A Friday in the Life

My knuckles were white on the steering wheel.  I’d been driving for an hour with no sign of pursuit, but I didn’t feel safe. Montgomery wouldn’t give up so easy.

Alan’s phone kept going to voicemail: “Hey, it’s Alan. Sorry to miss your call, I’m probably with another client or lost in a spreadsheets. Leave your name and number, and –”

I hung up and dialled again.  He was tied up in a dark basement.  He was being held at gunpoint by one of Montgomery’s goons.  He’d been shipped to Monroe’s Hunk Farm and was being forcibly processed…

Sure, he’d be happy after that last one, but I’d hate to lose my friend.

I give Alan a lot of shit, but he’s in my corner.  Before I met him, I was just a nobody, stuck in Los Angeles – waiting tables, getting drunk on Sunset, fucking a new guy every night.  It was all charity work — find some struggling actor from Omaha and give him leading man looks… though he’d never remember his lines.

I’d never thought about taking my talent on the road, never thought about how much people might pay for this. Alan’s the brains of the operation.  He came up with the details.

For years, he’d been taking care of finding the clients, booking ‘em, planning my route.  Without Alan, I wouldn’t have a clue where to go.  I genuinely felt bad for how grouchy I’d been with him over the past few months.

I tried to push down my jumbled thoughts – getting sentimental wasn’t going to help me, and it wasn’t going to help Alan.  How could I get to him without being caught myself?

How had they even found me?  I thought through every moment of my close call – I’d been eating a burger, I’d barely taken my first bite when Montgomery’s ‘Terminator’ inspired himbo showed up across from me.

Had they tracked my license plate?  If that was true, then why weren’t Montgomery’s people waiting at my car.  I’d gone inside, waited in line, paid with my... goddamn it.  Montgomery is a major shareholder in one of the big payment companies, isn’t he?  I bet he knew the second I ran my credit card through the machine.

Unfortunately I didn’t have a trunk full of cash, and my car was going to run out of gas sooner than later.  Okay.. where did that leave me?

I thought I knew how Montgomery was tracking me.  I didn't know what he’d do when he found me.  I had no idea if Alan was still alive. There were only two things I knew for sure...

I had a quarter tank of gas, and I was headed for LA.

But first I needed to lose my tail.

I took the next exit without hesitation, merging onto local roads and cutting south toward Indianapolis. It wasn’t a detour this time. It was a trap.

Montgomery’s people had found me before. I was gonna let them find me again.

I picked the first mall I could find — a few dozen stores, full of mirrors, blind corners, crowds, and dressing rooms. I’d make a show of it: use my card at a coffee kiosk or in the food court.  Something that would look normal. Montgomery’s team would come running to find me.

But this time, I wouldn’t be sitting in a booth with ketchup on my chin. This time, I’d be ready. I’d have a mirror. Privacy.  A fucking plan.

I wasn’t running anymore. I was bait.

It was reckless. It was dangerous. But it beat waiting for a knock at the door.

--------

The automatic doors whispered shut behind me, and I stepped into the icy blast of mall air. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Pop music thumped from hidden speakers. I kept my head down and moved with the crowd – just another guy killing time on a Friday afternoon.

I told myself I had a plan. I told myself I was ready. But as I prowled the corridors pretending to browse, doubt started to creep in.

The place was bigger than I’d expected. Too many open spaces, too many wandering eyes. A security guard stood idly by the escalator, sipping a soda and looking bored. A pack of teens drifted past, laughing too loud. Everywhere I turned, there were people. Too many people.

I scanned the storefronts. A salon with mirrored walls—too exposed. A department store fitting room—promising, but crowded. A candle shop with low foot traffic. No mirrors in there.

I kept walking, slower now. My stomach was tight. What the hell was I doing? Playing bait in a suburban mall like I was some kind of spy? I could toss my wallet in a trash can and be on the interstate in five minutes. Head west. Find a new name. Start over.

