TF Plaza

Am I really doing this? 

When Rohan Desai had first heard of The Avengers, his life had been changed forever. Of course, he had grown up hearing about all kinds of superheroes, the one he was awaiting for today’s special event was in World War Two. But it was still so odd to suddenly see them blossom in his life. He was in college when New York was first attacked and though he was far from the centre of the invasion, when you grow up in New York, you’d likely run into someone who knew someone who had been saved by one of the titular heroes. 

Even still, the Avengers were no longer just an idea, they had become something akin to a brand. It was why Rohan was here, he had turned from college student watching New York get saved by superheroes into one of the lead developers of one of the first superhero videogames. It technically wasn’t the first, but it was one of since The Avengers had been established and it was focused on the titular character of Captain America. From what he understood at first, nobody wanted this game. Not him, not the company and certainly not Captain America.

But overtime, there were some…business dealings and briefings, investments from the one and only Stark Industries and nearly four years later they had something. It wasn’t great, hell Rohan was just glad it was good and they had complete creative control, meaning the game actually could have some sort of genuine story or meaning behind it. At least as much as he could try in between missions of Captain America beating up HYDRA agents in a hyperrealistic sandbox of New York. 

Are we really doing this? That was the question Rohan first asked when they got approval to begin development and entered pre-production. Are we really doing this? He asked again when they had finished making the model of Captain America, the motion capture and voice work done by a man who had played him in the infamous Avengers musical.

Are we really doing this? It was the same question that he asked that morning.

The common ambience of the office with conversation and keyboard clacking had turned into something larger. It had become a storm of busyness and a business hard at work. Conversations were now the cacophonous rain of commands to staff and camera crew. Thunder was the heavy thud of sound and camera equipment as it was picked, pulled and moved around the office like new ornaments. Lightning were the glimpses Rohan got of their special guest. 

Captain America. 

In the flesh.

Instead of his other common appearances doing charity work or on missions, he was practically forced to do what a lot of celebrities had to do, sell out. Rumour had it the only way they convinced him to come to the office to shoot the interview was if he could make some pledge to charity. So that was how after months of scheduling, they finally had the one and only Captain America ready to come into a small office with Rohan Desai and have the two alone in a room for an interview as they played the game. 

I guess we’re really doing this. 

Rohan wondered why he was chosen besides being one of the leads. Perhaps it was because he was the opposite of Captain America in every way. The hero was tall, blonde and broad shouldered with enough strength to take out anyone in his way and an aura of confidence that could lead men into battle. Rohan was lanky, skinny, nerdy with bronze skin and curled black hair who was only good at leading people when it came to the office. And even then, he questioned if he was that good at it.

Apparently there was a reason the pair were put together, according to the director of the whole ordeal, they both just seemed ‘nice’. Nice, wholesome, a carefully curated picturesque pairing of two men with morals so the interview didn’t look so much like the promo that it actually was. Maybe that hunger for authenticity was why they were being left alone in a room together to ‘chat’ rather than have an army of a camera crew managing their every word, trying to get the perfect shot. 

“You ready for this?” came the familiar voice of another project lead. Rohan would have felt guilty for taking the man’s spot but despite him being more attractive and in line with a man who’d look good around Captain America. 

“Yeah,” Rohan lied, playing the role of someone having at least something resembling confidence. “It’s not that big of a deal.” Too much confidence, his mind warned suddenly like a computer error. “I mean it is- Don’t get me wrong- No like it totally…totally is, but I mean like- You know…I didn’t realise the whole office would have to move and uh…stuff.” 

“Yeah…” The project co-lead replied, echoing only Rohan’s first word like that was all he was listening to. “Well y’know the director says he wants it to feel genuine, not like an actual game studio. So you get the soundproof therapy room and everything, just y’know don’t actually call it the therapy room.” Rohan wanted to ask why and then realised he really didn’t want to get bogged down in the details. 

“Okay…so the interview and then-”

“Chat”, corrected the co-lead. “Then snap some photos and then Cap will probably stick around taking more selfies or autographs or whatever with folks. Look…I know you’re nervous.” 

“That’s…Yeah pretty accurate,” said Rohan.

“But look at it like this, you get to spend an hour with Captain freaking America. Playing the game that we busted our asses off and we know is good…”

“True…”

“And it’s pre-recorded. Anything weird happens or there’s some mistake, they can just edit it our, redo it, whatever.”

“Right…”

“So…my point is…” The co-lead smiled. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

It had been something of an odd process, a social ritual playing out as people seemed to drag themselves away from Captain America’s alluring presence. Though they had trouble with their half glances and a couple snapshots on the phone, Rohan had to do the opposite. He felt as if he had to orbit the man, not knowing exactly when they were going to start filming. The camera crew was still busy and they had turned the ‘quiet room’ (a soundproof room nobody used that corporate decided to have if only to list as one of the company benefits) into a recording studio. 

A different couch had been pulled in and positioned against the far wall. A couple of plants had been taken from people’s desks to put around and add some greenery. A coffee table had been moved in hastily stacked with some water bottles and granola bars and a collection of different wires were hastily organised and hidden away beneath and behind the couch.

They had somehow turned a glorified storage closet into a makeshift talk show set. Warm neon lights cast a purple haze over it all and a television had also been moved in with all the right equipment to start up the game, a camera positioned in the corner to capture some of the gameplay, though Rohan knew most of it would be recorded from the console itself. 

The most surprising ornament of the room was the one that this was all for, Captain America. Unlike everyone else, the super soldier walked in with a casualness, an ease that contrasted with the panic and pressure of the crew around to try and get everything working and perfect and looking good all at the same time.

He had been busying himself chatting with some of the same crew and Rohan doubted it was about features he should mention or anything to do with the video. It looked more like he was just having a casual conversation. When Rohan first saw him up close, it was when he had already been sat down in the room as they did camera tests and soon Captain America had come in. 

The door opened without ceremony yet the effect was instant. Conversations clipped themselves short; the shuffling of cables slowed, as if everyone had suddenly remembered they were supposed to move gracefully. Captain America walked in. The hero stood in the doorway for a moment, one hand on the frame as if politely asking for permission before he could come in. The hallway’s cooler light haloed him from behind, a contrast to the warm, overworked neon of the room within. His frame was unmistakable: tall, broad shoulders and a shirt that stretched across his chest that would make any man envious of his pecs. Rohan felt a knot in his stomach, like all his nerves had bundled together and pulled taut suddenly. He swallowed dryly and was suddenly glad there was water nearby before Captain America’s eyes met his and he smiled, showing off some pearly whites as he stepped forward.

“Hi, Steve Rogers,” said Captain America as if he had any need to introduce themselves. He leaned forward slightly holding out his hand and Rohan shook his. 

“Rohan Desai, uh it’s an honour to meet you sir,” replied Rohan. He almost immediately regretted calling the man sir as soon as it tumbled out of his lips. Steve blinked and smiled wider. God I wish I was like him, Rohan thought as he felt a slight shiver at that. 

“You don’t need to call me sir,” assured Steve as Rohan nodded, ignoring the heat that was invading his cheeks as he swore he could only hear his heart drumming in his chest. “Honestly sometimes I wish I could be more like you guys who are so smart with all this coding and programming kinda thing.” Steve’s grip tightened slightly as he was shaking Rohan’s hand, feeling a slight shiver. “Oh sorry uh….So you’re the one I’m interviewing-” Steve stopped himself and laughed.

“Sorry uh doing the interview with, I get all tongue tied with this sort of stuff.” The man admitted as if the concept that Captain America, a man who was used to leading armies and stopped an invasion only a decade ago wasn’t absurd. Rohan just nodded, still too awestruck to say anything.

“We’ll be doing a bit of gameplay first, just to do a bit of a camera test and then we’ll go from there if that’s all good?” A voice, likely the director, sounded out from behind a camera and Steve nodded.

“Uh yeah that’s…whatever’s best,” stammered Rohan as he could already see some of the crew leaving. It seemed the pitch of a more close and intimate interview setting wasn’t solely for show. 

“Excited for it,” said Steve as he sat down finally, adjusting on the couch which sagged underneath his weight. “Have to admit, it’s great that a portion of this marketing budget gets to go to charity but…It is kinda interesting I guess, being able to go to an event and play a game about myself.” The hero’s enthusiasm was like gust in a heatwave. Rohan could feel himself relax, as Captain America’s looming presence was beginning to grow more comforting than intimidating. 

“Uh yeah I totally agree, I really appreciate it not just being a typical ad and uh we worked really hard on the game with quantum processing so we…” Rohan started and then smiled. “Sorry, rambling. I’ll save it for the video.” Steve chuckled.

“Sure, sure, so…should we get started?” Captain America glanced around at the remnants of the crew that were ready for the go ahead. They simply nodded and after a silent countdown, started the recording before the last people around quietly filed out. Rohan took a few deep breaths before glancing straight ahead toward one of the cameras.

“So hi everyone, I’m Rohan Desai, the director of Captain America Rising and with me is a very special guest…” Rohan started, glad that his voice wasn’t too shaky. Steve gave a wave and smile.

“And I’m Rohan- Sorry uh I’m Captain America and I’m happy to be with Rohan here playing Captain America Rising,” said Steve with a dazzling smile. The main menu booted up with an orchestral swell of strings and brass as a logo glowed across the screen. “Wow uh it looks pretty serious huh. I…” He blinked. “Well I definitely look a little more square jawed than I am and…is that the old suit?” Rohan chuckled.

“Uh yeah the art department wanted that kind of look and uh did use some generative facial composites,” replied Rohan as the game started to load up a save file for a mission to play. Everything had been set up perfectly. “So uh…you did visit the set I believe where the mo cap was taking place right?” Steve nodded.

“Yeah, yeah…it felt…kinda weird to see someone who looks a lot like me in a sort of tight suit doing my voice and such,” replied Steve as he shifted. They selected a co-op mode, one where one could play as Steve and another as Bucky Barnes. “Huh…weird I can’t play as Cap.” Steve chuckled. “That’s ironic.” Rohan frowned.

“That’s weird uh…well I can choose, but uh we can swap if you’d like?” Rohan suggested, holding up his controller in case the hero wanted to take it. 

“Oh no no no that’s fine,” laughed Steve. “Instead I’ll be playing as…well hey I’m happy to choose Bucky for now, I didn’t really know there’d be so many different heroes to choose though for co-op.” It was odd though, Steve thought. He assumed that he would be playing Captain America and that the developer would have been playing the other hero. But perhaps it made all the more sense for Rohan to be the one playing the titular hero. He knew the game best. “So uh I’ll be playing-”

“James Buchanan Barnes, best friend of Captain America and war hero,” started Rohan. Steve looked pleasantly surprised by the sudden answer. Rohan blinked. “Oh uh sorry yeah uh as Bucky Barnes, one of the newer members of the Avengers I believe.” Rohan blinked. He was a huge fan of Captain America but…how did he know the answer so suddenly? He didn’t mean to have taken over and straightened, assuming it must have just been his nerves taking over and wanting the video to go as smoothly as possible. 

“That’s right…uh looks like we’ve loaded in.” 

“Let’s go,” said Rohan with a sudden enthusiasm, wanting to show off his hard work. The two started off in a pre-selected mission in the open world of New York City where the camera swooped down from the skyline into a bustling digital Manhattan. Steam hissed from subway grates, detailed pedestrians moved with believable randomness and the ambiance of the city started to sound out. Before they knew it, a fight had broken out with some HYDRA agents in a warehouse and the two began to move in, with Rohan as Captain America tossing his shield and performing finishers whilst Steve struggled slightly with his aim as Bucky. “Oh uh so it’s important we work together on this part.” Rohan coughed, his voice sounding a little deeper for a moment there before he cleared his throat. 

“Got ya, got ya…the game looks really detailed it’s sort of scary, having grown up around black and white movies and all,” Steve said with a smile as the two of them quickly engaged in a quick time event. The both of them concentrated on the screen as the game prompted them to mash a button to move some debris out the way of a door. As Rohan began to mash, something strange began to happen. At first it was just a pressure, a swell beneath his skin. With each frantic press of the button, his sleeves began to strain.

His biceps slowly began to inflate and thicken, pushing against the fabric until the seams squealed. At the same time, it seemed that Steve was feeling as if his hands were growing weaker and slightly numb. A bronze tone began to take over his hands as dark hairs started to sprout over the back of his hand and trail down his arms where the muscles felt like they were beginning to shrink. It felt like the strength was being sapped away. 

Rohan didn’t seem to notice except the sudden wave of pleasure that he began to feel as he tensed his arms. Every shift, every adjustment in his seat, made the arms begin to stretch like they belonged on a larger body as he felt a tinge of euphoria that was just growing as he continued to adjust and feel his now much paler arms. 

“You doing okay there?” Rohan asked as he saw that on Steve’s screen he was having trouble doing the prompt as fast as he was. Steve could continue to feel like his arms had somehow grown weaker, slightly more numb and skinnier as dark hairs continued to trail down and cause them to itch. He wanted to look down but he felt like he could hardly break his gaze away from the screen.

By the time the prompt was over and both characters shoved the debris to the side, Rohan was laughing to himself and Steve smiled, albeit with a little more nervousness as he shifted with embarrassment. He just couldn’t get a handle on this kind of technology. At least that’s what he told himself to explain how he couldn’t do something as simple as a prompt to press a button over and over. 

“Uh yeah heh I don’t play a ton of games so I’m not sure,” started Steve, coughing and clearing his throat as he shifted in his seat. Played a lot of games? He didn’t have time for that sort of thing. He was usually on playing missions…right? He found his mind growing hazy as he tried to think, suddenly remembering the hours he got to let go and relax, playing some videogames instead of the list of movies, shows and books he had to read since he’d been frozen.

As they continued the mission, both the characters got in a vehicle with Rohan taking the lead in the driver’s seat. As they began a chase sequence, Rohan could feel himself naturally swerve the controller when they turned, straining his tight sleeves until-

RIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP.

A small but sudden tear sounded out and Steve barely caught a glance of Rohan’s suddenly meaty and paler biceps in his shirt. “So you work out a lot then?”

“Oh no I prefer working out to video games,” blurted out Rohan. He didn’t mean to say that. He knew he didn’t mean to say that. Yet words were power, and as he spoke them, Rohan felt something seize inside him. His grin faltered, replaced by a grimace as he instinctively arched his back. His indie band shirt that once hung loosely on his skinny frame was suddenly one size too small, if for just a moment. The change began deep in his torso, his ribcage expanding as his skin prickled and continued to pale, bubbling as if his skin was the top of some boiling elixir.

He grunted softly, caught between shock and exhilaration, feeling each part of his spine stretch and realign as his body lengthened. He leaned back, suddenly taller on the couch as the hem of his shirt inched upward, betraying a strip of his stomach, no longer soft but tightening into ridges of muscle that flexed and defined themselves in real time.

He tried to tear his gaze away from the screen, tried to see what was happening, but it was impossible to ignore the hypnotic pull of the light around him. Whether it was the glint that caught Captain America’s shield or the neon beams of HYDRA enemies or the detailed lights of the city, Rohan blinked.

“I uh…No I…I uh…”

Rohan struggled, almost moaning as he could barely see his stomach gurgle and froth in the corner of his eyes. Any fat of his stomach melted away, slowly descending to nothingness as it became as visible as air, fading away. All the mass left was converting into muscle, beginning to carve itself and hardening like it was some liquid as Rohan couldn’t help but let a deep groan slip from his lips, mixing it with an exhausted grunt as his body did feel like that both exhausted and heavy.

His shoulder blades writhed under the fabric, expanding outward, stretching his shirt to its limits. Each shift sent another ripple down his torso, where abs carved themselves across his stomach. The paleness continued to crawl all over his changing body as a dusting of brown hair grew to form a treasure trail below his abs. 

“You okay there dude?” Steve asked as he tried to turn to look at Rohan. His mouth twisted into a frown of concern as he tried to check up on the man until he realised…he couldn’t remember their name. It began with an…S…something. Sanjit? Samir? But as he tried to focus, he felt a wave of nausea pass over him, like something was punishing him for not having his complete and total attention on the game. “W-What the heck is this game…”

As Steve looked back at the game, focusing and uncertain, his accent began to shift. His parted lips and widened eyes began to relax, giving off an almost slack expression as he stared at the mesmerising visuals of the game. “Game…looks…so…good…” Steve said in a murmur of a slightly higher voice that no longer sounded like his own. 

At the same time Steve could faintly recognize something happening to his body. At first it felt like the strength was leaking out of him, little by little, until the familiar density of muscle gave way to something looser. The shift was oddly natural, almost comforting, as though a weight he’d carried for years was being peeled away. His broad abs began softening into nothing, the scars from his time as a soldier and the super soldier experiment all beginning to fade away.

What had once been a frame carved by years of training was becoming lankier and softer in all the places that used to be sharp. The pale skin began to darken, first beginning as a faint warmth and then deepening to bronze as it smoothly crept down his body like ink spreading through water. The sleeves of his shirt slid against thinner arms dusted with the faint hair that hadn’t been there before. All the while his fingers stretched longer, growing softer and more delicate and gripping the controller with an anxious energy he didn’t recognize as his own. 

“Yeah the game looks so good, I’m…glad it uh…worked out…” said Rohan as he continued to stare. Steve blinked.

