Swap Box

Theo's POV

I never thought my twelfth birthday would end with doctors asking if my twin brother could move into my head, but that’s exactly how it went down.

Carson and I were identical twins—same messy brown hair, same green eyes, same smirk when we were up to no good. But I was the one tearing around the neighborhood on my bike, getting picked first for pickup games, and cracking jokes that had teachers shaking their heads with a grin. Carson was the quiet one. Smarter in that bookish way. He’d rather build massive Lego cities than chase a soccer ball, but we still did everything together. Until we didn’t.

I heard most of it secondhand. Mom pulled me into the hallway outside Carson’s hospital room, eyes red and puffy. Dad stood beside her, arms crossed so tight his knuckles were white, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him.

“The doctors say the disease is tearing up his nervous system,” Mom said, voice cracking. “They want to put him in a medically induced coma so his body can rest and try to heal. But Carson… he lost it when they told him. But he doesn't really have a choice.”

I shifted my weight. “So now what?”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s this experimental procedure they’re testing. They can transfer his consciousness into another living person—share the body.”

I stared at them. “Share… with who?”

Mom glanced at Dad before answering. “They offered your father or you. Carson picked you, Theo.”

My stomach did a weird flip. “Me?”

Mom squeezed my shoulder. “It’s temporary, sweetheart. A few months at most. He’s been through hell already—the tests, the pain, missing everything. He just wants to feel normal again. Run around, play outside, be a kid. You two can switch who's in control whenever. The doctors swear it’s safe.”

I looked down at my sneakers. Part of me wanted to say no. This was my body. My life. I was the one who had soccer practice, who got invited to sleepovers, who everyone at school knew as the fun twin. But Carson was lying in that room looking small and scared, and the guilt they were laying on me was heavy.

“He really chose me?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Without hesitation.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay. If it helps him get better… yeah. He can share with me.”

Mom pulled me into a hug so tight it hurt. “Thank you, Theo. You’re a good brother.”

---

They didn’t waste time. The next afternoon, after a bunch of tests and forms that our parents signed, they brought Carson and I to a procedure room. He looked pale and nervous, but when he looked at me he gave a weak smile.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice small.

I tried to sound like my usual confident self. “Dude, it’s gonna be weird, but we’ll figure it out.”

The doctors placed the sensor bands on both our heads, explained the controls one more time—basically a mental “push” to switch who was driving—and started the process.

I felt a strange buzzing behind my eyes, like static in my skull. Then everything went fuzzy for a second.

When it cleared, I was still in my body… but I wasn’t alone.

I could feel him there. Not like a voice exactly, more like another presence in the back of my mind. Quiet. Waiting.

Hey, I thought, testing it. You there?

Carson’s reply came through hesitant but clear. Yeah. This is so strange.

Out loud I said, “Okay, this is officially the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us.”

The doctors asked if we could switch. Carson mentally nudged me over, the way they’d described, and suddenly I was… watching. My own hands moved without me telling them to. Carson sat up straighter, looked around the room with my eyes, and smiled—my smile, but softer, the way only Carson smiled.

“Cool,” he said with my voice. “I can feel everything.”

He flexed my fingers, then reached up and touched my face like he was making sure it was real.

After a minute he receded, and I was in control again.

---

The first couple of months were weird, but not as bad as I thought they’d be.

Carson stayed mostly quiet in the back of my head. He almost never asked to take over. I’d feel him there, watching everything—soccer practice, riding bikes with the neighborhood kids, laughing at lunch with my friends—but he was happy just riding along. Like a normal kid again.

This is awesome, he’d think sometimes when I was kicking a ball around or eating pizza after a game. That was about it. No big conversations, no fighting over control. I’d offer to switch sometimes, but he’d always say he was good. I kept living my life, and he got to tag along without anyone knowing. It actually felt kind of nice having him there. Like old times, but quieter.

Then things started to go sideways when we found out his body wasn't getting better.

At first it was just small updates from the doctors. “Some setbacks.” “Slower progress than we hoped.” Mom would come home from the hospital looking drained, and Dad would sit at the kitchen table staring at nothing. I could feel Carson getting more tense in the back of my mind, but he still didn’t say much.

By month four, the hope was gone. The disease had done too much damage. Carson’s body wasn’t going to wake up the way they wanted. Not ever.

We had the conversation as a family one night after dinner. Mom and Dad looked wrecked. I sat there with my arms crossed, trying to act like the strong one.

“We can’t put him back in there just to die,” Dad said quietly.

Mom nodded, eyes wet. “The doctors say… it could be any day now. Or it could drag on for weeks. But there’s no recovery.”

I felt Carson shift inside my head. Not words, just a heavy kind of sadness.

“So what?” I asked. “He just stays with me forever?”

Dad looked at me. “For now, yeah. Until we figure something else out. You’ve already been doing it for months, Theo. You’re handling it like a champ.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. But every time I thought about shoving Carson back into a dying body, I felt sick. He was my brother. My twin.

“Yeah,” I said finally, keeping my voice steady. “We’ll keep sharing. It’s fine.”

Carson didn’t say anything, but I felt a small wave of gratitude from him.

A week later, Carson’s body died in the coma.

The funeral was on a gray Tuesday. I was wearing the itchy black suit Mom made me put on. My friends from school had come, and a bunch of relatives I barely knew kept patting my shoulder and saying how sorry they were.

