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By three in the afternoon, downtown Atlanta had turned into a moving cornucopia of flags. Mexico green in the crosswalks. Portugal red under the MARTA signs. Croatia checker boards rippling beside Switzerland scarlet. All swirling around the ubiquitous red white and blue of America.
Every bar patio had spilled onto the sidewalk, every giant screen showed pregame coverage, and every third person seemed to be arguing about lineups - like they knew anything about soccer or they were assistant managers with headsets in another life.
Ben, Tom, Jose, and David were already late to the FIFA Fan Fest. Not dangerously late. Not kickoff late. But late enough that the good standing spots near the big screen in the shade would be gone, late enough that the food trucks would have lines, late enough that four men who had once played together every Sunday morning for 15 years were already blaming each other like it was stoppage time.
“You said there’d be jerseys at the venue,” Tom said.
“I said there might be jerseys,” Jose answered.
David walked carefully, one hand near his lower back, his Portugal scarf hanging around his neck in the oppressive Atlanta summer. “You all had six months to buy these online.”
Ben looked down at his plain charcoal T-shirt stretched by his middle-aged dad-bod belly and frowned. “I wanted to try one on. I don’t trust sizing anymore.”
None of them laughed too hard at that. They were all old enough to understand.
Twenty years earlier, they had been the guys who stayed on the field for one more game, even when the sky went dark and the ball became a blur. Ben had been the wall at the back. Tom had been tidy and clever, never the fastest but always two passes ahead. Jose had played like the ball owed him obedience. David had been broad, mustached, impossible to move, and impossible to shut up.
Now Ben was bald and heavy through the middle. Tom’s blond hair had started retreating at both temples. Jose still looked the youngest, though he had begun noticing softness under his jaw in photos. David, the oldest at fifty, carried his old back injury like an extra piece of unwanted equipment.
The official booths lining Peacthree Street on the way to Fan Fest had nothing in their sizes. One vendor had kids’ shirts. Another had knockoffs with the names spelled wrong. A third tried to sell David a Ronaldo jersey and seemed personally offended when David said, “No, Neto.”
That was when Tom spotted the sign. Not a normal store sign. More like a temporary event placard tucked under a black awning between two downtown buildings:
MATCH FIT — PLAYER SHIRTS CUSTOMIZED ON YOU WHILE YOU WAIT
Below it, in smaller print:
TRY BEFORE YOU LEAVE. NO RETURNS AFTER KICKOFF.
“Customized on you while you wait,” Tom said. “That’s all we need.”
The place looked temporary, like it had been assembled that morning and might vanish by midnight. Inside were racks of national jerseys arranged by country, a counter with a heat press, and a hallway of six small fitting rooms made of black curtains and white partition walls.
No one stood at the counter. Instead, a tablet lit up when they approached.
SELECT PLAYER. SELECT FIT. ENTER BOOTH.
Jose grinned. “Atlanta has everything now - it is the Capital of the South, after all.” The rest of the men just rolled their eyes and grimaced at the Chamber of Commerce speech from Jose.
Ben tapped Croatia. Tom tapped Switzerland. Jose tapped Mexico. David tapped Portugal.
The tablet printed four receipts, each one with a booth number and a name already filled in.
BEN — GVARDIOL
TOM — CÖMERT
JOSE — JIMÉNEZ
DAVID — NETO
The tablet lit up again.
DON'T FORGET TO GRAB YOUR TEAM'S JERSEY FROM THE BIN - NAME CUSTOMIZATION WILL OCCUR AFTER YOU TRANSFORM.
“Creepy,” Tom said. "How did it know which players we wanted? And what does it mean by transform?"
“Who knows. At least it's efficient. It's probably some nerdy sports RP crap to build an experience.” Jose said. "We're running late, guys! Just grab your jersey and let's go!"
David took the Portugal shirt from the rack and held it against his stomach. “As long as they don't charge airport prices...”
They split into separate changing rooms. Ben pulled his curtain shut first.
The Croatia jersey looked too bright in his hands, almost aggressive under the fitting-room light. The standard red and white checker-board pattern. Clean seams. A shirt made for someone who expected contact, not someone who got winded carrying groceries upstairs.
Ben looked at himself in the mirror. Bald head. Light scruff. Heavy belly. The kind of body people called “solid” when they were being kind.
He lifted the jersey. "There's no way this is going to fit..." he thought to himself. Then for one strange second, the fabric seemed to pull toward him. He paused a moment then he put it on.
The first thing that changed was the fit. The shirt had been tight over his stomach, then less tight, then suddenly it sat against him as if the body underneath were being adjusted to meet it. His belly drew inward slowly. Not vanishing at once, but tightening, compressing, reshaping. His shoulders lifted and widened. His neck looked stronger.
Ben grabbed the edge of the bench. A dark prickle spread across his scalp. “No way,” he whispered.
Hair pushed through skin that had been smooth for years. At first it was only shadow, then short dark growth, then thick curls forming unevenly, damp-looking and messy. His scruff darkened along his jaw, gathering into a fuller beard. His face, still barely his face, began to pull into a new structure. The roundness tightened. The jaw sharpened. His nose and brow shifted by small degrees, enough that every breath made him look less like Ben and more like the man printed on the mental image he had carried into the booth.
His arms hardened inside the sleeves. His chest lifted. His posture changed without permission. By the time the transformation settled, Ben stood taller, younger, powerful in a way that felt quiet and dangerous. He touched the beard, then the curls, then the Croatia crest. He had become the spitting image of Joško Gvardiol.
"Whoa..." was all the came out of Ben's mouth.
On the other side of the wall, Tom made a sound that was not quite a laugh. Tom had expected the Swiss jersey to make him look respectable. He did not expect it to make him feel measured. That was the sensation: as if the red shirt had taken inventory and found him lacking in very specific places.
His blond hair with its thinning edges remained blond at first. His average middle-aged body remained average. He exhaled in relief, almost disappointed. Then the shirt tightened at his shoulders.
His torso firmed beneath it. The small softness at his waist retreated. His chest broadened. His arms gained definition like a photograph coming into focus. Tom stared down as the jersey changed from something he was wearing into something that belonged on him.
His face followed more slowly. His cheeks hollowed slightly. His jaw grew cleaner. Blond hair darkened at the roots and filled in at the temples, strand by strand, losing its faded middle-aged color until it became thick and dark. Stubble gathered across his cheeks and chin, first rough, then fuller, shaping itself into a dark beard.
His heart began to race as his body continued to shift. “Calm down,” he said, but the words came out in a voice that was already less familiar with a Swiss-German accent.
His eyes looked more intense. His brow strengthened. His features kept some trace of Tom for another few seconds, enough that he could recognize himself being overwritten. That was worse than disappearing all at once - he was being absorbed, enveloped, rewritten by the jersey.
After a few more seconds, he looked unrecognizable: younger, fitter, sharper, the Swiss red jersey lying smooth over a body that had no memory of stiff mornings.
Then curiosity beat fear. Tom lifted the hem of the shirt. His stomach was flat, then defined, then cut with muscle he had not seen since...well never. He stared at his abs, mouth open. The surprise on his face was pure, almost innocent as he finished his transformation into Eray Cömert.
From the next booth, Jose said, “Tom? You alive over there? Does the jersey not fit?”
