Sans titre

The next morning Diego woke up in the king-size bed, the sheets cool against his new skin. Sunlight cut through the half-open blinds and landed across his chest, highlighting the smooth, even tan. His cock was already hard, thick and heavy against his thigh, the kind of morning wood that came from sleeping like a king.

On the floor beside the bed, Mateo lay curled on the hardwood, no blanket, no pillow, just the thin rug under him. Goose bumps covered every inch of what used to be Diego’s body. The skin looked wrong now—pale, a little gray under the eyes, the kind of pallor that came from a night of shivering and zero sleep. Mateo’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but he didn’t move when Diego sat up.

Diego swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor, right next to Mateo’s head. He reached down, grabbed a fistful of his own old hair, and yanked Mateo’s face up to look at him. “Morning, bitch,” he said, voice still carrying that smooth, rich-boy lilt.

“Sleep well?”

Mateo swallowed, throat working. “No, Sir.”

“Good.” Diego let go and stood, naked, letting Mateo’s cock—now his—bob in the air. He felt fucking fantastic. Rested. In control. The decision he’d made sometime after midnight, while Mateo whimpered through the last round of punishment, sat solid in his gut. He wasn’t swapping back. Ever.

He looked down at the pathetic shape on the floor. “I’m keeping this body. For good.”

Mateo’s breath hitched. His eyes flicked down, then back up, and Diego saw it—the twitch in his old cock, the slow swell starting at the base. The fucker was getting hard.

Diego laughed once, low. “Look at that. You like the idea, don’t you? Staying swapped.”

He reached for the cage on the nightstand, the same heavy steel one from before. Mateo’s hands shook as he held still, but he didn’t fight when Diego knelt, fitted the ring around the thickening shaft, and locked the tube in place with a sharp click.

“Oh, you like the idea of staying swapped,” Diego said, snapping the lock shut. “Well, no. I’m keeping your body. But you’re not keeping mine.”

He stood again, key dangling from the chain around his neck, and walked over to the desk where his phone—Mateo’s phone, really—sat charging. He picked it up, opened the Twitter app, and logged into his original account.

Diego hit record, propped the phone against a lamp, and stood in front of the full-length mirror. He flexed once, slow, letting the golden skin catch the light. The abs popped.

“Got myself a new life from the prettiest cash fag I’ve ever broken,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Giving my old body away permanently.”

He paused, let that sink in, then kept going.

“Contest starts now. One week. I’m handing over my old body—the one you’ve all been drooling over—to the most pitiful, old, flabby, fat, pathetic, desperate loser I can find. The winner gets to be Diego Morales. For good.”

“Rules are simple. Send the plenty of money. Post videos wearing my worn, sweaty clothes. You had to buy them already, so only those of you that have been following me have a chance. In every video, you beg for my body. Tell me exactly why you deserve it. Post at least three times a day. All of it on your public accounts. I want your boss, your family, your fucking neighbors to see you groveling. And when you win, you get your ass on a plane to Argentina to pick it up. No exceptions. If you can’t come get it, I pick someone else.”

Diego leaned closer to the camera, eyes hard.

“I’m serious. I want the saddest sack of shit out there. The one who knows he’ll never be anything on his own. The one who’ll worship his new body every day and thank me for it.” He ended the video, hit post, and watched the likes and comments start flooding in almost immediately.

Mateo was still on the floor, cage locked tight, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Diego tossed the phone onto the bed and smiled down at him. The notifications started the second the video dropped and didn’t stop. Diego’s phone—Mateo’s phone—vibrated nonstop on the nightstand while he lounged by the pool, feet up, scrolling through the replies with a lazy grin. Mateo stayed inside, locked in the room with the blinds drawn, probably still sore from the night before.

The subs came out of the woodwork fast. A 55-year-old retired realtor in Miami wired $15k within the first hour, then posted a shaky montage of himself stroking in front of a full-length mirror, Diego’s black compression shorts pulled down around his thighs, muttering “thank you Sir thank you Sir” every time he edged closer. Another one, some 60-year-old accountant from Manchester, filmed himself in a cramped hotel bathroom wearing the jock Diego had sold him two years back—faded gray, stretched out, the pouch still carrying the ghost of old sweat. The Brit held up a bank transfer receipt for $8,200, then turned around, bent over the sink, and spread his hairy cheeks for the camera while he begged in a thick accent.

