Master Grey's Body Swaps

The masterful @c0rruptedz brings all the ideas to the table.

The apartment was tidy, the windows were welcoming in a gentle breeze, and the space smelled of lavender, just the way I liked it. I had always been a clean-cut kind of guy–it was one of the first things that my boyfriend and I had bonded over. “Cluttered space, cluttered mind” is what they always said, and boy was it true. Having the floor swept and the bed made kept me in check.

From my phone, I heard a soft ping.

“Babe,” I called out. “Maycee’s on her way!”

“Maycee who?”

“Maycee from Psych. We have our final coming up on Friday so we're gonna do some prep work together.”

Hayden strolled out of our shared bedroom. He was twunkish; as a swimmer his build had always been sculpted and shaven. Hayden was a perfect counter to my slimmer frame, which I topped off with a meticulously-styled head of luscious chestnut hair. The amount of money and time I spent on looking sharp was embarrassing.

“I’m so sorry, when did you tell me this?” Hayden knew that he was in the wrong. I was always on top of everything. 

“Hmmm…last week?” I coyly replied. “Don’t worry, Maycee and I won’t get too rambunctious.”

Hayden had been studying for his own finals, although he liked to do so in silence. “Do I know at least know this Maycee?”

“Um, maybe?” I thought for a moment. “Medium height, long brown hair, kinda loud but still nice. We have had a few classes together.”

“Wait, Maycee Evans?” Hayden’s face flopped into a frown. “Dec, I can’t stand her!”

“Really?”

“She’s siblings with Trent, one of the guys on the team,” Hayden explained. “She shows up at like every party and gets super messy. I don’t care if you want to have fun but then she always comes over to me and bitches and moans about her life. And you know why, because she LOVES gay guys. I’m talking obsessed.”

“Have you asked her to stop?” I asked.

“Yeah, and it went horribly,” Hayden sighed. “I explained that it was getting to be a bit much and she blew up on me. Full psycho. Heck, there’s probably a diagnosis for her in your textbook.”

I frowned. “I had no idea, I’m sorry. She’s already on her way though.”

Glumly, Hayden surrendered. “No, don’t worry about it. You had no idea. I’m just going to hide in the bedroom until she’s gone.”

“Ok.” A text popped up on my screen, announcing Maycee’s arrival. “I’m really sorry again.”

“You're fine,” Hayden replied, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

“I’ll bring you snacks every hour!” I shouted. Hearing Hayden chuckle behind the closed door brought a smile to my face.

— 

“Holy smokes! I had no idea your apartment was so gorgeous, Declan.”

“I had no idea anyone still said ‘Holy smokes’,” I replied, closing the door behind us.

“Seriously, I’m so jealous. This place is so nice.” Maycee strolled around the main living space, taking in every piece of furniture. The white couch Hayden and I had spent hours cleaning after purchasing it online. The perfectly aligned gallery wall filled with pictures of our friends. Even the coffee table books had a particular order to which they were laid out.

“Well, should we get to this then?” I eventually said. “I don’t know about you but I’m definitely feeling worried about this final.”

“Whatever,” Maycee scoffed, approaching the dining table. “You’re one of the smartest guys I know. And the cutest.”

Maycee ended her remark with a wink. I smiled awkwardly before taking my seat, Hayden’s prior statement flashing through my head.

“So, tell me,” Maycee started as she flipped open a textbook. “Are you currently seeing anyone?”

I shook my head. “I had no idea your procrastination tactics were so impressive.”

“Hey! I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“And I thought we were here to study.”

Maycee laughed, “Can't we do both?”

“I’ll tell you what, we can earn it,” I countered. “Let’s at least do a little work before we digress. Is that fair?”

Maycee pouted before softening into a smile. “Ok…”

We studied together for an hour, absorbing as much information as we could. Sometimes we asked each other a question or two, other times we read in silence. Every now and then, I could feel Maycee’s eyes on me. If I had had any hair on my body, it would have sprung up in these instances. But I ignored her glances and continued my work. Eventually, Maycee announced that she had to go to the bathroom.

“BRB!” 

The bathroom door locked behind her and within the same revolution the bedroom opened up. Hayden stepped out and made his way into the kitchen. 

“Just gonna grab a few things,” Hayden said in passing.

“You know, you could just come out whenever you wanted,” I teased. “This is our apartment after all.”

“Yours,” Hayden corrected, as I did in fact willingly pay a larger portion of the rent. “And no, I don’t want to interact with her.”

In less than a minute, Hayden had snatched his snacks and refilled his water bottle. He almost made it back to the bedroom unnoticed.

“You HAVE to tell me where you got this soap!” Maycee swung open the door, revealing Hayden mid-scurry. “It’s so-”

The pair locked eyes. The tension in the room grew thick.

Hayden was the one who spoke first. “Maycee…It’s uh, good to see you.”

Maycee raised an eyebrow. “Why, because I’m sober?”

“Wow, that was fast,” I said. “Look uh, Maycee, why don’t we just get back to studying.”

“Hold up, are you two…” 

Hayden and I watched as the puzzle was pieced together in her mind. Not that it was a big puzzle, but enough to momentarily silence her.

“Oh, this is just too good,” Maycee finally said. There was a darker undertone to her voice.

“Maycee, I-”

“Shut up, Hayden.”

With a flick of the wrist in his direction, Hayden’s lips snapped shut. Immediately, I knew something was off.

“Maycee, is everything alright?”

“Perfectly, Declan,” Maycee grinned. “But I think I’ll close you up for now too.”

She wove a hand towards me and my mouth instantly closed. I tried to say something in response, make any noise, but I was silenced. Hayden and I made eye contact, both stunned by this shared development.

“I’ve been meaning to get back at you for the things you said, Hayden.” Maycee’s voice had grown icy. “Because of you, I’m no longer invited to any campus parties. Trent said it ‘wasn’t healthy for me’.”

Maycee had Hayden drop what he was holding and move into the living room. It was at this point I realized I could not move.

“I honestly don’t know what Declan sees in you,” Maycee continued. “He’s one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met. Is that why you like him?”

Maycee allowed Hayden’s mouth to open so that he could reply. “Yes! I-”

“Stop.” 

Hayden’s mouth slammed shut once more. I shifted my gaze between Hayden and Maycee, unaware of what was to happen next.

“Tell me, Hayden,” Maycee’s grin returned, crueler than before. “What else do you like about Declan?”

Hayden’s face was freed, but before he could speak, Maycee specified her question.

“Let’s start physically.”

“He’s my type!”

The words came out rushed, as if the truth was being ripped from Hayden’s brain.

“And what’s your type?”

“Skinny, on the shorter side-”

Maycee cut him off and then turned her head to face me. The three of us sat in silence again for a moment–two of us forced to–as we waited for something to happen. Suddenly, I felt a strange ache blossoming through my system. Although I could not contort my frozen face much, I was able to close my eyes. When I reopened them, I was surprised to find that the room had shifted. Before, I had been just below eye-level with Maycee and had had to tilt my head to meet Hayden.

Speaking of Hayden, his eyes had dramatically widened, but I had no idea why. To be fair though, I was probably just seeing things. Being well above six feet did that to a guy, everything seemed a bit out of proportion when compared to what the average human being saw. And I was anything but average. I was not one to brag but one should recognize the hard work they had put into their body. Spending night after night in the gym for over half a decade could really create results.

Satisfied by something–I was not sure what–Maycee asked her question again. “What else?”

This time, I noticed Hayden trying to keep his mouth shut. He failed: “Twinkish-!”

I had been that way for the longest time. While all the other boys had hit puberty, I missed the cutoff. For some reason, the bus decided to pass my stop.

Until it arrived a couple of years later of course. And it made up for lost time! The other boys used to joke that I was some kind of bear thanks to the pelt of hair I had. Furry legs, furry arms, a full rug up my chest and down some of my back. I had to shave my body every day for Hayden, even if it annoyed me. But by nightfall I would already have a stubble. The hair was just too dense-

“-and odorless!”

And it brought a funk with it too! No matter how much deodorant I put on, how much body wash I lathered in, how long we kept the diffusers running, there was always a bit of my natural musk hanging around. It was on the heavier side, more footy than sweaty. Hayden and I sometimes argued over it, I tried to explain that I could not block out that locker room cloud no matter how hard I tried. But I still did, for him.

“Let’s go over some mental qualities next,” Maycee said. “What makes Declan’s personality so attractive to you, Hayden?”

“He’s clean and coordinated-”

“Is he?” Mayce taunted. Had I been able to, I would have defended myself. Was the apartment not enough evidence? Did my general attitude not prove itself? If she wanted, I could have walked over to the bedroom and grabbed the stacks of planners that I kept handy.

Well, had kept handy. I had thrown them all out because they proved to be useless. I just went with the flow, wherever the wind took me. Why would I need to be so anal about everything? Money, politics, even my hair, which was just one simple scoop of product to swoop the dull brown up into something manageable for the day.

The apartment set the scene too: dishes piled up in the sink, dirty laundry scattered across the floor. I was sure Maycee had spotted the yellow stains around the toilet bowl, and the floor. Who cared about all this crap? It was just too difficult to freak out about it all when there were more fun things in life, like drinking and working out and having sex. Hayden did not agree with me, except for that last part sometimes.

“What else?”

“-he’s thoughtful!”

Hayden’s eyes were tearing up. No matter how rocky the current situation and our relationship at large were, I still felt for him. I was worried about him. I wanted to know why he was in pain, why he was so worried. I wanted to know-

…I wanted to know why he was being such a bitch. I wanted to know how much longer this stupid magical interrogation was going to take. I was getting sick of Maycee and even more sick of my pathetic situationship. Yeah, we were both gay and yeah, we sometimes fucked, but it was not like serious or anything. A hole should not have feelings attached, you know? I have more important things to care about: my wants and needs.

As if having witnessed some horrible event, silent streams began to flow down Hayden’s frozen face. God he was such a fucking loser.

“Hayden, don’t cry,” Maycee frowned. “It makes you look so messy.”

Hayden’s eyes grew red.

“Our boy Declan here is almost finished, but I think there’s just one more thing we’re missing.”

Hayden's tears stopped, the floodgates closed.

“This is kind of a leading question but, Hayden, in regards to sexuality, would you say that Declan is your type?”

“-yEs!” Hayden choked out.

“And why’s that?”

Hayden’s red face grew purple. Whatever he was about to say, he did not want it to escape. 

“--because…he’s...gAY!”

Hayden gasped for breath, finally freed from Maycee’s power. I however remained frozen, forced to continue watching the scene before me. Hayden’s muscular frame was covered in sweat, his body begging for someone’s aid. Someone to tell him everything was alright. Someone to tell him he was loved.

Obviously though, that was not going to be me. It was not my fault the faggot was, well, whatever the way he was. Plus, why was I supposed to give a fuck about him when I instead could stare at the juicy breasts pushing out the front of Maycee's shirt. How had I never noticed the size of those knockers before? Despite being frozen, my thick schlong began throbbing against the seams of my smelly gym shorts.