Tom did not look away from his stomach. “I’m reviewing new information. Please hold...”
Jose laughed, "What is that accent, bud?" but his laugh caught halfway through. The Mexico jersey had felt warm when he pulled it on, as if it had been sitting in sunlight. Green fabric slid over his shoulders, and for a moment he simply admired it. Jose had always liked the way Mexico green looked on him. It made him feel connected to something bigger than himself: family, noise, food, history, every summer cookout where someone had screamed "GOOOOOL" at a television.
The first change made him smile. His shoulders squared. His chest tightened. His stomach flattened. Not dramatically, not yet, but enough that he stood straighter.
Then his face began to shift. Jose leaned forward in disbelief of what he was looking at. He lifted his hands to his jaw. The stubble there thickened, neatened, and spread into a trimmed dark beard. His cheekbones sharpened beneath his fingertips. His mouth shifted. His nose, brow, and eyes moved by subtle degrees toward a face he knew from match highlights. Then he saw the infamous scar from a head injury and surgery sketch across his head.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, that’s different.”
His hair styled itself shorter and cleaner, as if wind and sweat and stadium lights had shaped it. His average build became athletic, his arms filling the sleeves. He leaned forward even more, inspecting himself in the invisible idea of his reflection, trying to catch the exact second when Jose became someone else.
The strange thing was that he did not panic. Or not only panic. There was fear in it, yes — the impossible closeness of another man’s face forming over his own. But there was also a rush of recognition, like the shirt had found a version of him that he secretly wished for ever since he was a little boy playing pick-up at the neighbor's house down the street.
He tested a smirk. It fit too well. “Uh-oh,” he said softly, pleased despite himself.
David’s booth stayed quiet longest - if for no other reason because he had the most difficulty getting the jersey over his big round belly and sagging chest. He had sat down to put the Portugal jersey on because that was how he put on most things now: carefully, with respect for his lower back, with one hand braced and one foot angled just so.
He hated that the others knew this. He hated that they pretended not to. The jersey lay across his lap, red and green, lighter than it looked. David ran his thumb over the crest. His thick mustache twitched with a humorless smile.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s see if I can make this work...”
He pulled it over his head. At first, it hurt. Not pain exactly, but the memory of pain leaving. His back loosened so suddenly that he grabbed both sides of the bench. The tightness he had lived with for years unwound one muscle at a time. His spine straightened. His hips shifted. His shoulders rolled back.
David inhaled sharply. The belly under the Portugal jersey began to shrink. His chest lifted. His arms tightened. The heavy, careful way he carried himself broke apart and reassembled into balance.
Then came his new face. He touched it midway through the change, palm pressed to one cheek, fingers moving over crow’s feet that were softening under his skin. Laugh lines faded. His thick mustache thinned, shortened, and reshaped, darkening as it joined a trimmed beard along his jaw. Salt-and-pepper hair deepened toward black, thickening into tousled curls.
For the first time in years, he stood without calculating the movement first. The realization hit harder than the transformation. He was not bracing. Not protecting. Not negotiating with his body. He was simply standing.
The rest of him followed quickly now: stomach flattening, chest defining, thighs and arms rebuilding into young athletic strength. His face sharpened into the Neto look, youthful and alert, with just enough disbelief left in his eyes to prove David was still inside.
In the final moment, he lifted the Portugal jersey with both hands and looked down. Abs. Not theoretical abs. Not “under there somewhere” abs. Clear, ridiculous, undeniable abs.
David barked a laugh so loud it shook the curtain.
“This better not be temporary!”
The curtains opened one by one. They did not step out like friends leaving fitting rooms. They stepped out like a lineup reveal for an all-star squad.
Ben emerged first in Croatia checkers, dark curls and beard replacing the bald, heavyset man who had gone in. His expression was stunned but controlled, as if the new body had given him a defender’s composure before his brain caught up.
Tom came out next in Swiss red, still glancing down at himself and tugging the shirt like he expected the abs to vanish if he stopped monitoring them.
Jose pushed his curtain aside in Mexico green, smirking like he had just won an argument nobody else knew they were having.
David came last in Portugal red and green, walking easily. That was the thing that silenced them. Not the younger face. Not the body. The walk. No stiffness. No guarded step. No hand hovering near his back.
Ben stared. “Dave...is that you?”
David rolled his shoulders once, then twice. His eyes shone with something too bright to joke away.
“I know,” he said.
The tablet on the counter chimed. A new message appeared.
PLAYER FIT COMPLETE.
Below it:
FAN FEST ENTRY: 0.4 MILES. ARRIVE BEFORE ANTHEMS.
Tom looked at the door. Outside, downtown Atlanta roared. A chant rose from the street, echoing between buildings, as 48 countries layered into one sound.
Jose laughed. “We are going to cause a problem. People will recognize us!”
Ben looked down at the Croatia crest on his chest. “We should probably avoid cameras.”
David was already moving toward the exit. “Absolutely not.”
For the first block they tried to walk like normal men. By the second block, they were jogging. By the third, they were running. Not because they were late anymore - but because they could again.
"Nathan? What curse? What are you talking about? Don't make our situation even worse here! We already trapped in this creepy backroom and now... WHAT THE FUCK... you're changing?"
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Disclaimer: First I want to say that this is my first time making an original story so it is heavily influenced by AI.
Story Muscle: The Power of The Open RoadÂ
Martin Vale had been a CEO for so long that even driving felt like a board meeting. He sat stiffly behind the wheel of his luxury sedan, his dark suit tight around his heavy frame, his tie pulled high against his soft neck. The highway stretched ahead, ordinary and gray, but something about the road felt wrong. The traffic behind him blurred. The radio crackled, and a low country guitar drifted through the speakers. He began to listen to the song and wonder what country life was about about the slower pace of life in the country. Who knows what started the change, whether it was the hypnotic pull of the open road or the power of music but something changed Martin.Â
At first, the change was subtle. The deep creases around his eyes softened. His cheeks firmed slightly, and his gray hair grew fuller along the sides. His hands tightened around the steering wheel with a little more strength than before. He was still heavyset, still serious, still unmistakably an older executive—but now he looked closer to sixty, like five stressful years had simply slipped off him somewhere between mile markers.
The road outside began to open up. Suburban lanes gave way to wider stretches of green, and Martin noticed fewer buildings, more trees, more fences. His tie loosened on its own, the knot dropping a few inches from his collar. He pulled in a sharp breath as his shoulders pressed harder against his suit jacket.
His face grew younger again. The sag beneath his jaw tightened, his eyes looked clearer, and his hair thickened into a salt-and-pepper executive wave. He still carried the weight of wealth and power, but his body was changing from soft to solid. His chest broadened beneath the suit, and the fabric pulled at the seams as if it no longer fit the man he was becoming.
By fifty, the transformation could no longer be ignored. Martin’s suit jacket slipped off one shoulder and bunched behind him like an abandoned skin. His white dress shirt opened at the collar, and his loosened tie hung crookedly down his chest. His face sharpened into something more rugged, less polished, more alive.
His gray hair darkened into salt-and-pepper waves, thicker and messier than any boardroom would have allowed. His belly shrank while his arms grew stronger, filling the sleeves with a heavy, working strength. The sedan changed too. The smooth leather and glossy trim dulled. Dust appeared along the dashboard. The car began to feel older, less luxurious, like the road itself was stripping away everything corporate.
