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Description

I died, yeah, that's right. A car crash to be precise - did a number on me. Shipshape one moment, ghost the next. You see it in films, read about it in books but no one tells you about the chill, the absence of feeling. It was odd but it came with perks. Perks like slipping into the silver-haired doctor who was sitting alone in his office.
The doctor was a nice fellow - studious, portly, matured. The kind of man age hadn't robbed of a boyish charm. Silver hair, full and lush, which matched his equally silver and equally lush beard. He was sitting in his chair, a comfortable, worn piece of leather furniture that had seen better days, just like him. His eyes were squinting at the documents laid out before him on the wooden desk, his chubby fingers locked in a dance with a fountain pen. He was dressed in a clean, white coat - the kind that projected an air of 'I've got everything under control'. His ID tag dangled from his pocket, it had 'Dr. Samuel P. Goldstein' engraved on it. A well-respected, well-rounded man - just the kind I enjoyed.
As I made my way towards him, I felt the heat of his body, a stark contrast to my ethereal coldness. Sinking into him was like slipping into a warm bath after a bone-chilling winter's day. His body jerked in surprise, the pen dancing from his hand, turning the pages of the document into a splatter of bluish-black ink. His eyes rolled back, as if searching the recesses of his mind for some kind of resistance, a defense mechanism against the sudden intrusion.

He released a soft groan, his limbs surrendered their strength, tumbling in a directionless descent. Papers fluttered around like misdirected butterflies as his arms lost their support.

He slumped back into his office chair, his round belly pushing against the tight buttons of his coat, his head lolling back to rest against the worn leather. The light bathed his figure, highlighting his curves, throwing his face into sharp relief against the dimly lit room.

I draped myself over his consciousness, like a familiar blanket, gently nudging him into the depth of sleep. His body twitched, a futile response against the unwelcome guest, and then... tranquility. His eyes were vacant, his mind on pause, his body yielded to my control.
I looked down at my new chubby form. I felt the roundness of his belly under the coat, the softness of his skin. I moved his thick, hairy fingers, clenching and unclenching them, feeling the raw, physical sensation. I ran a hand through the lush silver hair, felt the prickling sensation of the beard against skin. I admired the chubby man in the reflection of the polished mahogany desk and felt alive once more.

Description

I died, yeah, that's right. A car crash to be precise - did a number on me. Shipshape one moment, ghost the next. You see it in films, read about it in books but no one tells you about the chill, the absence of feeling. It was odd but it came with perks. Perks like slipping into the silver-haired doctor who was sitting alone in his office.
The doctor was a nice fellow - studious, portly, matured. The kind of man age hadn't robbed of a boyish charm. Silver hair, full and lush, which matched his equally silver and equally lush beard. He was sitting in his chair, a comfortable, worn piece of leather furniture that had seen better days, just like him. His eyes were squinting at the documents laid out before him on the wooden desk, his chubby fingers locked in a dance with a fountain pen. He was dressed in a clean, white coat - the kind that projected an air of 'I've got everything under control'. His ID tag dangled from his pocket, it had 'Dr. Samuel P. Goldstein' engraved on it. A well-respected, well-rounded man - just the kind I enjoyed.
As I made my way towards him, I felt the heat of his body, a stark contrast to my ethereal coldness. Sinking into him was like slipping into a warm bath after a bone-chilling winter's day. His body jerked in surprise, the pen dancing from his hand, turning the pages of the document into a splatter of bluish-black ink. His eyes rolled back, as if searching the recesses of his mind for some kind of resistance, a defense mechanism against the sudden intrusion.

He released a soft groan, his limbs surrendered their strength, tumbling in a directionless descent. Papers fluttered around like misdirected butterflies as his arms lost their support.

He slumped back into his office chair, his round belly pushing against the tight buttons of his coat, his head lolling back to rest against the worn leather. The light bathed his figure, highlighting his curves, throwing his face into sharp relief against the dimly lit room.

I draped myself over his consciousness, like a familiar blanket, gently nudging him into the depth of sleep. His body twitched, a futile response against the unwelcome guest, and then... tranquility. His eyes were vacant, his mind on pause, his body yielded to my control.
I looked down at my new chubby form. I felt the roundness of his belly under the coat, the softness of his skin. I moved his thick, hairy fingers, clenching and unclenching them, feeling the raw, physical sensation. I ran a hand through the lush silver hair, felt the prickling sensation of the beard against skin. I admired the chubby man in the reflection of the polished mahogany desk and felt alive once more.