“Yeah worked out…No yeah I loved working on the game,” confirmed Steve as he grunted. He could feel his legs shrinking too, making him grow slightly shorter though with less muscles, he was beginning to seem more lanky than broad and tall. All the while Rohan could feel like air was being injected into his upper chest as his pecs began to swell, growing and inflating and making his nipples harden underneath the already tight shirt that could no longer cover the lower half of his stomach as he blushed and moaned. 

“No I…worked on the game I…was…a developer consultant,” replied Rohan as he blinked. Consultant? No he was the lead…lead…consultant after all, who would know Captain America best?

He wanted to say something, but that was when he felt something else inflate as if it was filling with air, causing him to grunt and sit up even higher as his cheeks began to grow. The pressure of the changes coiled in his hips and thighs as his legs tingled with the same pleasure and heaviness that was spreading across his body. His thighs pressed outward, stretching the fabric as they swelled with new density, every seam groaning in protest.

His calves grew, once spindly but now carved into powerful bastions of muscle as his ass continued to grow and grow. The couch sagged deeper as his glutes surged, rounding and hardening with a weight that felt both foreign and inevitable. Rohan could feel the denim split, hearing the faint pop of stitching as eat of his jeans tried and failed to contain what was now unmistakably growing to be…AMERICA'S ASS. 

“O-Oh my god…I…I…” Rohan would have squeezed his legs together in the past, like that could somehow stop the horniness that was invading his cock as his ass and legs grew paler and devoid of the usual dark hairs. His bulge was already growing next, half because he was harder than he had ever been before and half because his cock was growing from whatever forces was changing him.

“I had to do…so much work…for the game, really was a lot…”

Rohan added with a voice that wasn’t his own, one that was deeper and richer and sounded exactly like the voice that was coming from the game, the voice behind Captain America’s quips as a sharp pressure came at his feet. His toes pressed hard against the ends of his socks before finally tearing through, pale fabric ripping as his feet surged longer and wider. His toes stretched and spread as the soles expanded beneath him. The converses that he’d worn comfortably all day suddenly bulged at the seams, leather squealing under the new size and weight until it looked like they might split apart at any second.

“That…that doesn’t sound right, I’m trying to remember reading all about it,” mused Steve as his own voice had shifted completely to the slightly more higher pitched and nervous sounding tone of Rohan. He blinked, his eyes growing darker and hazier, already forgetting about the missions he had done for the past year and then the year before that and the year before that as all he could think about was the game.

“We’re over time but we shouldn’t stop, we’re nearly finished.” Steve scratched at his face as his fingertips no longer traced the familiar hard line of his jaw. His face was beginning to shift, His jawline, once sharp and square, softened under his touch.

The solid edge drew inward, narrowing into something more delicate, more angular. His cheeks followed suit, the fullness draining until they hollowed just slightly, reshaping his face into something that was longer as his eyes were suddenly adorned with thick glasses. The pale tone of his visage continued to shift, deepening shade by shade to match the rest of his body as his blonde hair darkened and grew longer, spilling out into dark messy curls over a higher brow. Steve blinked, unsure why he was so surprised, feeling his face…he was only 29 after all.

“Yeah…let’s not stop, we’re almost over-” and as Rohan leaned forward and continued to be mesmerised by the game, he was growing more and more infatuated with his character. He knew every detail of the suit, every move, every nuance of the character. But he blinked, blinked as his own glasses fell off his face as his nose shortened and disappeared before they hit the ground. His brown eyes turning blue as the pale tone that had reached his thickening throat was beginning to crawl over his jawline that suddenly widened and hardened. His hairline crawling back slightly as the dark curls receded into a natural slicked back blonde style whilst his features grew sharper and rougher and larger especially his growing lips as he blinked. Why wouldn’t he know his character? He was the character. He was Captain America. This was his game. “W-Wait…I think…”

But there was nothing to think about. The mission ended and just as Rohan and Steve looked at one another in shock and recognition, both their hard cocks throbbed at once and they had only the time for one thing and one thing alone; realisation. All before they suddenly felt their cocks throb in tandem and finally…release.

Their cocks spasmed violently, releasing in perfect sync, a shared climax as both their heavy moans suddenly filled the room as both bodies bucked. Rohan’s hips twitched as he was in Captain America’s muscular body with the hero’s hung cock between his legs spilling thick ropes of cum stained his clothes, pooling in his lap. At the same time Steve in Rohan’s body gasped as it felt like he was cumming for the first time in his life, the sweet bliss of pleasure rushing over him and making him forget everything for just a few moments as his own six inch cock twitched and come in his clothes.

“O-Oh god…w-what the-” Rohan in Steve felt his body, his face, his muscles. “W-What happened to me?!” Steve in Rohan panicked, gasping as he looked down at himself.

“N-no this can’t be-” 

But then came another climax, making both men forget their panic for just a moment as their minds were colliding and folding into one another. The decks of their lives shuffled amongst one another that it was hard to tell which piece was what. 

“M-my head…I keep remembering…battles and…and world war two and…Bucky and…god Bucky…” 

“N-No I don’t want to forget…” Steve in Rohan’s body moaned as he tried to hold on. But all the willpower was in the muscular hunky body that was once his own next to him. “O-Oh god I’m-” 

But their cocks twitched again and their old lives melted, dissolving into something else as Rohan Steve gasped as he came again one last time and Steve Rohan moaned as he couldn’t stop himself from doing the same. Rohan…or rather Steve was the first to move, blushing as he felt Steve Roger’s natural embarrassment for doing anything like cumming in public flare up whilst Steve or rather Rohan felt the same, but more out of natural awkwardness rather than dignity. Both the men’s eyes met.

“I’m…I’m you,” Steve said as he looked at Rohan and Rohan blinked.

“I’m you…but uh h-how? I…I can remember your life…fuck my head…”

“Swear,” both Steve and Rohan said simultaneously. 

“T-This is…this isn’t right. The game, we used quantum computing for the engine, I- I don’t know how this happened…”

The air remained thick, not just with the fading warmth of their lust, but with a quiet and almost sacred stillness that followed a transformation too bizarre to name. The both of them still somehow had their minds as they gazed at one another, the other in their body. It was such a bizarre feeling, as if looking in the mirror and realising that the reflection was blinking all on their own. 

But at the same time there was also a quiet thrill to it as the other looked down, prodded at their muscles (or lack of muscles), flexed a muscular bicep (or touched their skinny one) and felt their face, their new jawline and features. Both the men stopped as they realised what they were doing, almost mirroring each other in their inspections as they still managed to somehow keep their minds about them, even if it was fused with one another.

“I’m…you,” Rohan continued as he glanced down at himself and the massive muscles. In all honesty, he had never felt physically better and more mentally anxious than ever before in his life. It was as if the feeling he got from his runs on the treadmill or few times he decided to visit the gym had compounded and formed a permanent bliss that permeated his newer bigger body. 

But there was something else too, as if he was watching a movie, he could see the memories of Steve Rogers all the way from the 30s and 40s, the skinny young man who was even thinner than he was, unhealthily so, doing anything and everything he could to serve his country. Rohan blinked and had to admit, being in such a muscular body felt good, even if there was a strange balance, like he was scared if he took a step then he’d fall over. 

He felt Steve’s own earnestness, his confidence leaking into him and almost infecting him. 

“And I’m…you?” Steve said, still not used to his newer voice. In his mind, there was still a tenacity, one that reminded him of himself before he got the Super Soldier serum. It didn’t come in the form of a man trying to fight for his country, but instead just navigating the modern world and trying to make something of themselves. He could see the memories as far back, trying to save up to start a company, registering the LLC, working late nights out of his home. All the sacrifices and meetings and blood, sweat and tears that had not only gone into making this game but making anything of value. It was a far cry from being a soldier, but isn’t that the kind of world Steve wanted? Where people could prove their worthiness in different ways that didn’t involve war? It felt like watching someone’s life on TV or that site, Wikipedia that helped him understand so much of what he missed whilst frozen. Although he missed his body, the strength and muscles, he had to admit, there was a sort of relaxing feeling being younger and skinny again. But this wasn’t right. They had to swap back! “H-how did this happen?”

“I…I don’t know,” replied Rohan as he glanced down at himself in disbelief. “This…this feels…”

“Weird?” Rohan was pleasantly surprised to see Steve chuckle in his body. “Look you clearly didn’t do this on purpose so let’s just figure out a way to work together and…turn back.”

“Y-Yeah I can’t…I mean this is…I can’t actually be Captain America…and you can’t be stuck in some…” Rohan gestured at Steve in his old body. “Uh well we know who got the short end of the deal.”

“Hey let’s not…say stuff like that,” said Steve. Even now he was being so…nice even if he went through something that should have been shattering his reality, his sense of self, should have made him panic. But if they still had their minds, then they must clearly have some of their old mental traits as well. 

“Yeah…”

“Though I definitely felt like I was losing mine before. Now maybe it’s because we don’t know how this things work but I kinda get the sense that whatever this…thing is…” Steve gestured at the console.

“It’s true. You’re Captain America and I’m…uh…” Rohan glanced down at himself in the star spangled hero’s body. He tried to ignore how much the man’s pecs turned him on as he swallowed dryly. 

“I could’ve been put in a billion worse people, besides you’re not…bad. A lot of this is just confidence, that and highly risky untested serum.” Steve gestured at the muscular body Rohan was in as Rohan smiled at that, at least appreciative the hero was still, well, being a hero, trying to assure him everything was okay. “The way I see it…somehow we both still have our heads.” Steve gestured at the console.

“It was trying to mess with our minds. I have the serum that could’ve helped but you seemed to keep yourself…as you too. Maybe it says a lot more about you than you think…and good thing too, I don’t know enough about this thing even with your head to…fix whatever this is.” Rohan blinked at the man’s words as he considered them.

He had never even come close to thinking about it, but if the quantum computer could somehow change their bodies like it was code, it should have done the same with their mind, programming them as if they were caricatures, NPCs.

But it didn’t. They both managed to hold on. What did that say about the technology? And if it was meant to work and wipe their minds…what did it say about him? He blinked again.

He doubted that he was even half as attractive as the hero but there was something about seeing himself from another man’s perspective, the warped features he once hated in the mirror didn’t look…as bad from another person’s eyes. He blinked.

“Uh yeah your memories are…a lot,” Rohan half joked, not only were they heavy but there were so many of them reaching so far back. “N-Not that I’m complaining. I mean I don’t want to…uh…say your body is bad…but…I think maybe I shouldn’t look at them too much. Uh kinda an invasion of privacy and I wanna keep a hold of my mind.”

“Are you sure you can manage?” Even now, Steve in another man’s body was looking out for someone else rather than himself. 

“Yeah I’m sure I can do this all day,” said Rohan with an ease before he blinked. 

“What was that?” Steve questioned. “I…I don’t know, that just felt…uh sort of right saying but that’s your…”

“Catchphrase…not that I really intended on one but growing up in wartime you learn that slogans stick,” said Steve with a casualness. Rohan was relieved, as if he half expected Steve to be angered someone else was in his body and now saying his words. “So what’s gonna happen? Am I gonna start listing off…game engine…things?”

“Game engine things?” “Like how you used my words, am I going to suddenly start rambling about how quantum processing is actually a brilliant and efficient way to cut back on cut back on loading times, procedural generation overhead, and memory thrash- Oh…Oh fuck-” 

“Swear,” both Rohan and Steve said simultaneously again. 

“Okay, okay…maybe we just…calm down. And figure out how this happened and-” Rohan said, nervously pacing and fidgeting in Steve’s body.

“Alright relax, I’m not mad at you. Weirder things have happened to me…I get it,” said Steve with a slight smile, even now the way he spoke, the confidence leaked out even if it was in another body. “It was the game, something…” Then the man’s eyes widened with realisation. “The game!” Steve started as he sat up. “We need to fix this…if we can, uh we can get to Tony’s before he does what he does next.” “Does next?” Rohan in Steve’s body asked as he blinked.

“He hacked into your office to play a demo of the game. He told me he would He’s playing with Bucky right now.” 

“Oh…Oh no uh…” replied Rohan as he stood up awkwardly in the much taller and broader body than he was used to. “How do we stop them?” It was only then that he realised he had no idea, memories of programming and even the game’s engine having filtered out.

“I don’t know but I do know this…if that game gets into Stark’s servers and somehow mutates or gets shared then…”

Then a whole lot of men would suddenly find themselves swapping bodies or turning into Avengers, both Steve and Rohan thought to themselves. With no way to figure out the extent of it, no way to predict who transforms into who and no way to wonder what would happen if someone was playing alone? What if the game made clones of heroes? What if it recruited heroes, all with one transformation at a time? Steve and Rohan both glanced at each other and blushed, remembering the pleasure they shared, the mess they made and now the mess they may soon have to clean up.

Sooner or later, it seemed every man who got their hand on the game could get a body to marvel. 

Rohan just wondered…does that mean he had to wear the suit?

I’d lived alone in my flat in Madrid for almost eight years. It was a beautiful bachelor pad — high ceilings, big windows overlooking the city, a sleek modern kitchen I barely used, and a rooftop terrace perfect for evening drinks. At 45, I had a good life. Successful job, nice things, plenty of freedom. But lately the place had started to feel too quiet. Too empty.

So I signed up to host an exchange student. Why not? I figured it would be nice to have some energy in the house again. Give a young college kid a proper Madrid experience.

The agency matched me with Mark Rossi.

Nineteen years old. Columbia University. Italian-American from New York (real Italian though, like his parents were from Turin). When his profile photo popped up, I actually paused. He was ridiculously good-looking in that effortless, boy-next-door way — warm brown eyes, thick dark hair that fell a little messy, a bright smile, and smooth, tanned skin that suggested he spent time outside. He looked innocent, almost sweet. But when we video-called, his personality came through immediately: confident, frat-bro energy mixed with that natural Italian charm. Funny, outgoing, quick with the jokes, but polite and respectful.

He arrived on a warm September afternoon.

I opened the door and there he was, rolling a big suitcase behind him, backpack slung over one shoulder. He was even better looking in person — about 5'11", athletic build, wearing a tight Columbia t-shirt that showed off nice arms and a broad chest, and a pair of shorts that revealed strong legs.

“Juan! Man, it’s so good to finally meet you,” he said with a big grin, stepping forward to give me a firm handshake that turned into a quick bro hug. “This place is insane. Thank you again for letting me stay here.”

We clicked right away. Within the first few days, it felt like we’d known each other longer than we had. Mark was easy to live with. He helped cook, kept his stuff organized, and had this infectious energy that filled up the flat. We’d sit on the terrace drinking wine in the evenings, talking about everything — his classes at the university in Madrid, life in New York, my travels, girls he’d dated, the crazy parties he went to. He had that perfect mix: American warmth and humor with a European confidence and flirtiness that made him magnetic.

I was getting used to having someone else around. Enjoying it, even.

Then, about ten days after he moved in, something weird started to happen.

---

At first I was really confused.

I woke up in the middle of the night, heart racing for no reason. I could have sworn I was in one of the guest beds. The mattress felt different under me, the layout of the room slightly off in the dark. But that didn’t make any sense. I always slept in my own room. I rolled over, mutter to myself, and fall back asleep. When I woke up, I was in my room still.

A few nights later it happened again. This time I woke up convinced I wasn’t in my own bed. The sheets felt wrong. The pillows were different. I blinked into the darkness, confused, before sleep pulled me under again.

Then, a few nights after that, I woke up drenched in sweat. My heart was pounding hard. I reached up instinctively and ran my hand over my bare chest.

It was smooth.

Completely smooth.

Where the hell was all my chest hair? Where was the thin gold necklace I’d worn every night for fifteen years? My fingers kept moving across the unfamiliar flat, toned skin, searching for something that wasn’t there. Panic flickered in my chest, but before I could fully process it, exhaustion won and I drifted off again.

The next time it happened, I woke up properly.

I sat up in bed, disoriented, I was definitely in one of the guest rooms. I stumbled over to the mirror on the wall. The streetlights outside cast just enough glow for me to see my reflection.

Mark stared back at me.

His handsome, boyish face. His messy dark hair. His smooth, athletic torso. I was in Mark’s body.

I froze, eyes wide. My — his — hands flew up to touch my face, my jaw, my chest. This wasn’t a dream. I could feel everything. The lighter weight of his frame, the absence of my usual bulk, the way his cock sat differently in the loose boxer briefs I was wearing.

“What the fuck…” I whispered in Mark’s voice.

A strange mix of panic and arousal hit me all at once. I was freaked out, heart hammering, but I also couldn’t ignore the low throb of excitement looking at Mark’s reflection — my reflection right now. I looked good. Really fucking good.

I stumbled back to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard. Eventually I must have passed out again.

When I woke up the next morning, I was back in my own body. In my own room. The familiar weight, the chest hair, the necklace against my skin. Everything was normal.

Mark was already in the kitchen making coffee like nothing had happened. He looked up when I walked in and gave me his usual bright smile.

“Morning, Juan. You sleep okay? You look a little tired, man.”

I stared at him for a second, searching his face for any sign that he knew.

“Yeah,” I said finally, forcing a casual tone. “Slept fine.”

He nodded, none the wiser, and slid a mug of coffee toward me across the counter.

I took it, my hand slightly unsteady.

Whatever the hell was going on… Mark didn’t seem to have any idea it had even happened.

---

The next night I went to bed with a strange idea in my head.

As I laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I thought about Mark. About his body. His face. His energy. I focused hard, willing it to happen again. I didn’t know if it would work, but I tried anyway.

A few hours later, I woke up.