“I hope you’ve learned something from this, Hayden,” Maycee said. Suddenly, I felt a certain looseness to my body. I had finally been freed of whatever had been holding me in place. The first thing I did was let out a juicy fart, adding to the wet, masculine blanket of stench that suffocated the room. Then, after giving my hungry pouch a hard squeeze, I shifted over to Maycee, placing an invisible line between us and the homo.

“Baby, you done yet?” I asked impatiently, slapping one of my mitts onto her soft ass and giving it a squeeze. “I wanna dump a load, pronto.”

Maycee smiled, “I think we are, Derek.” She said my name like there was some kind of double meaning behind it. “Hayden was just about to leave. After all, it's probably too messy here for him.”

I blinked, bored and too horny to play into whatever she was getting at. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

Not bothering to wait for the stranger’s departure, I picked my girl up and brought her to the bedroom. The walls were covered in miscellaneous trophies and jerseys, like the one I was wearing. Within moments, I had her on the bed with my fat cock driving deep into her, ready to unload. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the faggot watching us from the doorframe, but I did not mind giving him a free show. Not like he was ever going to get a piece of this anyway.

It was several sizes too large, but he tried it on anyway. Staring at the baggy sleeves in the mirror, he laughed. “Yeah, real convincing. I look soooo intimidating.”

He was twenty-two, constantly anxious about fitting in, nervous about the costume party his friends were dragging him to, and the whole outfit felt ridiculous in his hands. The old shopkeeper only smiled when Chad asked if there was anything less intense. “That one chooses men who need to grow into it,” he said cryptically.

"Seriously, it means a lot. Since… you know. Since I told you." I smiled, feeling a rush of warmth.

"What? Gosh, you're my best friend. That doesn't change anything," he said, giving me a real bro hug. "Thanks for trusting me too, I guess."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," I mumbled. Ricky just grinned. That shy, sweet grin that made my stomach flip. He led me into his living room, which was a mess of scripts and half-eaten pizza boxes.

"Okay, so here's the deal. I have this part in the school play, right? And I'm kinda freaking out about it."

"What's the part?" I asked, picking up a script. "Is it a musical? You're so good at musicals."

"Oh no! It's not a musical," Ricky said, running a hand through his curly brown hair. "It's… well, it's a little intense. I'm playing this guy, Chad. He's this total stereotype. Like, a dumb, horny, cocky gay jock. He's always talking about... you know. Muscle and sex. And I'm just… I'm not that guy, you know?"

"Yeah, I get it," I said, my cheeks feeling a little hot. "But you're an actor now. You can get into character."

"That's what I need your help with," Ricky said, his eyes wide with a mix of panic and excitement. "The director said I need to really embody the part. He said I need to practice acting like him, talking like him, even thinking like him. So, I was thinking… Maybe we could roleplay? You know, just for a little bit? You can be... I don't know, the hot guy at the gym. And I'll be Chad."

I swallowed, the thought of it making my mouth go dry. "Uh, okay. Yeah. I can do that," I said, a little too quickly.

Ricky took a deep breath, and his shoulders slumped. "Okay, okay, let's do this," he said, and for a second, he looked just like the Ricky I knew, the sweet, nerdy guy who loved to play guitar and sing. But then, something changed. He stood up a little straighter, his chest puffing out just a bit, and a smirk started to curl at the corner of his lips.

"Alright, so like, let's set the scene," he said, his voice a little deeper, a little more confident. "We're in the gym, right? And I'm like, bench pressing a million pounds. And you walk up to me, and you're all, 'Hey, bro, need a spot?'"

"Y-yeah, sure," I said, trying to play along. "Okay, so I'm walking up to you now." I took a step forward, and something happened.

“Urghhhhh…” Ricky let out a low, guttural noise, a sort of half-growl, half-purr.

"Dude, what was that?" I asked, a little thrown off.

"What? Nothing," he said, though his eyes were wide, and he looked confused, as if the sound had come from someone else. "It's just… getting into character. You know."

He squared his shoulders again, and I saw it then. The fabric of his t-shirt, which had been loose around his chest, was starting to strain, the cotton stretching taut over his pectoral muscles. The shift was subtle, like the slow-motion opening of a flower, but it was there, and my eyes widened.

"Hey, man, your shirt..." I started, but Ricky cut me off.

"Yo, dude, what's up? You gonna spot me or what?" he said, his voice now a low, rumbling baritone that was completely unfamiliar. He flexed his arms, and I saw his biceps swell, the muscles bulging and hardening under the thin cotton.

Pop!

A tiny sound, like a taut string breaking, and a small tear appeared on his sleeve.

"Oh, uh, yeah," I stammered, my heart thumping against my ribs. Ricky was still my best friend, I knew that, but this new voice, this new body... it was doing something to me. "I can spot you."

"Yeah, you'd better, bruh!" he said, and his smirk widened into a full-on cocky grin. "Chad doesn't get turned down. And you're looking real good, dude. I'd love to show you my form. All of it." He winked, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a shiver down my spine. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were thickening, his collarbones disappearing under a mound of solid, sculpted muscle.

"Ricky... You… What's happening to you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The familiar curves of his body were being replaced by sharp, defined lines, his lithe frame giving way to a more imposing, masculine one.

"Mhmmmmmm... What are you talking about, bro?" he said, and he actually laughed, a deep, booming laugh that made the sound-waves resonate in the room. "Just shut up and are you gonna get on that bench or what? I'm getting hot just thinking about all that sweet, sweaty iron."

He took off his t-shirt, and I swear to God, the sound of the cotton ripping was like a thunderclap. His chest, which had been lean and smooth, was now a rippling landscape of striated muscle, his six-pack abs a washboard of perfectly sculpted definition. The skin stretched and tightened, a subtle squelching noise as the muscles beneath his skin shifted and swelled. He wasn't just getting bigger; he was transforming, a human statue being molded in real time.

"Oh god, Ricky," I breathed, my eyes glued to his body. "Your... your pecs. They're huge. And your abs... "

He just flexed, his chest muscles bunching and separating in a breathtaking display.

"Yeah, bro, these babies are solid," he said, patting his chest with a hand that now looked twice as big as it had a minute ago. "Been working out. Do you like it? Chad's gotta be ripped. Gotta have something for all the dudes to look at. Right?" He smirked, running a hand over his taut stomach, his fingers tracing the chiseled lines of his abs.

"Feel that? Solid as a rock. You can't spell 'jock' without 'cock,' huhuhuhuhu! And trust me, I've got plenty of both."

I just stared, mesmerized, as his body continued its impossible transformation. His shoulders broadened, his deltoids swelling until they looked like cannonballs. His waist, which had been narrow, thickened, but in a muscular way, his obliques twisting into ropy cords of muscle.

"No, stop! This isn't acting, Ricky," I said, my voice shaking. "This is... real. Your body is changing. You're changing!"

But he just shook his head, his face a mask of dumb, cocky confidence. "Pfffttttt! Nah, man. It's just me. Always." he said, and he flexed his biceps again, his arm muscles bulging so much that the veins popped out in thick, blue ropes. The sound of his flesh stretching was a soft, wet thwumping sound, a disgusting and beautiful symphony of biological change.

"Ohhhh shit! Yeah, I'm so fucking… Hot…” he said, his voice a low, throaty rumble that made me want to get on my knees. "All these muscles and all this... all this horny energy." He rubbed his massive arms, a low moan escaping his lips.

"Mmmph... I feel so... Urghhhhhhh yeahhhh... S-so big. So full. Just… full." He said, a little confused, but then his eyes met mine and his smirk returned.

"And you, dude. You're looking kinda small next to me. Maybe I can help you out with that. Or... maybe I can just... work you out myself." His voice was a seductive purr, and he took a step towards me, his shadow falling over me like a blanket.

My mind reeled, trying to process what was happening. My best friend, my sweet, nerdy, shy Ricky, was gone, replaced by this hulking, horny monster. And the worst part? I was finding it a little… a little hot.

"Ricky, please," I said, but the words were weak, lacking any real force.

"Who's Ricky, bruh? I'm Chad," he said, and he ran a hand over his thick thighs, the muscles bunching and rippling under his fingers. The sound of his hand sliding over his own sweaty skin was a wet schlick, a sound that made my whole body clench. "I'm gonna be a great boyfriend for you. And you're gonna be a great... you know. Cumdump." He said, and he laughed, a deep, resonant rumble that shook the floor.

"You're gonna be my first... my first project. My forever... workout buddy. How's that sound, brah?" He winked, and I knew then that Ricky was gone, and Chad was here to stay. And I was his.

"Ricky... no... " I moaned, the protest a mere whisper, my body betraying me with a shiver of pure, unadulterated desire.

"Chad," he corrected, his voice a low, horny growl. "Call me Chad, bro. Now, come here. I'm feeling a little frisky. And I think I'm gonna need to... release some of this tension. All this muscle... all this energy... it's gotta go somewhere, right?" He flexed his pecs, the muscles rippling like waves in a perfectly synchronized motion, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. I was trapped, a little moth drawn to his massive, muscular flame.

“How about that perky little ass of yours, huh? I know you want it too.”

You noticed a few of your friends around campus were sporting facial hair practically overnight, so one day you cornered your friend Don and asked how he grew such a long beard so quickly. He told you about a hair tonic from the costume shop that caused instant hair growth. He offered to pass you his bottle but you said you’d swing by the costume shop to get your own. That was your first mistake.

At the costume shop you couldn’t find any hair tonic where it was supposed to be. You rummaged around a bit and found a dusty old bottle labeled hair tonic next to costumes that seemed like they were meant for older men. “Hair tonic is hair tonic” you thought as you grabbed the bottle, paid and went back to your dorm.

You decided to apply the tonic in the evening and opted to start with a mustache. You put a few drops on your head too hoping to grow out your hair a bit for a dramatic effect... that was your second mistake. It didn’t take long before you noticed changes…and they weren’t what you were expecting! Your mustache grew in thick with brown and white hair! At the same time the hair on your scalp started shedding and whitening.

After a few more seconds you had the hairline and coloration of your grandpa and a thick white walrus mustache. You gasped and picked up the bottle of hair tonic hoping for an answer. You spun it around and saw “expiration date: 6/1950 use past expiration can have undesired effects.” Looks like the tonic isn’t the only thing that has expired.

After wrapping up at the spa, you pass by a costume shop and see retro 1990s stylized LA Galaxy jersey in the window. You decide to try one on and send a selfie to some of your old teammates, thinking they'd get a kick out of it.

Within a few second of snapping and sending the image you look back up in the mirror and are shocked to see your hair falling out. You notice creases along your expanding forehead, some grey in your beard and more hair on your arms.

The changes accelerate. You briefly look away from the mirror and when you look up you think you see your dad...but quickly realize that you just look the same age as him. You strip off the jersey, wondering if you're having an allergic reaction to the polyester - grasping at any straws to fix this situation. The top of your head is totally bald now, you've gained at least 50 lbs and your beard is more grey than brown. So much for your minoxidil and finasteride treatments. You look like a man in his 40s that hasn't taken the best care of himself.

The changes continue and your hair goes mostly white. A bushy mustache grows on your face and your skin continues to weather and loosen. You are in a mix of shock and panic at the image of a man, now older than your father, staring back at you in the mirror.