At forty-five, Martin looked like a businessman who had wandered too far from the city and started becoming someone else. His skin took on the first signs of a tan, warmed by sunlight pouring through the windshield. His cheeks leaned out, his jaw grew firmer, and a faint thin mustache appeared above his lip. A small chin goatee darkened beneath his mouth.
His shirt shifted into a pale blue button-up, stretched across a broader, more muscular chest. The last traces of his suit faded into the seat behind him. Around him, the luxury sedan became rougher: cracked trim, dusty glass, worn panels, metal showing through where polish had once been. Outside, the road was fully rural now, with fields, fences, and open sky rolling past the windows.
By forty, he no longer looked like a CEO at all. He looked like a strong country man with some forgotten business life still clinging to his expression. His hair turned medium brown and thickened at the back, beginning to curl into a wavy mullet. The thin mustache and chin goatee became clearer, giving his face a rugged, confident edge.
His body surged with power. His shoulders widened, his arms thickened, and his chest pressed hard against the fitted work shirt. The steering wheel beneath his hands changed into something old and worn, rust creeping along the metal around him. The vehicle was no longer pretending to be a sedan. It had become the cab of a beat-up pickup truck, dusty, cracked, and honest.
At thirty-five, the transformation took on a new rhythm. The man behind the wheel sat looser now, less stiff, more natural. His face was younger, handsome, sun-kissed, and calm. His wavy brown mullet brushed the back of his collar, and the thin goatee and mustache framed a mouth that looked like it was learning how to smile again.
His physique grew much larger. Thick arms filled his sleeves, his shoulders became huge, and his chest stretched the gray work shirt across him. The truck rattled beneath him like it had always belonged to him. Rust, dust, cracked trim, and an old steering wheel surrounded him, while the road outside became a dirt-edged country lane lined with fields and fence posts.
By thirty, almost nothing of Martin Vale remained. The old CEO’s memories felt distant, like paperwork left in another man’s office. His skin deepened into a rich tan, his eyes brightened, and his expression shifted into a relaxed, confident grin. His mullet was thick and wavy now, wild in the heat and sunlight.
His body became extreme, powerful, and hypermuscular. His arms swelled into oversized masses of muscle, his shoulders filled the cab, and his neck thickened above a torn, sleeveless gray work shirt. His hands gripped the old steering wheel with easy control. He looked less like he was transforming and more like he was remembering who he was supposed to be.
The final five years vanished in a rush of sunlight, dust, and country music. His face smoothed into youthful rugged beauty, handsome and tan, with a confident smile that belonged to open roads and summer fields. The thin mustache and chin goatee settled perfectly on his face. His thick wavy brown mullet framed him like the finishing touch on a completely rewritten life.
At twenty-five, he was no longer Martin and Martin didn’t sound right but the name Colt sounded right, Colt Martin. He was a hypermuscular country boy in a dirty white tank top, dusty jeans, and a simple chain necklace, driving a beat-up old pickup truck down a rural road. His massive shoulders and arms crowded the cab, his broad chest pressed against the seatbelt, and the old truck seemed built around him. The luxury sedan, the CEO title, the boardrooms, the age—all of it was gone.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the young man staring back, and smiled.
For one strange second, he almost remembered being old.
Then the radio turned up, the road opened wide, and he drove on like he had been this way forever.
Disclaimer: First I want to say that this is my first time making an original story so it is heavily influenced by AI.
Story Muscle: The Power of The Open RoadÂ
Martin Vale had been a CEO for so long that even driving felt like a board meeting. He sat stiffly behind the wheel of his luxury sedan, his dark suit tight around his heavy frame, his tie pulled high against his soft neck. The highway stretched ahead, ordinary and gray, but something about the road felt wrong. The traffic behind him blurred. The radio crackled, and a low country guitar drifted through the speakers. He began to listen to the song and wonder what country life was about about the slower pace of life in the country. Who knows what started the change, whether it was the hypnotic pull of the open road or the power of music but something changed Martin.Â
At first, the change was subtle. The deep creases around his eyes softened. His cheeks firmed slightly, and his gray hair grew fuller along the sides. His hands tightened around the steering wheel with a little more strength than before. He was still heavyset, still serious, still unmistakably an older executive—but now he looked closer to sixty, like five stressful years had simply slipped off him somewhere between mile markers.
The road outside began to open up. Suburban lanes gave way to wider stretches of green, and Martin noticed fewer buildings, more trees, more fences. His tie loosened on its own, the knot dropping a few inches from his collar. He pulled in a sharp breath as his shoulders pressed harder against his suit jacket.
His face grew younger again. The sag beneath his jaw tightened, his eyes looked clearer, and his hair thickened into a salt-and-pepper executive wave. He still carried the weight of wealth and power, but his body was changing from soft to solid. His chest broadened beneath the suit, and the fabric pulled at the seams as if it no longer fit the man he was becoming.
By fifty, the transformation could no longer be ignored. Martin’s suit jacket slipped off one shoulder and bunched behind him like an abandoned skin. His white dress shirt opened at the collar, and his loosened tie hung crookedly down his chest. His face sharpened into something more rugged, less polished, more alive.
His gray hair darkened into salt-and-pepper waves, thicker and messier than any boardroom would have allowed. His belly shrank while his arms grew stronger, filling the sleeves with a heavy, working strength. The sedan changed too. The smooth leather and glossy trim dulled. Dust appeared along the dashboard. The car began to feel older, less luxurious, like the road itself was stripping away everything corporate.
At forty-five, Martin looked like a businessman who had wandered too far from the city and started becoming someone else. His skin took on the first signs of a tan, warmed by sunlight pouring through the windshield. His cheeks leaned out, his jaw grew firmer, and a faint thin mustache appeared above his lip. A small chin goatee darkened beneath his mouth.
His shirt shifted into a pale blue button-up, stretched across a broader, more muscular chest. The last traces of his suit faded into the seat behind him. Around him, the luxury sedan became rougher: cracked trim, dusty glass, worn panels, metal showing through where polish had once been. Outside, the road was fully rural now, with fields, fences, and open sky rolling past the windows.
By forty, he no longer looked like a CEO at all. He looked like a strong country man with some forgotten business life still clinging to his expression. His hair turned medium brown and thickened at the back, beginning to curl into a wavy mullet. The thin mustache and chin goatee became clearer, giving his face a rugged, confident edge.
His body surged with power. His shoulders widened, his arms thickened, and his chest pressed hard against the fitted work shirt. The steering wheel beneath his hands changed into something old and worn, rust creeping along the metal around him. The vehicle was no longer pretending to be a sedan. It had become the cab of a beat-up pickup truck, dusty, cracked, and honest.
At thirty-five, the transformation took on a new rhythm. The man behind the wheel sat looser now, less stiff, more natural. His face was younger, handsome, sun-kissed, and calm. His wavy brown mullet brushed the back of his collar, and the thin goatee and mustache framed a mouth that looked like it was learning how to smile again.
His physique grew much larger. Thick arms filled his sleeves, his shoulders became huge, and his chest stretched the gray work shirt across him. The truck rattled beneath him like it had always belonged to him. Rust, dust, cracked trim, and an old steering wheel surrounded him, while the road outside became a dirt-edged country lane lined with fields and fence posts.