The room felt different. The bed felt different. I sat up slowly and looked down at my hands — younger, smoother, with a light dusting of dark hair on the forearms. I touched my face. Sharp jaw, no stubble yet, thick messy hair falling over my forehead.

I was in Mark’s body again.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood in front of the mirror. Mark’s reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed. I opened my mouth and spoke.

“Holy shit… this is real.”

The words came out in a clear American accent. Then, I tried again in Spanish.

“¿Qué coño está pasando?”

It sounded rusty, clumsy. The words felt heavy on my tongue and came out with a strong Italian accent. I switched to Italian without thinking and the sentence flowed perfectly, natural and fluent.

“Porca puttana… funziona davvero.”

I laughed in disbelief, hearing Mark’s lighter, younger voice. The contrast was surreal.

Over the next several nights, I started doing it on purpose. I’d lie in bed, think about Mark, focus on his body, and more often than not, I would wake up a few hours later inside him.

Some nights I would just lie there in his bed, exploring. I’d run my hands over his smooth chest and abs, feeling the lean muscle. Other nights I’d get too turned on and end up jerking off slowly in his room, watching Mark’s handsome face in the mirror as I stroked his cock. The orgasms felt incredible — sharper, quicker, almost addictive.

A couple of times I even went for late-night walks in his body. It felt incredible — young, light on my feet, full of energy.

But no matter what I did, by the time morning came I would always get overwhelmingly tired. I’d crawl back into his bed, close my eyes, and wake up back in my own heavier, older body.

Mark never said a word about it. He’d greet me cheerfully every morning, completely unaware that I had spent half the night living in his skin.

---

A few weeks went by like that. I kept waking up in Mark’s body most nights, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. I explored, I jerked off in front of his mirror, I took late-night walks through Chueca feeling young and alive. Every morning I’d wake up back in my own heavier body, and Mark would act completely normal, like nothing strange had ever happened.

Then Pedro came to visit from Bilbao.

Pedro had been my best friend for almost fifteen years. Thirty-nine, sharp-featured, always well-dressed, with that effortless charisma that turned heads wherever he went. I’d had a crush on him for most of that time. A quiet, hopeless kind of crush. I knew I was a good-looking guy — people told me constantly — but Pedro had never seen me that way. Not once.

He was a bit of a fuckboy. Always chasing younger guys. Twenties, early thirties at most. It verged on problematic sometimes, but he never crossed any real lines. He just loved being worshipped by hot, eager younger men. Over the years I had pushed those feelings for him down as deep as they would go. I told myself I was over it.

The day he arrived at the flat, he dropped his bag in the hallway and gave me a big hug.

“Juanito! Fuck, it’s good to see you, man.”

Then Mark walked out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of water, wearing a tight Columbia t-shirt and shorts.

Pedro’s eyes locked onto him immediately. I saw the shift in his posture, the way his gaze lingered. He tried to play it cool, aloof, but I knew him too well. He was captivated.

“Pedro, this is Mark. My exchange student from New York,” I said.

Mark flashed that bright, boyish smile and shook Pedro’s hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Juan’s told me a lot about you.”

They started talking, and I could see it happening right in front of me. Pedro was interested. Mark, for his part, wasn’t exactly discouraging it. He laughed at Pedro’s jokes, held eye contact a little longer than necessary, and gave him that charming, slightly flirty energy. Not over the top, but enough to make Pedro work for it. It didn’t feel like a straight guy just being polite. Mark was definitely into the attention.

I felt a sharp twist of jealousy in my chest.

Here I was, a good-looking, successful 45-year-old man who had wanted Pedro for years… and this 19-year-old kid was getting his attention in five minutes flat. It was frustrating as hell.

That night, after we all had a few drinks on the terrace, I went to bed earlier than usual. As I drifted off, I found myself thinking about Mark again. Thinking about his body. About how Pedro had looked at him.

A few hours later, I woke up.

I was in Mark’s bed again. In Mark’s body.

I lay there in the dark for a moment, heart beating fast, already knowing what I was going to do.

---

The next night we all went down the street to watch the Madrid derby at a local bar. The place was loud, packed with fans, and the energy was electric. We drank a few beers, yelled at the TV, and laughed the whole time. Mark was in his element — loud, charming, cracking jokes. Pedro couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

When we got back to the flat it was already past midnight. We kept hanging out in the living room, talking and drinking wine. Eventually I started feeling tired and headed to bed.

“Night guys,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Night, Juan,” Mark replied.

Pedro just gave me a small nod, his attention clearly elsewhere.

I lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. I could hear them still talking and laughing in the living room. Then the voices got quieter. Lower. More intimate. The sound of movement. A soft laugh from Mark. The unmistakable creak of the guest room door closing.

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. Even with the door shut I could hear them. The low murmurs. The rustling of clothes. The quiet, wet sounds of kissing. Then the rhythmic creaking of the bed and Mark’s muffled moans.

Pedro was fucking him.

I lay there listening, a painful mix of jealousy, arousal, and frustration twisting in my gut. Eventually I closed my eyes and focused hard on Mark again — on his body, his face, the way he felt — as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up a few hours later.

It was 3:17 AM. I was no longer in my own bed.

I was lying on my side in the guest room, completely naked, with Pedro’s warm, muscular body pressed against my back. His arm was draped heavily over my waist, his hand resting possessively on my stomach. I could feel his soft cock nestled against my ass, still slightly sticky.

Fuck.

My heart started racing. Pedro was spooning me tightly, breathing slow and deep in sleep. I stayed perfectly still for a moment, just feeling the heat of his body, the weight of his arm, the scratch of his beard against the back of my neck.

I needed to see all of him.

Carefully, I turned over in his arms. Pedro made a sleepy sound but didn’t wake up. Now facing him, I could finally take him in. His handsome face relaxed in sleep, the strong line of his jaw, his broad chest rising and falling, his intricate tattoos, the dark hair trailing down his stomach. His cock rested thick and heavy against his thigh.

I stared at him, drinking in every detail. This was the man I’d wanted for years. And right now, in Mark’s younger, tighter body, I was the one lying naked in his arms.

My cock — Mark’s cock — started to harden against Pedro’s hip.

Pedro stirred, his eyes still closed but his hand sliding down my stomach until he felt how hard I — Mark — was.

“Oh… seems like someone’s ready for round two,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and lust.

In one smooth, powerful motion he rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of him. I straddled his hips as he gripped my waist and guided me down onto his thick cock. I gasped as he slid back inside me, still slick from his load earlier. The stretch was intense.

I started riding him slowly at first, then faster, grinding down hard. Pedro pulled me forward into a deep, hungry kiss, tongue sliding into my mouth as he thrust up to meet me.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against my lips.

He flipped me onto all fours and fucked me deep in doggy style, his hips slapping loudly against my ass. Then he pulled me up so my back was against his chest, one arm wrapped around my torso while he kissed and bit at my neck and shoulder from behind. His other hand roamed greedily over my toned abs and obliques.

“Speak Italian for me,” he growled, still thrusting steadily.

I moaned in Mark’s voice, the words coming out naturally, “Ti sto scopando così bene… mi fai impazzire…”

“Such a good boy,” Pedro praised, his hand stroking my cock in time with his thrusts. “So fucking tight for me.”

He flipped me onto my back and pushed my legs up, fucking me in missionary. His eyes locked onto mine, slack-jawed, pupils blown wide with pleasure. He looked completely lost in it, like he was drunk on how good Mark’s body felt.

The orgasm hit me like a freight train.

My whole body seized up. Waves of intense, shuddering pleasure crashed through me, stronger than anything I’d ever felt in my own body. My cock pulsed hard between us, shooting thick ropes of cum across my smooth chest and stomach in powerful spurts. I cried out, hole clenching rhythmically around Pedro’s cock as the orgasm seemed to go on forever.

Pedro’s eyes widened with raw lust. He greedily scooped up a big glob of my cum with his fingers and licked it off his hand without breaking eye contact.

“Mmm… not bad,” he said, voice rough. “Sweet. A little salty. Tastes like a young guy should.”

He scooped up more and brought his fingers to my lips. I hesitated for half a second, but he pushed them into my mouth anyway.

“Open. Taste yourself,” he ordered.

I sucked his fingers clean, tasting my own cum while he kept fucking me slow and deep.

“Not too bad for a kid who’s only tried girls before,” Pedro said with a wicked grin. “Glad I could be the first cock to fuck that tight little ass. Next time I’m gonna pull out and shoot my whole load all over that pretty face.”

He fucked me harder for another minute, then buried himself deep and came with a low groan, filling me again.

We collapsed together, sweaty and exhausted, and fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms.

When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window.

I was still curled up against Pedro’s warm body. Still in Mark’s body.

Holy shit.

I carefully slipped out of bed, heart racing, and snuck into the kitchen wearing only a pair of Mark’s boxer briefs.

As I turned the corner and looked up, I was shocked to see my old body was already sitting at the kitchen table, wearing my favorite robe, sipping coffee. He looked up at me with a calm, slightly amused expression.

“Morning,” he said casually, in my voice.

You push the button as soon as you get home.

How could you not? The chance to become someone new was too enticing, too exciting. 

You push your glasses up your nose. Your eyes start tearing up, either from allergies or from all of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You feel excited, or scared. Or both.

It dawns on you that you would like to see the changes, so you quickly skid across the floor to the bathroom so you can watch in the mirror. It had only been five seconds, but you think that there should have been some kind of change. 

You flick on the bathroom light. The overhead fan whirrs into existence alongside a flickering fluorescent bulb. In the mirror you see… Your same old self. You lean closer into the mirror, thinking that maybe there are a few hairs sprouting under your nose, but no… It’s the same spotty moustache you’ve always had. 

“No ha cambiado nada. ¿Será que se dañó?” you say, your voice sounding slightly deeper. “Espera... ¿qué acabo de decir?”

You freeze, staring into the mirror. Your eyes wide as the panic hits instantly.

That's not what you meant to say.

You try again. "Yo no hablo español.”

The sentence leaves your mouth effortlessly. And this time there has been a noticeable drop in the octaves of your voice. It’s definitely deeper. And more importantly, it’s definitely in Spanish. 

In a panic, you leave the bathroom and stumble into the main room. The words for different objects in the room spill through your head. You trace your hand over top of them, reciting the words out loud. 

“Sofá. Televisor. Refrigerador. Fregadero.”

Each word becomes more and more panicked. Each word comes out in Spanish. 

You pause at a wall of books. The titles look unfamiliar to you. You recognize the letters but the words mean nothing. Your eyes scan the spines desperately, searching for something readable, but you find nothing. You open a book and thumb through the pages. Part of you recognizes it as English, but you don’t understand any of the words. 

The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. You can't read this because you don’t know English. 

Your breathing quickens. You know English exists. You remember speaking it your entire life. You remember conversations, movies, songs, text messages, and grammar lessons in school. You remember understanding these words. But when you reach for a single English word, your mind comes back empty.

The memories are still there, but the language isn’t. It's like remembering that you once knew how to ride a bicycle while having no idea what a bicycle even is.

You continue to stare at the open book, willing the words to make sense but they don’t. Your breathing becomes shallow and tears start welling in your eyes. You shouldn’t have pressed the button. 

"¡Hablo inglés!” you yell, hoping to force English out of you. But it’s in Spanish again.

You slam the book shut, the slam echoes through the apartment.

You grab your phone from the coffee table and unlock it. The home screen looks wrong. Not because anything has changed, but because you can't read it.

Your text messages are rows of meaningless words, your email inbox is incomprehensible and social media posts blur together into unreadable nonsense.

Panic grips your chest. You know exactly what these apps are. You remember using them! You remember reading thousands upon thousands of messages but now every sentence might as well be written in code.

“¿Qué le está pasando a mi celular?” you panic out. Now you don't even notice that you’re speaking in Spanish.

A notification appears at the top of the screen and for a brief moment you hope that it's written in Spanish because maybe that'll prove what's happening.

You tap it open, opening up your texts. The message is… perfectly readable. Instantly and effortlessly. The profile picture shows a grinning man with dark skin and short, curly hair. You recognize him immediately. It’s Santiago, your gym buddy. The name arrives naturally in your brain, and with a flood of half-formed memories follows. Late-night workouts, shared spotting sessions, protein shakes after training, long conversations about life and work and girls that feel vaguely familiar.

You read the message:

¿Entrenas esta noche o qué?

And unlike the books, unlike the emails, unlike everything else in your apartment, you understand every word.

Without thinking, you begin typing.

Sí. Llegaré pronto. Llego en 15.

You freeze. You didn’t translate the sentence, you didn’t even think about the sentence: you simply wrote it.

You turn your phone off and put it down on the table. The apartment suddenly feels quiet. You steady yourself, standing in the middle of a home that is beginning to feel strange and unfamiliar. Your eyes drift across the room to the furniture, books and DVDs, everything feels wrong. 

A knot forms in your stomach. You start to feel like you don’t belong, like you’re supposed to be somewhere else. Because you don’t belong here.

You swallow hard. You know what’s going to happen next. 

“Bueno...” you whisper, the word coming out naturally. “Aquí viene.”

The first change strikes like a sledgehammer. Pain explodes through your chest. You cry out and double over as your sternum creaks violently. The sound is wet and mechanical, like metal being bent under enormous pressure. Your ribs spread apart beneath your skin. Every breath becomes deeper, heavier, as your ribcage expands.

You stagger towards the bathroom, feeling like you are about to throw up. You grab the edge of the sink and hold on for dear life.

“No…” The protest comes out in Spanish.

Heat floods through your torso and your chest surges outward. Muscle swells beneath your skin in thick, dense waves. The growth is relentless. Your shirt tightens instantly, the fabric stretching across rapidly expanding pecs.

You hear stitching begin to tear, then a seam bursts. Your entire upper body jerks as more mass piles onto your frame.

The muscles aren't forming neatly but growing aggressively and violently. Years of heavy presses, incline benches, weighted dips, and brutal workouts seem to compress themselves into seconds. Your pecs continue expanding until they dominate your upper torso.

Another pulse tears through you and your shoulders explode outward.

You scream, deep and guttural. The joints in your shoulder and chest pop one after another as your frame widens. Thick muscle ripples across your deltoids, transforming them into dense rounded masses.

The bathroom suddenly feels smaller.

Your sleeves strain desperately around rapidly thickening arms and split. The tears echo around the room as fabric rips apart from shoulder to wrist.

Fresh muscle swells through the openings, your biceps knot and expand then keep growing.

Veins rise beneath your skin. Your triceps thicken and your forearms widen.

The muscles become heavy enough that your arms no longer hang the way they used to. They naturally drift away from your sides, crowded out by the sheer size of your chest and lats.

A deep groan escapes your throat. Even your voice sounds different now: deeper, richer, more powerful.

The pressure moves downward tightening your stomach violently. The softness around your waist burns away. Hard muscle forms beneath your skin. Your abdomen hardens. Obliques sharpen. Thick slabs of muscle spread across your core.

Then your back erupts. You nearly collapse from the shock and overwhelming pressure. Your lats flare outward so quickly that your remaining shirt tears up the sides. The fabric falls away, to the ground, but you barely notice.

Your entire torso feels impossibly broad now. Heavy, dense and built.

A fresh wave crashes into your neck. You clutch your throat as thick cords of muscle form beneath the skin. Your neck expands until it nearly blends into your traps.

Pressure spreads through your cheeks and brow as the bones beneath your skin shift. Dark stubble bursts across your jawline. The hairs rapidly lengthen and thicken into a dense goatee. The recession in your hairline disappears as thick, wavy black hair pushes forward across your scalp.

Suddenly your vision goes blurry and panic shoots across your face. You blink repeatedly but the bathroom smears around you.

"¿Qué está pasando?"

You rub furiously at your eyes with a massive hand and then you realize the problem isn't your eyes, it’s your glasses. The frames sit crooked on your face now. Your widening head has bent them slightly out of shape. You pull them off and stare at them. For the first time in your life, the room remains perfectly clear with very detail of the bathroom snapping into sharp focus. You slowly fold the glasses and place them on the sink. Somehow, you already know you're never going to need them again.

You stumble closer to the mirror. The man staring back is already becoming unrecognizable.

With his enormous chest, massive shoulders, and powerful arms. And somehow the transformation still isn't finished as the biggest changes haven't even reached your lower body yet.

A strange sensation suddenly blooms deep in your hips, a tingling deep in your bones and muscles. Your breath catches and pain arrives a split second later.

“¡Mierda!" you exclaim.

Your knees buckle and catch yourself on the edge of the sink as pressure floods through your pelvis. It feels like your entire lower body is being pulled apart. Your hips pop a deep and unsettling sound as muscle fibres tighten and seize across your thighs. You cry out as your quadriceps knot beneath your skin.

The muscles aren't simply growing but being rebuilt. Years of squats, leg presses, sprint training, stair climbs and lunges. Thousands upon thousands of repetitions seem to compress themselves into a few agonizing seconds. Your thighs thicken.

The fabric of your shorts stretches, but then it also begins to change and alter. The thick grey lounge shorts you bought from Costco are restitching themselves into black thin and airy gym shorts. The hem line rises higher up your thigh, exposing your muscles and darkening skin to the light of the bathroom light. The muscles beneath your shorts become heavier, denser and stronger.

The transformation drives deeper.

Your femurs ache and pressure builds inside the bones themselves. The realization that you are getting taller sends a fresh wave of panic through your chest. The bathroom countertop slowly sinks away, the mirror lowers and the towel hanging beside the shower drops inch by inch. Or at least that's what it looks like, but you know better than that because you're rising.