The changes begin to slow - you realize that maybe this has something to do with the jersey! Maybe it's magic or maybe it's cursed. You put it back on hoping it will somehow reverse the change but you can't fit it over your now more robust torso. You stare at yourself in the mirror for what feels like an hour - hoping for something to happen - but nothing does...You look closer to 60 now, maybe a bit younger than your grandfather.

After a short time your thoughts began to cloud. You think back across the 60+ years of your life...wait is that right...weren't you in your mid 20s? You briefly space out as your brain is being rewired. That's right! You did play for the LA Galaxy, but in the 1990s. You retired at the peak of your game in the at the age of 30. You've lived off a nest egg and some real estate ventures ever since. You popped by the store because you saw your old jersey in the window. After purchasing it you headed back to your home in the countryside to enjoy your well earned retirement - pipe, porch, rocking chair and all.

Wanda desperately wanted her kids back. While studying the Darkhold, she discovered a spell that could permanently swap her consciousness with a multiversal counterpart. The spell was really hard to pull off correctly and could only be performed once, but she was so desperate she didn’t care about the risks. As she performed the spell, she felt her spirit begin to leave her body and enter the multiverse. 

When she opened her eyes, her surroundings were not what she expected. She found herself on some sort of spaceship. When she looked into a mirror, she was shocked to see none other than Peter Quill as her reflection.

It dawned on her that she had messed up the spell and potentially her only chance to get her kids back. She broke down on the floor and felt no connection to her previous powers. As her mind raced, she came up with an idea. She got up and examined herself in the mirror. This body was decently attractive, and she knew this universe’s version of her was a single mom.

She or now he would begin planning out how to end up with his multiversal counterpart. He would start by leaving the Guardians to return to Earth and start to put an emphasis on his looks, going for a more clean-cut style. Then he would slowly work his way into this Wanda’s life so he can be Billy and Tommy’s stepfather. Knowing everything about this universe’s Wanda from the countless hours he spent dreaming of her life, he was able to sweep her off her feet and soon marry her, no problem.

One time the Guardians paid Quill a visit and were shocked to see him now. Suddenly he now went by “Peter Maximoff” and lived as some stay-at-home husband dressed all clean-cut in nice clothes, spending his time taking care of his stepkids and occasionally going golfing with the other dads of Westview. It was like he was a completely different person unknown to them; he actually was.

While this definitely wasn’t the way Wanda imagined things going, he can’t say he has any complaints about his new life. He is just happy to be living with his new wife and kids while trying to be the best husband and stepfather he can be.

Eric and John stood dumbfounded outside the rustic bar, its neon signs flickering temptingly above the entrance. The bouncer had just rolled his eyes and tossed their fake IDs back at them. “Nice try, boys. Come back when you’re 21.”

Frustrated and eager to salvage their night, the two frat boys were about to head back when they were approached by two older men in cowboy hats—William and Henry. Their smiles were easy, their shirts crisp, and they looked like they belonged in this place.

“You fellas trying to get in?” William asked with a grin, nodding toward the bar.

“Yeah,” Eric muttered. “Bouncer’s not having it.”

“Well,” Henry chimed in, “what if we told you we could get you inside? But it comes with a little… arrangement.”

The boys raised their eyebrows.

William reached into his shirt and pulled out a silver chain with a small, gleaming cross. “Family heirloom,” he said. “Let’s just say it’s got a bit of magic. It can swap two people’s bodies—just for a bit.”

John blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Try us,” Henry said, grinning. “You let us borrow your bodies for the weekend. We get to experience what it’s like to be young again—hit a real college party, maybe relive the glory days. In return, you two get our bodies and walk into this bar no questions asked. You get drinks, dancing, the full experience.”

Eric and John hesitated, but the thought of actually getting into the bar—and the sheer ridiculousness of the offer—pushed them over the edge. They nodded.

William unhooked the chain, said a few quiet words, and the world shimmered around them.

Suddenly, Eric found himself standing a little taller, his body broader, with gray hair peeking from beneath a cowboy hat. He looked down at his buttoned-up striped shirt and thick leather belt. “What the hell…”

John, now in Henry’s white shirt and mustached face, stared at Eric, wide-eyed. “Dude. This is insane.”

Across from them, William and Henry—now in the athletic, youthful bodies of the frat boys—stretched their limbs and smirked.

“Damn, it feels good to be twenty again,” William said, checking himself out in the window’s reflection.

“Don’t worry,” Henry told them. “You two just enjoy your weekend. And don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”

And with that, the newly aged-up Eric and John stepped into the bar, while the older men, now young again, vanished into the night toward the wildest frat party they could find.

"Dude, seriously, with that tiny little fuzz and that sweater, you look less 'mature-ish' and more 'boy-next-door trying to steal his dad's razor,'" Joe scoffed, tossing a crumpled plastic water bottle onto the plush white duvet of their ridiculously luxe hotel bed. His tone was playful, but the judgment was clear.

"We're hitting the biggest ceremony of the year, man. All the high-rollers, the actual grown-ups. That white cable-knit is... cute. You're just too goddamn pretty." He ran a critical, slightly possessive eye over Kit, who was standing in front of the full-length mirror, meticulously trying to fluff the nascent soft beard and faint mustache he’d been nurturing for weeks.

Kit’s normally clean-shaven jawline was obscured by a cloud of pale, downy hair that, to Joe, looked less rugged and more like a poorly rendered Snapchat filter. The fit of the sweater emphasized a sleek, but ultimately slender, frame.

"Hey! I thought the point was 'soft-and-approachable' mature," Kit countered, turning from the mirror with a defensive pout that only made him look younger. He ran a hand over the almost invisible stubble.

"It's a step up! And this sweater is brand new, it’s expensive! It's mature-adjacent!" He was trying, bless his heart, but Joe was right. Kit's naturally bright, almost cherubic face, even with the faint, fuzzy growth, still radiated an innocent energy that was totally at odds with the powerful, distinguished aura of the guests they’d be mingling with.

If Kit wanted to get noticed—the right kind of noticed—he needed a serious glow-up. He needed to look like he belonged in the VIP section, not like he’d snuck in with a borrowed ID.

Joe sighed dramatically, pulling out his phone. "Look, I love you, but you're a five-star steak with a side of baby carrots right now. We need you to be a whole damn filet mignon, aged, seasoned, and maybe a little intimidating," Joe chuckled, but his fingers were flying over his phone screen. "I just installed this insane new app—the Chronivac. It claims it can do real-time cosmetic and physiological changes. I downloaded it mostly as a joke, but what if... what if it could get you to 'aged-like-fine-wine' status in like, two seconds?"

He didn't wait for a response, which was classic Joe. He was already clicking through the setup process, a sly, almost manic grin spreading across his face. He knew Kit would never agree to something like this, so it had to be done on the down-low.

Joe justified the deception with a simple thought: he was doing this for them. For the experience.

"An app? Dude, are you serious? That sounds sketchy as hell," Kit snorted, folding his arms. But the underlying curiosity was there, a spark in his bright blue eyes. He was always down for something wild, especially if it involved pushing his boundaries. The idea of getting a quick-fix of ruggedness was secretly tempting.

"Fine, show me. But don't you dare try to turn me into, like, a… I don't know. Like cave man or something."

"Perfect! Just... Come chill on the bed for a sec. It needs a baseline scan, or whatever. It says the background should be plain," Joe smoothly lied, patting the spot next to him on the huge, inviting bed. The fabric of the duvet was silken and cool against his palm.

Kit, ever trusting and easy-going, ambled over and sat down, leaning back against the enormous stack of pillows, his sweater-clad torso slightly slumped in relaxation.

Joe quickly angled his phone, using the front-facing camera, and hit the big, glowing 'SCAN' button on the app's interface. A low, nearly inaudible zzzzzzzzzzzt sound seemed to vibrate in the air around them, a subtle hum of digital energy assessing Kit's every detail.

The Chronivac app’s interface was sleek, black, and unsettlingly intuitive. Kit's image popped up on the screen, a fully rendered 3D model that looked impossibly detailed. Beneath it were a myriad of sliding bars and toggles. Joe’s eyes immediately went to a slider labeled 'Physique: Density/Volume.' He gripped the phone, a jolt of illicit thrill sparking in his veins.

This was it.

He took a deep breath, and with a slight shake of his hand, he slid the bar all the way to the right. Maximum. Maximize.

"Whoa, dude, what the...?" Kit’s casual slump instantly straightened. A thick, hot sensation, like an intense, localized fever, was spreading across his body, originating from the deepest layers of his muscle tissue. He could feel a profound, internal strain, as if his bones were suddenly too small for the rapidly expanding contents of his body.

"GNNNNGH!" A guttural whimper escaped Kit's lips, a sound of surprise and raw, visceral effort.

The transformation was terrifyingly immediate and spectacularly vivid. Joe watched, mesmerized, as the soft curves of Kit’s shoulders broadened, the smooth slopes of his upper arms hardening and swelling into thick, corded masses. His white sweater—the one he was so proud of—groaned a fabric-stressing, desperate, tiny Rrrrrriiiiiiiip! as the seams in the shoulders and under the armpits instantly failed under the monstrous, sudden growth.

Kit’s back was arcing now, his chest expanding so violently it felt like a balloon being pumped with super-heated air. A blinding, fiery ache flared across his pectorals. His chest, moments ago simply flat and taut, was now a shield of tight, newly minted muscle, the hard, round twin mounds of his pecs pressing outwards against the straining, stretched wool.

"Hnnn... Joe! What the fuck is happening?!" he gasped, a low, thick sound that already had a deeper resonance than his usual voice.

The growth didn't stop. Kit was getting visibly taller, his legs lengthening beneath the loose denim of his jeans, the soles of his boots now several inches further away from his knees. His waist cinched slightly as his V-taper became impossibly dramatic, his latissimus dorsi—his lats—spreading outwards like enormous wings, their new mass now ripping the sides of the sweater with a loud, tearing that echoed sharply in the quiet room.

SSHHHRRIIIP!

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIPPP!

The remains of the sweater were now shredded loops of white wool, clinging precariously to his gigantic, pumped-up biceps and the overwhelming breadth of his shoulders. His belly button felt like it was being stretched taut as his abs tightened into a washboard of dense, granite-like muscle, each square popping with a startling suddenness.

"Aaaah! God... that is insane!" Kit yelled, his surprise quickly being replaced by a jolt of sheer, electrifying sensation. The pain had shifted, morphing into an overwhelming, delicious throbbing pleasure, a deep, cellular thrum that felt like every fiber of his being was singing with new, raw power.

Joe, his eyes wide and glued to the spectacle, was gripping the phone so hard his knuckles were white. The transformation was so fast, so complete. Kit was no longer 'pretty'; he was a sculpted, hyper-masculine statue of flesh, easily a foot taller and twice as wide as he had been moments ago. The sheer size of him, the raw power radiating off his newly massive frame, was intoxicating. The ripped fabric of the sweater fell away from his chest, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his newly enormous pecs.