Diego laughed out loud at that one, thumbed through the comments, and pinned the Manchester video to the top of his replies. But none of them hit like Javier, his uncle.

Diego almost dropped the phone when the notification came through. The username was just “J_Rivera87”. The post loaded slow because it was a long video, and when it finally played, Diego froze.

Javier was in Diego’s old bedroom back in the house in Queens. Same peeling paint on the walls, same twin bed with the sagging mattress, same faded wrestling posters tacked above the headboard. The window was open; traffic noise drifted in from the street below. Javier stood in the middle of the room wearing nothing but Diego’s high-school wrestling singlet—the red-and-black one from senior year, the one Diego had outgrown by graduation. The fabric looked ready to split. Javier’s dad gut pushed the material out in a wide, soft dome; the straps dug into his shoulders, leaving red marks; the legs rode high on thick, pale thighs dusted with black hair. His cock was already out, thick and uncut, foreskin halfway back, leaking steadily onto the carpet. Javier’s face was wet. Tears tracked down his cheeks, mixing with sweat. He was jerking himself with one meaty hand—slow, deliberate pulls—while he stared straight into the camera.

“I’ve wanted this body since you were 18, mijo,” he said, voice cracking. “I used to steal your cum-rags that you hid in your closet. The ones you thought nobody knew about. I’d take them to the bathroom, smell them, wrap them around my dick while I thought about you coming home from practice all sweaty and tired. I used to jerk off in your bed wearing your dirty football jersey while you were at practice. I’d press my face into your pillow and imagine it was you. I still do it sometimes when I visit your mom. I want to wake up every morning and see this cock in the mirror. Please, sobrino… let me be you. Let me fuck with your cock. I’ll never waste it. I swear on everything. I’ll take care of it. I’ll use it right.”

He kept stroking the whole time he talked, faster toward the end, breath hitching. When he came it was sudden and messy—thick ropes hitting the carpet between his feet, splattering the singlet’s already-stained crotch. He kept pumping through it, whimpering, until the last spurt dripped down his knuckles. Then he dropped to his knees, right there in the middle of the childhood bedroom, and pressed his forehead to the floor like he was praying.

The video cut.

Diego sat there for a long minute, phone in his lap, cock half-hard against his thigh just from the sheer fucked-up rush of it. He hadn’t spoken to Javier in years. He never would’ve guessed the man even knew about the account, let alone that he’d been buying the gear, lurking in the shadows, waiting.

He opened the transfer app. Javier had already sent $42,000. The biggest single donation so far.

Diego typed out a quick reply under the video, public for everyone to see:

“Damn, Tío. Didn’t know you had it in you. Keep going. You’re in the lead.”

He hit send, then leaned back in the lounge chair and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm Mateo’s perfect skin while the notifications kept rolling in.

The week dragged on with more videos, more wires, more desperate begging, but nobody came close. Javier kept posting—three, four, five times a day like clockwork. Shirtless in the singlet again, on his knees in the living room, in the shower with Diego’s old jock draped over his face while he sobbed out another plea. The money kept climbing: $68k, then $92k, then $115k by day seven. Every cent he had. He sold his car. Cashed out his 401k early. Maxed credit cards. The comments under his posts were brutal—people calling him disgusting, pathetic, a family disgrace—but he didn’t stop. He just kept thanking Diego in the captions. “Anything for you, sobrino. Anything.”

On the morning of day eight Diego posted the announcement. “Contest over. Winner: @J_Rivera87. Get your ass to Buenos Aires. Bring proof you’ve got nothing left to go back to.”

Javier arrived at the clinic two days later. The staff didn’t blink. They were taken to the same private suite—two beds, monitors, calm professionals in scrubs. Mateo fought when they strapped him down—kicking, cursing in Spanish, tears streaming—but the restraints held. Javier just stood there, docile, letting them hook him up without a word.

The procedure was the same low hum, flashing lights, blackout. When they came back online, everything had shifted again. Javier sat up first in Diego’s young body—smooth skin, carved abs, heavy cock already stirring between his thighs. The cage was still locked on it. He looked down, hands trembling, and let out a soft, broken sound.

Across the room, Mateo—in Javier’s 52-year-old frame—curled on his side. Soft gut spilling over the waistband of the loose scrub pants they’d given him. Thick salt-and-pepper hair covering his chest, arms, trailing down to a groin that hung heavy and low. The skin sagged in places it never had before. He stared at his own hands like they belonged to someone else, then down at the gut, the thick thighs, the cock that looked nothing like the one he’d spent his life jerking to in secret.