The crotch of your shorts grows tighter and more constrictive as the seam rides higher. In a moment of curiosity, you stretch the elastic of your shorts open to see your cock growing thicker, longer and darker in skin tone. The tip grows wider, and new foreskin knits itself across. Dark hair spreads from your belly button down to your dick. You reach your massive hand and hold dick in your equally massive hand, sending a jolt through your entire body. You stare and hold it longer than you mean to, partly because it's shocking but mostly because it's impossible to look away.

A strange mix of excitement, pride and disbelief settles in your chest. You feel your dick start to become harder, a flood of fresh blood surging into your groin. It feels good and normal. This has always been your dick. The gentle rhythmic stroking feels good, but it does not drown out the discomfort you feel in the rest of your still changing body. 

A fresh surge of pressure floods through your hips and glutes. Your backside grows heavier, rounder, and noticeably firmer, forcing your stance wider to accommodate the new mass. The fabric of your shorts stretches taut across it, pulled tight against muscle built from years of squats, lunges, stair climbs, and endless hours in the gym. Every movement feels different now: more powerful and more grounded. You shift your balance and posture immediately as even standing still feels different. Your lower body now carries the dense strength of a man who has spent years building it.

Another crack echoes through your legs and knees straighten involuntarily. Your entire body jerks upward causing you to gasp in air. The movement feels impossible, yet it keeps happening.

Your calves swell next, and more dense muscle forms beneath the skin, hard and athletic. Fresh hair spreads across them while veins rise beneath the surface. You shift your weight and immediately notice the difference that balance has changed and your centre of gravity feels different.

Everything feels different: the bathroom feels smaller, the ceiling feels lower, the doorway feels narrower. A final pulse tears through your lower body causing you to cry out once again.

Then suddenly it's over. A silence fills the room, broken only by your own heavy breathing. 

You slowly stand upright, noticing how strange the movement feels, not because you're injured but because you're much taller.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror again and see a broad-shouldered Colombian man staring back, one who now stands over six feet tall. And for the first time since pressing the button, the reflection doesn't look like someone you're becoming but rather like someone you've always been.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Soy yo... Camilo Vargas.”

The name is yours. It’s always been yours.

A sudden jolt shoots through your stomach, reminding you of an airplane lifting off the runway.

The bathroom vanishes and for a brief moment there is only a weightlessness void. Then your feet hit rubber flooring causing you to stumble forward. Music pounds through hidden speakers and the sharp scent of sweat, disinfectant, and warm metal fills your lungs.

Spanish voices echo around you .You look up to see rows of machines stretch across a brightly lit gym. Men and women move between benches and squat racks and televisions hang from the walls playing soccer highlights. Ceiling fans push warm air through the building.

Nobody seems surprised by your presence. Nobody is staring and nobody is questioning why you're there because as far as they're concerned, you have always been there.

Memories begin settling into place of early morning workouts, protein shakes, missed reps, personal records and all the hours spent chasing a better version of yourself. The gym doesn't feel unfamiliar but rather it feels like home.

A voice suddenly calls out from across the room. “¡Camilo!”

You turn instinctively to see grinning muscular man waves from beside a bench press. You recognize Santiago immediately, he’s been your friend for years.

“Pensé que no ibas a venir,” he says.

A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. “No me lo perdería.”

Santiago punches you playfully on the shoulder and leads you toward the bench press. You're already comfortably warmed up from the stretches you did when you arrived at the gym. As you follow him through the weight room, your eyes drift toward a Colombian flag hanging high on the far wall. A strange warmth spreads through your chest.

Pride washes through your mind as memories begin settling into place.

Watching Colombia play soccer with your family gathered around the television. Your tío shouting at the referee from the couch while your primos squeezed together on the floor. Your tía carrying plates of food through the living room while everyone yelled over one another. Then the entire house erupting when Colombia scored, drinks spilling and people jumping to their feet as car horns sounded somewhere outside. You remember kicking a soccer ball around afterward, trying to recreate the moves of James Rodríguez. For weeks afterward, you were convinced you were going to play for the national team someday.

You remember long afternoons spent sweating under the tropical sun. Your mamá handing you a warm arepa before school while the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the house. Your papá leaving for work before sunrise and returning home exhausted but always making time to ask about your day. You drift through memories of kicking a soccer ball through the street with your hermanos until your mamá called all of you inside for dinner. Riding in the back seat with the windows down as motorcycles buzzed through crowded streets, music spilling from open windows as you walked home. Entire neighbourhoods glowing with Christmas lights in December. The memories settle comfortably into place, carrying with them a warmth and familiarity that makes it difficult to remember ever calling anywhere else home.

The memories don't arrive as strangers. They feel familiar. Comforting.

Because they're yours.

You glance at the flag again and smile. For a moment, you can't believe there was ever a time when you weren't Colombian.

A distant memory of another life flickers briefly through your mind. A different face. A different language. A different country.

The memory fades almost as quickly as it came.

You have a workout to finish. Friends waiting for you. A life waiting for you.

Santiago calls your name from across the gym. You grin and head over. Camilo Vargas has always belonged here.

Morris needs a job, Byron Industries needs an lab rat perfect for their new trial to make a mindless (read: horny) grunt. Paging through his favorite book while he waits, for such a reader he surely didn't read any fine print.

Wrote this one for a GSS challenge a bit ago! Here it is ever so slightly touched up with a few images added. This one's for all you real Melville heads out there. -Occam

“Call me Morris!”

The literature grad surely expected at least some reaction to his smallest of Moby Dick references. It’s not the first time he’s met with silence at the playfully pitiful introduction, but usually there’s at least confusion. This receptionist simply stares blankly. Perhaps there was a perfunctory smile under the facemask, but it certainly didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Morris Baker, yes? For the interview?”

Still recoiling from his scuffed opening Morris is hesitant to speak up. All the well as the receptionist takes his silent quibbling as confirmation. 

“Sir Byron will be with you shortly, please have a seat and enjoy our lobby’s amenities.”

Clutching his shoulder bag tightly as he sort of bows before stepping away from the front desk, Morris realizes that he’s not just working himself up. It’s not in his head, something is off about that receptionist. Sneaking a quick glance back, he sees the clerk is still staring at him. No? Staring through him.

To his credit, Morris stills the shiver that runs up his spine at the realization. Focusing on what matters, Morris convinces himself that between the two of them the secretary’s the weird one. That’s why the man didn’t react to his solid Moby Dick reference! Turning with a cocksure grin to take in the amenities the strange receptionist spoke of he wonders what he’ll find. It’s not every day someone like him gets to wander into Byron Roman’s business, after all.

I took a few creative liberties here and wrote a long one lol. Enjoy!

-------------------

“C’mon,” Ethan muttered, gripping the back of the couch as he tried to straighten his right leg. “I’ve got this... I've... fuck!”

He exhaled deeply and collapsed onto the couch, wincing as the pain shot through his knee. It hurt so much, so fuckin' much. And it wasn't just physical. He could hear his phone buzzing, the messages piling up.

"You coming back this season, bro?"

"Tubing Friday. Your knee good enough yet?"

"Scouts still asking about you btw."

Ethan cursed again. He missed going to practice. Missed drinking with bros. Missed the parties, the dumb arguments, the camaraderie. He missed his life before the injury.

“Fuck me...” His head sunk into his hands, "Stupid fuckin' knee."

He glanced up at his stick and the framed photo of the team. Him in the middle with a wide grin and his arm around his bros. Fuck... he wanted to get back to that. And he wanted to get back fast.

"There's gotta be a way..." He muttered.

An hour later he was deep in rehab forums when an ad stopped him cold.

BUILD-U-BACK RECOVERY NOW ENROLLING IN YOUR AREA: A NEW START, LASTING RELIEF

“Sounds fake as hell,” Joe murmured. But when he glanced back at the team photo he felt a pang in his chest. He reached for his wallet soon after.

----------------

This was it. Ethan stood on the empty practice field, stick in hand. The cold night air felt good against his warm skin. The stadium lights already dimming.

"Okay..." He bounced on the balls of his feet, "Okay, I've got this."

He dropped into goalie stance carefully, bracing for the pain. But it never came.

"No way..." Ethan pushed harder, shuffling across the crease before planting sharply off the bad leg, "Oh my god." He laughed with disbelief, "No fuckin' way!"

"Walsh?"

Ethan spun and smiled wider when he saw Luke, "Bro!"

"Dude! You're running!"

"I know! I fuckin' know!" He pointed at his knee, "It's gone, dude! It doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Let's fuckin' go, bro!"

It fuckin' worked. That fuckin' drug actually worked! Ethan stood proud, chest heaving and adrenaline surging. He was back. Practice, scouts, games, parties... it was all back.

-----------------

“Dude! First game back, you feel ready?”

Ethan looked up from tying his cleats and grinned. “More than ready.”

He tugged at the bottom of his hoodie, annoyed again by how tight it felt around his waist and chest. He’d already stopped wearing some of his older shirts entirely after realizing they didn’t fit right anymore. He figured his dryer was doing a number on his wardrobe.

“We won’t be too upset if you fuck up out there,” Luke said while peeling his shirt over his head. “We get you’re a little rusty.”

“Eat shit,” Ethan laughed, tossing a roll of tape at him before reaching for his own hoodie.

The cool air felt warm against his skin, and Ethan scratched absentmindedly at his chest, pausing for just a moment as his fingers tangled with thicker hairs there.

"The fuck...?" Ethan frowned and looked down.

Dark curls spread across the middle of his chest before trailing down his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sweat glistened faintly through the hair despite the cold room, and when Ethan shifted slightly, the waistband dug tighter against a stomach that suddenly looked thicker than he remembered.

"I shaved this shit this morning..." He figured the hair growth was a side effect of the drug, but he'd spent the last few days making sure he kept it under control. But now...?

Luke whistled low. “Damn, Walsh. Didn’t realize the recovery plan involved growing a lawn on your chest and blowing out your waistline.”

A couple guys laughed awkwardly before looking away again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan muttered, pulling his jersey on faster than usual. The fabric stretching tighter around his waist than he remembered.

Nobody really said anything after that.

Ethan forced a grin anyway and slammed his locker shut. “Alright, boys,” he called out. “Let’s do this.”

-------------

It was supposed to feel normal again. Friday night. Sports bar packed wall-to-wall after the game. Music too loud. Ethan sat wedged between Luke and Dylan with a cold Busch Light in his hand before realizing halfway through the bottle that he didn’t even remember ordering it.

“You looked like shit tonight,” Luke laughed.

“Appreciate it.”

“Seriously though, you good?”

Ethan scratched at the rough stubble on his chin. “Just playing bad.”

His phone buzzed against the table.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON ONE MONTH! YOUR NEXT PHASE OF RECOVERY STARTS TONIGHT!"

Ethan frowned at the notification before locking the screen again, "Next phase?" He stared at his arm, now dusted with dark hairs.

"Hey Ethan." Luke nudged him, "Someone's staring."

Ethan spotted her across the bar. Blond. Gorgeous. Smiling at him. For the first time all night, something loosened in his chest.

“There we go,” Dylan laughed when he caught Ethan staring. “That’s the Walsh we know.”

Ethan grinned and took another sip. Soon after, he was fumbling with his apartment keys while she laughed softly beside him in the hallway. They moved to his bedroom, clothes discarded quickly.

"Fuck..." Ethan whispered, as she kissed slowly along his neck, "I needed..."

"Standby mode protocol upload."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What?” she asked softly.

“It's uh... Nothin’.”

Her hands slid slowly across his chest and draped around his shoulders before pausing.

“Wow,” she said with a small laugh. “You’re kinda hairy.”

Ethan glanced down automatically, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hair curling across his shoulders and down his back.

"That's not..." He knew it wasn't there five hours ago.

“Sorry,” she added quickly, still smiling. “You’re just hairer than most guys I’ve been with.”

"Pleasure directives stem from labor initiatives."

Ethan winced hard enough that she finally pulled back slightly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just...” He rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t feel right.”

She kissed him again anyway, her hand sliding lower across the thicker, softer shape of his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers and around his flaccid cock.

“Oh,” she laughed gently, trying to mask her confusion.

Ethan glanced down, a wave of sickening humiliation washing over him. His cock stayed completely dead. Buried in a dense, coarse mat of newly thick pubic hair and a rapidly expanding fat pad, his dick looked distinctly shorter, stubbier, and entirely useless

“You okay?” she asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah. I just...” He swallowed hard. “I dunno. It's not working... I... Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said softly, “Seriously. It happens.”

A few minutes later he stood awkwardly by the door while she slipped her shoes back on.

“Maybe just stress?” she offered gently.

“Yeah.” Ethan forced a laugh. “Probably.”

After she left, the apartment felt painfully quiet again. Ethan stood there shirtless for another minute before walking to the fridge automatically and grabbing another Busch Light.

------------

A week had passed, and Ethan exhaled heavily as he stepped out of the shower. He’d stopped changing in the locker room after practice a few days ago, tired of catching teammates staring too long at his stomach or shoulders before awkwardly looking away. Now, alone in his apartment, there was nobody else left to notice except him.

“Jesus Christ...” he whispered at his reflection.

The mirror across from the bed reflected somebody that looked wrong. Dark curls spread heavily across his chest and shoulders now, while rough stubble shadowed his jaw despite shaving before practice that morning. Even standing still, his body looked heavier than it used to.

“I’m exercising,” Ethan muttered weakly. “I’m eating healthy...” His eyes drifted toward the empty Busch Light cans scattered across the nightstand, “I...”

"Standby initiating."

Ethan’s breath caught as the voice echoed in his head.

“What the...”

"Standby mode active."

Every muscle in his body locked instantly.

Ethan jerked hard against it on instinct, but nothing responded correctly. His fingers twitched once beside his thigh before going still again. His chest continued rising and falling normally. He could blink. Breathe. Swallow. But that was it.

“What... the fuck...” he forced out weakly.

Hours passed as Ethan sat frozen on the edge of the bed staring into the mirror. The rough hair across his chest thickened slowly while his stomach pushed heavier against his lap with every shallow breath. His face itched constantly as a dark beard spread across his jaw until he looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

A knock on the door and the sound of heavy footsteps entering his apartment made him tense. He watched as two men in BUILDING-U-BACK jackets entered his room and stopped mid-step when they saw Ethan in nothing but a pair of tight sweatpants.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s the lacrosse kid?”

“Yeah. CRW-57F.”

The younger guy kept staring. “Still got some of that frat-boy face left.”

“Not for too long.”

The younger rep shook his head slowly. “Weird seeing one this young.”

“Don’t worry,” the older rep said casually. “Give it a week and you won’t even be able to pick 'em out from the others.”

Ethan strained against the paralysis hard enough that his jaw twitched once.

“You know what’s crazy?” the younger rep continued. “Six months from now he’ll be drinking beer after shifts talking about kids that don’t exist like the rest of ’em.”

“Yeah well, the whole family-man thing makes clients comfortable. People trust workers who look settled.”

One of them glanced toward the empty Busch Light cans beside the bed.

“Damn,” he muttered. “He’s already self-reinforcing.”

“Good sign.”

Ethan let out another whimper as he tried to reach for his phone, but his arm wouldn't budge.

“Oh shit,” the younger rep said suddenly. “You think he knows what we’re saying?”

“Nah,” the older rep replied casually. “The lab guys say there's not much left going on upstairs during standby.”

Ethan felt something cold settle quietly in his chest. The older rep finally looked directly at him and nodded toward the hallway.

“C’mon CRW-57F," He tossed him his old lacrosse hoodie, "Housing assignment’s ready.”

Ethan stood automatically.

------------

Ethan barely remembered the drive to the facility. He had been packed into a van shoulder-to-shoulder with a few other hirsute guys sporting beer guts. His eyes remained fixed on the man across from him, and Ethan realized with growing dread that it was like looking in a mirror.

"There's been a mistake!" He tried to call out, but the words in his head wouldn't leave his mouth, "Please..."

When they did finally arrive at the facility, he was walked to a featureless room with a table and a few bins.

"This is CRW-57F." A man said to his colleague, entering the room, "Originally Ethan Walsh. Signed up for the program for an injured knee." He looked down at his clipboard, "Worker identity is officially Joe Mercer."

"Joe Mercer? That's not..." He thought, but the name Ethan was already starting to feel distant.

"Alright, let's get him in the system." The man continued, "We're going to need your personal belongings, CRW-57F."

Joe felt as he reached into his pocket and gripped his phone. He quickly dropped it into one of the bins, along with his keys, wallet, student ID.

"Oh shit, that's the college kid?" One of the men said, looking down at the ID.

"Yeah, lacrosse player, if you can believe it now."

"Damn, that drug did a number on him." The man sighed, "Okay, CRW-57F, need the clothes too."

Ethan winced as he gripped his team's lacrosse hoodie and yanked it off. Cool air hit the thick hair covering his chest and stomach, and he heard one of the employees exhale quietly through his nose.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Hope the knee was worth it.”

"Update on the apartment?"

"Cleaning crew is taking care of that, lease will terminate tomorrow."

"N-No..." Ethan thought, imagining them clearing it out. His team photo. His lacrosse gear. The clothes crammed into the closet. Every piece of evidence that Ethan Walsh had ever existed.

"Family updated?" The other man nodded, "And..."

"What do you think? Took it poorly." The other man sighed, "Kid’s barely old enough to drink and now he’s gonna look older than his dad."