Kit couldn’t help himself. His hands, now bigger, thicker, and with veins roping down the backs, flew up to his chest. He pressed his palms into the rock-hard, impossibly dense muscle of his left pec.

"OHHHHH… Oohhhh my god," he breathed out, the words rumbling in his new, deeper voice. He squeezed, feeling the unyielding firmness beneath his fingers, the taut, hot skin over the mountain of muscle. A shiver, part shock, part overwhelming erotic thrill, coursed through him. "It’s... it’s hard! So damn solid! It feels... good."

He ran his thumb over his tight, almost painfully erect nipple, and a sharp, hot jolt of pure sensation made his eyes roll back for a split second.

"Hnngh!”

The sight of Kit feeling himself up, his face a mix of disbelief and sheer carnal pleasure, was a massive turn-on for Joe. He licked his lips, his breath hitching. The sweater was a casualty, shredded to ribbons, hanging off Kit’s monumental biceps like streamers. His jeans, too, were clearly struggling, the fabric pulled so tight over his suddenly colossal thighs that Joe was genuinely worried about an explosive, pants-shredding catastrophe.

Joe’s fingers trembled as he found the next slider. He wasn't done. Not by a long shot. The sight of Kit's smooth, newly colossal chest was hot, but it lacked a certain... ruggedness. It was too perfect.

Joe dragged a slider labeled 'Body Hair: Distribution/Density' to the maximum setting.

"Let's add some texture, baby," Joe whispered to himself, his voice thick with lust and excitement.

A new sensation, a prickly, itchy warmth, erupted across Kit's newly expanded chest. It felt like a million microscopic pins were simultaneously being pushed through the pores of his skin.

"H-hey! What’s that itching sensation?" Kit asked, his fingers reflexively clawing at the skin of his pec, which was now turning a faint, irritated pink. The itching intensified, evolving into a strange, delightful crawling feeling.

The hair sprouted almost instantaneously, first a faint, dark shadow, then thickening and darkening with impossible speed.

Dark, coarse, wiry hairs burst forth, aggressively covering the entire expanse of Kit’s granite-hard chest. It spread out from his sternum, a thick, plush pelt that quickly devoured the skin, reaching up over his shoulders and down his torso in an unstoppable, virile wave. The contrast between the sheer white of his torn clothes and the dark, thick mat of new hair was stunningly masculine.

Kit stopped scratching, his hands freezing mid-air as he realized what was happening. He lowered his gaze, his eyes wide, watching as a dense, gorgeous forest of black hair sprung from his skin. It was thick, curling, and incredibly soft despite its wiry look, and the heat it was generating felt amazing. It was a completely new, intensely male texture.

"Oh... WOAHHHH! Holy shit! I'm... I'm hairy. I've never been hairy this much before," he muttered, running a hand through the newly grown pelt. The tactile experience of the coarse hair against his sensitive palm sent another powerful wave of erotic stimulation through his already overcharged body. It felt primal. It felt right.

Joe was panting now, completely absorbed, a digital mad scientist in the grip of a powerful, addictive high. The sheer power he wielded over Kit's body, transforming him into this massive, hairy, hyper-masculine ideal, was a dizzying rush.

He saw the shift in Kit’s eyes, the way the pleasure of the transformation was already beginning to eclipse the confusion. Kit was already adapting, accepting the new body as his own.

He noticed another option: 'Cranial: Age Slider.' This was it. The final, essential layer. Muscle and hair were great, but Kit was still fundamentally Kit—sweet, a little naive, a little too easy-going. Joe slid the bar from 24 up to 35. The digital clock on the app whirred, and with it, a subtle, almost imperceptible low-frequency thrumming filled the air, aimed directly at Kit’s head.

Kit blinked, a sudden, blinding headache hitting him like a physical blow.

"Uhhh... nnngh... my head..." The pain was sharp, but fleeting, instantly replaced by a strange, heavy pressure, like his brain was being physically kneaded and reshaped inside his skull. The feeling was profoundly disorienting, a dizzying, internal swoosh as if a massive filing cabinet of memories and personality traits was being dumped out and re-organized.

His mental landscape was shifting, his thoughts slowing, deepening, hardening.

Joe clicked on the final, most crucial option, a drop-down menu labeled 'Mindset/Persona Template.' He scrolled past 'Shy Billionaire' and 'Grumpy Lumberjack' and landed on one labeled 'Dom Daddy: Charming, Assertive, Possessive Top.'

He didn't even hesitate.

He tapped it.

The screen flashed a brilliant white, and a final, powerful, deeply penetrating ZZZZZZZZZZZ sound—less a sound and more an intensely physical vibration—hit Kit square in the forehead.

Kit’s head snapped back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut, a silent, powerful

"NNNNNNNGH-Aaarghhh!" catching in his throat. There's a sound of a mental door slamming shut on his old personality and a new, massive, impossibly solid one being bolted into place. All the old, sweet, easy-going Kit was gone, replaced by an immovable, supremely confident force of male will.

His preferences, his desires, his core memories—they were being rewritten in a torrent of new information. The old memories of his friendship with Joe, his love for his cheap white sweater, his slight insecurity about his looks—all became secondary, subservient to the powerful, dominant, almost overwhelming new urge to take control. To dominate.

The name "Joe" now sparked not a feeling of friendly affection, but a possessive, intensely carnal ownership. Joe was his. His sub. His to command.

Kit’s eyes snapped open. They were darker now, shadowed by a newly formed depth of knowing and power, framed by the faint, attractive lines of a man in his mid-thirties who had seen things and taken charge of them.

The fuzzy mustache and soft beard were instantly thicker, more sharply defined with slight silver highlights. All of it giving his face a chiseled, mature gravitas. His massive chest rose and fell slowly, confidently. The confusion was completely gone, replaced by a smooth, predatory calm.

He looked at Joe. His new consciousness assessed Joe’s slight frame, his wide, eager eyes, his trembling fingers on the phone screen. He saw the desire there, the raw, illicit thrill of having just transformed him. He saw a delicious vulnerability that demanded to be exploited.

A low, gravelly chuckle—a sound that could melt ice and drop panties—rumbled deep in his new, massive chest. It was the sound of a man who was already completely, utterly in charge.

"Well, well, well," the new Kit purred, his voice a deep, resonant bass that vibrated through the room, infinitely sexier and more confident than the young man who had sat down moments ago.

"Look at my little tech-savvy toy. You did a good job, didn't you, pet? You really made your daddy look the part."

Kit stretched, the movement of his huge, hair-covered muscles a slow, deliberate display of power. The remains of the sweater finally slid off and plopped onto the duvet.

Joe swallowed hard, the phone suddenly feeling heavy and useless in his hand. The new Kit—his new Dom Daddy—was intoxicatingly powerful, his presence completely overwhelming. He felt a sudden, dizzying rush of submission, his body tingling with an almost electric need to obey.

"D-daddy?" The word tasted foreign, yet utterly perfect, on his tongue.

Kit’s massive, newly-veined hand reached out, not with the hesitant touch of a friend, but with the firm, demanding grip of a master. His large fingers wrapped around Joe's wrist, his thumb pressing possessively into the tender skin of his pulse point. The contact sent a powerful jolt of pure, dominant energy straight up Joe's arm, making his whole body arch slightly in involuntary submission.

"I like the sound of that," Kit murmured, his dark eyes fixed on Joe’s. "You’re a clever little sub, aren’t you? Manipulating your way into getting what you really wanted."

He didn't pull. He just commanded with the sheer, undeniable force of his grip. Joe’s body responded instantly, a puppet to Kit’s will, sliding across the satin duvet and moving right into the massive, warm space of Kit’s newly muscular body. Joe was completely dwarfed, his head barely reaching Kit’s colossal pec.

Kit leaned in, his new, deep scent—woodsmoke, sweat, and pure male dominance—enveloping Joe. "You wanted me to be dominant, didn't you? To be firm? To take what I want?" Kit’s voice dropped to a low, throbbing whisper that was pure erotic promise.

"Good boy. Because I want you on your knees, tasting every inch of this new body you just created for me." He squeezed Joe’s wrist again, a deliberate, demanding pressure.

"Mmmph…” A low and helpless moan vibrated in Joe's throat. He could feel the hard, hot plane of Kit’s abs pressing against his own side. The rough, tickling texture of the new chest hair against his cheek was driving him wild. The sheer difference in their sizes was unbelievably hot.

Kit used his free hand, his huge palm flat and warm, and ran it slowly, deliberately, possessively down the side of Joe's face, his thumb catching on the corner of Joe's trembling mouth.

"You wanted me to be strict, didn’t you?" he continued, his voice heavy with promise. "Well, consider this your first lesson in obedience, pet." He pushed Joe’s head back a fraction, exposing the long, slender column of his throat.

With a sudden, dominating surge, Kit shifted his weight, using his new, overwhelming bulk to leverage himself forward. His enormous, dense thighs clamped down on either side of Joe’s hips, instantly pinning him to the soft mattress. The sheer, crushing weight of Kit’s muscle was both terrifying and exquisitely arousing.

"You like being dominated, don't you? Tell me how much you like being under your Daddy's boot," he demanded, the words a low, guttural growl that was sheer sonic dominance.

Joe was practically vibrating, a mix of fear and an intoxicating, all-consuming need to please his new master. He instinctively tilted his hips upwards, pressing himself against the overwhelming, unyielding mass of Kit’s new body.

"Y-yes, Daddy... ngh... so much..." he stammered, his eyes glazed over with burgeoning lust and submission.

Kit’s hand dropped from Joe’s face and clamped firmly, possessively, around the back of Joe’s neck, the strength in his grip immense and non-negotiable. He pressed Joe’s head down and back against the pillows, holding him immobile, completely under his control.

The first touch was a brutal, demanding kiss. Kit’s new, mature mouth—firm, wide, and dominant—crashed down on Joe's, instantly taking control. Joe’s lips parted on a surprised, strangled "Gah!" as Kit’s tongue, thick and aggressive, plunged deep, demanding access, demanding ownership. The kiss was rough, possessive, and impossibly arousing.

"Mmm... MMMFFF!”

Joe couldn't help the sound that escaped him—a high-pitched, desperate sound, half-lost in the powerful cavern of Kit’s mouth. Kit tasted like pure, unadulterated male power and a hint of the delicious metallic burn of new, dominant testosterone.

Kit pulled back just an inch, his eyes burning with a dark, consuming fire. He didn't break contact, his massive chest still crushing Joe’s smaller frame into the mattress.

"Good. Now, you’re going to tell me what a huge, horny mistake you made thinking you could handle this, little one," Kit rumbled, a wicked smile plastered on his face.

"You're shaking, sub. Is this too much for you already?" he growled, the hot, heavy words fanning across Joe's face.

"N-never..." Joe gasped.

The Chronivac had done its job perfectly. Kit was gone. The Dom Daddy was here.

Kit leaned down, his muscular, hairy chest finally crushing down fully onto Joe's, the friction a blinding, erotic sensation. He was completely, utterly on top, in charge, and ready to explore the endless possibilities of his new, demanding persona.

