TheInvisibleMan
Adult content. 18+ only.
Warning: this story is a continuation of the series A Romance in a Few Acts and, as usual, contains permanent transformations, sex scenes, and something else I’ve probably forgotten.
The story does not contain a single scene of a woman getting a haircut, but I needed to introduce a male character into the series.
The story with all illustrations can be read on my Patreon.
Chapter 1
I’d been into Emmy since our first year. There were plenty of striking people at the school of design and art, but she was the one. It wasn’t about her hair or tattoos. She had this unsettling, magnetic confidence—like she didn’t just know what she wanted, but knew exactly how to get it.
I, on the other hand, had always been… average. Decently good-looking, sure, but not the kind of guy people remember. That was enough to get attention from girls back in school, but among future artists I just faded into the background.
By the end of first year, when we were already pretty friendly, I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out. She laughed.
“Sorry, Jack. You’re not my type.”
Later, I saw her a few times with a gorgeous woman in her mid-thirties. Didn’t look like she dated men at all. So yeah—I definitely wasn’t her type.
Emmy dominated every year of study. Competitions, exhibitions, runways. She modeled, designed clothes, and immediately pushed them onto the catwalk. She changed her appearance constantly—hair, color, style. For a while she even shaved her head completely—and fuck, it looked insanely good on her. Eventually, though, she went back to the look I first saw her in.
I had a few relationships during that time. The last one lasted two years, but we broke up three months ago. After that, it was supposed to be all about my thesis.
“Hey, Jack. Dinner tonight. Friday’s, eight,” Emmy said after a lecture, already walking away before I could respond.
“Yeah…” I muttered into empty space.
It hit me all at once. The girl I’d been into for over five years had just asked me out herself.
I got there early. Waited. When she walked in—wearing one of her own designs—my breath caught like always. She wore her stuff often, but every time it hit just right.
We sat down, ordered food. We knew each other, technically, but suddenly I had no clue how to even start talking.
“How’s your thesis? Making progress?”
She nodded.
“Yeah. Actually, that’s what this is about. I had a finished women’s line, but the fashion house I’m contracted with blocked me from using it. So now I have to redo everything—make a men’s collection. And I need a male model. I need you, Jack.”
It took me a second to process that.
“Me? A model? That’s ridiculous. I don’t fit, I don’t know how—and there are tons of professionals, why me?”
“That’s exactly why,” she said with a crooked smile. “Those pompous narcissists know too much about how to pose. I need something real. You’re perfect.”
She finished eating and, suddenly, with almost childish ease, started licking her fingers clean. Slow, deliberate.
I got hard instantly.
“So? You in?”
“Yeah…”
“Good. Let’s go.”
She slipped cash under the plate—generous tip—grabbed my hand, and pulled me up. I tried to say something about my share, sending money, but she wasn’t listening.
A second later, we were by the restrooms.
“But the exit’s—”
“Inside.”
She shoved me into the men’s bathroom and followed. Empty.
“Take off your hoodie.”
“Why? I’m not—” I started, already pulling it off.
Click. A couple of photos.
“Turn around. I need every angle.”
I turned.
“Pants next time. Measurements now.”
A measuring tape appeared in her hands. Calm, focused, she worked—arms, shoulders, back, neck. Completely professional.
Meanwhile, I had a brutal erection. And when she wrapped the tape around my waist, there was no way she didn’t notice.
But she didn’t look away.
If anything, she leaned into it.
She dropped to her knees in front of me, slowly lifting her gaze from my crotch up to my face—and smiled.
I froze. Right on the edge.
She kept going—hips, thighs, calves.
The door suddenly opened. A middle-aged guy walked in—and stopped dead, staring.
“But… there are stalls…”
“Our passion doesn’t fit in there,” Emmy said спокойно, without even glancing back. “And try not to spill yourself on the way to the urinal. It’ll ruin our perfect date.”
The guy flushed bright red and backed out fast.
Emmy jumped up, grabbed my hand, laughing—and dragged me out. Out of the bathroom, out of the restaurant.
Outside, she flagged down a taxi almost instantly, jumped in, and—without even looking back—waved at me.
And just like that, she was gone.
I stood there on the sidewalk. Hoodie in hand. Rock hard in my pants. Looking like a complete fucking idiot.
Chapter 2
I stood in Emmy’s studio while she adjusted a finished suit on me, tugging at the fabric with quick, precise movements.