"Visitation scheduled?"

"In a month."

Ethan felt his stomach twist. The thought of his parents seeing him like this made him want to disappear.

"By then he'll be settled enough that it won't matter much." The rep muttered, "They all stop trying eventually."

One of them picked up Ethan's student ID and looked at the picture for a second before tossing it into the bin with the rest of his belongings.

"Poor kid."

"Yeah."

The lid snapped shut. A folded stack of clothes landed in Ethan’s arms a second later. Gray work shirt. Plain jeans. Steel-toe boots. The employee checked another box on his clipboard.

“Alright CRW-57F,” he said casually. “let's get you downstairs.”

------------

Ethan barely slept.

The worker housing smelled like sweat, musk, sawdust, and stale beer. The bed made his back ache. Men wandered the halls at all hours wearing gray shirts and work pants, scratching at thick stomachs or rubbing sleep from heavy eyes while they talked about wives, back pain, football games, and their kids.

“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”

“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!”

Ethan sat quietly on the edge of his bed with a Busch Light in his hand, staring toward the floor while his body moved through routines his brain still hadn’t fully accepted. Every few hours that same pressure built behind his eyes again, and afterward his thoughts always came back slower.

"Who are these people?" He wondered, "They all look... the same..."

But when he looked down, he realized how much he looked like them too. Even more than the night he was brought to the facility. The gut, the hair, the beard, the weathered skin... what the fuck had they done to him?

“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”

Ethan looked up slowly. A different pair of workers stood near the vending machines now.

“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!” The exact same laugh followed.

Ethan felt his stomach tighten. It was the same conversation, the same cadence… the same everything. They all talked like that. All looked the same. Nothing to distinguish them...

"Lacrosse." He thought suddenly.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the locker room. The smell of the gear. The roar after a clean save. He could almost see the jersey. Blue. Or green? No... Red?

Ethan shuddered and took another swig of his beer.

------------

He couldn't recall the drive out here. One moment he was climbing into his assigned bunk, the next he was hauling lumber across a chaotic job site. Sweat drenched the thick hair across his torso. He reeked, too... of sawdust, exhaustion, and that stale musk clinging like the rest of them. He craved a shower, but knew better. Management preferred them this way.

"57F?" Two reps walked past him, "Still not meeting his quotas."

"Really? You'd think with him having been a star athlete..."

"Eh, you would think." The rep muttered, "We've found it really doesn't."

"Shame. We'll ship him out to Ohio tomorrow then, they're looking for more men and he's slowing us down."

He continued to work, but their words kept repeating in his head. A month ago, he was a star. Always getting positive feedback, always being commended. Now, he was failing at whatever this nightmare was.

"Joe?" He turned immediately to see one of the workers approach him, "You remember my boy, yeah?" The man smiled, "Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man."

"Yeah?" The word left his mouth before he could even think about it. In fact, he didn't even really process it. Everything slowed suddenly, simplified in his brain. Lacrosse? Old apartment? Friends? Suddenly, it felt far from reach, "Mine just turned thirteen." He'd heard those words before from the other workers. The exact same words. Delivered in the same cadence, with the same gravely voice. Now... those words were coming from him, "Kid's eating me out of house and home already!"

Both men laughed. But as the other worker stepped away, Ethan's eyes widened.

"Fuck... no..." His thoughts were slower than they had been just two minutes prior. But so was his anxiety. Everything suddenly felt so much simpler, "La-lacrosse... lacrosse... not this..." He repeated for as long as his mind let him.

The pressure behind his eyes returned immediately. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the lumber until his knuckles turned white. He tried to hold onto the panic, tried to hold onto the certainty that something terrible was happening to him, but even that feeling seemed to be slipping away. The fear was still there. He could feel it. Yet every second it felt smaller, duller, less important than the work waiting around him.

"Joe!" He looked up automatically. One of the workers waved him over, "Quit daydreaming. Grab this end."

He did as he was told and the pressure vanished. Relief flooded him, washing away the confusion, the panic...

"Appreciate it," the worker said.

"No problem." The answer came naturally, "I ain't no slacker."

The two men carried the load across the site together while talking about football, kids, weekend plans, and just how good the cold beer at the end of the day would taste. Across the yard, one of the reps glanced up from his clipboard.

"Huh... Looks like Ohio's getting him just in time."

"I guess so..."

Joe adjusted the lumber on his shoulder and laughed at something one of the other workers said. The sound blended effortlessly with the rest of the crew as they disappeared into the noise of the job site.

It happened fast, but not fast enough to miss.

I was leaning against the counter, making dinner plans with Rachel, just a normal Wednesday night. She was in the bedroom folding laundry, talking through the door about sushi or Thai. I was half-listening, checking the time, when Eric — our roommate — walked in.

He stood there in the hall, half-shadowed, holding something in his hand that shimmered like oil on water. His face... I hadn’t seen him smile like that before. It was calm, collected. But underneath it? Smug. Ugly.

“You’ve really got it all, huh?” he said, not even looking at me at first.

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Eric took a few slow steps into the kitchen. “You. The job. The girlfriend. The little domestic thing. You think this is you. Like you were ever meant for it.”

“What—?”

“I’ve had to watch you stumble through a life you don’t even deserve. Every night. Listening to her laugh at your stupid stories. Watching her kiss you goodnight like you’re worthy of her. You’re not.”

I backed up instinctively, bumping into the island counter. My heart rate spiked.

“What’s going on, Eric?”

He held up the object — it looked like a small, jagged crystal embedded in a metal ring. The air pulsed around it. I swear the shadows on the walls started moving.

“What is that?”

“Let’s call it a key,” he said, eyes glinting. “To a better version of reality. One where things make more sense. Where I’m not living in the shadow of some bland, forgettable nobody.”

“I’m calling Rachel,” I said, voice shaking.

But I didn’t make it two steps.

Eric muttered a word — I couldn’t even register it — and the air broke. My body seized. Pain like liquid fire raced down my spine. I collapsed to the floor, convulsing, gripping the tile like it could anchor me to who I was.

“Don’t fight it,” Eric said, stepping over me. “This is a one-way rewrite.”

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. My limbs stretched. My muscles inflated — my arms ballooned with thick, veined biceps, my chest thudded with each spasm as it packed on slabs of mass. My shirt shredded at the seams as my body grew.

“I’m going to take your place, just so you know,” Eric said, crouching beside me. “Rachel’s going to look at me like she used to look at you. She’ll never remember you. She’ll think you were always the guy sleeping on our couch. The idiot who leaves gym socks everywhere. The raunchy, stinking embarrassment who was just ‘too nice to kick out.’ That’s your new role.”

My scalp burned. I screamed as my hair pulled inward, strands falling around my face, my temples throbbing as it shrank back to a short, brutish buzzcut. At the same time, thick black stubble erupted along my jawline. It wasn’t a beard — not quite. It was a dirty, unkempt chinstrap, sharp and oily and wrong. I clawed at it, but my fingers were different now — swollen, stubby, rough-skinned.

My face in the oven’s reflection warped — my nose wider, brow heavier. My eyes dulled, losing the glint of recognition. My mouth slackened, forming into a natural smirk that felt foreign and obscene.

“You’ll forget her,” Eric said softly, almost kindly. “You’ll forget you. You won’t even miss it. You’ll love being the new you.”

The last thing I remember was the sound of Rachel’s voice calling my name from the hallway — my real name — and Eric answering.

And then..

--

Phone’s at five percent, but I’ll charge it after I get this pic up.

I swipe through the front camera real quick. Lookin’ solid. Tank’s sticking to my chest — soaked a bit, but it looks good in the mirror. Traps are hittin’. Got that shine on my shoulders. My beard’s looking tight, too. Rough and low and dirty, the way I like it. Chinstrap’s filled out real nice since I stopped trimming. Girls hate it. Dudes love it. Not my fault I know my demographic.

I tilt my head, smirk a little, lift the phone, and snap. Hell yeah. That one’s going straight to Grindr.

They can complain all they want — Rachel and Eric. Always acting like I’m some kind of feral dog they let crash here out of pity. She makes a big deal about the smell. Keeps saying I’m “stinking up the bathroom” again, like it isn’t just me. Natural musk. Man-funk. I earn it. Two workouts a day, no deo. Can’t cover this up — the bros would be disappointed.

Eric’s worse. Mister Perfect. Always cleaning the kitchen after me, always muttering when I leave laundry in the machine. I know he hates that I’m still here. But what’s he gonna do? Tell me to leave? Not happening. Not until I’ve got a place of my own. Not until the tips from the foot pics and private vids stack up enough. Living here sucks, but not more than being broke.

Besides, I got my own thing going on. Got my followers. Got my boys. I’ve got dates lined up for the weekend, and I’m booked solid tonight. One of them wants me to bring my gym bag and not change first. Says he’s into “raw” smells. I told him I haven’t worn socks for three days. He sent three fire emojis.

I flex in the mirror one more time. Yeah, I’m lookin’ good. Thick, smelly, and cocky as hell. That’s the brand.

Upload photo. Caption: “Smell like I lift. Come find out.”

God, I hope Rachel doesn't light another candle. The smell in here’s perfect and I’m not about to let her ruin the vibe before I get picked up.

The package wasn't just from JD alone. In fact, the products inside were from a collaboration between JD's clothing line and Hexum Industries.

Which explains the pink box with the JD logo, now currently in your hands. Normally they just use a simple cardboard box.

You had told Kai that the package had arrived. Immediately, he sent you a link for Zoom through the Tumblr chat. Pressing the link, you were soon able to see his face.

How hard he could make you... It was almost embarrassing how much of an effect Kai had on you.

He was a total chav. The way he spoke... The way he wrote! It made it so obvious he wasn't a cultured man. Sometimes you even wondered if English was truly his first language, despite him being native to the UK.

Kai was a complete idiot. A dumbass with no parallel. Yet believed himself to be the smartest guy around. He was so confident, it tempted you to just accept whatever nonsense he spewed as gospel. After all, he loved to reward you. You still remember the dick pic he sent you. Unkempt, wild reddish and blond pubes, pale thighs at the bottom of the picture. Low hanging balls. And a huge dick. Girthy, slightly curved to the left, and uncut.

It was a porn star kind of cock. Almost too big to be real... More than once you had dreamed of it. Of flying to the UK, kneeling in front of Kai just to worship such an exquisite prick...

Now, regrettably, you weren't facing his wonderful cock. But his smug face. He had a Burberry cap on. Wss also wearing a fake Lacoste polo, and a tracksuit jacket over it. He was smoking. He always was.

"I was like... Waiting for ya to get m'gift, bruv? And, like, now ya got it. So open it, bruv. They're proper clothes, check 'em out." he said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, as he looked at you. "Be a good lad and rush. I'm sure you'll look proper fit, honest!"

Wasn't his accent so hot?

You opened the box, finding a gray tracksuit, black t-shirt, white Adidas socks, white sneakers and a silver chain. As well as gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

These weren't the kind of clothes you normally wore. Yet you recognized them. It was the kind of fashion a chav such as Kai would sport every day. It made you hold your breath with awe and excitement.

After all, you weren't a chav yourself. You were American. You were educated, currently doing a post grad. A life built for wealth and success... Completely unlike a chav's, who merely tried to imitate wealth without ever succeeding. Perhaps that's what made this so special. Perhaps that's what made this feel like the greatest gift you had ever gotten.

Because a proper chav was welcoming you. Allowing you to pretend, if for a second, that you were one of them.

It didn't matter there was a whole ocean between you and all the real chavs. You had always fancied them. You loved how they looked, how they spoke. Their vulgar and lower class simplicity. The abundant stupidity of their appearance, yet always enhanced by a certain masculinity that was so unique to them.

How many times had you fantasized about becoming one of them? Alone, at night, only accompanied by your trusty hand? You even loved imagining the dehumanizing way wealthier people would treat you, or think of you, were you to become a proper chav.

Meeting Kai, thusly, had always felt like a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it gave you an opening to see the world like a chav could and did. But it was a curse too, because it reminded you how you'd never be one of them.

This package? This gift? It was the nicest thing Kai could have ever done for you.

"Don't stand there lookin' thick, luv!" Kai said, interrupting your musings with a laugh. "Get off yer clothes! Let me take a proper look at ya! Then, you'll try 'em clothes on. Model them for me. How does that sound, bruv? It'll be a proper time, innit?"

Cheeks heated up as you nodded.

This was different to anything you had done before. One thing was to send and receive pics. But to get undressed in front of him? Sure, it was through a zoom meeting, but it felt so... Meaningful. So trascendental. Like this marked a before and after on your relationship with Kai. Were you truly ready for this?

You knew you would obey him. Not only because you wanted to. But also because you loved the idea of this ignorant sexy man giving you orders. A complete reversal of the real order of things. Were this in person, most would see you as above him.

No one had to know what you did in private.

First you shirt went off. A nice button up. It looked nice on you. Made you look professional.

Then the pants. Fancy dress pants. Somehow you knew they wouldn't look fancy at all if Kai was the one wearing them. Class and the features of his face were like water an oil. They repelled each other quite strongly.

Socks went next. You made sure to raise your feet up, so he got a view of how the nice dark fabric slid down your skin. Doing so for both feet.

Finally, your underwear. There was no reason not to get it off. He had already seen your dick before. And, besides, you were so hard right now that it was pointless to hide how excited you were from this. The bulge was so prominent enough it was impossible for Kai not to notice it.

Thus, you were naked. Kai was nodding, obviously appreciating the view. He was taking a drag from his cigarette.

"What a view, bruv. Yer a proper lookin' lad, so you are," he said, after exhaling the smoke. "Why don't ya turn around so I get to see ya whole, hmm? Gotta enjoy the view since I can't touch ya from here."

Biting your lip, you obliged.

You didn't go too fast. Allowing Kai some time to inspect your naked body. He whistled in approval, clearly enjoying this whole experience.

"The clothes, bruv. Try 'em on. It'll be like yer a proper chav like me. Promise ya that," he said, with a smile that should have made you pause.

Yet whatever hesitation or suspicion you may have had was utterly silenced by your horniness. The idea of becoming a chav, even if only as a role playing thing, was simply too arousing to ruin it with any kind of cynicism. Kai obviously couldn't have any ill intentions. What could he even do to you when he was on a completely different continent?

You took the Calvin Klein briefs. Were they real? Honestly, you couldn't say. They had to be new, right? But there were some flaws on the manufacturing that made you question that perhaps... Oh, who cared? This was about immersion, not perfect logic. So what if they were fake? Or if they were badly made? It would make the idea of becoming a chav all the more authentic.

Right?

They slid easily in place. Hugging your bottom very nicely. Playful, you moved your hips, showing your now clothed ass to the camera as you moved it from right to left.

And as you did so, your ass changed.

Both ass cheeks were inflating. Pushing the fabric outwards. It made you stop in shock. Looking at your own image on the zoom call, you witnessed your butt cheeks swelling. Until they were round, perfectly spherical. You now had an undeniable bubble butt. One of the nicest you've ever seen.

"This doesn't make any sense! What's happening to my butt...?" you asked, in shock. Was this a prank? Had Kai sent you boxer briefs with inflatable padding, or something of the sort?

A quick check was enough to prove that hadn't been the case. On the contrary, your butt had simply grown on its own. How? You had no explanation. Kai seemed awfully calm about it. Was he responsible? Or were you just imagining it?

Changes hadn't stopped however. For suddenly the briefs weren't as tight as they had become instant ago. You checked you ass, to see if the swelling had diminished to any degree, but no. Your new bubble butt remained unchanged.

That meant...

Looking at your bulge, you were devastated. As quickly as your ass had grown, your cock and balls were dwindling away! Hooking your thumbs on the waistband, you checked the damage. Whatever you had between your legs was not what you were familiar with. It was so small! An uncut tiny cock. Tiny even though it was as hard as it could be. It couldn't be more than three inches. Part of you feared it was closer to two!

And your balls? They had also shrunk. The whole ball sack higher and tighter. As if they had never dropped at all.

"Don't worry, bruv!" Kai said, with a grin that made you shudder. "I like my lads with tiny pricks. Makes 'em love my huge hog even more. Every one of 'em love to be dwarfed by me, honest!"

Shouldn't you be upset? Part of you was sure you should have. Yet Kai's words had made your devastation disappear as if it had never been there. Plus, it didn't matter how big your cock was. What mattered was how you used it. And since you liked guys like Kai to be in control... Well, you didn't need to use it for much beyond cumming.

No one needs a big cock for that. If anything, it may be easier to cum now than ever before...

"Put on the trousers now, luv!" he instructed, giving another drag to his cigarette.

Smiling... Because you were smiling for some reason, you followed his order. Taking the gray sweatpants, you put them on. Making sure the camera of your laptop was angled in such a way Kai could see you do it without any obstruction.

At first glance, the pants looked too big. Or maybe just too long? You just knew they wouldn't fit right. Not enough to complain. After all you were grateful that Kai had thought about giving you clothes to live your fantasy of being a chav. Even if just for pretend. If he had gotten the wrong measurement, it was an honest and easily forgivable mistake.

Yet, as you put them on... They seem to fit just right. It didn't make much sense, compared with the pants your had earlier. This pair was clearly longer and...

Why did the room feel smaller?

Checking your legs again, they looked longer. The fancy pair of pants... Of trousers look too small for you now.

Your legs weren't just longer, however. They had a really nice shape now. The shape of a man who plays soccer... No, football every weekend with his friends... Nice, well toned muscle, filled in the best of ways. Your thighs were just thick enough for your massive butt to make sense.