Suddenly, I felt Carson surge forward without warning. My body stood there completely still while the casket went down. No tears, no shaking, just staring straight at the grave with my face set hard.

Carson? I thought. Hey, talk to me.

Nothing. He didn’t answer. I tried for the first time to force my way back into control of my body, but he didn't let me. Didn’t even seem to notice I was there. He just kept control. It was almost as if his presence was stronger in my head than mine was.

For the next three days he stayed in charge. He went to school as me, sat through my classes, answered when teachers called on him. He even played soccer at recess, but quieter than I usually did. My friends noticed something was off and asked if I was okay. Carson just shrugged and said, “Yeah, I’m good.”

I tried to take over every night when we were alone. He blocked me every time. No explanation. No conversation. Just silence.

By the fourth day, he finally let me push through while he was brushing my teeth before bed.

I spat out the toothpaste and looked at myself in the mirror. “Carson… you good, man?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his thoughts felt exhausted. Yeah, I'm fine.

I wanted to say more. To ask why he shut me out, why he wouldn’t even talk to me. It felt strange having him lock me out like that in my own body. Uncomfortable. Kind of violating, if I was honest. But I bit it back.

He’d just watched his own body get buried. He’d lost everything except this—except me. If he needed a few days to just… be a normal kid, I could deal with it.

“Alright,” I said out loud, keeping my tone casual. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m here.”

I didn’t push it after that. But deep down, I was already wondering how long we could actually keep doing this.

---

A few years went by and somehow this became our normal.

By the time we hit sixteen, I had it down to a system. School days? Carson took the wheel. He’d sit through classes, grind through homework, ace the tests, and even show up for the volunteer shifts at the animal shelter that looked good on college apps. I’d check out in the back of my own head, thinking about who I was texting later or which party I could sneak into that weekend. It worked. He got straight A’s, I got to stay popular. Win-win.

To deal with the high stress of our unusual arrangement, Carson took up weight lifting. He’d wake up super early, take over control, and spend two hours in the basement with Dad’s old bench press while I was still half-asleep. By junior year our body looked fucking incredible—broad shoulders, arms that filled out t-shirts the right way. Girls noticed. I made sure to enjoy that part.

In fact, he let me have all the fun—spring break road trips down the coast, summer parties at the lake, Friday nights where I’d sneak out after Mom and Dad went to bed. I’d hook up with whoever was into it and Carson would stay quiet in the back, never complaining.

But as much as he did all the hard work for me, I still started to resent having to share my body with him. I never said it out loud, but some nights, lying in bed, I’d feel him there and think about how nice it would be to have my head to myself again. Just for a day. An hour.

It didn't help that Carson also became our parents' unequivocal favorite after all this. To them, Carson was the golden boy. Good grades, polite, always offering to help around the house. Then when I was in control, I was always getting up to trouble in their eyes.

One night I came home past curfew, still smelling like bonfire smoke and some girl’s perfume. Mom was waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed.

“Theo, this is the third time this month. You’re out all hours, not answering your phone—”

“It was just a party,” I said, keeping my voice easy, flashing the same smile that usually worked on everyone else.

Dad walked in, looking disappointed. “We wish you could be more like… well, like your brother.”

Mom sighed. “Carson never pulls this. He’s focused. He actually cares about his future.”

I smirked, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Oh yeah? If you like him so much, here.”

I shoved control forward hard. Carson took over mid-step, blinking as he adjusted.

“Mom, Dad, it’s me,” he said quietly with my voice. “Theo was just out with friends. I’ll make sure we’re both on top of things tomorrow.”

They softened immediately. Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, son. We know this isn’t easy on either of you, but you’re handling it so well.”

I stayed in the back, arms crossed in my mind, letting him soak up the praise while I stewed.

It happened a couple more times that year during bigger blow-ups. They’d start in on me for being lazy or staying out too late, comparing me to Carson, and I’d force the switch right there. He never complained to me about it afterward. He’d just think, You good?

Yeah, I’d reply. I’m good. But fuck I was annoyed that my parents couldn't see how unfair they were being to me after I'd given up everything to help Carson.

---

We got the Oxford letter in the spring of senior year. Astrophysics. I didn’t give a damn about what Carson decided to study as it got us out of the house. I’d been pushing for somewhere big and loud back home — ASU, Clemson, Auburn — parties every weekend, football games, girls everywhere. But Oxford? I had to admit it sounded good coming out of my mouth.

“Yeah, heading to Oxford in the fall,” I’d say at parties or when people asked. Their eyes would light up. The muscular jock who was also smart enough for Oxford. I loved that shit. Loved the way girls started texting me more once the news spread.

So we moved to England. New city, new appartment, new life. At first it felt like freedom.

Then the coursework hit.

Carson insisted on being in control all the time to keep up with it. He would grind through the material late into the night most weekdays and during the day on the weekends. I’d then only get to be in control on weekend nights where I would waste no time hitting the pubs and chatting up girls.

Still, Carson would always be pushing to go back home those nights. Theo, we need to catch up on orbital mechanics before the next tutorial, he’d push. I’d wave it off. Chill, man. We’ve got this.

I'd be lying if I said tension wasn't already building between us, but things came to a head when he met Davie.

It was in a physics study group. This guy — slim, dark curly hair, sharp smile — kept hanging around with us after all our other classmates left, asking questions that he seemed like he already knew the answers to just to make Carson feel smart.