The bass thumped heavily, shaking the very walls of the frat house as AJ stumbled through the crowd. Sweat glistened on his exposed chest, his cowboy hat tilted jauntily on his head. His "sexy cowboy" costume left little to the imagination - tight jeans molding to his muscular thighs, tank top showing off his toned arms.

A group of giggling sorority girls caught sight of him and squealed appreciatively. "AJ! Your costume is so hot!" one called out.

He flashed them a cocky grin, striking a pose. "Why thank ya darlin'. Y'all like?" He said with his best take on a southern accent.

With a flirtatious wink, clearly reveling in the attention, he went back to taking shots with his frat bros. And as the night wore on in a haze of alcohol, AJ found himself making the most of it- making out, grinding, groping- you name it. By the time the party wound down, he had lost track of how many drinks he'd downed and who all he'd hooked up with. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto his bed and drifted to sleep.

--------

The harsh glare of sunlight streaming through the blinds and stirred AJ awake. He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. His mouth felt dry and his head pounded mercilessly.

"Agh… fuck…" he croaked, voice hoarse from the previous night's activities. Slowly, fragments of the Halloween party came trickling back - the pulsing music, the sea of costumes, the endless flow of booze, the hot girls.

With great effort, AJ sat up, a lazy grin plastered on his face. If he was this hungover, he must've had a good time. He yawned and glanced over to the mirror, chuckling slightly when he saw his cowboy hat was still firmly planted to his head.

"Don't really need this anymore." He smiled and grasped at the hat on his head.

He intended to take it off, but his fingers met resistance - the hat wouldn't budge an inch. Confused, he tried again, gripping harder. Still nothing. A flicker of unease ran through him.

"What the hell…" he muttered, examining the hat more closely. That's when he noticed something strange - his hands looked different somehow. Rougher, more weathered. And were those hairs sprouting from his knuckles?

AJ stared at them in shock. They couldn't be his hands. These were the hands of a much older man, a laborer perhaps. Calloused and covered in dark hair.

"No no no," he started to panic, looking down at his body. To his horror, he watched as the changes crept up his arms.

Hair sprouting thickly along his growing forearms as his skin darkened and roughened. Muscles bulged beneath the surface, swelling his biceps and triceps with thick, corded muscle. Muscle he could only dream of acquiring naturally in the gym.

"Oh god oh fuck what's happening to me?!" AJ cried out, voice cracking with fear and confusion.

He scrambled off the bed, stumbling as he felt the changes affecting his legs too. Thighs and calves thickened and hardened, muscles rippling powerfully. Dark hair fuzzed over his skin.

"Hnnngh!" AJ grunted, doubling over as he felt a sudden surge between his legs.

A jolt of intense pleasure shot through AJ as he felt his most private area begin to change. His cock swelled and lengthened, growing thicker and heavier by the second. His balls churned and tightened, already filled to the brim with potent seed.

"Holy shit, holy shit!" he panted, his terror nearly eclipsed by his growing arousal.

But there was no time to dwell on that as he felt his chest begin to morph. Two large, thick slabs of muscle formed where his previously toned pecs had been. Dark hair sprouted across the surface as they grew and grew, heaving with each breath.

"No, no, this ain't right," AJ whimpered, a Southern drawl creeping into his voice despite himself.

He shuddered in revulsion and let out a silent scream as he felt his back broadening, muscles rippling beneath the skin. He scratched desperately at his back as coarse hair began to push through, covering his skin in thick patches.

"Oh god, what in the hell?" AJ gagged, catching a strong whiff of musk emanating from his changing body. He reeked of raw masculinity and virility, "This ain't me, I ain't s'posed to look like this!"

He went to grab his phone- to call for help, but froze. AJ let out a strangled moan as he felt his rock hard abs soften and thicken with a layer of firm, masculine fat. At the same time, his core muscles clenched and strengthened, turning his midsection into a solid wall of power.

"Oh god no no no..." He could feel his face rippling, shifting.

Stubble scraped against his palms as he frantically rubbed his cheeks, watching in the mirror as his features coarsened and became more ruggedly handsome. A beard darkened his jawline and chin. Eyes darkening, skin becoming more weathered. He spun to face the door when he heard a knock followed by his friend's concerned voice.

"Hey man, you alright in there?"

"I-I'm fine!" AJ called back, voice deeper than usual, "Jus' leave me alone!"

"You sure, bro?"

He went to respond, but was stopped as a searing need ignited deep in his core, settling in his ass. AJ felt his hole clench around nothing, craving to be stretched and filled. The urge to submit, to be taken roughly and used.

"Nnngh fuck," he groaned, back arching.

His cock throbbed almost painfully. In his mind's eye, he saw himself bent over, presenting his hairy ass to some faceless man, begging to be bred like the desperate slut he suddenly craved to be. AJ trembled, torn between confusion and overwhelming lust. He didn't understand these foreign urges, this burning need to be dominated and used.

"Y-y'all just go 'way!" Did he really mean that? "I'm fine, jus' a lil' under the weather is all." His voice betrayed his desperation, words slurring together, the Southern drawl thickening.

And when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw what he was now. He was a vision of raw, masculine sexuality - all bulging muscles, dark hair, and throbbing arousal. The perfect image of a horny, slutty cowboy. The realization crashed over AJ as he stood there frozen, staring at his reflection in dawning horror. Gone was the handsome, athletic frame of the cocky college jock. In its place was this - this… figure of pure, unadulterated lust and virility. Everywhere he looked, he saw the physical embodiment of his "sexy cowboy" costume come to twisted life.

"It ain't… it cain't be…" he whimpered, running shaking hands over the thick expanse of his hairy chest, pawing at the heavy bulge straining against his pants. His identity, his very sense of self seemed to be slipping away, drowning under waves of foreign desire and instinct, "No, no please, I don't wanna be this!" Tears of frustration and terror welled in his eyes.

Memories of his old life flashed through his mind - football games, parties, hookups, his easy confidence and charm. But with each passing second, those recollections faded, replaced by an all-consuming need to serve and please. A simple minded slut.

"Ain't nothin' but a slutty lil' cowboy now," AJ slurred, his eyes dimming, his jaw going slack.

Suddenly, the door burst open. AJ's friends rushed in, concern etched on their faces. But when they laid eyes on him, their expressions shifted to shock and awe.

"Holy shit, AJ! What happened to you, man?"

AJ turned to face them, a dopey grin spreading across his face. All traces of the person he once was vanished, replaced by a vacant, eager-to-please desperation.

"Howdy boys," he drawled, "Looks like this here cowboy's ready for ridin'. Any of y'all feel like bein' my first rider?" He grinned as he presented his thick, muscular ass.

It’s finally the day of the wedding and I couldn’t be more excited to watch my best friend get married to the man of her dreams. Jessica had planned for us to meet at 10am so that the makeup artist could get all our makeup and hair done for the wedding. However, since I was now a man and there was no need for me to get glammed up, she booked me a massage at the resorts spa which was much appreciated as it would give me a chance to finally sit back and have some one on one time with myself and reflect upon the vacation I’ve had so far in my new body. 

After a couple of hours at the spa, I went back to my room to start getting ready for the wedding. Being a man now, I was obviously not going to fit into my bridesmaid dress, so my friend was kind enough to get me a custom suit made last minute that would match the rest of the bridesmaid’s dresses. Looking at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but feel powerful in the suit I was wearing, and was actually excited for everyone to see me and dressed up.

The wedding ended up perfect with no hiccups at all. Everyone had a great time and I was so happy to celebrate my friend and her marriage. As the night came to a close, I said goodnight to my friend and congratulated her again and began heading back to my borrowed bodies home so that I could get some rest. Having one day left in Italy and in my male body, there was thing I was always curious about and now I had the perfect opportunity to experience it. I quickly downloaded tinder and made a profile and within minutes I had a ton of women matching with me. After chatting with a few I decided to meet up with one of them for lunch and let’s just say things went pretty well from there.

I was chilling at my favorite coffee shop, sipping on my usual black coffee like I do most mornings. It's this cozy little spot downtown, nothing fancy, but the vibe is chill and the barista— this sweet, brown-skinned guy named Alex—always hooks me up with the perfect brew. He's shy as hell, always blushing when he hands over my cup, and I gotta admit, He tried flirting with me one time when he found out I was gay, but he's not really my type. Sorry, Alex.

Anyway, I'm minding my own business when this hot-as-fuck fratboy struts in like he owns the place. He had an athletic build, broad shoulders, and was wearing tight royal polo shirt showing off his biceps and shorts hugging those thick thighs. Cute face too, with that boyish charm, and a cocky grin that screams "I'm better than you."

He marches up to the counter, and Alex is there, all polite and nervous as usual. The jock orders something—probably some complicated frat-bro bullshit like a pumpkin spice latte or whatever—and Alex nods, gets to work. But when he hands it over, the guy's face twists up like he just smelled shit.

"What the fuck is this?" the jock snaps, slamming the cup down on the counter hard enough that some spills. "I said iced caramel macchiato with extra whip, you idiot. This is hot and tastes like ass."

Alex's face drops, his eyes going wide and sad. He stammers, "Oh, I'm so sorry I must've misheard. Let me fix that right away."

"Misheard? Are you deaf or just stupid?" the jock sneers, leaning over the counter like he's about to jump it. "Hurry the fuck up, I don't have all day. And make it right this time, or I'll talk to your manager."

Alex just nods frantically, his hands shaking as he starts remaking the drink. "Y-yes, sorry again. Won't happen twice." He looks like he's about to cry, poor guy, all distressed and biting his lip.

I wasn't having that shit. Who the hell does this prick think he is, bullying a sweet dude like Alex? Luckily, I've got these magic powers—don't ask where they come from, just know I can bend reality a bit when I feel like it. Especially for assholes like this. I locked eyes with the jock from across the room, whispered a little incantation under my breath, and bam—his smug face went blank. Mindless as a zombie. Without a word, he turns and starts walking toward the bathroom, all stiff and robotic.

I smirked, finished my coffee, and followed right behind him. No one even noticed; that's the beauty of my magic. We push into the men's room, and I guide him into the last stall, locking the door behind us. It's cramped, but that just makes it hotter. I stroke his handsome face—smooth skin, sharp jawline—and lean in close. "Your face is too pretty for such an ugly personality. On your knees, boy. Suck me off."

He drops like a puppet, no hesitation, pulling down my zipper and yanking out my cock. I'm already half-hard from the power trip, and when his warm mouth wraps around me, fuck, it's heaven. He starts sucking, mindless but eager, his tongue swirling around the head, taking me deeper with each bob. His cute face looks so innocent like this, those full lips stretched around my shaft, cheeks hollowing out as he works me. I groan, threading my fingers through his hair, gripping tight.

"That's it, you arrogant little shit," I mutter, starting to thrust. I grab his head and facefuck him hard, slamming into that pretty mouth. With each pump, something wild happens—his body starts deflating like air leaking out of a balloon. First, his shoulders sag, then his chest caves in a bit, getting hollow and light. He doesn't stop sucking, but his frame gets emptier, skin loosening, muscles flattening out. Thrust after thrust, he's turning into nothing but a shell. His arms dangle limp, legs folding weirdly, until finally, with one last deep shove down his throat, he's just an empty human bodysuit hanging from my shaft.