"What a sight, bruv. Yer shaping just right. Go on now. Get the shirt on, mate!" Kai said, distracting you again from your thoughts.

And so you put on the t-shirt. Immediately your physique began to change underneath. Lean, but in shape. Your pecs protruding enough to be considered as such. The t-shirt was tight, showing the trim shape of your torso exactly as it was now.

A sure bet was to say you spine had lengthened. The room looked smaller again. How tall were you now? Somehow you felt you had to be 6'1" feet tall. Maybe a bit more. Definitely not less.

Kai didn't let you get distracted with how much you had grown. He reminded you to keep putting on the clothes he had sent you. And so, you put on the jacket of the tracksuit. As you did, your arms changed. Although still lean, as the rest of your body, they filled with muscle. The muscles of a real man... The muscles of a working lad...

It was funny. Normally you would describe yourself as skinny. That wasn't inaccurate now. But, it was different. Now you were toned too. Trim. Like a man who wasn't just thin, no. You were strong. You were masculine. And you knew how to use these lean muscles when the occasion called for it.

Next were the socks. Kai reminded you. What would you do without him? He was so good at giving orders. It was so easy to just obey him, to just do whatever he wanted. Even if it was obvious. You were getting dressed, and your feet were still bare. Of course you needed your socks! But you hadn't thought about it yet. Not until he said to put them on.

Then the sneakers. They looked so much bigger than your usual shoes. In fact, they were next to each other. The sneakers were easily three sizes bigger. Surely they wouldn't fit? They had to be too big... There was no other possibility...

You hadn't given any of your measurements to Kai, now that you thought about it. Why had he bought you clothes? There was something weird about that, wasn't there? Then again, maybe he was just being nice... Kai always knew what to do... Why assume any ill intent?

Somehow, despite your scepticism, the sneakers were the right fit. They were huge, and yet... They weren't too big. If anything they felt a little snug. Well, you just had to break them in! All shoes were a bit snug at the beginning, weren't they?

"Yer almost ready, luv!" Kai said, as he finished his cigarette. "Only one thing left. Only one thing until you look like a proper chav!"

You laughed. Oh, how much you wanted to believe him! But you knew things didn't work that way. Clothes didn't make the man despite the saying. Your hair certainly was too dapper for that. Your eyes looked too intelligent. And you were healthy. Never smoked. Never drank. This was all pretend. Nothing more.

You took the chain in your hands. It was a nice one. Not something you'd consider using if it weren't for Kai's kindness and encouragement. Looking at the image of your face, as well as Kai's, on the screen of your laptop, you decided to put the chain on.

Eyes widened as soon as you did. It was unbelievable! Your face began to shift almost immediately! So did your hair!

The face was masculine, yet young. Younger than you were, at least. Not that you were old, at twenty three. You just felt younger, as if you had just turned twenty recently. The irises of your eyes had also changed. They were lighter now. Green? Blue? Maybe Gray? It didn't matter. Whatever color they now sported, it wasn't the usual brown you had grown up with.

Your new beard was something you felt proud of. Although, in your heart of hearts, you knew you shouldn't be. It clearly wasn't full, and it would take a lot of time to look like a proper beard. If ever. But it didn't matter how wispy your facial hair was. It was a way lf showing how manly you truly were. That was more valuable than anything.

As for your hair? You now had a fade. On the sides and the back. All the length was at the top. Still short, mostly messy. And you thought it was lighter too. Closer to blond than to black, even if it was still brown.

Overall, you were unrecognizable. Even to your own eyes, you didn't look like the American doing a post grad. But like the a regular chav from the UK. If you sat next to Kai at a pub, no one would see anything worth paying attention.

It was impossible to help the smile forming on your face. Your teeth! They were different too! Slightly crooked, not as white. They did look healthy overall, but in a more natural way. A guy with such teeth probably never needed braces.

"Woah, bruh! Look at that. I'm a proper chav now, innit?" you claimed, ecstatic.

Only to cover your mouth in shock. What was that? You hadn't intended to speak like a chav! In fact, any time you had tried to use the accent before—always alone—you did multiple and obvious mistakes. Your accent now was identical to Kai's!

Even the register was different. Deeper. Slower. Rumbly. With a lazy, almost clumsy way of saying each word.

"Bloody hell! Is that me voice, bruv?" you asked, looking at the screen, looking at the ever smiling Kai for any sort of explanation.

"It is, luv. So it is," he said, as if he was the wisest of men. "Exactly what ya wanted, I'm sure. To become one of the lads! And that I did, so I did."

Although the marvel you were feeling was great, that still gave you pause. What did he mean? How could he have done this? Magic wasn't a real thing, so it's not like...

Wait. Why were you denying magic's existence? You looked completely different! You sounded completely different! In no way you could recognize yourself anymore. No one could!

And... Why was it so hard to think about anything? Something here was fishy. It had to be. You just couldn't figure it out. A part of you knew it had to be obvious, yet any time the conclusion felt on your grasp, it just seemed to promptly fly away out of your reach.

"The package, me dafty!" Kai said, with a chuckle. "That's what changed ya, luv. I chose the clothes meself. It was like so great too. This clerk bloke told me I needed to see these magical clothes. That they'd 'life changing' or whatever. Didn't believe 'em. Why would I? But cheap it was, so I bought' em. Cheaper than any other clothes I e'er bought, bruv. And now I saw how it made you into a chav just like me! Well, almost... Couldn't have me fella be any smarter than me, could I, luv?"

Just like him...

No. That couldn't be true! Sure, the idea of becoming a chav was hot. But as long as it was skin deep. The way Kai described the transformation... It didn't sound so superficial. If your intelligence was on the line...

Your stomach plummeted. You were proud of your smarts. Of your effort, of your education. The idea of losing them was hot, certainly. But only as a fantasy. Actually experiencing it was a other matter entirely.

But were you really dumber? Perhaps Kai was just being cheeky. Laughing at your needless panic. There had to be a way of turning back right? There was no way Kai had transformed you permanently without asking you. And he had no way of telling of you were any stupider... Or did he? You couldn't be sure.

This had to be a role playing thing. It simply had to be.

"Don't worry, bruv. Don't stress that smooth brain of yers. Yer too thick now. And it's only going to get worse. Betcha ya don't even remember a thing 'bout what you've studied, huh?" Kai's voice was trying to be soothing, but they only felt chilling.

"I do remember!" you yelled, yet your deeper voice sounded uncertain. "I studied for years, bruv. Years! I ain't so thick as you say... I'm proper smart, I am! Like, for example..."

Suddenly your mind was blank. You couldn't remember a thing of what you've studied. Not even the basics. Even the most introductory of lectures had completely been erased from your brain.

You stepped back, unable to say a word. Eyes widened in panic. This couldn't be! You were smart! You were educated!

But were you?

Memories of going to college were quickly disappearing from your mind. The idea of doing a post grad was ridiculous. Not only because you were too young, but also because you couldn't even recall finishing high school anymore. Did you? Honestly you couldn't tell.

You just knew you didn't study for your A levels... Wait a minute! You weren't British! You'd never even have the chance to try those tests! Instead you had to... As all Americans, you had to...

What did you had to do? What did you do?

"Fuck, bruv! I can't... I can't remember shite," you said. "It's like I never went to college, bruv. What did ya do to me?"

"What ya wanted, luv," Kai replied, laughing. "Didn't ya say it? How hot ya thought us chavs were. How hot it'd be to become one of us. There's no point on complaining, mate. This is yer life now."

"That's not... It can't be true, bruv! It just can't!"

Your voice didn't sound convincing at all. It was hard not to simply believe was Kai was saying. Of course you liked the idea of being a chav. But only when it was a fantasy, when there weren't any real consequences. When you wouldn't lose everything just to embody this erotic drea..

"But it is, luv. Proper truth, I swear," Kai replied, taking a final drag of his cigarette, and then blowing the smoke towards the camera. "I can prove it, even. Try to tell me yer name. Just try. I assure ya, you won't remember it."

A smile formed on your lips. Of course you remembered your name. It was... It was... What was it?

"It's Jayden, bruv. It is now, that is," Kai said. "Suits ya. A good name for a proper chav such as yerself."

You shook your head. That wasn't your name! It couldn't be...

Yet every time you tried to remember your real name, none other appeared. Only Jayden. Your surname was different too. Something common. Something a working class lad could have that would not raise anyone's eyebrow.

"This can't be! It's not me name, bruv! I ain't a chav for real! It's the clothes, bruv! Just the clothes! I'm a smart fella! I'm American, bruv!"

It was almost worth a face palm. Until now you hadn't been able to think about removing your new clothes. You were transformed from wearing them. It was only logical that removing them would reverse the effects. Or so you sorely hoped.

Perhaps you hadn't thought about it because they were so comfortable... As if they were made for you to wear... As if it was the proper thing for you to wear... Why would you want to go back to your stuffy clothes?

No! That wasn't what you truly believed in! You had to take these clothes off. Pronto. There was no other way of returning to your original self.

"Just try, luv," Kai said, with a smirk that should be infuriating yet you couldn't help but find ridiculously hot. "Just try..."

Your hand immediately went to your pants trousers. You tried to pull them down and...

You weren't at home anymore.

In fact, you weren't even standing. Suddenly you were at the driver's seat of a car. How did you even get it in here? And when? It was so dark out. That didn't make sense. The sun was still up just a moment ago.

Kai's window showed it was night where he lived... Maybe...

No! That couldn't be it. You couldn't be suddenly transported to the UK, right? That was impossible. You were, like... How far was the US from the UK? It wasn't something you could remember, but at least you knew there was like a sea in between... Or was something else? Maybe a desert? That couldn't be right...

Bloody hell it was difficult to think!

Thankfully, the car was parked. Your level of agitation most certainly would have made you crash, otherwise. The question was: where were you? And why were you in this car?

It wasn't a nice car. Not only because it was dirty, with rubbish everywhere while also having an obnoxious cigarette smell. But also because the car looked old, and cheap. Something that had to be inherited, or bought second hand.

Looking outside, you were in the parking lot of an apartment building. Of a council state, to be precise. With a gulp, you left the car, wondering how would you get back home.

Or even if there was a home to return to.

Feeling lost, you leaned on the car. Your car, since you had the keys for it. It was locked now. It was your doing.

Not thinking about anything at all, you surprised yourself once you lighted a cigarette. Your new body was so used to the move, it hadn't required a conscious thought at all. It was almost scary.

Am I even myself? I can't recall a thing... Just Jayden, bruv... I'm just Jayden...

Such a thought made you crave the soothing feeling smoking gave. Closing your eyes, you surrendered yourself to this addiction an hour ago you would have not partaken in at all.

It felt so natural now.

"Oi! Jayden, luv! Why are ya all alone here, bruv? Let's go home, I need that mouth of yers on my prick," Kai said, standing next to you.

Kai... He was... Next to you.

That's impossible! He was in England and you... You... Where were you supposed to be? You knew you weren't British! That you weren't truly a chav! There had to be a way of...

His hand caressed your cheek. Your knees weakened, your eyes lost on the vulgar charm of his features. How handsome was he! How wonderful was he! Why would you be upset about him being close?

You were the best of mates. He was the love of your life. Shouldn't you be happy he's here with you? That he's generous enough to love you back?

"Kai..." you said, a stupid smile blooming on your face while a smirk appeared on his.

"Yes, it is me, ya dunce! Now let's go home, luv. I need yer pretty lips on my prick, not sucking a fag."

A part of you still thought about the other meaning of that last word. But as he guided you upstairs, you couldn't remember what it was supposed to be. No bother! It wasn't ike you were a smart guy, anyways. Kai probably knew. He always knew better than you did.

The apartment wasn't a surprise. Almost spartan due to how bare it looked. No decorations, minimal furniture. The only visible luxuries were a big TV, with a PS5 you and Kai were still paying with your job as binmen, as well as an old laptop with a just finished zoom call. Yet there wasn't a sofa, just two plastic chairs. There was some rubbish around, mostly boxes from takeout and used beer cans.

The bedroom wasn't any better. It was so messy. It smelled so bad... Yet how familiar and, thusly, comforting that felt! Dirty clothes everywhere, more beer cans, old gay porn magazines scattered on the floor. And the bed? Didn't have a frame. The sheets weren't properly in place.

They smelled like cum and sweat. And smoke. The best smells in the world, if anyone were to ask you!

"We're pigs," you said. It wasn't a complaint, nor a celebration. A simple statement of the facts. A declaration that felt almost too important for how simple it had been.

Kai looked at you with amusement.

"If it bothers ya, luv, ya can always act like a maid and tidy up. I'm chuffed with how things are, bruv. This is how men live proper. I won't move a finger to change a thing."

"It'd be bollocks, luv," you agreed, nodding with a dopey grin.

"So it is," Kai said, holding your face. "Now get in yer knees, and show me what that pretty mouth of yers can do."

And you did. You so did.

---

A week later, when you arrived home, you couldn't help but be remknded this hadn't always been your life. There had been a time when you weren't a dumb chav. You had been an intelligent American man, one who had dignity and a future.

That life was completely gone now. You had barely remembered it had happened this whole week. Since blowing Kai's cock that first night, you had not thought about who you used to be once. Not until now.

You should be frightened. You should be furious. You were about to be somebody, but now...

Now you're Kai's bruv. You're Kai's obedient pet. Always ready to please him, always ready to suck his huge dick (so much bigger than your own, which you loved), always ready to shag no matter the circumstance. Your ass was made to be claimed. So Kai said, and if he did, it had to be true.

Whoever you were before, it didn't exist anymore. You're now just Jayden. You always were and you always will be. Jayden, a dumb chav, destined to a life of poverty and ignorance. And a worshipful lover of Kai.

This was your biggest dream, back then. And now, it was also your truth. Until the day you died, and perhaps even beyond that.

But for now, you had to rest. The work day had been long, and you knew Kai would return. Horny and ready to use you as he liked.

You had wished for this, and you were too dumb to regret it.

Clint was warming up and stretching when he heard the first shout of his name, glancing over his shoulder Clint could see the football coach and Clint couldn't help but roll his eyes. He had heard the football team had lost a few of its members to injury and that the coach was looking to replace them and Clint could not think of anything worse. Clint was a track star, he had been sprinting the 400m for years and had won several national competitions. That's how he managed to get a scholarship to a top university along with a generous donation from his parents. There was no way he was going to lower himself and become a 'bulldog' and be around the other lumps of dumb muscle. Clint heard his name being called again and still he pretended like he didn't hear, once he was stretched out he would start running and there would be no way the dumpy little coach would catch up to him. However, if Clint had bothered to acknowledge the coach then he would have seen the already out of breath middle aged man jogging over to before standing in front of the sneering Clint.

"Clint Simmons? Yeah I thought it was you. I was calling ya champ, did you not hear me?" the coach said red-faced.

George adjusted his tie and got comfortable in his chair as the IT guy tapped away on his computer, as head of marketing and sales he was eager to get this new AI assistant programme some of the other department heads had been raving about. It was said to make organisation, spread sheets, emails and data analysis a breeze.

"There we are Mr Harris, the programme is installed and I have done most of the set but I have left the customisation for you to finish. Mr Higgins down the hall went with a woman with a sweet, southern sounding voice but I think you can create an avatar and everything."

"An Avawhat?" George said while raising an eyebrow at the man about to leave. Who was about to answer before George's human assistant walked in.

The first time Leo told me he could astral project, I didn't think much of it. My grandson had been living with me ever since his father—my son—went to prison, and though he was 20n now, he still had that same wild imagination he'd had as a kid.

Just last month, he'd been on about reincarnation, saying he remembered fragments of past lives. And before that, he was convinced our neighbor was running a smuggling ring out of his garage. Normally, I didn’t mind letting him ramble on. But lately, I was starting to get a bit tired of it.

Today, however, Leo seemed particularly insistent. “I’m serious, Grandpa. I can do it. Astral projection. It’s real.”

I scoffed. "Alright, then. Let’s do a little experiment."

"Sure, what kind of experiment?"

I reached over to a drawer and pulled out an old deck of cards, shuffling them a couple of times until I was satisfied. I fanned the cards out, then carefully picked one from the middle, holding it up so only I could see. “If you’re telling the truth, you should be able to ~float out of your body~ and go behind me to tell me what this card is,” I challenged, leaning back.

Leo took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, his shoulders relaxing in a way I’d never seen before. For a second, I actually thought he might’ve fallen asleep. But then, with his eyes still closed, he whispered, “Eight of spades.”

I froze.  Placing the card face up on the table—the eight of spades.

I forced a laugh. “Lucky guess. Let’s go again.”

Leo gave a small shrug and smirked. “Alright. Let’s.”

I shuffled the deck again, this time picking a card off the top. “Alright, wise guy,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “What is it?”

He closed his eyes again, barely a few seconds this time. “Three of hearts.”

I looked down at the card, and my stomach did a small flip. “Alright,” I said, trying to mask my surprise. “That was another good guess, I’ll give you that. Let’s see if you’re really up to it.”

This time, I picked three cards at once, spreading them face down on the table. “No way you’re getting all of these right,” I muttered, almost to myself.

But a few seconds later, He rattled them off without a second thought. “Queen of diamonds, five of clubs, ace of spades.”

I looked at each card in my hand, and they were all correct. My jaw dropped, and I couldn’t hide it. “Shit… wow,” I breathed. “Alright, kid, you got me. I believe you.”