“Turn,” she said. “I need a couple of shots.”
I turned, stiff and a little awkward. The camera clicked a few times. She studied me, then gave a small nod.
“Perfect.”
I tried to organize my thoughts.
“So this is your thesis? You’ll write the concept and present everything through finished pieces? There’ll be more suits?”
“There will,” she said спокойно. “Concept, pieces—everything. But today we’re doing your tattoo.”
I froze.
“Wait. That wasn’t part of the deal. I like your tattoos, but… I’ve never even considered something like that.”
“Then consider it,” she replied, already pulling a machine and supplies out of a drawer.
“Do you seriously think this is normal?!”
She stepped closer. Too close.
Her palm landed on my chest—warm, steady—and slid slowly downward, over my stomach. She leaned in, lips near my ear.
“I think you’ll like it.”
Her voice was low, certain.
Then—heat. Breath. Her tongue. One short, precise movement.
My brain just… shut off.
My body reacted instantly.
Emmy pushed me down into the chair—sharp, controlled, almost commanding.
“Don’t move.”
No sketch. No stencil.
“I’ll improvise.”
The needle touched my skin. A sharp sting at first, then a steady, pulsing burn. The pain settled in, spreading, turning rhythmic. A pattern began to crawl across my shoulder—intricate, strange, almost alive. Something between organic growth and cold biomechanical structure.
We barely spoke.
She worked in silence, focused, exact. Every movement deliberate. I was drowning in sensation—pain, tension, her hands, her proximity. Every second only wound me tighter.
By the time she finished, I was completely on edge.
She stepped back, studied the result, then snapped a few photos.
“Done.”
And that was it.
No hug. No kiss. Nothing.
Just work.
I had to leave. Walk out with all that напряжение still locked in my body.
At the door, I hesitated.
“Do you remember? First year—you said I wasn’t your type…”
She looked at me, eyes narrowing slightly.
“I remember. Tastes change. Especially when people do.”
A pause.
“Oh—and tomorrow, you’re starting at the gym. I checked your schedule—you had gaps. Not anymore. You’re training every day. Personal trainer. He uses… a progressive method. He’ll get you in shape fast.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“And remember—I’m counting on you.”
She winked.
Chapter 3
I was getting destroyed in the gym every single day.
My trainer had a reputation—he’d whipped Hollywood actors into shape on brutal deadlines, and now he was treating me the same way. He controlled everything: diet, sleep, workload. No slack, no excuses. And the results came fast—my muscle mass started climbing for real.
A couple of weeks passed.
Emmy was fitting me into another new suit, camera in hand like always.
“Take off your shirt.”
I pulled it off without a word. She kept shooting.
Then she stepped closer. Her hand slid over my stomach—over the abs that were finally starting to show. I felt it again, that surge of возбуждение—but now it wasn’t just that. There was something else underneath.
Confidence.
“But we’re not done yet.”
She reached for the drawer again.
The same one.
Last time, she hadn’t lied—the tattoo had grown on me. Before, I barely ever showed my body, always hiding under long sleeves. Now… the pattern looked fucking good. Sharp, deliberate, эстетичный as hell. And the fact that I’d gone through with it—it did something to me. Gave me a kind of edge I didn’t recognize in myself.
This time, I didn’t argue.
She got back to work on my arm. The machine buzzed to life. The needle hit skin—pain flared, then settled into that familiar, pulsing burn. Pain, возбуждение, напряжение—it all blended together, but it didn’t shake me anymore. I stayed steady.
By the end, the sleeve was almost fully done.
“Oh, right. One more thing.”
She opened the drawer again—but this time pulled out clippers.
Stepped up close. Turned them on.
And without a word, ran them straight from my forehead to the back of my head.
Hair fell—onto my shoulders, my chest.
I’d never worn my hair short. It usually covered my ears, soft, safe. But… I didn’t stop her.
I trusted her.
She finished, looked at me, clicked her tongue like something still wasn’t right—and then, without warning, shaved off my eyebrows.
That caught me off guard.
But still—I said nothing.
Foam. Razor. Cold metal dragging over skin.
Minutes later—nothing left. Smooth scalp. Bare face.
She snapped a couple of photos.
I stepped up to the mirror.
The guy staring back at me… wasn’t the same.
Sharper. Harder. Stripped down to something more aggressive, more controlled. Like I’d cut away everything unnecessary.
The goodbye played out the same as before.
No hug. No kiss.