I pull out, wiping my cock on his deflated cheek, and lift the suit by the hair.

Grinning at that slackened face—mouth open, eyes hollow voids. "Should have been nicer," I mock, chuckling as I drop it in a heap on the toilet seat, hollow and empty, just waiting to be worn. But I have no intention of wearing him.

I zip up, stroll out of the bathroom as if nothing happened, and head to the counter. Alex is still looking bummed, wiping down the counter. I scribble a note on a napkin real quick and hand it to him with a wink. "Here's my tip bud." Then I bounce out of the shop, feeling pretty damn satisfied.

On the note was written: "Hey Alex, sorry you had to deal with that arrogant prick earlier. So I left you a generous tip at the last stall of the bathroom. What's in there belongs to you now, enjoy it. Send me a photo of you wearing my gift to this number. Don’t keep me waiting." At the end of the note was my phone number.

That same day, I received a text message with a photo from Alex in his new body.

"Thank you for the tip, sir!"

A couple of days later, I'm back at the coffee shop, craving my fix. Alex isn't behind the counter anymore, just as I expected. And at the counter on his phone is the same cute jock I turned into a bodysuit. He glanced up from his phone and gave me a smirk.

I walk towards the counter standing right next to him, and order a coffee. We had texted the day before to meet at the coffee shop today. I wanted to see Alex enjoying his new hot body in person, so here we are.

We didn't speak, he just walked towards the bathroom, and I followed him. Back to the same stall I left him his generous tip. I push in, and there he is—the cute muscular jock, but with Alex inside. I can tell by the way he smiles, all shy but excited now, in that fit, privileged white boy's skin.

"Hey," he says, voice deeper now, but with that same timid edge. "Thanks, man. For real. You gave me a whole new body, a new life. This guy's got it all—rich parents, popular, girls and guys throwing themselves at him. I've been having so much fun in this privileged white boy's body. No more getting shit on at work. I've been partying nonstop. Mason here has become very popular at gay clubs."

I laugh, stepping closer. "He looks good on you, Alex."

He leans in, kisses me with a confidence he never had before. Then he pulls back, smirks, and drops his shorts. That muscular ass pops out, round and tight, begging for it. "Wanna fuck me? As a proper thanks."

Hell yeah. I bend him over, his ass is muscular, cheeks firm under my hands as I spread them. I lube up with some spit—magic helps make it slick—and push in. Fuck, it's hot, but... "Damn, your hole's pretty loose," I grunt, sliding in easy, thrusting deep into that jock ass.

He moans, pushing back. "Sorry, I've been getting fucked by gay dudes nonstop for the last few days. Yeah, fuck me harder... nnnngghh... it feels amazing!"

That just turns me on more. I grab his hips, pounding harder, feeling those muscles clench around me. His body's perfect—tight abs flexing, back arching as I rail him. Sweat drips down his neck, "I'm glad to see you enjoying my gift," I growl, loving how he whimpers and begs for more. His ass gripping me just right despite the looseness, warm and velvety. I reach around, stroke his hard cock—it's thick, veiny, leaking pre-cum—and he shoots first, crying out as he cums on the wall.

That pushes me over. I bury deep, cumming hard inside him, filling that jock hole with my load. We pant, catching our breath, and I pull out slow, watching it drip down his thighs.

Elder Sam Anderson stood outside a metal door in the alley. “This is the place?” he asked to himself. The other Elders was sent to help old ladies by mowing their lawns. He was sent here to this address, apparently a place called “The Hole”.

He was 21 years old and was almost done with his missionary work. He grew up in the church and knew it was his duty to spread the word of God, but he was unsure about this.

He looked around, confused. He was unsure if he should go in. It was sketchy and no one was around. He had a bad feeling, but he knew Jesus wouldn’t judge. He pulled to door handle, but it didn’t budge. He was about to turn around, but the door swung open.

A tall, muscular man stood there. Sam didn’t know what this man was wearing or why. The man had a dark black leather jacket with a matching leather shirt underneath. He had a sense of formality as he had a leather tie, but the man also carried a sense of power as he had thick black leather boots.

The man had short buzzed hair, but had a thick dark mustache that had a lit cigar right under it. This man was both scary and alluring to Elder Anderson, a feeling he couldn’t quite understand.

“Can I help you?” the man asked in a deep voice.

“Umm…Hello. My name is Elder Anderson. I’m here to help and hopefully talk about our Lord and Savior.”

The man looked at Sam up and down. “Please, come in,” the mysterious man invited him as he held the door open.

Sam stepped in and found himself in a bar. He didn’t know why he was sent to the bar.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Sam mentioned.

“Didn’t give it, but you can call me Boss,” the man said.

“…Okay,” Sam hesitantly replied while trying to smile, “I brought a copy of The Book of Mormon that you can have. What would you like me to help you with first?”

“Just set your book down and take a seat right here. Gotta watch a training video, even if you’re just volunteering,” Boss said as he grabbed the book from Sam’s hands and set it on the bar top. He placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders and guided him to a chair that was in front of a tv.

Sam felt uncomfortable being touched. The smoke from the man’s cigar made his eyes water.

Boss pushed him down in the chair, “Watch the screen,” he ordered.

The screen was nothing but static. There was a loud hum coming from the set. Sam watched and began to ask, “Are you going to play the vide—”.

The hum became soothing and Sam could not hear anything else. A quick shot of fear filled his body, but it soon disappeared. There was nothing else around him. It was just him, the hum and the static.

Images of men in leather, men smoking cigars and men nude appeared on the snow like screen. Words like “obey” and “serve” also appeared. He saw men kissing. He saw men fucking. He saw it all and thought of nothing at all.

The words “cigar boy” appeared and then the screen went black. The blank eyes of Sam saw a man placing a cigar in the mouth of another man on the screen, who then started puffing away without a thought in the world. But this wasn’t video. It was a reflection.

The static and hum returned. Sam didn’t feel anything but pure pleasure throughout his body. He didn’t think of anything else except an urge to serve and obey. An urge to make other men feel pleasure, like the pleasure he was feeling right now.

The hum started getting louder, almost like an aggressive buzz. The buzz came with a sensation of coolnesss. The screen went black again and it revealed a man smoking a cigar while getting his hair buzzed. Again, without Sam realizing or caring, this was a reflection. The sight made Sam moan uncontrollably, causing smoke to shoot out of his mouth.

“Good boy,” Boss said in a caring yet controlled way. Sam kept moaning in response, almost like he was agreeing.

The static and hum came back on. The words “You are”appeared with “Boss’ boy”, “a cigar boy”, “a good boy” and “the hole” flashing across the screen in turn, rapidly and repeatedly. The hum got louder and the screen brighter. Sam was blankly watching and moaning. His whole mind was being wiped and rebooted, trapped between pain and pleasure.

His eyes were widening until the tv suddenly turned off. Sam went limp. His moaning stopped, his eyes shut and his cigar fell out of his mouth, burning a hole in his shirt before hitting the floor.

—

“Boy,” Boss said, “wake up.”

Boy opened his tired eyes, “Boss, what happened, Boss?”

“You took a break and fell asleep,” Boss said, “And apparently had a wet dream.” Boss pointed down at boy’s pants. They were indeed wet.

“Boss, sorry, Boss,” boy apologized.

“It’s alright boy,” Boss assured him. He felt safe around Boss. He always tried to make Boss proud, but also knew he would be disciplined if he stepped out of line. “Get changed. Your gear is in the bathroom.”

“Boss, yes, Boss,” boy obeyed as he headed to the bathroom. Boy knew he must always start and end each sentence with “Boss”.

Boy went into the dimly lit bathroom. It smelled of smoke, sweat and sex. He loved that smell and all the actions that caused the odor. His gear was lying on the counter. He didn’t remember why he had a dress shirt, tie and slacks on, but didn’t want to think any more of it. He knew his Boss wouldn’t want him to think any more of it.

He first slipped in tight leather pants. He then unbuttoned his shirt and saw the thick chain with a lock around his neck. He knew he could never take this off because Boss had the only key. He put on his leather vest and then his boots. He was ready for the night. He was ready for Boss.

After getting changed, he bundled up his old clothes and was about to throw them away when he saw something in the garbage bin. He reached in and saw it was a name tag. It said “Elder Anderson.”

“Who the fuck is Elder Anderson?” boy asked aloud before throwing it and his clothes in the trash.

Boy came out of the bathroom. “Looking good, boy,” Boss complimented with a lit cigar in his mouth. He had an unlit cigar in his hand and handed it to his boy.

“Boss, thank you, boss,” boy said before placing the cigar in his mouth. He leaned in toward Boss who then lit the cigar with a torch lighter. Boy knew he had to smoke whenever his Boss told him to, which was a good thing. Boy enjoyed cigars and was starting to need them as much as Boss.

“Ready for a busy night? Bar’s opening up in 10 minutes,” Boss asked as his boy took a deep drag off the cigar.

It was boy’s job to make drinks and make sure the customers were enjoying themselves. “Boss, yes, Boss,” boy said as he exhaled a large cloud of smoke. He loved his life serving his Boss and his customers. It was the only life he knew of.

I’d been dreaming about studying abroad in Europe since I was twelve years old. So when the acceptance email hit my inbox at the end of my second year at the University of Calgary, I actually screamed in the middle of the library. A full year in Portugal? Sun-drenched streets, pastel buildings, ocean air, and actual European boys who probably knew how to kiss properly? Sign me the fuck up.

The only weird part was my school’s so-called “Immersion Exchange Program,” which was run by some educational company called Arterra. Every study abroad advisor that explained the program kept using the same weirdly specific language: “You’ll be living the life of a local student.” They said it with these bright, unnerving smiles. When I asked what that actually meant, they waved it off.

“Oh, you’ll understand once you’re there. It’s the deepest possible cultural integration. You’ll come back completely changed.”

The fourth-years who had already done the program were even cagier. I’d corner a couple of them after class and they’d just smirk, eyes glazing over like they were remembering something filthy.

“Changed my life,” one girl named Maya told me, twirling a strand of hair. “You have no idea how much.”

Another guy, Ethan, just laughed low and said, “Trust me, Liv. You’ll have the best time.”

It was strange, though. I could’ve sworn most of them had never actually left campus for a semester abroad. And every time I tried to dig, they changed the subject or suddenly remembered they had somewhere to be.

When I asked the international office about flights, housing, student visas, what to pack, all the normal stuff, they just smiled again and said, “We handle everything. Just show up at the Arterra Exchange Facility on August 29th at 11 a.m. sharp. Everything will be taken care of.”

So I spent the whole summer slinging overpriced leggings and iced lattes at the mall in Calgary, counting down the days. No confirmation email about my Portuguese class start date. No housing assignment. No flight itinerary. Every time I emailed, the reply was the same cheerful bullshit: “All arrangements are in hand. Don’t worry! Just show up on the 29th with a valid passport and your house keys and we will take care of the rest. No need to even pack a bag.”