But I wouldn’t get far. I didn’t have the gas money, and Montgomery didn’t lose people. He collected them.

I passed a mirrored pillar and caught my reflection. It cocked its head and grinned, just a split-second out of sync..

"C’mon, bro," it whispered. The sound was soft, buried beneath the mall music, but the voice was unmistakably my own. "You don’t gotta run. Just zap yourself already. Get dumb, get hot."

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"That’s what you want, right? To stop thinking so hard? To stop fighting?" The image leaned closer, muscles a little rounder, jaw a little squarer. Like it had been upgraded. "You’d look so good as one of Montgomery's boys."

I blinked hard, and the reflection snapped back to normal. Just me. Sweaty, stressed, underslept. But the voice lingered in my head.

I turned a corner and spotted a dimly lit clothing store, one of those moody, over-scented places that blasted EDM and sold overpriced jeans to hot guys. Dark wood paneling, louvered walls, giant promotional posters of shirtless models. A narrow layout.

Fewer people. Lots of change rooms and mirrors. Perfect.

As I stepped inside, I thought I saw the mirrors shimmer in my peripheral vision. Just a trick of the light. Just nerves. That’s what I told myself.

I reached for my wallet.

Time to make some noise.

------

I grabbed a shirt off the nearest table. Some pale green thing with a swooping neckline and a logo I didn’t recognize. Didn’t matter. All that mattered was the transaction.

The cashier barely looked at me. Young, sleepy-eyed, probably riding an edible. He glanced at the tag. “You wanna try it on?"

"It’s all good," I said, handing over my card.

He ran it. Somewhere in a server farm, lights were going off and alarms were sounding. A twunk is a fitted black suit was power-walking down the hallway. Mr Montgomery was getting interrupted.  “Go,” he’d say, approving the mission.

I’d crossed the Rubicon.

My heart pounded. I was suddenly aware of every second ticking by, every person passing outside the storefront. I took my shopping bag and pretended to leave.

When you set a trap, the bait has to sit there a while. You let the scent drift. 

Right by the register was a rack of clearance beachwear — tank tops, shorts, that kind of thing. I grabbed a couple items without really looking and gave the clerk a sheepish grin. "You know what? Maybe I will try these on.”

"For sure," he said with mindless instinct.  “Change room one is open.”

The back of the store was darker. The EDM was louder here, the bass thrumming against the mirror-lined walls. I stepped into the changing room, set down the bag, and took a deep breath.

He’d come. I could feel it.

Twelve minutes later, the curtain outside rustled. Then I heard the slap of flip-flops on laminate flooring.

I peeked through the crack in the door.

He was here.

The Terminator himbo from the burger place, but repackaged: coral pink board shorts, a low-cut tank that struggled against his pecs, and a pair of flip-flops that looked a size too small—probably scavenged from whatever poor beach boy he’d cornered at the A&W.

His eyes swept the changing area with robotic focus.

I didn’t wait.

I stepped out of the stall and caught his gaze.

"C’mon, bro," I taunted him.  “I’m right here.  Come and get me.”

I stepped backwards into the change room and flattened myself against the wall.  He stampeded in after me, suddenly face to face with a mirror.

“Freeze,” I said, weaving a spell between my fingers.  “Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”

I could see his muscles straining against my magic, but I clearly had the upper hand.  He was trembling, trying not to give in.  He wanted to submit... answer my question... and once he did that, he’d be mine.

“Fuck...” he stammered.  His mouth opened and closed, desperately trying to stay silent.  “Fuck... fuck... fuck you asshole.”

“Still sticking to your script,” I smirked. “Not for much longer.  Look at those clothes – I don’t see a terminator.  I see a beach boy, don’t you?”

“All... wrong...” he said, trying to  hold on.

“Yeah,” I said, ignoring his struggle.  “The board shorts, the flip flops... you look like some kinda Miami beach slut, don’tcha?”