Diego—in Mateo’s body—stood between the beds, arms crossed, watching it all settle.

Diego took out the key to the cage and stepped to Javier. He knelt, unlocked the cage slowly, deliberately, letting the steel slide free inch by inch. Javier’s new cock sprang up, thick and veined, already leaking at the tip. He stared at it in stunned silence, then wrapped a hand around it—gentle, reverent, like he was afraid it might disappear if he gripped too hard. He stroked once, twice, eyes wide, breath catching. Diego didn’t wait. He turned to Mateo, grabbed the base of the soft, heavy cock now attached to him, and snapped the cage on. The ring went around first, cold against the loose skin, then the tube slid over, locking with a sharp click. Mateo whimpered, low and broken, hips jerking once before he went still.

They left the clinic in a black SUV. Mateo sat in the back between them, caged cock straining uselessly against the steel, gut pressing against his thighs. Javier kept touching his new arms, his chest, his face—fingers tracing the jawline, the tattoos, the smooth pecs—like he couldn’t believe they were real.

Back at the compound the gates opened automatically. The staff lined up at the entrance—housekeeper, groundskeepers, the pool boy—heads bowed the second they saw Mateo’s body step out first. Diego. “Welcome home, señor,” the housekeeper said, eyes on the floor. Diego nodded once. They walked through the open spaces—marble, art, glass. Everyone deferred. Exactly like he’d wanted. In the master bedroom Diego pointed to the couch.

“Javier. Fuck him.”

Javier moved like he was in a dream. No hesitation, no questions. He walked over, eyes locked on Diego, not even glancing at the man bent over the arm of the couch. Mateo—in Javier’s old body—didn’t fight. Just let himself be positioned, ass up, gut hanging, thick thighs spread. He whimpered when Javier’s hands gripped his hips, but it wasn’t protest. More surrender.

Javier slid in raw. No prep, no lube, just the slow push until he bottomed out. He started thrusting—steady, deep, mechanical at first, then smoother as the rhythm took over. But he never looked down at Mateo. Never acknowledged the body he was buried in. His eyes stayed on Diego the whole time—wide, shining, grateful.

His hands roamed his own new chest, abs, thighs. Tracing the lines of ink, feeling the hard muscle flex under golden skin. Every thrust punctuated by soft, dazed murmurs.

“Thank you so much, mijo… thank you… dios, this body… it’s perfect…” Over and over. No taunts. No cruelty. Just pure, overwhelmed awe. Like Mateo wasn’t even there. Like the man he was fucking had become invisible the second Javier got what he’d begged for.

Diego leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching it all. Cock hard in his jeans. Smiling slow.

Mateo’s whimpers turned to low, broken sobs. Javier didn’t notice. He just kept moving, kept thanking, kept feeling every perfect inch of the body that used to be Diego’s. And Diego let him.

Javier kept moving, slow and deep, like he was trying to memorize every inch from the inside. His hands never stopped roaming—sliding up over the hard ridges of his new abs, across the smooth planes of his pecs, down the inked lines on his forearms, then back up to squeeze a bicep that flexed under golden skin. Mid-thrust he paused, just for a second, to press both palms flat against his own chest, feeling the heartbeat there, the heat, the youth. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, lost somewhere between disbelief and worship.

Diego sat back in the armchair across from the couch, legs spread wide, one hand wrapped loose around the thick cock that used to belong to Mateo. He stroked slow, lazy pulls, not rushing, just enjoying the show. Mateo’s perfect body felt like it was made for this—relaxed, powerful, in total control.

He tilted his head, eyes locked on the man bent over the couch arm. “See this, Mateo?” Diego said, voice calm, almost gentle. “This is what you begged for all those months. Getting fucked by my body. Worshipping it. Well, now it’s happening.”

Mateo didn’t answer. Just quiet, choked sobs muffled against the leather cushion. His new gut hung low, pressing into the couch edge with every shallow rock of Javier’s hips. The steel cage strained hard against the soft, heavy flesh of his groin—useless, trapped, the skin around it flushed red from how bad he wanted out. A thin string of pre-cum dripped from the slit, pooling on the floor beneath him.

Diego kept thrusting.

“Now cum,” he said.

