“SOLD! For eight thousand five hundred to number 29, thank you so much ma'am, please see our associate afterward for your banking information.” The auction hall was buzzing. It was all over the news: locker 482 having it’s lock busted and the heavy iron door rolled up to reveal the long lost estate of the old school pro-surfer Ronnie “Riptide” Darensbourg. Ventura’s very own legend from the 70’s, Ronnie Riptide was a local hero who’d passed away in 1991. In fact, he’d been the hero for Francis Cragg since childhood.
To Francis, the heartthrob represented everthing he wanted to be as a teenager in 1977: laid back, efforlessly cool, athletic, flirtatious, sexy… and notoriously “open minded” in the bedroom. To be queer back in the day was quite the scandal that was reserved only for the Hollywood stars and not for the everyday person. Under this strict social law, Francis couldn’t look at another guy, couldn’t even be suspected of being gay- but he could live vicariously through Ronnie. All the gossip columns, all the magazines, the exposees… through Ronnie’s insane stories, Francis felt as if he were the one with the outrageous, ostentatious life. Now 62 years old, the repressed man eagerly sat in the ornate auction hall, eagerly hoping to snag even a small piece of memorabilia. On his phone, the smiling image of Ronnie himself beams from his wallpaper.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we have lot 35: a vintage 1980’s Canvas Duffle Bag Tote. Cylinder shape. Bright abstract southwestern style pattern in red, orange, purple, turquoise, yellow, and green. End has graphic of a surfboard and words ‘Laissez les bon temps rouler.’ We will start the bid at $300.” Francis raised his paddle, immediately recognizing the bag from the old Maxim articles in 1982. With a low starting bid at $300, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. The bid was quickly followed up with their paddles. $500… $1000… $1500… $1750… Francis opened up his wallet, devoid of cash, and holding about six maxed out credit cards. The last hope: his American Express, which was just $5000 shy of his limit. He felt compelled, required to get this small piece of his idol. Holding his breath, Francis thew up his paddle: all in at $5000.
“Five thousand on number 13, five thousand going once…” The crowd grew quiet, only whispers and murmurs breaking through the silence. “Going twice… SOLD! For five thousand to number 13. Please see our associate with your banking information.” Francis immediately stood up and rushed to the back of the room, glibly handing over the very last of his funds to the smiling woman behind the counter, blissfully unaware of the middle aged man’s complete economic collapse.
“Is it alright if I take the bag now? No need for delivery.” The woman nodded with her wide grin, grabbing the arm strap of the bag and handing it over to him. The moment his fingertips touched the old fabric strap, he felt his breath rush out of his lungs; the electric sting of being starstruck. The bag draped naturally over his shoulder, just like it did on Ronnie all those years ago. Beaming from ear to ear, he strolled out the door back to his car, unaware of the gentle squirming within the zipped bag.
The drive home took merely minutes, as he stayed at the Beachcomber Motel overlooking the rolling waves of Ventura Beach. He slammed the door of his old jalopy, waving at the invalid Ms. Parthay mindlessly staring from behind her dusty window. He walked into the room, so used to the smell of mildew and mold that it no longer made his eyes water the way it used to. But in this one singular moment, the depressing everyday life of Francis Tate melted away. He let the bag droop down onto the ratty old bedspread as he eagerly examined every inch of it. The weathered old canvas bag with it’s faded Aztec woven pattern, once extremely in vogue, now sat riddled in frayed holes in an unfortunate derlict state. But to Francis, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Just as he was raising his fingers to unzip the bag, it jolted sharply to the left.
Francis jumped backward, taken off guard. Surely it couldn’t be a rat or mouse- the Auction House would never let someone spend thousands of dollars on a rat-infested item… right? The raging thought of some rodent knawing on his prized possession overtook whatever common sense he held, and with a single stroke of his hand he unzipped the bag. No movement. Nothing jumping out. No squeaking. Yet, an unmistakeable smell began to waft out of the open bag: a mix of age old air and sweaty rubber. Peering down into the dark confines, his jaw dropped open. Underneath an old barbasol can and broken plastic water bottle was the famous competition wetsuit itself. His breath labored and his pupils dilated, he gently pinched the rubbery shoulder of the neoprene suit and pulled upward, the sheer size of the thing shocking him to his core. Perhaps the Auction house did not actually thoroughly inspect their items after all.
He pulled the suit close to his face, intensely inspecting every inch of it for rubber rot, as the piece hadn’t been used since the 80’s. To his delight, the suit was entirely intact, the fabric stretching effortlessly without so much as a single crease. What it did have, however was a stench. Extremely salty and sour, clearly marinating in Ronnie’s sweat and skin oils for decades, leaving the odor permanently imprinted within it. Bringing the rubber suit to his face, he pressed it against his nose and inhaled. This was as close as he’d ever been to his idol, the guy who had been an every day fantasy in his dreams. Wrapped in his scent, feeling the slick rubber material between his fingers, it was his life long dream. In his mind, he could feel the rise and fall of Ronnie’s chest pushed against his, his lean, muscled arms wrapping around him, the scrunching and squeaking of his wetsuit as he moves…
In reality, his eyes tightly closed shut as his nose pressed against the suit, Francis couldn’t see the zipper slowly slide downward and the arms wrap around his shoulders. He couldn’t feel his clothes slowly unbutton themselves before it was too late, and they were forcibly ripped from his body by unseen hands. All he could do is gasp loudly as the suit flew backwards with impressive speed, pressing him firmly against the wall as the sleeves quickly slipped onto his arms. Just before he could muster out so much as a whimper, his left hand clasped over his mouth. Muffled and gagged, he could do nothing as his right hand helped stretch the musky suit down and over his legs. Behind him, the suit zipped itself up quickly, compressing Francis tightly within it’s rubbery confines.