He glared at me, trying to blast me through the wall with a glare.

“This ‘you’, it’s on the way out.  What’s a good little terminator say to that?” I teased.

“I’ll... I’ll be... I’ll be back... brah,” he gasped, finally breaking out of his script.  “This is like... totally weird dude.”

“Give in to it,” I urged him.  “It feels good, doesn’t it... bro?”

The change was fast. Muscles shifted. Expression slackened. He blinked twice, slowly, and smiled like someone had just told him he won a lifetime supply of protein powder.

His tank top clung tighter now, highlighting a sculpted chest that seemed puffier than before. His lips parted.  A backwards hat materialized in his hand, and he slipped it on out of habit.

"Uhh... hey bro," he rumbled, suddenly unsure what about his mission.  “Feels like... so good.”

His body was shrinking, the mirror reflection guiding him towards the physique of a natural twunk, the kind of guy who spent his days prancing around, looking for cock.

“Get down and suck me off,” I ordered.

He dropped to his knees fast, eager, clumsy. I braced myself against the wall, biting down a groan as his soft lips wrapped around my cock.

He bobbed his head with single-minded focus, tongue eager and wet, eyes looking up like a puppy waiting for praise.

"Yeah, you like that?"

He moaned around me, the vibration setting off sparks in my spine.

I didn’t last long. I didn’t need to. I shoved him back, spun him around, yanked those coral shorts down over his round, transformed ass.

He gasped. Not in protest. Just in surprise.

I fucked him hard, rough, one hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds. His tank top rode up his back, exposing perfect skin, tight muscle, dumb sweat.

He pushed back into me, hungry for it.

I emptied into him with a growl.

Afterward, he stood there swaying slightly, dumb and grinning.  Three minutes ago, he’d been a weapon.

"You did like... so good, bro," he said, his Austrian accent gone, now replaced with something vapid.

I zipped up and smacked his ass. "Damn right I did."

The horniness I felt hadn’t left me, not really. But I’d bought myself time. That was something.

I stepped out of the changing room, straightening my shirt.

"Thanks, man," I said to the cashier.

He nodded lazily, then blinked in confusion as my twunked-out ex-assassin stumbled out after me, dreamy-eyed and visibly leaking.

"Uh... you guys find everything okay?" he asked.

I grinned. "Oh yeah. We’re good."

We left together.

--------

I knew something was wrong before I reached the food court.

It was subtle—too subtle for most people to notice. But once I saw the pattern, I saw it everywhere.

Groups of four. Always four. Men, all fit, all clean-cut in that aggressively uniform way that Montgomery loved: black cargo pants, white fitted tees, mirrored sunglasses worn indoors. They loitered near exits, sat at tables with untouched food, browsed racks without ever taking anything to the fitting rooms. Individually, they were harmless. Together, they formed a net.

I counted three teams before I really got nervous.  If I absolutely had to, I could flip a guy in thirty seconds, but it was tiring.  No way I could take care of all four before they knocked me unconscious.

I veered away from the atrium and took a back hallway that led toward the parking structure. My heartbeat picked up, adrenaline kicking in like a second engine. I passed a mother with a stroller, a guy in a neck pillow holding an Orange Julius. I moved like I had somewhere to be, but not like I was running.

The garage entrance was just ahead. I could almost see my car through the glass doors—almost. But one of the teams was already there. One guy leaned against the wall scrolling his phone. Another was crouched, perpetually tying his shoe. Two more were outside the door, pretending to smoke.

Boxed in.

I turned on a dime and walked back into the mall, past the smoothie place, toward transit signs. Maybe I could slip onto a bus. A train. Anything.

But the benches were occupied. More groups of four. Pretending to wait. Pretending not to notice me.  They were here to keep me from running.  The terminator-now-beach-bunny was here to bring me in.  As soon as they figured out he wasn’t responding, I was sure the net would close.