By thirty, almost nothing of Martin Vale remained. The old CEO’s memories felt distant, like paperwork left in another man’s office. His skin deepened into a rich tan, his eyes brightened, and his expression shifted into a relaxed, confident grin. His mullet was thick and wavy now, wild in the heat and sunlight.
His body became extreme, powerful, and hypermuscular. His arms swelled into oversized masses of muscle, his shoulders filled the cab, and his neck thickened above a torn, sleeveless gray work shirt. His hands gripped the old steering wheel with easy control. He looked less like he was transforming and more like he was remembering who he was supposed to be.
The final five years vanished in a rush of sunlight, dust, and country music. His face smoothed into youthful rugged beauty, handsome and tan, with a confident smile that belonged to open roads and summer fields. The thin mustache and chin goatee settled perfectly on his face. His thick wavy brown mullet framed him like the finishing touch on a completely rewritten life.
At twenty-five, he was no longer Martin and Martin didn’t sound right but the name Colt sounded right, Colt Martin. He was a hypermuscular country boy in a dirty white tank top, dusty jeans, and a simple chain necklace, driving a beat-up old pickup truck down a rural road. His massive shoulders and arms crowded the cab, his broad chest pressed against the seatbelt, and the old truck seemed built around him. The luxury sedan, the CEO title, the boardrooms, the age—all of it was gone.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the young man staring back, and smiled.
For one strange second, he almost remembered being old.
Then the radio turned up, the road opened wide, and he drove on like he had been this way forever.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Qualityâś“ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
By the time Owen opened the app again, he had stopped thinking of himself as the guy he used to be.
At forty-two, with the shorter receding hair, the salt-and-pepper beard, and the thick body hair he’d wanted badly enough to make for himself by spoiling Hair Tonic, he finally looked the way he’d always imagined a real daddy should look. His profile picture showed exactly that: shirtless on a hiking trail, backpack straps in both hands, chest hair visible, expression calm and solid.
David messaged him within the hour. A rendezvous was planned for the next day.
David was twenty-six, lean and smooth-skinned, with a compact athletic body and a face that still carried the softness of youth. When he arrived at Owen’s place, he couldn’t stop looking at the older man. It wasn’t just that Owen was handsome. It was that he looked settled. Rugged. Finished. Like a man who had grown fully into himself. David did not know what Owen had used the Hair Tonic to do to himself - he didn't know that inside Owen's masculine exterior was a man a few years younger than himself with the visage of a self-assured daddy.
The sex was dynamic. Owen leaned into his new role as daddy with a youthful enthusiasm - if not the experience. David enjoyed the feeling of being kissed, worshiped, and filled by the entirety of Owen - longing for attention from older more confident-seeming men.
Later, after their night together had faded into sweat, dim light, and tangled sheets, Owen fell asleep fast, heavy and satisfied.
David stayed awake. He padded into Owen’s bathroom in his boxers, still thinking about the body he’d just had his hands on - the dense chest hair, the roughness of Owen’s beard, the masculine weight of him. Then he noticed the brown bottle on the counter. HAIR TONIC. Old-fashioned label. Plain lettering. He picked it up and turned it in his hands. The name sounded harmless, almost quaint. He smiled to himself. He was familiar with the product, but had never gotten his hands on a bottle. He wasn't interested in becoming Owen, not exactly. He just wanted a little help looking more his age. More scruff. Some chest hair. Less boyishness in the mirror. So he uncapped it.
The tonic smelled sharp and strange, old and herbal with something bitter underneath. David rubbed a little over his cheeks and jawline, then across his upper lip. He poured more into his palm and worked it over his chest, down the center of his stomach, over his shoulders, even along his arms. His skin prickled instantly, then flushed with spreading heat. He frowned at his reflection, waiting for the sensation to fade. Instead, the faint shadow on his jaw began to darken. The nearly invisible hair on his chest sharpened, filling enough for him to notice - and then some.
He ran his fingertips over the new texture, half-thrilled and half-nervous. By the time he climbed back into bed, the scruff at his mouth had thickened into a short, rough mustache and the hair across his pecs had become real enough to cast a shadow. His heart beat faster, but he convinced himself it was just stronger than he’d expected - it would pass - it was just hair.
David fell asleep telling himself he’d overdone it a little. He woke with a start the next morning. Everything felt wrong at first—heavier, rougher, denser. The sheets dragged differently across his body. His chest felt warm beneath a thick layer of hair. When he pushed himself upright and looked at his hands, he froze.
The backs of them were hairier than they had been the night before, the knuckles broader, the skin less smooth. He brought them to his face and felt not light overnight scruff but a full, coarse mustache and short beard framing a jaw that seemed more substantial than it had been before. He stumbled to the bathroom mirror, Owen just starting to stir in the bedroom behind him, and stopped cold.
He did not look twenty-six anymore. The man staring back at him looked closer to forty. His face was still unmistakably his own, but matured - broader through the jaw, heavier through the neck and shoulders, with stronger lines around the eyes and mouth. His hair was shorter-looking somehow, neater, his features more rugged and settled. A thick mustache and trimmed beard had come in dark and full, giving him a stern, masculine look he’d only ever imagined on older men. Across his chest, the hair had spread into a dense mat that continued down his stomach in a dark trail, with more thickening along his arms and thighs. He looked stockier too, more substantial, more like a man who’d spent years growing into that body instead of a single reckless night.
“Owen...” he said, voice rougher than before. “Owen!”
Owen came into the room half-awake, then stopped dead in the doorway - mouth agape.
For one long second, neither of them spoke. Then Owen’s eyes dropped to David’s chest, his beard, his hands, and finally flicked toward the bathroom counter.
“You used my special Hair Tonic?!” he yelled.
David’s face tightened. “I thought it was just normal Hair Tonic - I ….”
“It is not just Hair Tonic!" Owen’s voice sharpened with real anger now, cutting David off mid-sentence. “I left that out in the sun to spoil on purpose. I changed myself on purpose. You had no idea what that was and you still used it?”
“You changed yourself? You mean you did this to yourself on purpose?!” David snapped back, then looked away, shaken by the sound of his own gruffer voice. “I just wanted…” He swallowed and rubbed a hand over his chest, feeling the thickness there. “I just wanted a little more. A beard. Some body hair. I didn’t think it was going to do this!” David gestured to his older body.
Owen’s anger faltered, replaced by a grim, complicated sympathy. He knew that impulse too well. The wanting. The private pull toward a rougher, older, hairier version of manhood. David let the bathroom and sat back down on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands again like they might belong to someone else. He looked upset, genuinely upset - but not devastated. Not all the way. Because every few seconds his fingers drifted over the new growth on his chest, or up to the heavier shape of the beard at his jaw, as though he couldn’t stop checking that it was real.
“This is my fault,” Owen said finally. “I shouldn’t have left the tonic out for you to find. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re… probably stuck like this.”
David let out a shaky breath. “Great.”
Silence settled between them. Morning light spilled across the room. David’s reflection lingered in the mirror opposite the bed: older, hairier, undeniably changed. He looked at himself again, this time longer. At the thicker chest. The rough mustache. The stronger, more mature face. It wasn’t what he had meant to ask for. It was too much. Too fast. Too permanent.
And yet some quieter part of him - deeper than panic, harder to admit - recognized the shape of his own wish inside it.
