Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 140629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 703(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 703(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
She frowned and reached up to pat his pec.
Reached up. For his pec.
“Um, honey pie? You sure you’re okay? I know you can be a grump when you’re hungry…”
Something was wrong about his size perception. The trailer was either tiny, or he had become a giant.
“Honey? What? I don’t know you. Is this some kind of scam? Because if it is, it’s not working,” Caspian said, gently pushing her aside as he lowered his head to avoid hitting his forehead against the doorframe. Even out of the room, his head brushed the ceiling unless he hunched over, making his neck cry out with discomfort.
“Oh, my God, Gun! You’re using again! I thought you said you never touched smack after getting your face tattooed.” She took a deep breath and stepped back, rubbing away an imaginary tear. “I can’t deal with you when you’re like this. I’ll be back later. Feed Fluffer.”
“Fluffer?”
But she pushed past him and ran down a corridor that was almost too narrow even for her, toward a larger space at the end. Assaulted by sunlight streaming through a small window to his side, Caspian followed her past an open bathroom, which reeked of sewage and fruity deodorant, but before he could have reached the woman’s side, she grabbed a pink handbag, glared at him, and let herself out.
“I expect you to be sober when I come back!”
He took a deep breath but gave up on arguing with her when he faced a kitchen area cluttered with dirty dishes, boxes, and multipacks of canned food. Beyond the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area was a stretch of old dark red carpeting and at the very end—a booth of sorts, with a gray sofa wrapped around a table, and a recliner that faced a TV hanging below the ceiling.
He’d never been this confused in his life. Not even when he’d had a concussion back in high school. He ran his large fingers over a photo stuck to the fridge with sellotape. It featured none other than Gunner Russo standing next to the woman who had just harassed him. In the picture, Gunner embraced her with one arm and showed off knuckles tattooed with a random assortment of letters that looked suspiciously like the ink on Caspian’s hands.
Could… was it possible that—?
He spun around and faced Gunner. With eyes still puffy from sleep, scruffy cheeks, and short, messy hair, he wasn’t nearly as threatening as he’d been the night before, but Caspian stepped back nevertheless, hitting the counter at the same moment as Gunner. Two mouths opened, but only one made a sound.
Caspian was facing a mirror, and the low, husky voice he’d spoken with to the woman was not his own.
His heart beat faster, its echo drumming in his ears, but he wouldn’t blink, too shocked by what he was seeing. He ran his fingers over the ink covering half his face in an outline of a toothy animal skull. Was he to believe that his consciousness had somehow taken over the body of Gunner Russo overnight? Just like that? What kind of fucked-up dream was this? No wonder everything around him was small when he was a six-foot-five giant with arms like branches of an old oak and legs like tree trunks. Even his hands were massive, as were his feet—
Caspian pulled on the waistband of his boxers, and yep, his cock was a beast to be reckoned with too. Long. Thick. Powerful.
A flush climbed up his neck by the time he looked up again, facing the handsome brute who’d turned his time at school into a nightmare and had humiliated him last night. Oh, how easy his life would have been if this weren’t only some strange dream that felt deceptively real. With a body like this, he could achieve anything.
He exhaled and faced the kitchen when his stomach grumbled, twisting with unfamiliar intensity. If this was a lucid dream, could he imagine a cute twink sitting on the counter and fuck him with the massive tool that was temporarily his?
Caspian lowered the boxer shorts, exhaling as the fat dong twitched, getting harder when he imagined his favorite singer sprawled in front of him and already pushing down his skinny jeans with a flush on his angular face.
Caspian exhaled and touched the table to make room on it, but something dark dashed from behind a plate at speed and sent him crashing back into cupboards.
“Was that a fucking cockroach?” he uttered, as if there was anyone here to answer that question.
Another, and then its whole family, rushed across the floor next. Caspian let out a squeal and jumped onto the sofa with his dick swinging between his legs. It might not have been dignified, but he didn’t care, since no one was watching.
Something sharp hid between the cushions, and he stepped right fucking on it! A short examination revealed that it was the lid of a can, not a used needle, so he exhaled with relief and bent down, pulling his shorts back up. At least the dining table was clean, or rather cleared, because the dark circular stains left on the white surface weren’t going anywhere. He rested his forehead against it, trying to breathe.