I ducked into a sporting goods store and kept walking until I hit the mirrored wall in the shoe section. I angled myself so I could see behind me without turning my head.

Three of the men were visible in the mirror now. One followed loosely, looking at backpacks. Another two split to flank either side of the walkway.  The waiting game was over – they were coming for me now.

I swallowed hard.

My reflection grinned.

"You can’t win this one, bro," it whispered at me.  “You can’t change them all...”

I kept my body language neutral, casual. Just a guy debating hiking boots. Just a guy trying not to have a panic attack.

"They’re too many. You’re just one."

My pulse was hammering. I turned away from the mirror.

"You’ve done enough," it whispered. "You fought. You held out. Nobody would blame you."

I stepped away, deeper into the store, past the socks and yoga mats, past the dressing rooms.

"Let them catch you," another mirror said, louder now. "Let them decide what you’ll be."

One of the men passed by the entrance. I slipped into a corner and crouched, pretending to tie my shoe. My hands trembled.

"It won’t even hurt," the mirror coaxed. "You’ll get dumber. Hotter. Happier."

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. Focus. Breathe.

Another mirror caught my eye—angled above a product display. My reflection stared at me with a mix of pity and lust.

"A dumb jock doesn’t worry. He doesn’t plan. He doesn’t run. He gets used."

I shoved the thoughts down. Hard. I kept moving.

I ducked through a side exit and into a utility hallway behind the food court. It smelled like fryer oil and cleaner, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like flies. No music here. No distractions. Just the sound of my sneakers slapping concrete.

I could feel them closing in.

They didn’t run. They didn’t need to. The mall was theirs. They were the tide. I was just a guy trying to stay dry.

I passed another mirror, this one a warped sheet of polished steel mounted beside a fire hose cabinet.

My reflection was shirtless now.

Muscles too big for my body, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open. He looked like he’d just finished getting railed—or was about to start.

"You’re so close," he purred. "One slip. That’s all it takes.  Just give in bro...”

I didn’t stop. I didn’t argue.

But I didn’t look again.

I needed an exit. I needed space. And if I didn’t find it soon, I wasn’t sure which part of me would win—the one that was fighting, or the one that was aching to surrender.

-------

I found the discount store tucked at the end of a large hallway, quieter than the rest of the mall. No music, no movement. Just stale air and the hum of fluorescent lighting. I moved fast, slipping past mannequins and racks of clearance clothes until I reached the fitting rooms.

They were empty. For now.

I picked the last stall, locked the door, and slumped against it. My breath came in shallow, frantic bursts. Sweat clung to every inch of my skin. My shirt was soaked, my jeans stuck to my thighs. Every nerve screamed to keep moving.

But I couldn’t. Not anymore. I had nowhere left to go.

“Hey dude,” my reflection said, leaning casually.  “You’re not getting outta this.  How about you let me take care of you?”

He was right – I knew that much.  I could disguise myself in a moment... permanently, sure, but at least I’d get out without getting caught.  But if I myself start... would I be able to stop?  Would I be strong enough to keep my mind intact?

The mirror saw my weakness and pounced.

“So... did you always wanna be an old guy?” it asked, using my own tricks against me.  It’s fingers twitched as it spoke.  “I think you’d rather be a young stud.”

The change began at my calves—a warmth curling around the muscle, smoothing and thickening it. My thighs followed, quads swelling, hamstrings stretching and shaping into the power of someone who squatted for fun. My glutes rounded, firmed, lifted. A porn-perfect bubble butt, tight and obscene.

My hips narrowed, waist tightened, abs sharpening into a crisp, symmetrical grid. My chest swelled next—pecs rising, rounding, firm as granite. My shoulders broadened. My arms thickened, biceps rounding with gym-bro density, veins pushing up beneath my skin.