“What am I going to do? No one will recognize me! I hate that this happened - I have to get out of here!” he said in a panic while trying to stuff his thicker frame into his jeans - sucking his gut to fully zip them, and throwing his shirt quickly over his shoulders.
Owen folded his arms. “Do you hate this?” he said looking at David. "The way you've been looking at yourself in the mirror reminds me of myself when I first woke up after using the tonic."
David stopped dressing took a deep breath and looked down at himself, then back at the mirror. He had to admit he was attractive like this - more like the men he pursued - and enjoyed being pursued by. He noticed a twitch in his boxers as his dick started to grow - panic subsiding and being replaced with lust. Lust both for Owen, who had filled him just the prior evening to the brink with his daddy seed - and also for the half-dressed man he saw reflected in the mirror.
Owen walked over to the sofa in the corner of the room and sat down with his head in his hands for a moment while Owen waited.
“No. I don’t hate all of it” he admitted with a grin at Owen as he unbuttoned his pants - his thick hairy pecs pushing against his half-open shirt. His eyes smoldering at the sight of Owen’s shirtless torso and beautiful face.
Owen stared at him for a moment, then gave a short, disbelieving exhale that was almost a laugh. “I see … you’re a bit older than my usual type now, but I think this might work...” he said with a grin as he approached the older version of the perky 26 year-old he had fucked the night before.
Owen dropped to his knees in front of David and helped him slide off his now-too-tight jeans and underwear, freeing David’s thick semi-erect daddy cock nestled in a thick bush of pubes - “Guess a trip to the mall is in order” he said with a grin as he took David’s dick in his mouth - feeling it continue to stiffen.
David let out a little moan and replied, half joking, “Yeah, I guess I put on a little extra weight somewhere in my 30s.”
After a couple of minutes receiving head, David pushed Owen onto the couch and pulled down Owen’s sweatpants, revealing the same uncut daddy dick that he had deep inside him last night - which might as well have been an eternity ago. “Things are going to be different today, son” he stated irrefutably - Owen looking up to him with soft bedroom eyes. “It’s your fault I’m close to my father’s age, and stuck like this - so now I’m going to be the daddy and you’re going to be the piece of meat I please myself with. Understood?”
Owen simply nodded and replied with a soft “yes, sir.”
“Good, now roll over for daddy so he can see your ass.”
Owen complied, moving onto all fours and presenting his hairy asshole to David - who gave it a quick look before sticking his head between his cheeks and eating it out in preparation.
Owen remembered the feeling of being prepared from before his change - from the countless older men he let enter his tight frat boy hole. He knew what was coming - and despite his recent shift to daddy himself he couldn’t help but anticipate how bottoming would feel in his new body.
After prepping Owen, David rose to one foot, with the other propped against the couch. He spit on his dick and lined it up with Owen’s ass and thrust in hard. Owen gave a quick yelp and tightened around David’s dick - but he didn’t care. It was Owen’s fault he was stuck like this and he was going to exact as much pleasure from the situation as possible.
After a few hard thrusts, Owen started to gently moan as David settled into a more steady rhythm. David reached forward grabbing Owen’s thinning hair pulling his head back and whispered in his ear, “You like this don’t you?”
Owen nodded between soft moans.
David continued, “No matter what you look like on the outside, you’re still just a bottom bitch frat boy.” He reached around and grabbed Owen’s dick and began jerking it while pumping into his ass.
“You made yourself older, you gave yourself a beard, a hairy chest, you got the look - you played the role last night as well - but deep down we both know you’ll always crave this. Crave a stronger man controlling you and filling you with his daddy cock.”
David released Owen’s hair and picked up his pace. As he approached climax he thought about the man he saw in the reflection - hairy, mustached, confident - maybe this new version of him wouldn’t be so bad. He snapped back into attention as he felt Owen jolting underneath - coming onto the sofa with a hand wrapped around his own dick. "Daddy didn't say you could come yet, son."
Own just whimpered as David picked up his pace and intensity, quickly following suit coming deep into Owen - then collapsing on his back in a pile of sweat and chest hair.
Across the bedroom, on the bathroom the bottle of Hair Tonic sat on the counter where David had left it, half-open and innocent-looking, as if it had done nothing more than keep its promise. Not youth. Not restoration. Something stranger. Something closer to desire. Like a man beginning, despite himself, to see what he might become - and embracing it.
He bought the bottle of Hair Tonic on purpose and planned to use it with intention.
Most people digging through the back shelves of a nearly abandoned barber supply store would have looked for something sealed, unexpired, and safe. Owen did the opposite. He crouched in the dusty corner until he found the old brown bottle with the plain cream label: HAIR TONIC. No flashy promises, no modern branding. Just a faded list of directions, a date long expired, and one warning printed near the bottom: Store in a cool, dry place.
He smiled when he read that. That was exactly why he wanted it. Owen had read stories about men using expired tonic. He knew it could cause male-pattern baldness and grey your hair - but he was hoping to push it to the limit.
Owen had spent too long pretending he only admired older men from a distance or, preferably, from underneath them during one-night stands; taking in the smell of their sweaty hairy bodies as they plowed his tight twink college frat boy hole. The rugged ones - the men in their forties with thicker necks, weathered smiles, graying beards, and heavy hair curling out of open collars drove him insane. Men who looked settled into themselves. Men who didn’t seem boyish or polished, but solid. Masculine. Hairy. He wanted that look with a private, aching intensity he’d never said out loud but burned to his core. He was willing to give up everything to pursue that ideal image.
So when Owen found an expired bottle of Hair Tonic, he didn’t just buy it - he took it home, set it on the windowsill of his apartment, and left it there for three full days, baking in the hot afternoon sun until the liquid inside turned darker, thicker and slightly cloudy.
On the fourth night, he uncapped it in his bathroom. The tonic smelled sharp and old-fashioned, herbal and medicinal with something almost metallic underneath. Owen rubbed the first splash into his scalp, especially at the temples and crown, then worked more over his cheeks, jaw, and upper lip. He hesitated only a second before pouring some into his palm again and dragging it down the center of his chest, across his stomach, over his shoulders, and along his arms, legs and back. He thought for a brief second before deciding to apply the tonic to his pubes, cock and balls as well. “In for a penny in for a pound” he thought to himself as his dick chubbed at the thought of the daddy he might become - if all went to plan.
His skin tingled instantly. By the time he rinsed his hands, the tingling had deepened into heat - a steady, invasive warmth that seemed to seep down into the roots of every soft, nearly invisible hair on his body.
It was a couple of hours before he saw the first changes, while preparing for bed. The faint scruff on his face thickened visibly as he watched, turning from a dusty shadow into real growth: coarse, dense, dark at first, then already streaked with silver around the chin and along the sides. He touched his cheeks with a longing fascination as he felt the beard pushing out fast, filling in until it framed his jaw in a broad salt-and-pepper shape. His mustache thickened too, heavier and darker through the middle, silvering at the edges. He reached a hand to his face to admire the beginning of his journey to real manhood.
Before long his attention shifted to the top of his head. His scalp tightened. He watched, wide-eyed, as his hairline began to creep back from his forehead. Not dramatically all at once, but decisively - his temples drawing back, the hair above them shortening and refining itself into something more mature, touched with gray. He looked older within minutes. Not sick older - not ruined. Just undeniably more grown, more masculine, the youth draining out of his face and leaving behind stronger lines, faint crow’s feet, a rougher, handsomer structure.