One night night, back in the flat, Carson spoke up in our mind while I was in control scrolling on Instagram.

Theo… I need to tell you something.

What’s up?

I’m gay. I’ve been sure for a while. Didn’t want to say anything before. But… I like Davie. From the study group. I want to ask him out. Just a coffee date or something.

I froze. Oh, ok. I thought back. Dude, that’s fine by me.

Relief washed through him. Thanks.

But asking him out? I pushed. I don't think you should do that. People will think I’m gay. That shit will spread around campus. And that shit will kill my cred with the girls.

Carson went quiet for a second. Then: It’s not fair, Theo. You get to party every weekend. You get to hook up, have fun, live your life in this body. I’ve been carrying the schoolwork, the volunteering, everything hard for years. I deserve to be happy too.

I felt a flash of guilt, quickly buried under irritation. Yeah, well, this is still my body. You're lucky I'm letting you live in it at all.

He didn’t argue after that. But I could feel him thinking.

The next study group was a few days later. I figured we’d review the material, then I’d take over and head to a party I’d heard about. But when the session wrapped up, Carson stayed in control. I tried to push forward. He held firm and kept me out.

Davie was packing up his notes. Carson walked over and cleared his throat.

“Hey, Davie,” he said, voice calm but a little nervous. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee or a drink sometime. Just us. Like… a date.”

Davie’s face lit up with a surprised, genuine smile. “Yeah. I’d really like that. Tonight work?”

Carson smiled back with my face. “Tonight’s perfect.”

I sat in the back of my own head, stunned, watching the whole thing happen. Davie gave us his number, and they set a time. As we walked out of the library, I tried again to take control. Carson wouldn’t let me.

Carson. What the hell?

He didn’t answer. Just a quiet, determined feeling from him as we headed back to the flat to get ready.

Carson stayed in control the whole evening. I was stuck in the passenger seat, watching everything unfold like a bad movie I couldn’t pause.

He met Davie at a small café near campus just after seven. They grabbed drinks and ended up talking for hours. Davie told stories about growing up in Manchester, his terrible attempts at cooking, and how he wanted to work on satellite design after graduation. Carson laughed easily with my voice and opened up about the pressure of Oxford and how much he loved weight lifting to clear his head.

“You’re not at all what I expected when I first saw you in study group,” Davie said at one point, grinning. “You’ve got this whole confident jock thing going on, but you actually care about the material. It’s refreshing.”

Carson smiled. “Yeah, well… there’s more to me than people think.”

They closed the café down. When it was time to leave, Davie hesitated, then asked, “Want to come back to my flat? It’s not far. We could watch a movie or something. No pressure.”

Carson didn’t even glance back at me for permission. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Back at Davie’s small, messy flat, they put on some sci-fi movie I’d never heard of. They started on opposite ends of the couch. By the middle of the film, Davie had shifted closer. He reached over and laced their fingers together. Carson’s heart — my heart — started hammering. I could feel the flush in our cheeks.

Davie’s other hand moved slowly, resting first on my thigh, then sliding up to squeeze the muscle there. “You’re really strong,” he murmured, almost shy. His fingers traced up to my bicep, giving it a gentle squeeze. “This is… impressive.”

Carson stayed quiet, but I felt how fast his breathing had gotten. When Davie leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, Carson froze for half a second before kissing back.

Our heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might explode.

Davie pulled back a little, smiling. “You okay?”

Carson swallowed. “Yeah. I’ve… never done this before.”

Davie raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. “Wait, really? I just assumed—”

Carson cut him off quickly, voice a little embarrassed. “No, I mean… never done this before with a guy.”

Davie’s expression softened. He brushed a thumb over our knuckles. “How is it? Do you like it?”

Carson nodded, still catching his breath. “I like it a lot.”

They kissed again, slower this time. After a minute, Davie pulled back just enough to look at him curiously.

“So why now?” he asked. “Why with a guy? Why me?”

Carson gave a small, easy smile. “Because you’re really hot… and you haven't stopped making eyes at me in study group. Kinda made it impossible not to go for it.”

Davie laughed softly, clearly pleased, and pulled him in for another kiss.

I sat in the back, jaw clenched, saying nothing. But the resentment burned hotter than ever.

After the kissing got heavier, clothes started coming off. Davie’s hands were all over my chest and arms, squeezing the muscle Carson had built. Carson was breathing hard, letting it happen, following the heat.

They moved to Davie’s bed. Carson was on top, and things escalated quickly. He lined up and tried to push in all at once, the way I’d done with plenty of girls. Davie’s eyes widened and he let out a sharp scream, grabbing onto my shoulders.

“Fuck— wait!” Davie gasped.

Carson froze immediately. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Davie laughed breathlessly, even though his face was still tight. “No, you’re good. You’re just… way too big to shove in like that without warming me up first. Go slower, yeah?”

Carson nodded, embarrassed but eager. He pulled back, took his time this round, using his fingers and more lube until Davie was relaxed and pushing back against him. When he finally slid in all the way, Davie moaned loud, his hole tight and hot around us.

“God, that feels good,” Davie breathed.

Carson started moving, finding a rhythm. He had watched me hook up enough times that his form was solid—deep, steady strokes that had Davie gripping the sheets. But this was different. Davie’s hole stayed so tight, clenching around us with every thrust. Carson groaned with my voice, hands roaming over Davie’s chest and sides.

They started feeling each other up more. Davie ran his hands over my biceps and abs, squeezing hard. “Flex for me,” he said, voice rough.