Javier’s rhythm broke. His hips stuttered, then slammed forward one last time. A long, low groan tore out of him—raw, grateful—as he buried himself balls-deep and started unloading. Thick pulses, one after another, filling the body he barely registered as belonging to him just a few hours ago. His hands stayed glued to his own new biceps, fingers digging in like he needed to anchor himself to the miracle happening under his skin.

“Gracias… gracias, mijo…” he whispered, over and over, voice cracking on every syllable. He kept rocking gently after the first rush, slow rolls of his hips, milking every last drop while he trembled through the aftershocks. His eyes never left Diego. Not once.

Diego leaned back farther in the chair, legs still spread, hand still moving easy on himself. He watched Javier finally pull out—slow, careful. The cock that used to be Diego’s slid free, slick and shining, already twitching back toward half-hard. Javier stared down at it in open awe, chest rising and falling fast, one hand drifting to trace the vein along the shaft as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

Mateo stayed collapsed over the couch arm, ass still up, leaking slow and steady onto the cushion. His sobs had gone quiet, just shaky breaths now. Ruined. Caged. Forgotten.

Diego let his hand fall still. He looked from Javier—dazed, reverent, already reaching to stroke himself again—to Mateo—broken, leaking, trapped in the body nobody wanted—and finally down at himself. The rich, pretty skin. The carved lines. The life he’d taken and made his. He smirked, slow and satisfied.

This was exactly how it was supposed to end.

He stood, stretched once, feeling every perfect muscle shift under Mateo’s golden tan.

“Clean up,” he said to no one in particular.

Then he walked out of the room, leaving them both behind—Javier still touching and flexing his new body like it might vanish, Mateo still bent over the couch, leaking and silent.

The compound was his now. The body was his. And nothing was ever going back.

It was early morning when I was cycling around the lake. I wasn't going too fast but from nowhere appeared this guy jogging and I barely managed to stop and not hit him.

"Sorry, I didn't..." I didn't finish the sentence when I looked up at the man standing in front of me. He was huge. Not only was he more than a head taller than me he also seemed to be around 200 lbs heavier and even his hoodie couldn't hide the bulging frame underneath it. A thick dark beard was covering most of the man's face, going as high as his cheekbones, and adding to his already intimidating appearance.

He stepped closer to me, "Don't you see where you're going, boy?". His deep voice resonated in my head intoxicating me with a feeling of submissiveness.

"Sorry, Sir. I'm just... you've appeared so unexpectedly..." I mumbled to excuse myself.

But the man didn't really listed to me, instead he checked me up and down and then a little smirk appeared on his face. He threw his arm around my neck and pulled me closer to him.

"How high are the chances of accidentally meeting you somewhere in the city?" he spoke softly into my ear, "Shy... Beta... Boy..."

His last words echoed in my mind. I couldn't believe my ears. ShyBetaBoy was my nickname at grindr. I created a profile there around a year ago but whenever I started chatting with a guy I would always chicken out. I desperately wanted to find a guy who could bring my fantasies about dom-sub stuff into life but at some level I was always scared of it and wasn't able to completely accept that part of my personality.

"I remember chatting with you a few weeks ago," the big man continued. His voice was calm and he talked slowly letting each of his word sink deep in my mind. "You sent me some pictures. But then you stopped responding. I suppose, you just beat a load and during that moment when you mind got clear you chickened out..." he paused for a moment looking at me.

My heart started beating faster and I felt my face flush. I was so ashamed of myself — it was so humiliating being caught in the middle of the city by some stranger who turned out to know your deepest secrets. But at the same time I was getting horny from this situation and my little cock started stiffening.

I recalled my memories and remembered some guy with username BeastlyMaster. It must've been him. It was bad, very bad. He took control of me so quickly and easily back than. But that was a game — it couldn't be like that in real life. At least that was what I thought back then.

"You still need to be punished. Do you remember that, boy", the big man tightened his grip around my neck.

"Yes", I nodded.

He grabbed my jaws with his huge hand and made me look him into the eyes, "Yes, what?"

"Yes... Sir," I hesitated for a moment and added, "You faggot need to be punished"

"Good boy," he laughed and patted my cheek. "You address me as 'Sir' or 'Master Max', understood?"

"Yes, Sir"

He grabs my shirt and wipes off his massive body as I stand there completely mesmerized by his muscles. Then he throws it back to me.