By the time August rolled around I was low-key panicking, but I still showed up at the address they gave me. I assume they would just be giving me an airport transfer from here. I still thought was weird not to bring anything with me, but maybe they had clothes for me to make sure I dressed like a local too? Who knows?

The actual facility looked less like a travel office and more like a high-end medical clinic—sleek glass doors, soft lighting, and a faint smell of something citrusy in the air.

The receptionist checked my name off a tablet and motioned for me to follow her down a quiet hallway.

“Right in here, Olivia,” she said, opening the door to a small, windowless room. The walls had this strange sheen, like they were made of something that wasn’t quite drywall. A single padded chair sat in the center. “Just have a seat and relax. The process will begin shortly.”

“Process?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought this was just orientation or paperwork or—”

She was already stepping back out. “You’ll be fine. Most students find it… exhilarating.”

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound. I stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring at the weird glowing walls. This felt off. Like, sci-fi movie off.

Before I could even knock on the door and demand answers, the lights overhead flickered once, twice—

A sudden, intense burning sensation ripped through my entire body, like every nerve had been lit on fire at the same time. My knees buckled. I tried to grab the chair but missed. The room spun violently, colors bleeding together, and then—

Everything went black

---

When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the silence. No more flickering lights, no burning. Just the low hum of air conditioning.

I groaned and pushed myself up in the chair, blinking hard. My arms felt… wrong. Heavier. Longer. The sleeves of my hoodie rode up on forearms that were definitely not mine—dusted with dark hair, veins standing out a little, and way more muscle than I’d ever had in my life. I looked down.

My chest was flat. Broad. The soft curve of my breasts was gone, replaced by solid pectorals under a dark blue sweatshirt. My thighs pressed against the fabric of my jeans in a completely different way—thicker, stronger, the kind of legs that filled out pants instead of just sliding into them. Between them, there was an unmistakable, heavy weight that made my stomach drop.

I wasn’t Olivia anymore.

I was a guy.

A very real, very male guy.

Before I could even process the panic rising in my throat, the door opened again. This time a different woman stepped in—mid-thirties, sharp blazer, clipboard in hand, and the same unnervingly calm smile everyone here seemed to wear.

“Olá, Nuno,” she said gently, then switched to English with only a light accent. “Or… should I still call you Olivia for now? I’m so sorry for the abrupt transition. Most students handle the awakening a little better, but we understand this can be disorienting.”

I stared at her, mouth open. My voice—when it finally came out—was deeper, rougher, but still perfect English. “What the actual fuck did you do to me?”

She didn’t flinch. “You’ve been successfully exchanged. Welcome to Lisbon! Our program is designed for true cultural immersion: you live in your partner’s body, attend their classes, meet their friends, speak their language. It’s the only way to really learn about local life.”

I laughed, but it came out shaky and too loud. “You swapped me? Into a dude? Are you serious right now?”

She nodded, completely unfazed. “Your case is a little unusual, I’ll admit. There’s been quite a bit of foreign demand for Portuguese students this year but not nearly as much domestic interest in Canadian students I’m afraid. We could not find a local girl that met our requirements to swap with you, but Nuno here was offered a generous incentive—several thousand euros—to participate. He’s from a very small village to the south of here and wanted the money to move to the city properly.”

I ran a hand through my new hair—short, thick, dark brown—and felt the unfamiliar scratch of stubble on my jaw.

“Wait… so he wasn’t even a student here?” I asked, voice cracking a little in that new register.

“No, he wasn’t,” she confirmed. “And so we actually had to enroll you as an international student on study abroad. But don’t worry—it will still be an excellent experience. You’ll have full access to the university, the city, everything. And your knowledge of Portuguese will start filtering in naturally over the next few days as the neural integration settles. You’ll feel more like yourself—well, more like Nuno—soon.”

I stood up on legs that felt too long, too powerful. The movement sent an odd, warm shift through my groin that made my cheeks burn. “You should’ve just let me come as myself, then. Like fucking hell.”

She gave me a sympathetic tilt of her head. “We understand you’re upset. Many students feel that way at first. But give it a little time. You’ll settle in. Most of them say it’s the best year of their lives.”

They handed me a small envelope with keys, a student ID card that already had what I assume was my—Nuno’s—face on it, and directions to “my” flat.

By the time I stepped outside, it was night. The August daylight I’d left behind in Calgary had vanished. Lisbon glowed around me—warm streetlights and the distant hum of scooters.

The flat they’d assigned me was only a ten-minute walk from the main university buildings. When I let myself in, I was surprised at how nice it was: clean white walls, big windows overlooking a quiet street, a small balcony, and a nicely styled bedroom. Posters of famous Portuguese athletes hung on the wall and a guitar leaned in the corner.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed, heart still racing.

I caught my full reflection in the mirror across the room for the first time—Nuno’s reflection. Broad shoulders filling out the sweatshirt, that easy, bright smile still lingering on the face even though I wasn’t trying to smile. He was cute. I mean objectively speaking.

The exhaustion hit me like a truck—jet lag, body lag, whatever the hell this was. I stripped down to just a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs, then flopped back onto the sheets.

---

A few hours later I jolted awake in the pitch-dark apartment, heart pounding for no reason. The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 a.m. My mouth was bone-dry. But that wasn’t even the most urgent problem.

There was a hard-on tenting the front of my underwear. My new thick cock pressed insistently against the soft cotton, throbbing with every heartbeat. I could feel the weight of it, the way it curved slightly upward, the sensitive head already leaking a little and making a small wet spot. Heat flushed up my neck.

I lay there for a second, breathing shallow, trying to ignore it. But the thirst was overpowering. Curiosity won out first, though. Just a quick look.

I hooked my thumb under the elastic waistband and tugged it down just enough to let it spring free. It slapped lightly against my lower stomach, thick and flushed, veins standing out along the shaft. Fuck, it was bigger than I expected—maybe 18 cm, heavy, with a slight upward curve and a nice pair of balls hanging below.

I stared for a long moment, pulse hammering. It twitched under my gaze, another bead of precum welling up and sliding down the side.

Okay. Drink first.

I tucked myself back in and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The tile was cool under my feet. I yanked open the fridge and the little light inside lit up the modest contents, which included a big carton of passionfruit juice. Perfect. I poured myself a massive glass and downed the whole thing in several long gulps.

I set the empty glass on the counter and turned to head back to bed when my reflection again caught my eye in the narrow mirror hanging by the kitchen doorway.

Broad shoulders. Strong neck. The way the white t-shirt stretched across a chest with the faint outline of pecs. My new jaw looked sharper in the low light, dark stubble shadowing it. I stepped closer without thinking, turning my head side to side.

Curiosity pulled me in deeper. I reached up and rubbed my jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble under my fingers. It sent a little spark straight down my spine. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the hem of the t-shirt and peeled it off, tossing it onto the counter.

Nuno’s torso stared back at me—lean but defined, smooth olive skin, a light trail of dark hair running down the center of his abs and disappearing into the waistband of the boxers. The shoulders were wide, biceps nicely rounded even when relaxed. I rolled them back experimentally and flexed, watching the muscle pop under the skin.

My cock strained hard against the underwear again, the fabric tenting obscenely. It felt… good. Really fucking good. A warm pulse of pleasure rolled through me as the material rubbed against the sensitive head.

One thing led to another.

I shoved the boxers down my thighs, letting them pool at my ankles. I wrapped my hand around my cock and gave one slow stroke from base to tip.

“Oh… shit,” I muttered in that new, deeper voice. It came out husky.

I did it again, slower this time, thumb spreading the precum. My other hand roamed up my chest, feeling the firm muscle, pinching a nipple that sent an unexpected jolt straight to my cock. I leaned back against the counter, legs spreading a little as I started stroking in earnest—long, firm pulls that made my balls tighten and my abs clench. Everything felt amplified. I watched myself in the mirror the whole time: this hot Portuguese guy with messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and a thick, leaking, uncut cock in his fist. It was me. I was him. And it was turning me on more than anything ever had in my old body.

I sped up, hips starting to buck forward into my hand. When I came, it was euphoric—nothing like the softer, slower orgasms I was used to. My cock pulsed hard in my grip, shooting thick ropes of cum across the kitchen floor in messy, powerful spurts. I kept stroking through it, milking every last drop while my knees shook and my vision whited out for a second. The groan that tore out of me was loud and shameless. “Fuuuuck…”

I stood there panting afterward, cum still dripping from the tip of my softening dick onto the tile.

With a sheepish laugh, I grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the mess on the floor, still half-naked and glowing with aftershocks. My legs felt wobbly. My new cock gave one last lazy twitch as I wiped everything down. I tossed the towels, washed my hands, and headed back to bed, collapsing onto the sheets with a satisfied sigh.

---

The next few days were a blur. I spent way too much time in front of that narrow kitchen mirror, shirt off, hands roaming slowly over Nuno’s body. I’d flex my arms just to watch the biceps tighten, trace the light trail of dark hair down my abs with my fingertips, and let my palms slide lower until I was gripping that thick cock again. The orgasms were intense, almost addictive; thick ropes of cum that left me panting and grinning at my own reflection like an idiot.

By the time orientation rolled around, some Portuguese had started trickling into my brain. Basic phrases, greetings, even a few slang words. But luckily I hadn't lost any of my English and still had my Canadian accent. That was a relief, because even after all the hassle, the program still expected me to play the part of a Canadian exchange student.

Orientation was held in a big lecture hall at the university, packed wall-to-wall with international students. Mostly loud Americans in backwards caps, a solid crew of fellow Canadians, clusters of chatty Latin Americans, tall Germans, stylish Italians, and a random mix of other Europeans. None of them had the slightest clue I wasn’t the real Nuno. The Arterra Exchange Facility had made that crystal clear before I left the building: the swap program was 100% confidential. No one outside the actual participants was ever supposed to know.

When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stood up with a casual grin and said, “Hey, I’m Nuno Seguro, from Calgary.”

“Dude, your name sounds super Portuguese,” one American girl laughed. “And you definitely look it.”

I shrugged easily, the lie sliding out smoother than I expected. “Yeah, my mom’s Portuguese. She basically guilt-tripped me into coming here to connect with the heritage and all that. I’m not even mad about it though—Portuguese classes are gonna be a breeze since I grew up speaking it.”

They bought it.

---

The first couple of weeks were actually lit.

Classes were laughably easy—designed for international students who were clearly here more for the party scene than actual academics. Professors barely assigned homework, lectures were short and chill. Meanwhile, the social life was nonstop. Parties every single night: rooftop bars with insane views of the Tagus sweaty little hidden clubs tucked away in Bairro Alto, cheap bottles of vinho verde.

The other internationals were jealous as hell that I had my own nice little apartment instead of cramped shared dorms or sketchy hostels. Within a week, my place had become the default hangout spot. People would text me at 8 p.m. saying “Pre-game at Nuno’s?” and suddenly there’d be ten of us on the balcony, blasting music, passing around bottles of cheap wine and beer. Someone always ended up crashing on the couch. Someone else always brought a speaker that made the walls shake. I’d lean against the railing in just a tank top and shorts, feeling the warm night air on my skin and the way people’s eyes lingered on my shoulders and arms a little longer than necessary.