Carson paused mid-thrust, looking a little awkward, then clumsily flexed my right bicep. The muscle popped up tight. Davie grinned and kissed it. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Carson got bolder. He grabbed Davie’s hips, lifted him up while still inside, and fucked him in the air for a few strokes like he weighed nothing. Davie’s eyes rolled back. “Holy shit, Theo—”

Then Carson set him down gently and flipped him over into doggy style. He pressed in close from behind, wrapping one arm around Davie’s chest in a hug while still thrusting. He kissed the back of his neck, surprisingly tender. Davie pushed back against every stroke, moaning.

Carson reached around and wrapped his hand around Davie’s uncut cock, stroking him in time with his hips. Davie was throbbing hard, leaking all over my fingers.

They switched again. Davie climbed on top, riding cowboy. He bounced faster, taking us deep, his own cock slapping against my abs. Carson kept one hand on his hip and the other stroking him.

“I’m close,” Davie gasped.

He came first, shooting across my stomach in thick streaks. Carson didn’t hesitate—he scooped some up with his fingers and licked it off, tasting it. Davie watched with wide, turned-on eyes.

That pushed Carson over the edge. He gripped Davie’s hips tight and came deep inside him, groaning loud with my voice as our body tensed and released.

They collapsed together, sweaty and breathing hard. Davie curled up against my chest, and Carson wrapped an arm around him. They fell asleep like that, cuddling close under the blanket.

Carson finally drifted off, content. I didn’t say a word to him that night.

Carson stayed in control for the rest of that week. He spent most nights at Davie’s flat. I felt everything — the laughing, the making out, the sex. He was getting more confident each time, learning what Davie liked. I tried to push for control constantly, but he kept me locked in the back.

By the following Saturday evening he finally let me back in. I didn’t waste a second.

I took over and headed straight to the pub. I was pissed. I drank hard, shot after shot, trying to shake off the week of being trapped in the passenger seat while he lived out whatever this new life was. I flirted with a couple girls, but I was too sloppy. They gave me weird looks and moved away. Everything after that is a blur. I have no idea how I got back to the flat.

I woke up the next morning with a brutal hangover. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains. And Carson was back in control.

Carson? I thought immediately. Give me the body back, man. I feel like shit.

He didn’t respond. He just got up, walked to the kitchen, and picked up the phone like I wasn’t even there.

“Mom? Dad?” His voice — my voice — shook as he spoke. “It’s Carson. Something’s wrong. Theo went out partying last night and… when I woke up I couldn’t hear him anymore. His voice is just gone. I feel completely alone in here. I don’t know what to do.”

I started screaming inside. Carson, what the fuck are you doing? I’m right here!

Our parents’ voices came through the speaker, calm. Worried for him, but not panicked. “Sweetheart, don’t freak out,” Mom said gently. “Just breathe. It’ll be okay. You’ll figure it out. We’re here for you.”

Dad added, “Stay safe. We love you. Call us if anything changes.”

I felt sick. They didn’t even sound that upset. Like losing me was just another complication for their golden boy to deal with.

Carson hung up, walked back to the bed, and lay down. He pushed our shorts down and started slowly stroking our cock, eyes half-closed, thinking about Davie. About how good it felt to fuck him.

Carson! I screamed. Stop this. Talk to me!

He finally answered, voice cold in my head. “Shut up, you dick. I can hear you. You know what? I am so sick of this. I think I’ve been able to do this since the beginning, but I never wanted to try because it would be awful. But I’m done with your shit, Theo.”

What are you talking about? I thought, panic rising. Stop messing around.

He kept jerking off, steady strokes, while he flexed our right arm, admiring the bicep in the mirror across the room. I felt him start pushing. My presence got squeezed, shoved into a smaller and smaller corner of our brain.

I screamed louder. Carson! Don’t! Please!

He ignored me, breathing heavier, stroking faster. His thoughts were full of Davie — tight heat, moans, the way he’d looked up at us. Our body tensed, muscles hard. I felt weaker, smaller, like I was fading.

Carson, I’m your brother! Stop!

One final hard stroke and he came, groaning as he spilled over our hand. In that moment the pressure became unbearable. He shoved hard, and I was ejected. Everything went white.

---

Carson's POV

I lay there in the quiet of the flat, chest still heaving a little, staring up at the ceiling through eyes that were finally, completely mine. Theo’s body—my body now—glistened with streaks of my own cum across my abs and chest. It felt warm, messy, real. I dipped two fingers into the biggest pool of it, scooped some up, and slowly rubbed it across my pecs, spreading it in lazy circles over the muscle I’d built for years. The smell hit me—thick, masculine—and a low groan slipped out of my throat. Theo’s throat. Mine.

Part of me waited for the guilt to crash in. I’d just erased my own brother. My twin. But the longer I rubbed that slick warmth into my skin, the more that little voice faded. Nah. Fuck that. Theo had been treating me like a parasite for years. Using me for grades, for the heavy lifting, for keeping our parents off his back while he partied and fucked whoever he wanted in my downtime. This? This was justice. Long overdue.

I reached over for my phone and opened the camera. The screen lit up on my face: flushed, hair messy. I angled it down, capturing the shine across my chest and stomach, my spent cock still half-hard against my thigh. Click. Perfect.

I typed out the text to Davie, smirking the whole time.