Leo’s eyes opened, and he gave me a small, satisfied smile. “You want me to teach you how?”

My heart was pounding a little faster than usual. “You think I could?” I asked, half-joking but more curious than I wanted to let on.

Leo leaned forward, his face serious. “Yeah. But you have to really want to do it. Like, let go of everything. All those thoughts that keep you grounded here.”

"Let go of everything…" I repeated.

---

Over the next few weeks, Leo patiently taught me to master astral projection. At first, it felt like some sort of strange meditation. But gradually, I learned how to slip out of my physical body, just as Leo did, until I could stand beside myself, looking down at the slouched figure.

Each session, Leo and I would push the boundaries a little more. We couldn’t go too far since our astral projections only seemed to last about four hours at a time, and even then, we couldn’t travel much faster than a brisk jog. But I was fine with that; I wasn’t interested in dashing across the city, only in seeing how far I could push this strange new freedom.

When we’d reach the end of our limit and weren’t back in our bodies yet, something bizarre would happen. Our astral selves would start to get get pulled back, as if our bodies had a magnetic force calling us home. Those first few times, it was disorienting, hurtling back through space until I snapped back into my skin, breathless, my heart pounding. Leo explained that it was the body’s way of keeping us tethered, that if we stayed out too long, our astral forms would dissipate like smoke, and we’d cease to exist.

“Cease to exist?” I asked him one night, feeling the weight of that warning.

Leo nodded, his face solemn. “I haven’t pushed it that far, Grandpa. And I don’t think we should. The pull back gets stronger the closer we get to that limit. But if we ignore it…” He shrugged, letting the words hang in the air, dark and final.

Still, despite the risk, I found myself craving these nightly adventures. For the first time in years, I felt alive, truly alive. As someone who’d all but resigned myself to the slow, tired rhythms of old age, it was thrilling. But as our nights stretched on, I started to wonder about Leo’s fascination with this skill. He was young; he didn’t have a curfew, he didn’t have an old, weary body holding him back. He could be out living his life instead of hovering in ghostly form around the house or strolling through empty streets with his old grandpa. What was he getting out of this?

One night, as we settled into our chairs to begin our ritual, I glanced over at Leo’s body. He’d gotten comfortable, his head tilted back, his breathing already slowing, his eyelids fluttering shut. It struck me how young and full of life he looked, even when he was so still. I felt an odd pang of longing, a desire that surprised me in its intensity.

When had I last felt young? Truly young, without the weight of decades pressing down on my shoulders? What would it be like to feel like that one more time, to feel that boundless energy I saw in Leo.

As Leo’s breathing grew steady, his astral self drifting beside me, I looked back at his empty body, sitting there, vulnerable and untouched. The thought tugged at me, and for a moment, I felt an almost irresistible urge to reach out, take his body for myself just for one fleeting moment

---

The idea had been lingering in the back of my mind for weeks now. Every time I saw Leo drifting out of his body, the temptation grew a little stronger.

He was shy about his body, sure, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that felt like a betrayal somehow, slipping into him without asking. But there’s no way he’d ever say yes. Besides, I would be in and out before he’d ever know, right?

Finally, I gathered the courage. One evening, Leo announced he was heading out and asked me to join. “I’ll be back in a couple hours, wanna come with,” he said with a grin as he leaned back, his breathing slowing as he began the process.

I shook my head no, feigning sleepiness. “I’ll stay in tonight,” I replied. “I could use the rest.”

As his body drifted to sleep, I waited, counting each minute until I was sure his astral form was far enough away. Then, with my heart racing, I initiated my own astral walk and hovered towards his body .

A deep anticipation rushed over me as I prepared to enter. “Just a half hour, tops” I told myself.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to slip in as gently as possible. But something was wrong. As soon as I began, it felt as if I were pushing against a wall. I couldn’t just slide in like I usually did with my own body. I adjusted my position, aligning myself more carefully with his form, and tried again. This time, I felt a bit of give, and gradually, I was able to push through, inch by inch.

First my legs merged with his, then my torso. I felt the strength in his muscles as I took on his form. I kept pushing, my hands now matching his, aligning, filling out his arms, until finally, my head was nearly there, just hovering over his own.

But then, out of nowhere, I saw Leo’s astral form float towards me from across the room, his face a mixture of shock and fear. Me entering his body must’ve attracted his astral form back as a defense mechansim. Panic flared within me. If he re-entered his body while I was halfway in… I didn’t even know what would happen, but I didn’t want to find out. Before he could reach me, I shoved my head down, slipping fully inside.

---

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, I realized I was fully conscious—inside Leo’s body. My vision felt sharper, my muscles responsive, and as I looked down, I took in his smooth, toned arms, the strength and youth radiating through every limb. It was exhilarating.

I hopped up, feeling the lightness in my step that I hadn’t felt in years. Each movement was effortless, as if my body itself had forgotten what it meant to be heavy. I walked around the room, flexing his hands, rolling his shoulders, feeling every inch of youth as it coursed through me.

But then I felt something odd—a light tapping on my stomach, almost like a faint punch or a persistent nudge. Instinctively, I flexed Leo’s abs, the sensation dulling a bit, and that’s when it hit me. That tapping—that was Leo, trying to get his body back.

“Leo…” I whispered, feeling a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry, kid. I’ll be out soon, I promise.”

I let myself enjoy the feeling of his body, each sensation crisp and vivid. As I explored myself, I felt a familiar tension grow in my pants, one that I hadn’t felt in years. Instinctively, I reached down to my waistband and grabbed down to tug at my new, surprisingly hairy ball sack. That was enough to get my cock to throb.

I began stroking my new, uncut cock while feeling up my smooth torso with my other hand. As I did, my mind wandered to all the hot guys I could pull in this body if Leo ever let me borrow it again. Concentrating on that thought was all it took to send me over the edge. Slowly and sensually tugging at my shaft, I spurted all over my chest, completely draining mysefl.

Finally, as I lay back into the bed, a wave of satisfaction washed over me, leaving me feeling both exhilarated and calm. The room was warm and quiet, and with the last bit of energy fading from me, I felt a sudden drowsiness settle in. I lay down, and before I could convince myself to leave, I drifted into sleep, enveloped in the softness of youth and the quiet of Leo’s room.

--

I jolted awake, my heart racing as I felt hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me roughly. Blinking in confusion, I looked up—and there was my old, familiar face, creased with panic and rage, staring down at me.

“What the hell did you do?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and furious.

It took me a second to process, my mind still foggy from sleep. I tried to sit up, disoriented, and felt the youthful energy of Leo’s body springing into action, as if the night hadn’t worn it down in the slightest.

“What…” I managed, words failing me. But he kept going, too upset to wait for me to catch up.

“I had no choice but to take your body,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “Otherwise, I’d have just… disappeared. Astral projection doesn’t work for body swapping. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. I never told you that because I didn’t think you’d ever try something like this.”

The full weight of his words settled over me, each one hitting like a cold punch. “So… we can’t just switch back?”

He shook his—my—head, a bitter smile flashing across his face. “No. There's a refractory period before we can attempt any switch again. It’s designed to prevent exactly what you just did. We’d have to wait ten years before we could even try to go back.”

“Ten years…” I repeated, the words sinking in like stones in my stomach. My old body—now his—was 90. I knew my own heart, knew how every joint ached, knew how every year was harder than the last. The odds of it lasting another decade were slim to none.

The guilt knotted in my chest, sharp and sour. I opened my mouth to apologize, to try to explain, but the words caught in my throat. What could I even say?

But then, unbidden, a different thought crept in. In ten years, this body would be 30. That meant I had Leo’s—my entire 20s to live again, the years I’d once cherished and missed deeply. I looked down at my youthful hands, the strength and vitality I could feel coursing through every inch of Leo’s body, and felt a strange, conflicted thrill rise within me.

He must’ve noticed the shift in my expression, because his face—my old, familiar face—darkened. “Are you… are you happy about this?” he whispered, incredulous.

I shook my head, trying to fight the feelings rising up within me, but they were relentless. The shame of it burned hot, yet I couldn’t deny the excitement simmering just beneath.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my expression steady. “Leo,” I said softly, but I didn’t know how to finish.

He watched me, a flash of betrayal in his eyes as he seemed to understand, even without me saying it. And then, with a bitter laugh, he turned away.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. Fuck, this’ll be fun.

The air in my old room smells of old farts and defeat. I settle into bed, and the old mattress creaks under a weight I've never borne before. I feel the friction of my new, voluminous belly against my thighs, the constant tension in a back that has lost all muscle definition, the perpetual chill on a scalp that is now just smooth, hairless skin. Every morning I wake up expecting it to be a nightmare, and every morning reality hits me in the form of this fifty-four-year-old, bald, overweight body.

Moving back to my parents' house was the most humiliating thing. This accountant's body, the Robert "Bob" Jenkins body, couldn't afford the rent on my loft. My protein and gym sponsorships... our sponsorships... evaporated as soon as people saw what I had become.

But the worst wasn't the material. It was Jenna's look, filled with confusion and then pure revulsion when I tried to explain that it was me, Kyle, trapped inside this... shell of grease and gray hair. "Kyle, this isn't healthy. You should get help," she said before blocking me everywhere. My friends, my gym brothers, just make excuses now. "Uh, dude, we're just really busy," they say on the phone, and I can hear the discomfort in their voices as they speak in the deep, breathy voice of an older stranger. Even my own parents tiptoe around me. Mom avoids eye contact, and Dad only talks to me about the weather, unable to connect with the older man who claims to be the son he was so proud of.

With a frustrated growl coming hoarse from this alien throat, I grab my laptop. I need to wallow in my misery. I navigate to my old Instagram profile, @KyleTheTitan.

And there I am. Or rather, there he is. Bob, I guess his new young brain acted quickly and changed my social media passwords. It should have been easy; he had my phone number and my face.

The photo is a stab. My V-shaped torso, my rock-solid biceps, my chiseled abs, all dressed up like a suit by that grinning imposter. He's wearing only tight gym shorts and holding a tub of the protein I helped promote. The headline reads: "New horizons! Grateful for this second chance and for my partners at @FlexFuelNutrition who believe in me #SwapCorpSurvivor #StrongerThanEver."

I feel a fierce nausea burning in my stomach, a stomach that is now soft and round. That body was my temple, my identity. I shaped it with years of sacrifice, pain, and discipline. And now that financial softie, Bob Jenkins, is there, grinning like a fool, taking in all the glory, endorsements, and health insurance showering the "innocent victims of the Incident."

Rage courses through my veins, but it's followed by a much stranger and more treacherous feeling. As I stare at the screen, admiring every muscle cut I've carved, an intense and completely involuntary arousal begins to grow in my groin, swelling against the restrictive fabric of these hideous polyester pants my father lent me.

I look down, with horror and a hint of fascination. An erection, firm and insistent, deforms the fabric. It's this old, rejected body responding to the sight of my own former body, a body everyone desired and now no one denies Bob. The disconnect is so surreal it almost makes me dizzy. I hadn't touched myself in months, my enormous, hairy balls swollen from the withdrawal from accepting this perverse reaction. The confusion is total.

Suddenly, a notification pops up in the corner of the screen. An alert from a local news network.

"Protest outside SwapCorp offices: Victims call for halt to 'cure' research"

My heart pounding in a way this new body finds alarming, I click.

The video plays, showing a crowd in front of SwapCorp's glass building. And there, in the front row, with my powerful chest puffed out and my voice, now strangely modulated with the conviction of a middle-aged man, shouting into a megaphone, is Bob Jenkins.

"Our bodies are not experiments!" shouts the muscular figure that was once me. "This body is mine now! It's a gift. SwapCorp must stop its dangerous quest to reverse the process. We demand to be acknowledged and left alone! My name is Kyle, and this is my body!"

The crowd cheers. Camera flashes illuminate Bob's defined pecs as he struts in front of the camera with a charismatic smile, the gaze of a crowd of men and women never leaving him.

I sat frozen in my teenage bedroom, mesmerized by the live action. Before I knew it, my cock was out of my pants, and my hand was pumping up and down. The smell of my old cock filled my room, and sticky precum lubricated my fingers until my cock exploded, completely staining my laptop screen.

Completely in ecstasy, lying on my bed and completely exhausted, all I could hear was my old voice on the computer.

"Yeah, I think I'm putting this body to better use. I'm sure the real Kyle thinks so."

---

Hey, hello again! I hope you haven't forgotten me. I just wrote my first story since my return and posted it on Ko-fi. Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this old story from my archives. See you sooner than you think!

Max was 18 years old, just finished high school, and felt like he was in a cage. His parents had dragged him on this family vacation to Turkey—Antalya, to be precise. "Education and culture!" they had said. But for Max, that meant endless hours in stuffy museums, standing in front of ancient statues wondering why he couldn't just chill on the beach. Or scrambling around ruins where the sun beat down mercilessly and his mother constantly took photos. "Look, Max, that's from the Byzantine era!" Yeah, great. He was bored to death.

On this one day, he had enough. The family was staying in a hotel on the outskirts of the city, with a pool and all the trimmings, but his parents were already planning the next excursion: some ancient city, hours away. Max woke up with a plan. "I don't feel well," he whined at breakfast. "Sunstroke, I think. Everything's spinning." His mother felt his forehead, his father grumbled something about too much phone time, but they bought it. "Rest up, we'll be back in the evening," they said and left.

As soon as they were gone, Max slipped out of the hotel room. He had money in his pocket—allowance he'd saved—and the city was waiting. Antalya pulsed: markets, street vendors, tourists in flip-flops. He wandered through the alleys, ate an ice cream, flirted half-heartedly with a few girls on the beach. But he wanted something lasting, something cool. In a side street, he found a small shop full of jewelry, clothes, and tourist stuff. Behind the counter stood an old man who eyed him.

"Nice chain there," Max said, pointing to a thick gold chain gleaming in the window. Fake gold, obviously, but it looked like something from a rap video. "How much?" The seller grinned. "For you, young man, 50 Lira." Max paid, took the chain in his hand. It was heavier than expected, with a strange shine that almost pulsed in the shop's light. He hung it around his neck, and immediately felt a tingling as the cold metal chain touched his skin. It was like an electric current shooting through his body, starting from his chest, up to his head and down to his limbs.

Suddenly, everything spun. The shop began to blur, the shelves with T-shirts and souvenirs merged into a swirling sea of colors. Max grabbed the counter for support, but his fingers felt numb. His memories flickered like old film strips tearing: The classroom in Germany, the rain in Berlin, his parents packing suitcases. "What...?" he muttered, but his voice sounded foreign, deeper, with a hint of accent. His head throbbed as if someone was stirring inside it. Images flooded him—not his own. A market in Antalya, laughter with friends, the smell of doner and sea. Germany? The word felt distant, like a fading dream. His muscles tensed, as if his body was growing, changing. He felt his arms getting thicker, his chest broader, his skin darker in tone. The mullet haircut he never had suddenly fell into his forehead. The chain glowed hot, almost burning, and with every heartbeat, a piece of Max dissolved. Panic rose in him, but it was drowned by a wave of euphoria—freedom, adventure, the pulse of the city. "No, wait..." he whispered, but the words turned into laughter, a confident, Turkish laughter.

When he blinked, everything was different. He was now called Emir. No more Max. Emir, 19, a Turkish tough guy with a mullet haircut that always sat perfectly. His parents—not the German ones, no, his real parents—owned this shop. The small store in the old town where they sold tourist stuff: chains, T-shirts, souvenirs. Mom was in the back sorting goods, Dad sat at the counter smoking a cigarette. "Emir, help with the flyers!" Dad called. Emir nodded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

His daily life? During the day, he distributed flyers for his big brother, who had a bar on the waterfront promenade. "Karaoke Night! Cheap Drinks! Come to 'Beach Breeze'!" it said. Emir jogged through the streets, pressed them into the hands of laughing tourists, winked at the pretty ones. He was fit, muscular from weightlifting in the backyard—no wonder, with that life. In the evenings, he helped out in the bar: washing glasses, tapping beer, watching the crowd. But the best part? Checking out the tourists. The sexiest ones who came in with their bikinis and sunglasses, looking for adventure.

There was this blonde Swede yesterday—or was it the day before? She had laughed when he bought her a drink. "You look like a model," she said. Later, in the dark alley behind the bar, they did it, wild and fast. Or the Frenchman last weekend, who had devoured him with looks. Emir was flexible—fuck or get fucked, as long as it was fun. No strings attached, just the kick of the night. His chain dangled, the fake gold that brought him luck. Or was it a curse? Whatever, it felt right.

[a reward story for someone who wrote me a hot tf scenario]

---------

You sat in the park on your break from work, staring at your driver's license. Trying to remember if another name had been written there before hand, if the picture was every different. You couldn't put your finger on it but you had this nagging feeling like it used to be different, like you used to be different.

---

A week ago you remember going on a small sail boat cruise, just spending 3 days on a sail boat on a lake, nothing too extreme, but you dont remember YOU being there.

The day started off pretty normal, with you getting on the boat with a few mates, but you don't remember what you looked like in the mirror that morning. You remember sailing out and sitting on a chair feeling the sun beat down on your face making you sweat and tan, which was almost impossible for your arab complexion.

maybe you didn't tan, maybe your skin was always this dark, but you do remember your body itching like crazy, and hair sprouting all over your legs arms and chest, you remember being smooth before going sailing but...no you had always been this hairy, your arab heritage made sure of that.