Then his body hair began to grow in. It spread in rippling waves. Soft brown fuzz across his chest thickened and darkened, then turned coarse and dense, covering him in a heavy pelt that matched the collection of photos he had in his liked images folder on his TUMBLR page. Hair crowded across his pecs first, curling thickly and high, then met in the center and poured downward in a dark trail over his sternum and stomach. More kept coming—across his ribs, around his navel, down his abdomen, along his shoulders and upper arms. He gasped in delight as he watched the color shift: mostly dark brown, but feathered through with gray, less silver than his beard yet unmistakably mature. His forearms grew shaggy. Fine hair climbed the backs of his hands. He stared, breathing hard, as his body took on that older, masculine density he’d always wanted— thick, textured, unapologetically leaping towards middle age.
Owen reached a newly hairy hand down to his dick. It too had started to change. Hi pubic hair was increasing in density and coarseness at the base, with a couple flecks of grey in the mix. His nut sack was now coated in thick dark hair. He gave his cock a little tug, noticing it felt less sensitive, more mature, than his 23 years of actual age should suggest.
Owen was so overwhelmed by the start of his transformation into a daddy that he couldn’t hold back. He grabbed his dick and began to masturbate while watching his beard hair continue to lengthen, new lines form on his face and hair continue to spread across his chest, arms, and up on his shoulders.
His pace quickened as his breathing grew deeper. Images of what he would look like by morning flooding his mind. Thoughts about the man he would become and how he’d use his new body to dominate younger, smaller, less masculine men - men like he used to be. As he approached climax, imagining his conquests to come, he began to talk to himself in his new gruffer voice: "You like daddy's cock, don't you boy?! Daddy worked real hard for this body for you, so be a good son and take it deep inside your twink hole." Just as he finished the thought he felt his entire body tingle and tense up at the moment of orgasm - shooting cum all over the bathroom vanity. After glowing in the afterlight of his virtual conquest for a few minutes, he cleaned up the mess, gave himself one last once over, and turned in for the night - drifting to sleep with his entire body lightly tingling as the Hair Tonic continued to reconfigure him.
By morning, the transformation had settled completely. Owen woke heavier through the chest and shoulders, his features subtly matured into the kind of handsome that didn’t belong to a man in his twenties anymore. In the bathroom mirror, the young fresh-faced guy he’d been was gone. Looking back at him was a man in his forties - a true daddy: shorter, receded hair brushed neatly back; gray at the temples; a full salt-and-pepper beard shaping his face; stronger smile lines; a calmer, steadier gaze.
His torso was lavish with hair — dense over the chest, tapering down the stomach, thick at the shoulders and arms, exactly as he’d imagined but somehow better because it was his. The beard had gone grayer than the rest, giving his face the distinguished look he’d secretly craved, while the body hair stayed darker, richer, and more virile.
He stood there for a long time, palm spread over the new weight of hair on his chest, thumb brushing through the beard at his jaw.
The bottle sat on the sink in front of him, half-empty, its faded label curling at the edges. HAIR TONIC. Innocent words for something that had known exactly what to do with him. Owen smiled at his reflection - not embarrassed, not startled now, but quietly thrilled. He hadn’t ruined himself. He hadn’t made a mistake. He had made himself into the man he’d been longing to become - the perfect daddy.
As he updated his dating profile apps the messages started pouring in. Owen had worked hard and gambled big - and now it was daddy’s time to play with all of the young eager twinks in the greater Atlanta area.
My boyfriend and I had just gotten off the plane when it happened.
As we waited at baggage claim, a man caught my eye: the guy who’d been sitting in front of us the entire flight. I nudged my boyfriend, and from then on we couldn’t stop watching him. Every time he stood up to stretch, shifted in his seat, or headed to the bathroom, we took the opportunity to steal another look.
When the crowd thinned, I saw my chance.
I approached him and gently steered him away from the bustle of the terminal, out of sight of the cameras.
“So,” he said, glancing around, “you mentioned something about a baggage mix-up?”
“Well,” I replied, smiling, “I just wanted to say… now.”
In an instant, a cloud shot its way into his mouth. I don't think he even realized what was happening.
"Aaaaa... yeah! That's feels great- woah."
I couldn’t help smiling.
"Woah, his voice is so deep..." he said with an obvious uncharacteristic enthusiasm in his voice.
"And I don't know if you can tell, but I think he's- or I'm built!",
He flexed his biceps.
"Hope you have fun in there," I said.
"No, wait- I mean-"
He cleared his throat and relaxed his shoulders. His posture and gaze changed, as if getting into character.
“If there’s been a mix-up with your luggage,” he said in a low, husky baritone, “maybe I can help you track it down. After all… wouldn’t you like to see what I’ve been carrying?”
I snickered.
"Let's see what you've been packing the whole flight, sir."
I still remember when I saw Mauricio - Mau, for his friends - for the first time. My dad sent me to this little town to help my uncle with his store. A way to earn money, learn responsibility and to “man up”. Yeah my uncle was a tough man. Serving ranchers and other people that spend all their day at the fields. There were a lot of weird interesting characters… but the job was extremely boring. You know the drill. Move boxes, check inventory, and smile while tending the cashier. That was when I saw him. “Hey Amigo, nice to meet you. Name Mauricio… where I put these boxes”. He said with a big smile. He was a big latino man, probably in his late 30s. I looked at his tattooed arms stretching every bit of fabric of that red polo shirt. I was amazed at the ease that he could lift that box of sodas. I was enchanted by his big smile and honest brown eyes. On our first encounter, I felt something that I have never experienced before. Was it love? Lust? Probably it was a bit of both. I stared at the man as if I was in a trance. Gladly, my uncle arrived and broke out the spell just before Mau felt awkward by my glancing.Â
From that day on, the visits of that man to our store became the highlight of my week. He always arrived saying “Amigo”. Of course, I did some small talk as he delivered the boxes, doing my best to hide that I was scanning every bit of his perfect physique. After a couple of months, I was able to have a good idea of who this man was. He was 38, he had been working as a delivery man all his life. He is currently married to Natalia, no kids but he wishes to have some. While he enjoys his work, his real passion is cooking and he is working on opening a small taco stand. And not surprisingly, he was obsessed with bodybuilding and knew absolutely everything on how to stay fit.Â
I thought that I was subtle, but my uncle proved me wrong.
“Are you you into men? Do you like him?” He said as Mau left the store.
“What?, no… I mean…”
“Don't worry. If you are gay, you should be proud. But I don't think you are. You may think that you like Mauricio, but that is not what you are feeling”
“What do you mean?”
“What you are experiencing is envy”
“Envy?”
“Don't deny it my boy. That is what you are feeling. I fully understand it. Your dad and I experienced that before. That is how he ended up as Ashton and why I took over Paul”
“What are you talking about?"
“Shit. My brother told me you were ready, but he did not explain anything to you, right? I bet you don't even know about the blade”
“What blade?”
That is when he told me the craziest story that I have ever heard. He told me that our family has held this relic, the blade of change, for generations. He told me that the blade allows his master to take the form of whomever he wanted. He told me that he and my dad looked completely different as both of them stole the life of someone that they envied. It was weird, extremely difficult to believe. But I will not deny it, I was curious. If it is true I could become him.