Nothing.
At the last second, she touched me again—just enough to spark something—and I almost reached for her, but she laughed, pushed me out the door—
—and smacked me on the ass on the way out.
I stood there in the hallway.
And I knew.
She’d be mine.
Even if I had to tear myself apart and rebuild into someone else entirely.
Chapter 4
I got back from training, planning to spend the evening in the studio—work on assignments, push the thesis forward.
That plan died the second I saw Emmy.
She stood in the middle of the room—insanely beautiful—and crying like she was breaking apart. I had never seen her like that.
“They put generated shit into production!” Her voice cracked.
“Wait—I don’t get it…”
“The fashion house picked up an AI-generated collection! They’re still working with me—but I looked at it…” She резко swept the pencil holder off the table. “And it’s actually good. You understand? It’s good. None of this means anything anymore.”
She was breathing hard, almost choking on it.
“We’re not needed. AI does in minutes what takes us months. Fuck the money—I meant something. And now I don’t. They’re taking everything. Models—useless. Artists—useless. Designers—useless. Fashion designers—fucking useless.”
I stepped in and wrapped my arms around her.
She pressed her face into my chest, hands gripping my back like she needed something to hold onto.
“As long as you can look at what a neural net spits out and tell whether it’s actually good—using your taste, your experience—you’re still needed. Yeah, the craft is shrinking. But not everything. And you tattoo well. AI hasn’t taken that yet, has it?”
She looked up, smiling through tears.
“I think it’s already trying… But you’re right. Physicality. Emotion. Sensation. Shock. Provocation—that’s still ours. That’s where art has to live now.” She inhaled sharply. “Which means I have to redo my thesis. Everything that can be generated—doesn’t matter. We have to do what can’t.”
Her gaze drifted across the room and landed on a figurine on my table.
“Why him?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t know. Just looks good. And I like antiheroes. They’re more real. You believe them. And… Venom made Eddie Brock stronger against his will. That idea just… sticks.”
“Exactly.” She grabbed my hand. “Come on. I need to show you something.”
We ended up in a contemporary art gallery, standing in front of a painting.
“What do you feel?”
“I know this piece. Henry K., follower of Giger—”
“I’m not asking what you know. What do you feel?”
I shut up.
“…It pulls you in. Like it wants to swallow you. There’s power in that darkness. Something unknown. Makes you want to dive into it, give yourself up, lose who you are and come out as something else. Yeah… it feels like Venom.”
“Exactly.”
And then she kissed me.
Hard. Hungry. No hesitation.
We grabbed each other like we’d been holding back for years—hands, mouths, tongues, everything at once. The only thing stopping it from going further was the fact we were in a fucking museum.
When we finally broke apart, she ran her hand over my head. The stubble was already coming in.
“You need to stay smooth.”
“Shaving my head every day is fucking exhausting.”
She smiled.
“We’ll remove it. Completely. You’ll always be smooth.”
“Remove… how?”
“They’ve figured out how to work with follicles. You can remove them—or transplant modified ones. The body stops rejecting them, they settle in like they’ve always been yours. We still can’t cure cancer or Alzheimer’s properly…” she smirked, “but we can permanently change hair color. Or erase it entirely. Hell, they’ve grown horns on rats.”
She held my gaze.
“You know the story of Henry’s wife. Karina?”
“The exhibition? When he covered her in tattoos?”
“Yeah. She was my idol when I was a kid.”
I went still.
“So your whole look… that photo…”
“Yeah.”
She pressed herself against me, full body. Her hand slid down and wrapped around my erection through my pants, firm, deliberate. She leaned into my ear:
“Could you do that for me?”
“Yeah…” It came out like a breath, almost a groan.
“Then we need to get to the studio. Now.”
We were all over each other in the taxi, not stopping for a second. The driver kept glancing at us in the mirror.
The moment we got inside, she started ripping my clothes off.
We hit the floor.
I was stronger now, built up, muscles tight—but next to her I felt almost powerless. There was too much energy in her, too much intensity—like she could break me if she wanted to.
We moved nonstop—floor, couch, back again—positions changing, bodies tangled, no rhythm except raw momentum. Time stopped existing.
I don’t even know how many times I came. Eight, maybe.
When I woke up, it was morning.
Emmy was already at her laptop. Looked like she hadn’t slept at all.
“I booked everything. Finished the prep. Today we transform you.”
“Yeah… my mistress.” I smirked faintly. “And I’ll finally be your type?”