I eventually decided Nuno’s original look needed an upgrade. He was already a good-looking guy—strong jaw, warm brown eyes, that easy smile—but his style had been stuck somewhere between “small-village casual” and “whatever was clean.” I wasn’t about to waste a year in Lisbon looking basic.

So I made a couple of changes.

First, I let the facial hair grow. Within a couple of weeks I had a thick, dark mustache that framed my smile just right, the kind that looked effortlessly cool and made my teeth flash brighter when I grinned. It suited the face perfectly—gave me this warm, slightly cocky vibe that turned heads.

Then I booked a cut at a trendy little barbershop in Chiado. I told the guy exactly what I wanted: a modern mullet, short and tight on the sides, longer and curly in the back, just like so many of the local guys and the Spanish and Italian exchange students were rocking.When I walked out, the breeze hitting the longer curls at the nape of my neck felt ridiculously good. Fuck, I’d always thought those cuts looked so hot on guys. Now I was the one wearing it, and every time I caught my reflection in a shop window I had to fight the urge to smirk.

Next, I made friends with this really fashionable Estonian guy named Karl in the international crowd—always dressed like he’d stepped out of a European fashion shoot. I was pretty sure he was gay and definitely into me and I wasn’t above flirting a little to borrow some of his clothes. A couple of flirty texts and suddenly I had access to his closet: fitted button-downs that hugged my shoulders just right, slim dark jeans that made my ass and thighs look incredible, a sleek leather jacket, and some expensive jewelry.

The other Canadians, Americans, and Latin American crew ended up traveling around Europe together nonstop—Rome, Budapest, Paris, Prague, Madrid. We did all the classic study-abroad shit: hitting every tourist trap and monument during the day, then drinking cheap local beer and wine until we were loud and sloppy at night.

Back in Lisbon, a bunch of us got cheap gym passes at a nearby university facility. Lifting felt incredible in this body. I could throw around weights I never would’ve dreamed of touching as Olivia. I’d bench numbers that made the other guys whistle and shake their heads, deadlift until my back and legs burned in that deep, addictive way. Every session left me pumped—veins popping along my arms and shoulders, sweat dripping down the light trail of dark hair on my abs, my tank top clinging to my chest. The mirror in the gym changing room became another favorite spot. I’d stand there flexing, admiring the way my new mullet looked messy and sexy after a workout, that thick mustache framing my cocky grin while my cock half-hardened in my shorts from the pure rush of it all.

I started taking a lot of really douchey mirror selfies—especially in the apartment elevator. I posted some of the tamer ones on the new Instagram I’d made for Nuno and kept the spicier ones just for myself, saved in a hidden folder where I could scroll through them late at night, stroking slowly while I replayed how good this body felt.

---

One of the international girls from Brazil, Isabela, had caught my eye early on. She was stunning—curvy in all the right places, long dark wavy hair, golden-brown skin, and a smile that could stop traffic. We started flirting almost immediately, and pretty soon we were exclusively speaking in Portuguese with each other. It drove the rest of the group insane, especially this tall German guy named Lukas who had been obviously pining after her since day one. He’d sit there with his arms crossed, trying (and failing) to follow our rapid-fire conversations, his face getting redder every time she laughed at something I said.

One night at a crowded rooftop party, Isabela land I were chatting.

“Vocês portugueses todos falam como se fossem russos ou algo assim,” she complained with a dramatic sigh, her Brazilian lilt turning every word into a melody. “It’s like you have this heavy Slavic thing going on. So serious!”

I grinned, letting my hand rest lightly on her waist as I fired back in perfect Portuguese. “E você, brasileira? Parece que está cantando uma música em vez de falar. Tudo soa tão doce e dramático. Como se estivesse sempre flertando, mesmo quando reclama.”

She laughed, shoving my chest playfully, but her eyes sparkled with clear interest. The teasing only made the tension between us thicker. The German guy shot me a death glare from across the table, but I just raised my glass to him with a smirk.

One thing led to another and later that night Isabela ended up back at my apartment. The second the door clicked shut we were on each other—hands everywhere, mouths hungry. pushed her up against the wall first, kissing down her neck while she moaned softly.

We barely made it to the bedroom.

When I finally got her out of her dress and onto the bed, I took my time peeling off my own clothes, letting her watch. Her eyes widened when my cock sprang free—already rock-hard, thick, and leaking for her. “Nossa…” she whispered, biting her lip.

This was my first time having actual sex as Nuno, and it was on a completely different level from the months I’d spent happily jerking off in this body or making out in clubs.

I climbed over her, kissing her deeply as I lined up. The moment I pushed inside her—slow, deep, feeling her tight, wet heat stretch around every inch of my cock—was euphoric. The sensation was so much more intense than anything I’d experienced before: the slick grip, the way her walls fluttered and clenched, the raw physical power in my hips as I started thrusting. My balls slapped against her with each deep stroke.

“Porra, Nuno… você é tão grosso,” she gasped, nails digging into my back.

I fucked her harder, finding a steady rhythm that had her arching off the bed. I flipped her onto all fours at one point, gripping her hips with both hands and pounding into her from behind. The view was insane—her ass rippling with every impact, my thick cock disappearing into her again and again.

When I came, I buried myself deep, groaning loud and raw as my cock pulsed and spilled inside her in thick, powerful ropes. The orgasm seemed to last forever, wave after wave of intense pleasure ripping through me while her pussy clenched around me, milking every drop. I kept thrusting through it, riding the high until we both collapsed in a sweaty, panting heap.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest as she traced lazy circles over my abs with her finger.

“Você foi incrível,” she murmured sleepily, pressing a kiss to my skin.

I just smirked, still glowing from the aftershocks, my cock giving one last lazy twitch against her thigh.

Yeah. This body was fucking dangerous.

---

A couple of months into the semester I took a quick weekend trip south to visit Nuno’s family in their small village. They knew he had moved up to Lisbon for “work opportunities,” but they had zero clue where the sudden money had come from. I played it safe the entire time—kept my answers vague, smiled a lot, and let the Portuguese flow naturally. His mom hugged me tight and kept pushing food on me, while his dad clapped me on the shoulder and asked about “the big city.” They had no idea their son wasn’t really their son anymore. I felt a tiny pang of guilt, but mostly I just felt relieved that the secret was still safe.

---

By the end of the first semester, the other international students started packing up for home. There were teary goodbyes at the train station—Isabela cried a little and made me promise to visit her in São Paulo someday, Lukas gave me a grudging bro-hug, and the whole crew swore we’d stay in touch. I hugged them back, genuinely sad to see them go, but I had opted for the full year, so I was staying.

Or at least… I thought I was.

A few days later an email from the study abroad facility popped into my inbox:

“Dear Nuno,

Please report to the Arterra Exchange Facility on January 15th for scheduled return transfer. Your semester exchange has concluded.”

My stomach dropped. I fired back an immediate reply explaining that I had clearly opted for the full academic year. Their response came fast:

“We apologize for the miscommunication. Your partner only agreed to a one-semester term. We are required to facilitate the return swap at this time.”

Fuck. No. I couldn’t go back now. I typed out a careful reply asking for at least a few extra days “to settle my affairs and say proper goodbyes.” They agreed, reluctantly, giving me until the end of the week.

In those few days the money they'd promised Nuno hit his bank account. It was more than enough to cover several months of rent and give me breathing room to figure shit out.

I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the balance for a long time, heart racing. First thing I did was go through all my new socials and blocked my old accounts. Then I packed a bag with the essentials, left most of the apartment, and got on the first train heading north t. Lisbon was too risky now; if the facility came looking, they’d start here. I needed to disappear, at least for a while.

As the train rattled through the Portuguese countryside, I leaned my head against the window and watched the hills roll by. My reflection stared back at me—dark mullet a little messy from the morning, thick mustache framing my mouth, broad shoulders filling out the hoodie. I caught myself smiling, just a little.

This body was mine now.

And I wasn’t giving it back.

—

Five years later, the swap facility still hadn’t found me.

After leaving Lisbon in a hurry, I bounced around for a few months before finally settling in Coimbra with a couple of guys my age who were renting a cheap, grimy apartment. It was nowhere near as nice as the one I'd left in Lisbon, but I didn't mind. I had what was important.

I worked for a while at a small, loud bar packed with local students, pouring cheap beers, flirting shamelessly, and closing the place down most nights. The tips were decent and nobody ever asked me too many probing questions.

Eventually I knew I needed to get back to Lisbon. The city had gotten under my skin. So I talked my new gym buddy Rui—a tall, easygoing guy who had just graduated from university in Coimbra—into moving back with me. We found a decent shared flat in the Alfama district with a killer view, and within a couple of months I managed to get admitted to one of the other universities in the city.

Isabela came to visit me a few times over the years. We’d spend a few wild days and nights together—fucking like rabbits in my room while Rui pretended not to hear anything through the thin walls—but I made it clear I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I was having way too much fun playing the field, especially when the new wave of international students rolled in every semester.

God, it felt like every semester i got even sexier and those hot international girls (and a few guys) wanted me more and more. They were so pent up and horny it was crazy and not to mention i really had learned how to use my cock. They’d show up at parties already buzzing, eyes lingering on my arms and chest, and half the time they barely made me wear a condom—or didn’t complain at all when I slid it off halfway through so I could feel them raw. The way they gasped and clenched around me when I fucked them deep and bare was addictive. I loved the risk, the heat, the way their legs would shake when I filled them up.

Between all that, I actually managed to graduate with a degree in engineering. Late nights studying engineering diagrams mixed with even later nights out drinking and hooking up, but I wasn’t mad about any of it. I thrived on it—commanding the classroom during group projects with that calm, deep voice, then commanding attention at the bars afterward.

Now I’m due to start work at a green energy firm in a few months. The salary is excellent, the benefits are solid, and the office is full of sharp, ambitious people who seem to like me already.

Life is good.

I still catch my reflection sometimes—in the elevator of my new building, in the gym mirror, or in the window of a tram—and I grin at the guy staring back. Thick mustache, sharp jaw, confident eyes. Nuno.

He’s me now. Completely.

And I wouldn’t trade this body, this life, or this city for anything.

The summer twilight bled into the valley. Two college friends James and Frank finally arrived at the remote mountain cabin with their meager belongings, nothing but the clothes which they were wearing and valuables they did not want to put in the checked luggage, with weary sighs. Their graduation trip had started as a nightmare: canceled flights, lost luggage, and a grueling hike through the rain.

"At least we made it," James muttered, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. He was lean, almost boyish, with the soft frame of a student who spent more time in libraries than in gyms.

Frank, also lanky and clean-shaven with short dark hair hummed in an agreement.

They noticed that on the coffee table sat a bottle of sparkling wine and a paper card with a note. This created smiles on their faces.

James immediately took the bottle and started to open it. “This will cheer us up,” said James battling the wire muzzle hold the cork in the bottle.

Frank read the note. “Welcome to Bear Cabin. Enjoy this bottle and get strength! Get strength? A bit cryptic for a welcome gift,” Frank remarked.