axel@bertech

Overwhelming rightness drowns his surprised scorn to the stranger’s suggestion:
… yes, a face distracts from this powerful tank, it can be smooth, perfect, plucked like a fruit, thrown like a ball, apart, looking back at this meat flexing, feels right, so smooth…

Dismantling of head and arms.
Unit: MOP-316 @paragon0316.bsky.social

Useful pro-tip, but just perhaps don't show everyone this while we’re walking outside?

Some body is dressing up for a special occasion.

meat is meat is meat

Go to sleep. My body will watch over you.

Late for dinner, kid. Busy at work? I made your favourite, and of course—mfh—your favourite synth meat, but keep the touching for dessert. Yup, cooked all of this without the noggin on this sexy mountain of muscle. It’s your instruction, kid, what can I do, disobey? Heheh, as if.

Don’t handle me gently. Score a strike with me, kid. Make me proud — mhh — yeah scratch my beard like that before you throw me onto the alley—AAAAaaaaaaaaaa a a a… *strike*

variant

Mffh— where am… my body, ugh—shi—the fu—my arms they are—a trophy—we have a tro—our team won, they won—we won mmhh—so shiny mmh—sweet, muscular victory—look at these champion biceps—ha they have made me a trophy cup—I’m a trophy—ahh ahhah hahuh uhh—

Sensing his confusion, the scientist shows him how this simple setup allows him to be a head in isolation. Cognitive dissonance is still suppressed enough to stop him from questioning his nature. To protect the integrity of his synthetic psyche, the truth will come later.

He gathers his remaining strength to spit curses at you, his snarl barely masking the raging lust in witnessing his impossibly lewd, magical predicament, as his own body serves himself alongside his warm, wiggling feet to you on a silver plate.

It’s brute head’s habit to threaten to crush and throw the youngster, but both know it is just begging to be put to place and pressed to admit what he is - a glorified fleshlight. If the head grunts and complains, it can always be pacified with its fave rod (it never admits tho).

A pure body isn’t just missing a head. Its nerves are completely rewired into a self-reinforcing system. The sensations it can experience far exceeds the imagination of the conscious mind.
It is not a toy. It is a transcended, higher being of pure sensation, merely allowing your play.

Pfft, lil’ shit I could’ve lifted you with one arm and thrown you — uhngg fuck stop sticking your finger —
Where, my strongman toy?
My, my — there — aaahfffuucc
Where?
My bottom… hole…
You sure?
I’m… *grunt* mhff—

Good caged meat doesn’t require step-by-step instructions. On cue, it readily uses itself, punishes itself, fucks itself, puts on a show in a way tailored for your maximum viewing pleasure. A self-playing instrument that feels everything it does to itself, but done only for you.

Would you help this now liberated and sweaty slab of man body out of its onesie?

A perfect evening: pizza and your favourite pillow, already half-hard and twitching.

Let me see if I can get more of these kind of rugby lads hehe

You had to tell it to struggle for effect because this slab is too compliant, and from the fundoshi straining, aroused too.

Finished up this fanart of a @spacepupsilver.com piece! Lad’s got the right idea I think

He pants, feeling his sight fade into sensation screaming from every inch of new flat skin, his last thoughts dissolving and replaced by pure need for touch. His hand rubs the new pristine surface, and he shudders, a stain quickly forming in the shorts.
This is just the start.

Mass shifts as you open the door.
Mass twitches as your hands cup its lats.
Mass shivers as your tongue leaves trails on its gorilla back.
Mass clenches, mass pulses, hard.
Mass is in eternal present, ready for your use.
Mass does not need to be human to be most majestic, most powerful altar of sex.

Meat slab.
Jiggling, panting, perspiring, heat-radiating. Pulsing, stretching the running shorts, wet spot growing. Pouting, remembering your girth by clenching.
Sweats like a used changing room, but worth changing the sheets for.

Why have a man, when one can have a slab?

Meat is conditioned to know locked meat is good meat. Good meat shows off for you, hoping it is worthy for your touch, or perhaps even use.

His decentralised “mind”, only motivated by pleasure, maximises it by single-“mind”-edly pursuing an optimal form, maximising mass, enlarging his sensitive tit nubs, to become ultimate meat quivering under you. Pain and toil mean nothing to this machine of flesh, pleasure reigns.

His nipples harden if you pull on the ring. His belly jiggles and contacts on touch. He gets hard if you flip it over and fuck home and he comes, thick and musky, hands free. He doesn’t need a head to do that.

Your muscle pillow has no arms to beckon at you, so it uses something else 😉

Variants

This year’s trophy knows how to flex, and walks to the winning team by itself ☺️
What do you mean where the coach went? No, of course I’m not using his living torso as my personal cushion, that’s ridiculous.