Something you do remember though is the feeling of swelling strength as your biceps started hugging you sleeves and your pecs pressed out on the fabric until the buttons split open and your muscular body heaved out of it...

You remember because crew member brought you a new pair of clothes because yours had been destroyed...by..destroyed by....you couldn't remember you probably just split some wine or food on the shirt, plus the clothes the crew brought you fit your perfectly and they were from your bags so...surely your body hadn't changed at all.

You remember the clothes fit perfectly and they had to be yours because you were able to take them home, they suited your body perfectly, almost tailor made so there was no way you could have changed, you didn't change, you couldn't have...besides if you changed why did you remember being arab your entire life.

There was definitely no way you could have changed, if you had your friends would have been shocked and lost their minds, not making fun of the small but potent amount of BO constantly hanging in your pits and pointing out the sweat marks on your tank top around your lats, no this is the stuff they have done to you since your first year of uni.

yeah...nothing out of the ordinary here.

----

You sit in the park staring at your drivers license and chuckle as you slap it rapidly against your palm, maybe you were working too hard. It would be impossible for you to of changed over a weekend trip and had the entire world change with you.

You no, often the simplest answer is the truth, You had always been named Hamza, you had always been like this, you just needed a break from work is all.

The old wooden sign reading “Blackthorn Lake House” still hung crookedly from the rusted iron post at the end of the long gravel driveway, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. Joey’s truck rattled over the familiar potholes as the two men drove in silence for the last stretch. It was late May, the air thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and blooming wildflowers. Duncan stared out the passenger window, one elbow resting on the door, his expression unreadable.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Joey finally said, breaking the quiet. “Coming back here after all these years.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “Fifteen years. I still remember the last summer we spent here like it was yesterday. Mum cried for weeks after we left. She couldn’t even look at the place again.”

I adjusted my glasses and leaned back in my office chair, the glow of my monitor lighting up my face. It was our twelfth session. Sohil’s video feed filled most of the screen. He was shirtless again, sitting in his gaming chair in is room, one thick arm draped lazily over the backrest. His dark chest hair was still slightly damp, like he’d just come back from the gym.

Sohil Kapoor. Thirty-two. Bisexual. Sex addict.

At least that’s what he called himself.

“Evening, Dr. Reddin,” he said with that familiar half-smirk. His voice had that deep, easy confidence that always carried a hint of mischief.

“Hello, Sohil,” I replied calmly, keeping my tone professional. “How have things been since our last session?”

He let out a tired laugh and ran a hand through his messy black hair. “Same old shit. Made it nine days this time with this guy I really liked… then I fucked his best friend in the parking lot after drinks.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to think there’s something actually broken in me. Like physically. Other people can control themselves. I can’t. Its like my dick has its own fucking brain.”

I nodded, listening carefully. I’d heard variations of this from him for months now. His friends had pushed him into therapy after yet another destroyed relationship. He was charming, successful, and objectively very attractive — which only made the pattern more destructive.

“We’ve discussed open relationships,” I said. “You mentioned your last attempt didn’t go well.”

“Yeah, because even with permission I still broke every rule. Especially the condom one. I need to feel it raw. The second there’s latex I lose half the sensation and it just… doesn’t do it for me.” He sighed heavily.

I paused, tapping my pen against my notepad. We had made some progress, but it was slow. Too slow. I knew it was time to suggest something more radical.

“Sohil,” I said carefully, “I’d like to propose an unconventional treatment option. One I only use in really rare cases.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the camera. “What is it?”

I met his eyes through the screen.

“Body swapping. A temporary therapeutic exchange. I would enter your body, and you would enter mine. It would allow me to experience your impulses and urges directly. To understand the intensity of what you’re dealing with from the inside. That level of insight could help me develop far more effective strategies for managing your compulsions.”

Sohil stared at me for a long moment, his mouth slightly open.

“You’re… serious?”

“Very,” I said. “It’s not without risks, and it’s not something I suggest lightly. But after six months, I believe this may be what we need to make real progress.”

I watched his face carefully. There was surprise, hesitation… and something else.

He swallowed visibly.

“Ok… so when can we do it?”

---

The following week, we logged onto our scheduled Zoom session. Sohil appeared on my screen looking unusually tense, sitting in the same spot on his couch.

“How are you feeling about the swap? Are you ready?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and clinical.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly? Nervous as hell. But also… kind of excited? I’ve been like this my whole adult life. If you can actually feel what it’s like in here,” he gestured to his own body, “maybe you’ll finally get it. Maybe you can help me fix it.”

We spent most of the session discussing boundaries, consent, and the temporary nature of the procedure. Toward the end, I walked him through the final steps.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

Sohil nodded. “Let’s do it.”

We both initiated the swap through the secure therapeutic portal. There was a bright flash across my screen, a dizzying rush, and then everything shifted.

When my vision cleared, I was no longer looking at my monitor from my office chair.

I was looking at it from Sohil’s couch.

A massive wave of heat crashed over me instantly. My — his — cock thickened rapidly in my pants, throbbing with urgent need. The intensity was staggering. My thoughts grew hazy as raw, aggressive horniness flooded my system. I gripped the edge of the couch, trying desperately to maintain professional composure.

On the screen, Sohil — now in my body — let out a long, relieved exhale. He adjusted my glasses and smiled softly.

“Wow… I can actually think,” he said, sounding lighter than I’d ever heard him. “No constant noise in my head. This is… peaceful.”

I forced a professional tone, even as my new cock continued to pulse insistently between my legs. “That’s… excellent, Sohil. So as I said, we’ll remain in these bodies for the next few weeks. This will give me time to fully understand your urges and begin implementing strategies while I’m in your body. We can get your physical routines and habits started on the right track.”

As I spoke, my eyes drifted down to the screen — to the slight cleavage visible in the blouse I had been wearing. God, is that really how he saw me every session? I made a mental note to dress far more modestly once we swapped back.

Sohil cleared his throat. “Dr. Reddin?”

I blinked, snapping back to attention. “Sorry. I lost my train of thought for a moment.” I continued explaining the plan, trying to sound composed, but the throbbing between my legs was becoming unbearable.

Under the table, my hand moved almost on its own. I unbuttoned Sohil’s pants, wrapped my fingers around his thick, hard cock, and started stroking slowly. The pleasure was overwhelming. I kept talking, voice slightly strained, while pumping faster, getting dangerously close to the edge.

“…and we’ll check in regularly to monitor progress,” I finished, barely holding it together.

“Sounds good,” Sohil said, nodding in my body.

I ended the call as quickly as possible.

The second the screen went black, I let out a shaky breath. Not even thirty seconds later, I came hard. Thick ropes of cum shot across the underside of the table as Sohil’s cock pulsed violently in my hand. My vision whited out for a moment from the intensity.

I sat there panting, staring at the mess I’d made.

Damn… this guy’s body was horny.

Sohil hadn’t been exaggerating at all.

---

Over the next couple of days, I tried to resist.

I really did.

But Sohil’s body had other plans.

The first morning I put on one of his tight black t-shirts. The fabric stretched across his broad chest and hugged his biceps perfectly. Just the feeling of the material clinging to my new arms as I moved sent a low throb through my cock. I had to sit down for a minute and breathe through it.

Later that afternoon I went for a walk. A light breeze picked up and rippled his loose tank top against my chest. The soft fabric dragged across my nipples and I instantly hardened in my shorts. I had to stop and pretend to tie my shoe just so I could adjust myself discreetly.

At the grocery store, a young woman in a slightly low-cut top reached for something on a high shelf. The way her breasts pressed together as she stretched made my mouth go dry. I stood there frozen for several seconds, staring, before I forced myself to look away. My cock was already half-hard in my sweatpants.

Then there was my neighbor — a tall, muscular guy who walked out shirtless to grab his mail. The sight of his defined chest and abs glistening in the sun made something primal surge through me. I stood at the window watching him longer than I should have, my hand unconsciously pressing against the growing bulge in my pants.

Every single time, no matter how minor the trigger, I ended up painfully hard.

And without fail, the moment I got home I went straight to Sohil’s bedroom. I’d strip down completely naked, climb onto his bed, and wrap my hand around his thick cock. I’d stroke myself furiously, sometimes for less than five minutes, before I came hard — thick loads splattering across my hairy stomach and chest.

Yesterday I made it through the entire day without touching myself until I got home. Today I only lasted until 2 PM before I was back in his room, pants around my ankles, jerking off like a man possessed while staring at myself in the full-length mirror.

This body was insatiable.

I thought going to the gym might help burn off some of the constant energy. But it just made everything worse.

The moment I walked into Sohil’s gym wearing one of his tank tops and shorts, I felt eyes on me. His body drew attention — broad shoulders, thick arms, the way his chest hair peeked out from the neckline. Every time I lifted weights, the pump in my biceps and pecs made my cock twitch. The burn in my muscles somehow translated straight into arousal.

By the third set of bench presses I was fully hard. I had to practically sprint to the locker room stalls. I locked myself in one, dropped my shorts, and jerked off furiously, biting my lip to stay quiet. I came in under two minutes, shooting against the stall door. Even after that, I was still half-hard.

Even then I couldn’t control myself. I started approaching people — a pretty woman doing squats in tight leggings, a muscular guy checking himself out in the mirror. I was way too forward. Told the woman she had an incredible ass and asked if she wanted to grab a smoothie after her workout. Told the guy his arms looked strong and offered to spot him… then immediately suggested we spot each other somewhere more private. Both of them gave me polite but very clear rejections.

I stood there in the middle of the gym, Sohil’s face flushed with embarrassment and lingering arousal, realizing how desperate I must have looked. This body didn’t just want sex — it craved it constantly, and it had no filter.

---

By day six, I was losing the battle.

After another humiliating rejection at the gym and two more desperate jerk-off sessions at home, I gave in and downloaded Grindr on Sohil’s phone.

The app opened and immediately flooded the screen with nearby profiles. Shirtless torsos, hard cocks, hungry stares. Within minutes the messages started pouring in.

“Damn dude you’re hot as fuck.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Hosting right now if you wanna come through.”

I told myself I was just researching. Just trying to understand the scale of his compulsions. But my cock was already rock hard as I scrolled through the endless stream of willing men.

There were so many. Hot guys. Fit guys. Hung guys. Some wanted to fuck me. Most wanted me to fuck them.

I started chatting with one guy — mid-20s, muscular, only two blocks away. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sent him a face pic and told him I could be there in ten minutes.

The moment I stepped into his apartment, any last shred of professional restraint vanished. He barely had the door closed before I had him pinned against the wall, kissing him hard. Within minutes I had him bent over his couch, fucking him raw and deep while he moaned loudly.

It felt incredible.

The power, the heat, the raw physical pleasure of pounding into someone with Sohil’s thick cock — it was overwhelming. I came hard inside him, groaning as I filled him up. He asked if I wanted to go again. I did.

I ended up staying for almost two hours.

When I finally left, legs shaky, I felt a strange mix of shame and satisfaction. On the walk home my cock was already stirring again at the memory.

That night I opened Grindr again.

---

After a few days of nonstop Grindr hookups — sometimes two or three different guys in a single day — the novelty started to wear off. The sex was good, intense even, but something was missing.

I needed pussy.

Tinder proved much slower and more frustrating. The matches came in, but the back-and-forth flirting took time I didn’t want to waste. My patience was nonexistent in this body.

I knew it was a terrible idea. Unethical. A complete violation of every professional boundary. But the urge was louder than reason.

I opened the camera on Sohil’s phone and took a series of thirst traps — shirtless in the mirror, flexing his biceps, one with his hand pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants just enough to show the thick base of his cock. I sent them to my own number.

The message I typed made my stomach twist even as I hit send:

“I know you want to get fucked by yourself. I just know you want to feel your old cock deep in that pussy.”

I stared at the sent messages, heart racing.

Three dots appeared, then stopped. Then appeared again.

Before he could reply, the images and words hit me like gasoline on a fire. I was so turned on I couldn’t wait. I shoved my pants down, wrapped my hand around Sohil’s throbbing cock, and jerked off furiously on the couch to the fantasy of fucking my own body. I came hard within minutes, groaning loudly as thick ropes of cum splattered across my hairy chest.

The second the orgasm faded, cold reality crashed down on me.

What the hell did I just do?

I quickly sent a string of apologetic messages:

“I’m so sorry. That was completely inappropriate.” “I lost control. That was unprofessional and wrong.” “Please forgive me.”

Sohil (in my body) replied a few minutes later:

“No worries doc lol. I understand exactly what that feeling is like. Trust me.”

I let out a shaky breath, still half-hard despite just cumming.

“I’m going to figure this out,” I typed back, trying to sound more in control than I felt. “I’m going to find a real way to help you manage these urges. I promise.”

I set the phone down and looked at myself in the mirror — Sohil’s muscular, hairy body staring back at me, cum still drying on my abs.

---

I tried to resist.

I really, really tried.

I deleted Grindr twice. I went to the gym and forced myself to focus only on lifting. I tried meditation apps, cold showers, even jerking off six times in one day just to take the edge off. Nothing worked. The horniness always came back stronger, like a constant buzzing under my skin that refused to be ignored.

One night, I put on one of Sohil’s tight black shirts and a pair of fitted jeans and went to a gay bar downtown. The place was packed and loud. Within twenty minutes I locked eyes with a cute, twinky guy in his mid-twenties with messy light brown hair, smooth skin, and a hungry look in his eyes. He was exactly my type.

We barely spoke.

I walked straight up to him, grabbed him by the waist, and pulled him in for a rough kiss. He melted against me immediately. No names. No small talk. I took his hand and led him straight to the bathroom.

The moment the stall door locked, I spun him around, yanked his pants down, and shoved him forward against the wall. I pulled my own cock out, barely taking time to spit on it before I pushed inside him.

“Fuck…” he moaned loudly as I sank in deep.

I started thrusting hard, one hand gripping his hip, the other braced against the stall wall. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the small space.

“Sohil… fuck, Sohil,” he gasped, moaning my — Sohil’s — name.

A dark thrill shot through me.

“Fuck yeah,” I growled, pounding into him harder.

“Sohil… oh my god—”

Hearing him moan while I was balls-deep inside him made something primal take over. I fucked him with long, powerful strokes, gripping his waist tight as I drove into him again and again.

I didn’t last long. The way his tight hole clenched around my thick cock — it was too much. I buried myself deep and came hard, groaning as I filled him up.

I was still catching my breath, cock softening inside him, when reality started to crash back in.

The guy I had just raw-fucked in a public bathroom stall was Drew — one of my other therapy clients. Mid-twenties, gender-questioning, sweet but anxious. I had been seeing him for months. I had been too horny to even recognize him until now.

Then it hit me.

He had been moaning “Sohil” the entire time.

I never told him my — Sohil’s — name.

I pulled out slowly, heart pounding for a completely different reason now.

“Do we… know each other?” I asked, voice rough.

The guy — Drew — turned around with a lazy, satisfied grin that looked completely out of place on his face. He looked me up and down, eyes lingering on Sohil’s cock.

“I think I would recognize my own former body,” he said casually. “And damn… its dick feels good. I get why people put up with me even though I was such a cheater.”

I froze.

“Wait… Sohil?”

He smirked. “Hey, Doc.”

I stared at him — at my client’s body — in complete disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing in Drew’s body?”

Sohil (in Drew’s smaller, twinky frame) shrugged, still breathing hard from getting fucked.

“Drew’s been seeing you too, right? He’s been talking about wanting to transition for a while. Really wanted a woman’s body to start figuring shit out. So I offered him a swap. He gets your body — soft, feminine. I get his cute little gay body with way less constant horniness. Win-win.”

He reached down and gave Sohil’s cock — my current cock — a playful squeeze, still slick from being inside him.

“I’ve been having a great time, honestly. This body is so much easier to manage. I can actually think straight. I could get used to this. Could maybe even see myself getting into a relationship. Meanwhile, you’ve been living my old life…” He raised an eyebrow. “How’s that been going for you, Doc?”

I stood there, pants still open, cum slowly leaking down Drew’s thigh, trying to process everything.

Sohil in Drew’s body just smiled sweetly.

“By the way… you fuck really good in my body.”

My cock twitched and started hardening again almost immediately, still slick from being inside him. I was furious — at Sohil, at myself, at this entire situation — but the anger only seemed to make the arousal worse. The rational part of my brain was screaming that I needed to stop, to think clearly, to regain control.

But Sohil — or Drew, or whoever the hell he was right now — was right here. Convenient. Already bent over, his hole glistening with my cum, still slightly open and twitching.

I grabbed his hips and pushed back inside him in one smooth thrust.

“Fuck, Doc,” he moaned in Drew’s lighter voice, pushing back against me. “Round two already?”

I didn’t answer. I just started fucking him again, harder this time, my hips slapping against his ass. The wet, filthy sound of my cock sliding through my own load filled the stall. Every thrust felt better than the last. My mind was fogging over again, thoughts becoming slippery and unfocused.

We could switch it all back… if only…

I tried to hold onto the thought, but it kept sliding away.

If only… what was I trying to do again?

The question dissolved as pleasure took over. I gripped his waist tighter and pounded into him, grunting with each deep stroke. Sohil in Drew’s body moaned loudly, clearly loving every second.

“God, you really can’t control it, can you?” he gasped between thrusts, sounding amused. “Feels good though, doesn’t it?”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to pull out and walk away. But instead I fucked him even harder, chasing that building pressure again, my balls tightening as I got closer to another orgasm.