She closed the laptop slowly and looked straight at me.
“Absolutely.”
A beat.
“But you won’t recognize yourself.”
She smiled.
Chapter 5
We arrived at the clinic. I didn’t read a single document—I was still high off the night before. Emmy just nodded, flipped through the papers, and handed them to me to sign.
Then we split.
They took me into a procedure room. She stayed behind, talking to the staff.
They laid me down and started laser hair removal on my head. I understood what that meant—I’d be bald permanently. Hair would only come back if it was transplanted. But this version of me… Emmy liked it more.
The procedure dragged on. My scalp burned like hell. At times I blacked out.
Then they moved on—face, eyebrows, armpits, arms, legs, chest, groin. My body felt like it was melting into heat and exhaustion. I kept drifting in and out.
Half-conscious, they walked me into another room. Anesthesia. Sedatives. A table.
Above me—mechanical arms. Dozens of needles.
Emmy had handed my body over to machines.
She stood nearby, giving instructions, adjusting settings. Her voice faded in and out as I slipped away.
Right before everything went dark, she leaned over and kissed me.
“Goodbye, old Jack.”
The machines kicked in.
A low hum. Then needles.
They started covering me—line by line, filling me in. Black spreading across my skin. They flipped me over—on my back, on my stomach, back again. Needles in my neck. My scalp.
My face.
I woke up in a bed I didn’t recognize.
My whole body ached. Deep, heavy pain.
Emmy was next to me.
I raised my hand.
Black.
Completely black.
I shot upright.
She was on me instantly—kissing me hard, grabbing, sliding her hands over my body like she needed to feel every inch. Everywhere—black. Only a few anatomical gaps left.
She dropped to her knees and pulled my underwear down.
Smooth.
Everywhere.
My dick—black too.
She started slow, almost gentle—mouth on my balls, then her tongue along the shaft, lips wrapping around me. Steady rhythm.
I looked at the mirror.
Venom stared back at me.
My head—black. My face—black. White shapes around my eyes, shaped like his. Teeth tattooed across my cheeks and lips—sharp, unnatural.
I didn’t look human anymore.
Jack was gone.
The symbiote had taken over.
Something rose inside me—rage. And along with it, power. Massive. Overwhelming.
She kept sucking my dick, trying to make me come—but I could feel it clearly now.
Control.
I could finish whenever I wanted.
I said nothing.
Grabbed her hair. Hard.
Pulled her up. Turned her. Bent her over.
Skirt up. Lace torn.
I drove into her ass.
The way her body reacted—it was obvious. First time.
I didn’t slow down.
I fucked her hard. Relentless. For a long time—maybe half an hour. She rolled her eyes back, moaned, screamed, completely lost it.
At the end, I yanked her by the hair again, forced her to her knees, and came in her mouth.
She swallowed.
Opened her mouth, showed me her tongue.
I slapped her across the face.
Up until the thesis presentation, people kept asking me about my appearance.
I didn’t hear them.
Didn’t give a shit.
I was above it.
Even my parents barely registered.
There was only one thing that mattered.
I fucked Emmy.
Everywhere.
At the university. In the car. In bathrooms. In her studio.
I presented my thesis.
The commission looked at me with something between shock and fear. They barely asked any questions.
Then—Emmy.
Hers wasn’t a presentation. It was an exhibition. Men’s collection on mannequins. Photos of me—from the beginning to the final version. And me—standing there, in one of her suits.
People looked at me carefully. Curious. Cautious.
Most of the questions were for her.
A modeling agency representative approached me, handed me a card, said he wanted to work with me.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
The whole thing felt like a fucking triumph.
The commission was stunned.
And then she showed up.
The same woman Emmy had been with all those years.
They talked. Laughed.
Then kissed.
Long.
Something snapped inside me.
If Emmy hadn’t broken it off with her—then I’d just been a fucking tool. She used me. Took my identity and turned it into her thesis.
I wanted to destroy everything.
Tear it apart.
Rip her open.
Bite her fucking head off.
I stormed out, smashing the door off its hinges.
“Jack, wait! Stop!”
She caught up to me, grabbed me, pressed herself against my chest. Crying.
“I love you, Jack. And I have to tell you everything. Come on. Let’s go.”
We ended up at an ice cream café.
“Why here?”
“It matters to me.”
I slammed the door and dropped onto a bench outside.
She followed.
And then she started talking.