Me: Partied a little too hard last night. Woke up like this and all I could think about was how much better it would’ve been if you were here to wake up next to me. Wanna come over and spend the rest of the afternoon cuddled up in bed?

I hit send, then admired the selfie again before putting the phone down. Yeah… I’m definitely making this guy my boyfriend. For real. Mom and Dad are gonna be so happy I finally have a steady relationship after all these years of “me” being the responsible one. They’ll eat it up—proud of their golden boy settling down with a nice British guy.

I ran my hand down my stomach again, smearing more of the cum lower, fingers brushing over my cock. It twitched hard, thickening back up fast. Fuck. This body was all mine now. Every inch. The broad shoulders, the arms that could lift Davie like he weighed nothing, the dick that made him moan like that. No more sharing. No more passenger seat. No more Theo.

All mine. All mine. All mine.

My cock throbbed fully hard again in my grip, and I laughed low and satisfied, giving it a slow stroke as I waited for Davie’s reply. This was just the beginning.

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.

(AI Assisted - Finally got around to finishing the next story from the poll, and this one is inspired by the short film "THE BLACK HOLE" from 2008. I recommend watching the short film first to get a sense of its concept!

Also, a fair bit of warning, this story focuses a lot on the humiliation kink and being trapped in someone much bigger, heavier, and hairier. Which I'm sure some of you might really enjoy! /Verus)

The chemistry lab at Westview College felt like a forgotten corner of the world during lunch break. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their cold glow casting long, harsh shadows across the scuffed linoleum floor. The air hung heavy with the acrid bite of sulfur mixed with the sharp sting of ethanol, scents that seeped into my clothes and lingered on my skin. I sat hunched over our cluttered workstation, my fingers tinted a deep blue from the chemical compounds I had been carefully mixing for our science assignment. It was due in Mr. Clarke's class later that afternoon, and the pressure weighed on me like an invisible hand.

Across from me, Dan lounged in his chair with that effortless slouch of his, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. He swirled a beaker with a lazy flick of his wrist, his face scrunched up in clear annoyance. 

"Man, Clarke's such an asshole!" Dan muttered, his voice low and edged with frustration. "He piles on these assignments just because we don't kiss his ass in class like the other kids do. Thinks he's some big shot, strutting around with that hairy broad chest straining against his shirt, barely squeezing through the doorways without turning sideways."

He snorted, leaning back and mimicking Mr. Clarke's stiff, wide posture, puffing out his own chest in exaggeration. "You ever hear that poor office chair creak every time he plants his big ass down? It's gonna snap one day, I swear. I can picture it now, him tumbling to the floor in front of the whole class and everyone laughing at his dumb face."

I nodded absently, my gaze locked on the bubbling mixture in my own beaker, watching the colors swirl and shift. But my mind wandered far from the experiment. Dan's rants about our science professor, Bruce Clarke, had become a familiar soundtrack to our lab sessions. It was always the same litany of complaints about his strict rules, his uptight personality, his biting criticism that could cut like a knife. Around town, Mr. Clarke was famously known as "The Cruel Giant," a man who barely let his students scrape by with passing grades and demanded nothing short of perfection from everyone. Stories circulated about how he would chew out cashiers for hours if they shortchanged him by a penny, or chase after elderly folks on the street to lecture them about public decency just for coughing too loudly in his presence.

To Dan, Mr. Clarke was nothing more than an uptight mean old man, a tall, burly middle-aged man whose khaki pants and tight dress shirts always seemed on the verge of bursting over his massive frame. But I stayed quiet, my agreement only half-hearted at best, because admitting the truth to Dan or even to myself felt utterly mortifying. Over the past few months, I had developed a secret crush on Mr. Clarke, a shameful attraction that I buried deep inside, praying it would fade away by the time graduation rolled around and I could escape this small town.

His huge body strangely captivated me in ways I could barely understand myself. And Mr. Clarke wasn't the slob Dan painted him to be. Sure, he carried a slight soft layer around his midsection, a gentle curve that pressed outward against his shirts, and I often imagined he could easily crush a watermelon just by sitting on it with that large, plump ass of his. But there was a commanding solidity to him that made my pulse quicken. He stood at 6'8", one of the tallest and largest men in our small town, with broad, wide shoulders that seemed to fill any room he entered, and thick, powerful arms that bent the space around them. During class, I would steal glances, my eyes tracing the vast expanse of his broad back as he wrote equations on the board, or lingering on the way his khaki pants clung to his rounded, muscular ass when he bent down to collect our tests.

His brown beard, often flecked with crumbs from a hurried lunch or faint stains from his morning coffee, framed a ruggedly handsome face that could make me blush even when he was yelling at the class for being late. I remembered the times his coffee-scented breath had washed over me during those scoldings, warm and authoritative, leaving me flustered. In my private fantasies, I imagined pressing my face into the hairy massive chest that peeked through his open collar, feeling the warmth of his bulk envelop me completely. I envied his genetics, how he was so effortlessly tall, hairy, and thick without ever needing to lift a weight or step foot in a gym. It was as if his body was a natural force, untamed and powerful.

I told myself it was just a phase, a silly teenage crush that would dissolve once college was behind me. I was just a scrawny senior, barely noticeable among the sea of students in Mr. Clarke's classes, and the very idea of confessing my feelings to anyone, especially Dan, made my stomach twist into knots. So I locked those thoughts away, letting them simmer quietly as I stirred my chemicals, my mind drifting into a hazy fantasy of running my hands over Mr. Clarke's broad, hairy chest, feeling the coarse hairs tickle my palms, the heat of his skin seeping into mine.