I gasped as the magic rolled through my spine and up my neck. My jawline refined, cheekbones lifted. Not perfect, not pretty—not what a model would be. But tempting. Approachable. The kind of face you trust just long enough to make a mistake.

I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror.

The mirror looked back.

I ran a hand down my abs and watched him mimic me, a cocky glint in his eye. My dick twitched. I didn’t have time for that. Not now.

“Let’s take care of that fashion,” it suggested.  “Lose the jeans and the tee... let’s put you in something that suits that body, okay?”

A tank top spread across my chest – tight, white, cut low. Then joggers – charcoal grey, snug in the thighs and just loose enough at the ankle. I adjusted my bulge, instinctively making sure that I looked like... totally fuckable.

The guy in the mirror looked like he belonged here. Not hunted. Not scared. Just a dumb, fuckable mall rat looking for trouble.

And he was going to get it.

The figure staring back at me smirked, flexed without prompting. It tilted its head like it was trying to flirt with me. The movement was wrong—half a beat off. Not mimicry. Performance.

"C’mon, bro," the reflection mouthed, though I hadn’t spoken. "You can feel it, right?  The black hole in your mind... just fall right in, you’ll feel so much better."

The mirror was hotter now. Literally hotter. The guy inside it had thicker pecs, a longer bulge stretching his joggers, and a vacant look of bliss in his glassy eyes. He flexed again, then reached out—either toward me or inviting me in. I couldn’t tell.

The magic surged, pulsing behind my eyes. My knees nearly buckled. I felt giddy, electric. My fingers twitched like they wanted to form a peace sign. Or throw up a bicep flex. Or slide into my waistband and show off my cock.

The mirror-Jake was grinning now, dopey and proud.

"You’re so close," he whispered. "Almost there. Let someone else take over. You’ve earned it."

A bubble of laughter rose in my chest. Not the good kind. The kind that comes right before you break.

I gritted my teeth.

Alan. The car. The feeling of running on empty. The way my pulse had thudded when I saw the hunting teams coordinate like clockwork. The hot breath of pursuit behind every corridor.

I wasn’t done.

I clenched down. Focused. Sharpened every edge in my mind like I was walking into a fight.

The reflection faltered.

He sneered at me. His body shimmered with static, like a bad signal on an old TV. Then he vanished in a flicker.

The mirror went still.

I was alone again... but the effects remained.

I stepped out of the stall like I was walking into a party. Cock forward, arms loose, trying to look like my head was like... totally empty.

If anyone looked at me now, all they’d see was a hot idiot with a big cock and a dumber smile.

But behind the eyes, I was still in there.

I was still in there.

--------

The mall was still crawling with them. Loitering by the escalators. Searching each store in packs of four. But this time, none of them looked at me twice.

I walked straight past the first team, not even a flicker of recognition. One of them glanced up from a smoothie, eyes skimming over my chest, my thighs, then sliding off like I was scenery. A hot distraction. Nothing more.

The spell worked.

I wasn’t Jake anymore. Not to them. I was just another hunk in joggers and a tank top, cock forward, shoulders loose, lips parted like I didn’t have a thought in my head. Sexy. Anonymous. Forgettable.

And for a moment, that’s exactly how I felt.

Free.

Untouchable.

Every step dragged soft fabric across my half-hard cock, a tease of friction that kept my heart thudding in time with the magic under my skin. I caught glimpses of myself in mirrored storefronts—cheeks flushed, chest pumped, a lazy little smirk tugging at my mouth—and each time, I had to fight the urge to stop and flex. Just a little. Just to see.

I looked good.

More than good.

I looked like I wanted to be used.

The spell hadn’t just hidden me – it had made me desirable. Magnetic. I was the kind of distraction people turned toward, not away from. And they never noticed what I slipped past while they stared.

I strutted past another group. Two of them looked. One even licked his lips. I didn’t flinch. I let my ass swish back and forth, joggers tight across the curve of my cheeks.