“Mmmmmmph… Mmmmmmmmsh…” He struggled against his own body betraying his every movement, controlled by some ethereal presence as if a puppet on a string. The smell was growing stronger and stronger, amplified by the spiking body heat and sweat that began to seep into it’s fabric. Tighter, tighter, tighter it squeezed Francis as if a corset had been strung tight against his chest until he could barely breathe- and when he could it was filled with the dizzying musk. His gut began to press inward, flattening out with the blasting sound of deflating balloons blowing out of beneath the suit. Barely conscious, he could only look down from behind his pulsating hand’s gag to see the liquifing fat start to squirm beneath the shiny black rubber, quickly sloshing into his pecs and broadening shoulders.
All at once, Francis felt the fat within him squish and thrust into his muscles, the suit croaking and groaning as his biceps and triceps began to bulge out and his hands shrink and become lean, soft palms and long fingers. Francis could feel his awareness, the last vestige of control he had within his quickly morphing body, desperately trying to center himself and fight the invasion which was slipping him on like the suit he sported. His bulge started to balloon out, feeling tendrils seep into his elongating cock, his weighty balls, and further slithering down into his quads and calves. His feet cracked and squeaked with pressure as they stretched outward, his toes as long as his ring finger and his arches perfectly bridging his heel with the balls of his feet. He’d lost nearly half his weight and mass, but looking down at his lean, toned, muscular body… He began to recognize just who it belonged to.
“Heheheheh…” A gravelly baritone chuckle rang out within his head, just as his jaw shifted to the left, cracking and sharpening as dark black hairs started to pierce out of his tanning skin. “Almost there, duuuuuuude.” The voice was slick as his gleaming suit, yet stained with the aura of stonedness. He felt his jaw crack downward, opening his mouth wide while his lips plumped up and his long tongue snaked outward, a silver ball now piercing it in the center. The sides of his mouth curled into a cheeky grin as his teeth whitened and his moustache filled in. “Fuuuuuuck, bruh. You’re a perfect fit for me. Fuckin’ bitchin’.” Francis’s hair burst into a poofy blonde mop, his dark eyebrows falling down, down, down, tooping off his narrowing and increasingly bloodshot eyes. “Ayy, scoot over, dude. Let’s let the Riptide take the wheel for a while…” Francis felt pressure within his head, something pushing, pounding against his brain… perhaps it was something deep down within him he’d all but repressed for all these years, or perhaps it was the sheer shock that had overwhelmed him in the moment, but as he felt the slithering present penetrate into his mind and flooding within, he couldn’t help but feel satisfied as someone else, his idol, took over. One last crick of the neck, and Ronnie’s piercing turquoise eyes now glistened beneath his furrowed brow.
“Awwwwww fuch yeahhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Ronnie shot his load in the tight rubber wetsuit, feeling it’s warm, sticky texture pressing against his sagging, sweaty balls. Smirking as he saunters over to the mirror, Ronnie gleamed from ear to ear, his perfect million dollar smile nearly sparkling from his new face. He could still feel the body adjusting to having him slip in, merely pinching the skin of his cheek and pulling grotesquely stretched his entire face outward before it snapped back- it’d take a few months before he felt 100% at home in his shared skin. He examined his new face; as if he’d slipped on a mask, once could see the original Riptide beneath it all, but hiding inside a mish mashed amalgamation of his host and his spirit. Unzipping the back of his suit, he pried his upper half free of it, his chiseled pecs and cobbled abs wafting the musky stench that now poured from his pores. He pursed his juicy lips, practicing the smoulder that had bedded a thousand babes and a thousand dudes.
“That’s right, baby. Ahah,” he gripped his chin between his fingers, admiring every inch of his sexy mug. “I’d fuck me.” He laughed and winked in the mirror as he pried the rest of his rubber wetsuit off- he’d get back on the board soon enough. Perhaps he could just enjoy the beginnings of his new life. Snapping his fingers, the suit melted and flowed onto his body: massive, beat up checkerboard Vans, a pair of blue boardshorts, a gold chain and a pair of orange sunglasses now clothed him- just enough to show off to some sexy beach babe, or some hunky surfer dude he could toke and stroke with. “Yeahhhh, that’s perfect.”
Ronnie strode right out the door of the hotel room, passing by the maid, who stood there dumbfounded. This was not the man who entered the room moments ago… He winked at the perplexed woman, remarking just how familiar that face was under her breath. As the sun set on Ventura Beach, the surfer king sat on the lifeguard tower, smoking a blunt and watching the waves crash down onto the sands. Ventura might have changed, time may have passed, but those rolling waves are just the same as they always were. He smiled, putting his arm behind his head, and sighing in a chill aire. He’d own the town, just like he used to- and the future was bright.
Comments
Post a Comment