"Yo, Noah, you even listening to me?" Dan's voice snapped me back to reality, sharp and insistent.

I blinked, realizing I had been staring blankly at the beaker for far too long, the mixture now frothing a bit too vigorously.

"Huh? Yeah, sorry," I mumbled, shaking my head to clear the fog.

But before I could say more, my elbow caught the edge of a glass container filled with unknown chemicals, sending it toppling over into Dan's mixture. The liquids collided with a violent hiss, merging in a chaotic fizz that sent sparks flying. Dan yelped, jumping back from the table, his gloves and shirt miraculously untouched.

"Shit, Noah, watch it!" he shouted, his eyes wide as we both retreated a few meters away. 

We stood there frozen, hearts pounding, as acrid smoke billowed upward from the workstation, the table sizzling in a way that sounded almost alive.

"What the hell was that?" Dan hissed, his voice laced with panic, glancing at me accusingly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," I stammered, my heart racing as the smoke thickened, obscuring the mess we had made.

But as the haze slowly cleared, the sizzling faded, revealing something impossible on the table's surface: a perfectly round black hole, its edges shimmering faintly like heat waves on asphalt. It was wide enough for a small person to fit through, a void that seemed to devour the light around it, pulling at the air with an eerie silence.

We stared at it, speechless, the lab suddenly feeling colder despite the lingering chemical warmth.

"What is that thing?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, stepping closer but not daring to touch it.

Dan shook his head, his bravado completely evaporated. "No clue, man. But we're totally screwed if Clarke sees this. We just destroyed school property, and you know how he gets about that."

With lunch break nearly over, panic surged through us like electricity. We scrambled to clean up the spill, me sweeping up the shattered glass shards from the floor while Dan wiped down the table with frantic swipes. As he brushed near the hole, his hand accidentally nudged its rim, and the anomaly shifted, folding slightly like a piece of flexible fabric.

"Noah, get over here quick!" Dan called, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement.

I hurried over, my jaw dropping as he gripped the edge of the hole and lifted it effortlessly off the table, holding it like a sheet of black paper, weightless and rippling faintly in the air.

"What the fuck?" I breathed, stepping even closer, my eyes wide. Dan, now grinning despite the shock, placed the hole back on the table and tentatively reached into it, his arm vanishing up to the elbow into the void. His face lit up with astonishment as he pulled his hand back, completely unharmed.

"Dude, this is freaky!" he exclaimed, his voice shaking with glee. 

He grabbed the hole again, striding over to a locked cabinet across the room, and slapped it against the door. Reaching through, he pulled out a beaker from inside the cabinet, holding it up triumphantly. "Holy shit, Noah! We made a freaking portal! This thing lets you reach into anything!"

We marveled at the anomaly we had accidentally created, a defiance of every law of physics we had learned in class. Dan's eyes gleamed with endless possibilities, his mind already racing ahead.

"We've got something way better than a boring assignment for Clarke now," he said, carefully rolling the hole up like a poster and stuffing it into his backpack. "And I've got an idea to test this thing out later. You in?"

I nodded, unsure but intrigued, my mind still reeling from the impossibility of it all. "Yeah, I guess. But we have to be careful, Dan. This could be dangerous..."

—

Two classes dragged by in a blur, and during the break before chemistry, Dan pulled me aside with a mischievous grin. He led me down the echoing hallways to the gym locker rooms, the distant shouts from jocks in the gymnasium grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

"What are we doing here, Dan?" I asked, glancing around nervously at the rows of metal lockers, the air thick with the smell of sweat and old sneakers.

He smirked, his eyes glinting with that reckless spark I knew all too well. "Just trust me. Keep watch for a second."

He scanned the lockers until he stopped at one labeled "Austin," our school's star athlete and the resident bully who had made our lives hell more than once.

I hissed a protest, my voice low. "Dan, no way. That's Austin's locker. We can't just..."

But he ignored me, pressing the black hole against the locker door with a soft thud. Reaching through the void, he rummaged around inside and pulled out a sweaty jockstrap, its fabric damp and musky from recent use.

"Dude!" I exclaimed, horrified, my cheeks burning as I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming.

Dan laughed, holding it up like a trophy before pressing it to his face and inhaling deeply. "Smells pretty good for a douchebag like Austin," he said, grinning wickedly. "Come on, Noah, lighten up. It's just a prank."

I rolled my eyes, my face flushing even hotter. "That's gross, man. Put it back."

He chuckled, rolling up the hole and tucking it, along with the jockstrap, into his backpack. "Imagine what else we can do with this thing. Vending machines, locked doors, even ATMs. It's not really stealing if it's just sitting there, right? We could take whatever we want without anyone knowing."

I frowned, unease twisting in my gut. "It's still stealing, Dan. And what if we get caught? This isn't a game."

Before we could argue further, Coach's voice boomed from the gymnasium entrance, demanding to know what we were doing in the locker room. "Hey! You two! What are you up to in there?"

Panic hit us like a wave, and we bolted, our sneakers squeaking against the tile floor as we fled down the hall, hearts pounding.

—

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the chemistry lab, seated at our workstation as our classmates tricked in, chatting and laughing. Dan bounced in his seat like a kid on Christmas morning, barely containing his excitement about showing off the black hole. My stomach churned with nerves, both from the upcoming presentation and the looming presence of Mr. Clarke himself.