“Here is the blade” My uncle said as he showed me a small dagger, it was not bigger than a butter knife. It looked mundane, not even sharp. My uncle asked for my hand and he immediately cut me. I just watched in silence as the blood covered the old rusty blade.Â
“Now you are its new master. You need to embue the knife with the essence of your target, when you cut yourself you will push that essence into you, becoming an exact replica of that person”
“Essence? Like blood?”
“It can be that, but there are simple ways. Like a sweaty shirt”
“This still sounds so crazy”
“Well, I have a surprise for you. While you were with Mauricio I sneaked into his truck. I found his gym bag. Give it a try”
He gave me a duffel bag. I opened it and my nostrils were filled by a strong musky aroma. Shit! I couldn't believe that I was contemplating playing this game. I pull out a smelly sock, I approach it to my nostrils and I visualize Mau, with his charming smile and cocky attitude. I knew very few things about this man… but more than enough to know that I wanted to experience being him for at least a day. I grabbed the knife and cut the sock, while I imagine him in his gym clothes. I immediately felt that the knife got charged with an electric pulse. Then I touched the tip of the blade with my finger and that is when it happened.
Extreme Pain, that is the only way to describe how I felt. I was expecting that it was going to be a very erotic experience, but it was far from it. I felt as if my skin was peeled away. I felt as if each one of my bones were broken. I felt a burning sensation in my chest and something like a thousand needles going across every inch of myself. I fell to the ground in agony, I screamed in what seemed to be an eternity… then there was silence. “Don't worry nephew… tomorrow you will see that this was worth it” that was the last thing my uncle said before I passed away.
Then I slowly opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling for several minutes. The sun coming from the window signaled that several hours have already passed. “Hey amigo… where is the kid?” - A voice said in the distance. “He returned back home, but maybe next summer he will be back” - my uncle responded. For a moment I thought that everything with the dagger was just a weird dream. Then I moved my arm and I realized that I have changed. I stared at my hand for a very long time. There were so many fascinating details. The calluses that represented so many hours at the gym, the bitten nails signaling some nervous tick, the unique patterns on his hand. Then I realized that my dick was becoming alive. I watch in fascination as my new humongous shaft became hard as a rock. I of course played with it, as I slowly explored every bit of my new self.Â
Then the moment arrived. Standing up felt weird, it took some time to get adjusted to the new height and weight. I stumbled across my uncle's house until I found a simple mirror. Staring back at me was the face of Mauricio. I smiled at it and it copied my expressions. “Hola Amigo,” I said, trying to emulate his charming personality. The voice felt a lot deeper, not exactly what I was expecting. But I realized that no Brooklyn accent came out of my mouth. Now I have his latino intonation. I try to speak Spanish, but to my dismay, that is something that I didn't get with the spell.
“For God's sake kiddo, put some clothes”
“Uncle… this is amazing”
“It is. And now think of the possibilities. You can go back home and become whomever you want”
“What? No! This body, being Mauricio. It just feels right.”
“But think about it. The man doubles your age. He is also a delivery guy, nothing wrong with that, but he just lives check by check. There are younger bodies with a lot more potential out there”
“and that is why you stole your current flesh, uncle? You may be right. Mau is nothing special, but I want to at least experience what is like to be him”
“That is easier said than done. You cannot really experience someone's life while the real one is walking around… but fine. I will help you. Your dad will not be happy, but he knew that something like this could happen”.
“You have been in your current flesh for a long time, right. That means that there is a way to make it permanent. Correct?”
“As I told you, it's hard to be anyone when there is someone else wearing the same face. But we can talk about latter”
The rest of the day, I felt like a kid. My uncle gave me some of his clothes which really didn't fit my new physique. He told me that he was going to use a tranquilizer to knock out the real Mau. He would take him, strip him from his possessions and abandon him in a hut out in the mountains. More or less, that will give me 72 hours inside his flesh. Thinking about it, It was a bit creepy how confident my uncle was when talking about stealing someone’s life. But I shouldn't complain as I was in for the ride.
I waited anxiously as Mau approached our store. I saw him from afar as he unloaded some Coca-Cola packs. One pack, a second pack, then he didn't came out. I quickly rush downstairs and saw my uncle slowly undressing that man. I approached him and grab his hand and compared it to my own, confirming that it was an exact match in every single possible way. Then I smell his armpit. I detected notes of lemon… a fresh smelt that I would need to imitate. “Kiddo, don't waste your time” - my uncle said, clearly annoyed by my behaviour - “Once you exit the house, you will need to figure everything by yourself. If anything happen, just call me back”. He then ask my aid to take off Mau’s black briefs. He throw them at me and make a signal that I should put them on.Â
Shit. His briefs have a cum stain. His shirt was a bit smelly and full of sweat. His socks were warm. I would not deny it. Putting on Mau’s clothes was one of the most erotic experiences in my life. After I finished the last details I approached my uncle and said “Amigo… see you soon”. I headed to the car, gave thanks to God that it had an automatic engine and drove down the road. My destination was Mau’s home which gladfully was saved on his phone. I was extremely nervous as I entered that house. It was small and humble. But honestly, it was more than enough.Â
I was surprised when this guy’s mom and grandma entered the place and started cooking. It seems that every night was a family dinner. Even Mauricio's brother showed up at the door. It was weird, but I felt beloved in a way that I never experienced before. It felt amazing… but nothing could compare to when I saw Natalia, this man’s wife, for the first time. It was love at first sight.Â
That night, I almost didn't sleep. Not after I found out that this guy had a notebook which served as a window to his psyche. It was more than a diary, I found training routines, recipes for the restaurant of his dreams, and so many unfulfilled dreams. I learned that all the positivity that he showed with his clients was just a facade. His struggles were real and ironically I could sense how much he wished to have a different life. I really felt bad when I learned that his marriage was not going well. Money issues. Now I know that he hasn't had sex with Natalia in a very long time. He feared that they were near the point of no return. Honestly, Nothing that I learned scared me, but I saw them as a challenge. Something that I needed to fix.
The next two days were a blast. In the morning, I went to the gym. I have never lifted a dumbbell in my life, but, with a body like this, it was extremely fun to test my limits and to challenge myself with each new exercise. I then went to work and spent almost 10 hours on the road, delivering beverages to stores, restaurants and a couple of houses. It was hard work… but extremely fun. I have the chance to interact with so many people, call them “Amigo” with my charming new face, and just enjoy the time alone hearing music and awesome podcasts while I move from one place to another. Finally, on my free day, I was able to tackle the grill and cooked one of the recipes that I found in Mau's journal. Shit, that food was good. A perfect blend of spice and sweet. I can see how that Taco stand that he wished for, the taco stand that I will put, was going to be a success. And you know what was the best of all, everybody was telling me that they have never seen me happier. Nobody knew that I was a doppelganger but everybody could recognize, in just a couple of hours, that I was an improved version of this man. Shit, even Natalie grabbed my hand. I know it was a small gesture, but lets not deny the progress.
As the third day arrived, I wondered what I should do next. I called my uncle several times but he never picked up the phone. So, I decided to stay at Mau’s home and scan the place to see if I could find something new or useful for the eventual takeover. I was enjoying myself when I heard that sound. “Don't move you fucker” - it was the voice that have enchanted me for the last couple of months. However, it was not welcoming, it was menacing. I slowly turned around and saw Mauricio holding a gun high.
