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*

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.

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 😉

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.

This is the totem of muscle, warm, heaving, alive, reeking of man. Only reserved for the biggest, strongest in the gym, an ultimate honour to be stripped of distractions, to live as pure maleness. A motivation for all meatheads, who dream of the day to be part of this glory.

Even without a brain to command it or legs to walk on, he will always, always, use every inch of the meat that he is to come to you. Remember, he is more alive than you are, and his patience and want are boundless.

This powerful, sweaty pair of powerlifter legs doesn’t just obey to walk around and serve without any mind to order it. No, it gets off from serving you. The posing briefs are too tight, and its thighs are rubbing. Time to relieve it of this pressure, before it sprays on its own.

Wyd if you see this giant, heaving slab of living meat barely fitting into the seat beside you, reeking of musk and sweat, pecs jiggling with something stirring below?

After Trent volunteered to be the communal muscle pillow, he got much wanted appreciation for his physique, and morale in the gym skyrocketed. Only catch: he grew so sensitive now governed by touch, staff or one of his bros has to take care of that tent in the pants every hour.

Whatcha lookin’ at, punk? Don’t even think about it. Fuck off, fucking put me dow—mhff mhff mhppppf mwhat a terrible tasting cock-mhhff do you even wash it, or you using me to lick it clean, hmm? Can’t make a real man gag, can you—mhfffggkkkkhh mhhff

I have a personal centaur. Headless, strong, likes touch. His large hands on my shoulders, my hands cupping his huge sweaty pecs as I ride, and the sensitive stump… Best thing, not a man, no face, no bullshit, just a wondrous creature that happens to have a strongman torso.

They don’t remember they were extracted from the same body. They are just parts, now toys, after all. All that matters now is touch, instinct, stimulation. No past, no future, only eternal present and eternal pleasure.

Consenting to cutting off your own head but staying alive and conscious in the process is weird. Having admin rights to modify and recode your own now digital consciousness controlling your still biological meat body is even weirder.

Got beer?

Meat exists. Meat wants. Meat touches. Meat feels. Meat satisfies. Always meat, nothing else.

The body learnt the hard way that the head that once domineered over it wasn't an unbreakable toy, and after five consecutive uses the brute stopped complaining and instead drooled in confusion. But a toy that doesn't bicker is not fun, so it tries to wake it up for round six.

Welcome. I’m B-68 but people call me Bob — oh don’t worry I’m not a human; I was just built like this to assist… in any way possible, and I was assigned to you by profile. Shall we proceed to the room tour? I am available 24/7. I’m built after all - my shift is your stay.

They are sending you a clear message.

2 living bodies. 2 limbs in total. 2 manhoods. 2 hundred kilos of mass. 0 head. 0 man. 0 inhibition. 0 need for rest. Infinite pleasure.

Now sir would you direct your attention here — Ahem sir eyes on the form. Sir! I know you are disrespecting me solely because you see a slab of torso made to be pleasure pillow unit, but I am a qualified police officer with my own effort. *sigh* Oyama! Get me a shirt.

Which one would you choose first, the mouth or the hand? They are all restless and eager to be used. Please tell what you would do.

The police force has a unique solution to human bias and lack of appeal to the public. Public engagement is up, but there is a new problem of units not returning to the station on time, if at all.

No thoughts. No voice. No self. Just meat. Just sensation. Just pleasure.

Just a body fixing things around home, just as he is programmed to do, and he didn’t mind giving you the view either.

Beach day is always the best thing for a liberated body. He can feel the warmth of the sun and your touch at the same time as you cuddle on the beach mat.

Every single nerve, every single sinew *feels*. The magnitude, the pervasiveness is incomprehensible for those constrained by a head.

The substrate upon which my existence is built governs the manner I exist in, but the fact that I exist is not questionable. It just makes my existence more powerful, more compelling. Enjoy your existence.