When he finally entered the room, his broad shoulders barely clearing the doorway, I felt my breath catch. His khaki pants hugged his thick calves, and his dress shirt clung to his hairy chest, the top button undone just enough to tease the coarse hairs beneath.

Our eyes met briefly as he scanned the room, and I saw a flicker of disappointment, perhaps even disgust, in his gaze before he turned away. 

"Settle down, everyone," he barked, his deep voice rumbling through the lab like thunder. "We've got presentations today, and I expect you all to take this seriously. No excuses, no half-baked efforts."

Class dragged on with Mr. Clarke's usual loud and demeaning criticism, his beard twitching with every sharp word he directed at struggling students.

"That's incorrect, Miss Thompson. Do you even read the textbook, or do you just guess?" he snapped at one girl, making her shrink in her seat.

Finally, it was time for presentations. Dan shot up from his chair, waving his hand eagerly. "Mr. Clarke, can we go first? We've got something amazing."

Mr. Clarke eyed him skeptically, adjusting the square reading glasses that framed his piercing eyes. "Fine, but make it quick. And it better not be another one of your jokes, Daniel."

We stood at the front, explaining how we had mixed the chemicals accidentally, creating a black hole that defied all known physics. Dan's voice was infectious, building up the drama. "It's like a portal, sir. You can reach through anything with it."

But before we could pull out the anomaly to demonstrate, Mr. Clarke cut us off sharply. "That's enough of this nonsense," he snapped, his face reddening with anger. "You're slandering the very foundations of science in my classroom, and I won't tolerate it. Sit down, both of you."

Dan protested, his voice rising. "But sir, we can prove it! Just let us show you!"

"I said sit down!" Mr. Clarke shouted, his voice shaking the room, making the beakers rattle on the shelves.

Humiliated, we slunk back to our seats amid the laughter of the class. The jocks in the back called out, "Losers!" and the girls whispered "freaks" under their breath. I felt Mr. Clarke's glare burning into us, his stoic face flushed with irritation.

Dan muttered spitefully under his breath as we sat. "They don't deserve to see it anyway. I'll show them later, when it matters."

The rest of class passed in a miserable haze, with other students presenting their projects while I replayed Mr. Clarke's words over and over in my mind, my crush twisting into a knot of embarrassment. When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the day, Dan and I joined the rush to leave, eager to escape. But a heavy hand suddenly gripped my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

"You two, stay behind," Mr. Clarke's gruff voice ordered, his fingers like steel.

My heart sank as we sat at the front desks, facing his massive wooden desk. I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering to the chest hair peeking from his shirt, my crush flaring up despite the tension in the air.

Mr. Clarke's eyes narrowed as he caught my gaze lingering. "Noah," he began, his tone icy and measured, "I've noticed you staring at me these past months. It's inappropriate, and I don't appreciate it one bit. You need to focus on your studies, not whatever perverse fantasies you're indulging in during my class."

My face burned with shame, heat flooding my cheeks. I hadn't realized he had noticed, and the accusation left me speechless, my mouth dry. "I... I'm sorry, sir," I managed to whisper, staring at the floor.

Dan spoke up, his voice sharp and defensive. "That's not cool, Mr. Clarke. You can't just accuse him like that."

But the professor ignored him, turning his attention to Dan. "And you, with your ridiculous stunt today. If you keep this up, you'll fail my class and amount to nothing in life. Is that what you want?"

Dan's jaw tightened, anger flashing in his eyes. "We weren't lying, sir. We really created something incredible."

Mr. Clarke's scowl deepened. "Enough. I don't have time for your games."

Fed up, Dan reached into his backpack and pulled out the rolled-up black hole. "See for yourself then."

Mr. Clarke dismissed it with a wave. "That's just a piece of black paper. Put it away."

Dan, his patience snapping, strode to the locked cabinet in the corner. "Watch this," he said, slapping the hole onto the door. He reached through and pulled out beakers, tools, and supplies, dumping them onto Mr. Clarke's desk with a clatter.

The professor's expression shifted from annoyance to shock, his eyes widening. "What are you doing? How did you...?"

Dan grinned, placing the hole flat on the desk. "Try it yourself, sir. Reach in and grab something from under your desk."

Hesitantly, Mr. Clarke reached into the void, his thick fingers disappearing. He pulled out pens, paperclips, and notebooks from beneath his desk, his shock turning to fascination as his fingers trembled.

"This... this is impossible," he murmured, his voice softening for the first time.

But Dan snatched the hole away, rolling it up quickly. "Told you we weren't lying," he said, smirking as he stood to leave. "Come on, Noah."

As Dan headed for the door, I fumbled with my bag, noticing a dark glint in Mr. Clarke's eyes, something like greed or ambition flickering there. The air in the room grew thick with tension, and suddenly, he lunged forward with surprising speed for a man of his size. His meaty hand closed around Dan's wrist, fingers like iron clamps, pinning Dan's arm in place.

Dan yelped, his voice sharp with panic. "What the hell, man? Let go!"

"You boys have no idea what you're holding," Mr. Clarke growled, his voice low and laced with a hunger that made my skin crawl. His massive frame loomed over Dan, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that swallowed my friend whole. Sweat beaded on Mr. Clarke's forehead, glistening under the lights, his dress shirt growing damp under the armpits, clinging to the curve of his massive chest and broad back. "Leave such things to responsible adults like me."