“Hey Amigo… glad that you were able to join”
“Don't fuck with me. Who the hell are you?”
“It is not obvious. My name is Mauricio Salazar” I answered with a smile but that was short lived as I heard the gun go off and hit a nearby base.
“I am not playing games”
“Ok, I am sorry. It was all an accident… ok”
“An accident”
“I found this dagger, I cut myself and then I wake up like this”
“So why did Mr. Myers try to kill me?”
“My uncle did what?”
“Your uncle… you are that kiddo. Why are you doing this?”
“I don't know what my uncle did. I just woke up two days ago in this form. I didn't know what to do… so I guess that if I just live your life I would find an answer. Is my uncle fine?”
“He tried to kill me… he left me no option”
“Shit”
“You said there was a dagger. Do you have it with you?”
“Yes, here it is”
I slowly approached my hand to a nearby backpack. The real Mauricio tracked every movement, he was ready to shoot… I am certain that he did not believe that I was innocent in all of this. I pulled the dagger and raised my hands. “Give me the knife” he commanded. I slowly approach him. I knew that I would only have one chance. Everything went down too fast. I jump at the real Mauricio. I heard the sound of a bullet missing its mark. Then we struggle. First for the control of the gun, but after it fell to the ground, we fought for that knife. Then there was silence as I was able to stab Mauricio in his stomach. He was struggling to breath and fell to the ground.
“The blade is losing its power, I can feel it… this is it. I will be you for good”
“Why?” the man asked, barely able to speak.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to steal my life? I am a nobody”
“That just shows me that you don't deserve your life. Sure, you will never be president of the United States, but who cares about that. You have an awesome family, a lovely wife, good friends, a stable job and awesome flesh. I thought that I was content with my life… but what you have here… what I have here is something special”
“My life is far from perfect”
“I know. I can see that. It may not be perfect, it may be simple. But is definitely worth living”
“You will not get out with this… you will regret this”
“Amigo… I already won”
I pulled the knife from his belly and I saw in awe as the man in front of me slowly transformed into a cloud of dust. I breathed deeply and I felt as the remnants of Mauricio Salazar essence entered my flesh. My mind was filled with random facts, people's names and foreign memories. I now even knew how to speak spanish. A library of knowledge that I could access at any time. I laugh for a bit, it was done. I was complete. I was Mau for good… I was finally who I was meant to be.
Sure, at first, my dad was not happy to learn that I gave up so many years of my life when I became the new Mr. Salazar. However, he understood that it was the right decision when I invited him to the inauguration of my small taco stand. He could only smile when he meet Natalia and he almost cry when he learned that he would be a grandparent. At the end, He could only be happy knowing that his only son was a happy man. Well, now the only question is what to do with this magical blade. Mi amigo, you seem interested in having this old rusty knife. maybe you will be as lucky as I was and you will be able to steal the life of your dreams.
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I stood in the dimly lit dorm room, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. My name was Elliot—or at least, it used to be. Bookish, introverted, gay as hell, and perpetually invisible. The kind of guy who spent Friday nights buried in sci-fi novels or scrolling through forums about quantum physics, while my roommate, Brock, was out there living the life I could only dream of. Brock was the epitome of college jock perfection: 6'2" of solid muscle from years of wrestling, with a chiseled jaw, sun-kissed skin, and a cocky grin that could melt steel. He was straight, or at least he played it that way, but I'd caught him flexing in the mirror more times than I could count, posting shirtless selfies on his Instagram with captions like "Crushing it at practice #WrestlerLife #BeastMode."
I'd been obsessed with him since day one. Not just crushing—I mean, full-on fixation. I'd studied his social media like it was a textbook: the way he trash-talked his opponents with that bro-dude slang, the group pics with his wrestling team where he'd always be the center of attention, flexing those massive biceps or slapping a teammate's ass in jest. I'd even practiced impersonating him in front of my mirror when he was out. I'd mimic his deep, booming laugh, his swaggering walk, the way he'd say "Yo, what's up, bro?" to anyone who crossed his path. But it always felt wrong. My scrawny 5'8" frame, pale skin, and glasses made me look like a kid playing dress-up. And when I'd sneak into his closet and try on his wrestling singlet? God, it hung off me like a deflated balloon, loose and baggy, bunching in all the wrong places. It never felt right. I was just a nerd pretending to be a god.
But tonight, that changed. I'd found the ritual online, buried in some obscure dark web forum about "skinwalking" and ancient body-theft spells. It sounded insane, but desperation makes you believe in anything. I waited until Brock passed out after a late-night party—drunk, snoring like a bear on his bed. I drew the symbols on the floor with chalk, lit the candles, and chanted the words. The air grew thick, electric. Brock's body convulsed once, then went still. And then… I felt it. His skin rippled like water, parting at the back like a zipper on a costume. I stripped down, my hands shaking, and stepped into him.
It was like slipping into warm latex—his skin stretched and molded around me, sealing seamlessly. I felt my bones crack and elongate, muscles swelling to fill the voids. My vision sharpened without glasses; my voice deepened in my throat. I ran my hands—now Brock's massive, calloused hands—over his pecs, his abs, his thighs. The power surged through me, intoxicating. I was him now. Brock's body was mine, a perfect, realistic costume that no one would ever see through.
I glanced at the mirror, and there he was—Brock, staring back with my eyes behind his. I flexed, watching those biceps bulge, the veins popping like ropes. "Fuck yeah," I growled in his voice, testing it out. It came naturally now, that gravelly timbre. I rummaged through his closet and pulled out the singlet—the same one I'd tried on before. This time, as I stepped into it, it hugged every curve like a second skin. The spandex stretched taut over my—his—broad chest, clinging to the ridges of my abs, outlining the bulge between my legs. I turned, admiring how it cupped my ass, the material so tight it felt like nothing at all. No more looseness, no more pretending. This was real. I was Brock.
I struck a pose in the mirror, just like I'd seen on his Insta. "Yo, check this out, bros," I said, mimicking his caption style. "Singlet's feeling extra snug today. Ready to pin some fools on the mat. #WrestlerLife #AlphaAsFuck." I laughed, deep and booming, the sound echoing in the room. It was perfect. I'd impersonated him before, but now? Now I had the body to back it up. No one would suspect a thing. I'd scroll through his phone later, reply to his DMs from the team, hit up practice tomorrow like nothing happened.
And Elliot? That nerdy little nobody? I smirked at the thought, flexing again just to feel the power. Who the hell would miss him? He was a ghost on campus—quiet, forgettable, no friends, no social media presence. His family was distant; mine now, I guess, but Brock's parents were loaded and supportive. They'd never notice the switch. The old me could rot in whatever void the ritual left behind. No one cared about the introverted gay kid with his nose in a book. But Brock? Everyone loved Brock. The team idolized him, girls threw themselves at him (though I'd be steering clear of that now—hello, wrestling locker room fantasies), and coaches saw him as a star.
I grabbed his gym bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed out the door. Time to hit the late-night campus gym, show off this body for real. "Later, loser," I muttered to the empty room, where Elliot's essence had faded away. No one would miss him. But Brock? Brock was just getting started. And he was all mine.
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