was hiding behind and watched as Charlie sank to the floor quietly sobbing.

"We'll fix this. I promise you," I told him. He went quiet for a moment, and then lashed out at an empty canister. I put a hand on his shoulder, "We'll get him back."

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" he muttered pushing me away. He reached around burying his fingers in the back of his neck. Charlie's face contorted, his thick black hair fell covering his features. His skin bunched up, and the mask dropped to his chest. Red puffy eyes looked at me through the holes of a balaclava. He grasped at the dark fabric and pulled it off, "It's Charlie that's missing--not me."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"He said he'd kill Charlie if I told anyone."

I squatted down next to him, "Who? Who said that?"

"The boss."

I nodded at the balaclava. "There was a guy wearing one of those at Isenberger's, was that him?"

"Yeah, if you don't wear one you're fucked. Whoever's inside will go to sleep, and the suit comes to life."

"So it's someone wearing a suit of Isenberger?"

Danny nodded. "Don't know who he is tho', he always wears a balaclava."

I got to my feet trying to take it all in, and my mobile rings. "Hello?"

The voice was clear, with an air of authority--it was Isenberger. He spoke the same words I'd heard at the meeting; Servum meum. I looked at Danny, "Yeah boss," I replied passively. Isenberger gave some orders and hung up.

"He wants me meet with Logan and pick up the stuff."

Danny swallowed looking at the machine. "Those other tubs aren't ready yet. He's going be really pissed with only four. What are we going to do?"

Caption This (14th Mar)

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Caption This (7th Mar)

(4)  NEW STORIES IN THE COMMENTS

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Caption This (28th Feb)

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Caption This (14th Feb)

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Caption This (7th Feb)

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