The thrill of it surged through me. Horny. Heady. Dangerous.

I wasn’t just surviving.

I was winning.

And that, I think, is what doomed me.

Because confidence, when it’s magic-born and lust-fed, makes you reckless.

------

The far exit was quiet, tucked near a row of shuttered kiosks and an empty massage chair station. I moved through it confidently, head high, bounce in my step, dick still semi from the thrill of going unseen.

The disguise was working. I’d made it this far without even a whisper of danger.

That’s when I saw him.

One of Montgomery’s men—definitely. Built like a linebacker, square jaw, sunglasses even though the garage was shaded. But he was alone. No group. No backup.

He leaned against a concrete pillar, thumbs dancing over his phone. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirt like they were trying to break free. He didn’t look like he was hunting. He looked like he was killing time.

And he was standing right next to a mirrored support column.

I slowed, just a little. Just enough.

The spell hummed under my skin. My cock throbbed. I didn’t even pretend it was strategy. Sure, I could get answers. Maybe even take out a threat. But what hit me in that moment wasn’t logic.

It was desire.

I wanted to take him. Turn him. Get my hands on that thick chest, watch the confusion melt into pleasure. Fuck him senseless in the backseat of whatever unmarked car he’d driven.

I ducked behind a parked SUV and wove a spell with my fingers.

He never looked at the mirror.  Never noticed the way his reflection was changing.

Start with the attitude—cocky, loose, more than a little bit dumb. Make him want to please, to show off, to give in. I shaped the reflection’s smirk, widened his stance, made his arms a little thicker.  Turn that t-shirt into a tank top, shrink those cargo pants until they were a second skin. I softened his jaw and made his eyes go glossy.

Obedient. Eager. Ready to serve.

I thought the final words of the spell and watched his mirrored version ripple into perfection.  A moment later, the gasp as he felt himself changing, falling into his new life.

And that’s when I felt it.

The pressure shift.

A shadow moved in the reflection—then another.

I turned too late.

The rest of the team had arrived.

Four of them, perfectly spaced, emerging from behind parked cars and shadows like they'd been waiting for the exact moment I dropped my guard.  Like this guy hadn’t been distracted.

Like he’d been bait.

I staggered back, but they were already surrounding me. The himbo hunter I’d been working on blinked slowly, the spell half-finished with his body, his stance slack but his teammates sharp.

One of them raised some kind of gun.  I heard a puff of air, and my left pec was stinging all of a sudden.  I glanced down... fucker put a hole in my new tank!

A dart was stuck in my skin.  I had just enough breath left to curse myself.

Too confident. Too slow.

Doomed by my own fucking dick.

I hit the ground hard. My head was swimming. The concrete punched the breath out of my lungs, and my wrists were bound before I could catch it again. The zip cuffs bit into my skin, tight enough to cut off circulation, slick with sweat.

I couldn’t concentrate.  Couldn’t find a reflection.  Couldn’t remember how to weave a spell.

My cheek pressed to the floor, the cold grit of the parking garage grounding me in my failure. My magic fizzled behind my ribs, sputtering like a birthday candle.

I couldn’t move.

Boots shuffled around me. Radios crackled with half-formed commands. One of the agents cursed and demanded backup. Another barked something about containment. They weren’t smooth. They were improvising.

Good. Their plan wasn’t perfect either. Somehow that helped.

I opened one eye, vision swimming. And there it was: the mirrored pillar, just across from me, catching the scene in warped reflection.

I stared.

I wasn’t moving.

But my reflection was.

It was subtle. Barely perceptible. A flicker in the shoulder. A slow tilt of the head. Not a trick of light. Not a twitch.

The reflection smirked. Deliberate. Slow. Like it was savouring the moment.

Then it winked.

A shiver ran down my spine. I laughed. Soft and bitter.

Because even here, cuffed and pinned and surrounded, something I made was still alive.

And it was watching.