Dan struggled, his face turning red, both hands clutching the rolled-up black hole, his knuckles white. "Get off me! This isn't yours!"

Mr. Clarke's other hand reached for it, his thick fingers brushing the anomaly, his breath coming in heavy pants from the exertion. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of his sweat, a musky blend of coffee and raw masculinity that hit me like a wave, stirring my shameful crush even as fear gripped my chest.

Dan's eyes met mine, wide with desperation. "Noah, help! Do something!"

I dropped my bag and rushed over, my heart pounding wildly. "Let him go, sir!" I shouted, grabbing at the black hole, my fingers brushing against Dan's and Mr. Clarke's in the chaos. The three of us were locked in a frantic tug-of-war, pulling and yanking.

Mr. Clarke's strength was staggering, his arm like a steel cable, pulling with a force that made my muscles burn. "Let go, you fools!" he roared, his voice booming through the room, his face flushed red, small beads of sweat dripping down his temples.

Dan and I pulled together, our combined effort barely budging the anomaly from his grasp. "We can't let him have it!" Dan gasped, his face contorted with effort.

My hands slipped on the smooth, otherworldly surface, my palms slick with nervous sweat. "He's too strong," I panted, feeling insignificant next to his towering bulk, my slim arms trembling against his power. His dress shirt strained further, the seams creaking, his neck muscles shifting with each heave, his khaki pants tight around his thick thighs.

We tugged one last time, a desperate heave that sent us all stumbling. The black hole slipped from our fingers, but Mr. Clarke's sweaty palm fumbled it, the slick roll escaping his grip. It unfolded mid-air, a dark, rippling sheet, and sailed toward his chest. Time seemed to slow as it adhered with a soft, wet slap, the void pulsing against his shirt, centered over his broad chest.

His eyes widened in horror, a gasp escaping his lips.

"What... no!" he stammered, his hands clawing at the hole, trying to rip it free. Then his massive body suddenly shuddered, his pupils rolling back, and he collapsed, his heavy frame crashing to the hardwood floor with a thunderous thud that shook the entire room.

Dan and I stood panting, staring at the black hole pulsing on Mr. Clarke's chest, his unconscious body still, his bearded face slack.

"Oh god, we killed him," I whispered, my voice trembling, my legs feeling like jelly.

Dan knelt beside him, pressing fingers to his neck. "No, he's alive… just out cold," he said, his voice unsteady. He poked at the hole, his fingers disappearing inside. "Woah... he's hollow now. Like he's completely empty inside."

He reached deeper, his expression shifting to confusion. "Weird, I feel crevices inside, it’s like paths leading to his arms or neck. He's like a big hollow tree stump..."

I paced the room, panic clawing at my chest, my mind racing with the implications. "We never thought about using it on a person... What have we done?"

A few minutes passed of me restlessly pacing around while Dan stared curiously at the hole on Clarke's chest, his mind seemingly thinking hard about how to get us out of this mess. Then suddenly Dan's eyes lit up with a reckless idea. "What if one of us climbs inside? Maybe we can move him, sort of like a big meatsuit. We could access his office, fix our grades and make him give us A's, then get out before he wakes up."

"That's insane, Dan," I said, but the idea took hold, fueled by fear of failing yet another course and a bizarre curiosity about climbing inside Mr. Clarke's big body, the man I had secretly admired for so long. "You really think that would work?"

He nodded eagerly. "Think about it, Noah. You're smaller than me, scrawny frame and all. You'd fit easily through the hole. Come on, it's our only shot right now."

After a heated debate, with me protesting, "This could go so wrong," and Dan countering, "But what if it goes right? We could turn this around," I swallowed hard, gazing at Mr. Clarke's unconscious giant form. His bearded face looked almost serene, his massive hairy chest rising and falling despite the gaping hole. My crush twisted into something darker, a fascination with the impossible intimacy of it all.

Dan locked the classroom door with a click. "Okay, let's do this. I'll keep watch."

I stood over Mr. Clarke, my pulse racing like a drum. His body was a mountain compared to mine, his shoulders twice as wide as my own, his chest a broad expanse of power, his gut a soft curve that spoke of both strength and years of indulgence. I kicked off my shoes, a strange gesture of respect, and hesitated, my breath shallow. The black hole pulsed invitingly, its edges shimmering, beckoning me forward.

"Be careful," Dan whispered, his voice tense.

I nodded, stepping forward, one foot hovering over the void. "Here goes nothing."

I lowered myself in slowly, the sensation immediate and overwhelming, a warm, squishy embrace that enveloped my foot like sinking into a heated waterbed, but alive, pulsating gently. The inside of Mr. Clarke's body was soft and yielding, yet unnervingly organic, the walls slick and warm against my skin, almost caressing me as I descended.

My foot sank into a crevice, what I assumed was the path to his thick leg, and I felt a gentle resistance, as if the space was molding itself to me, adapting to my shape. I was scrawny, barely 5'6" and 130 pounds, but Mr. Clarke was a giant, well over 6'8" and easily 250 pounds, his bulk dwarfing me entirely. Yet the hole seemed to adjust seamlessly, my leg sliding into his thigh, stopping abruptly as if fitted perfectly, despite the vast size difference.

"How does it feel?" Dan asked, his voice hushed, watching intently.

"It's... warm," I replied, my voice shaky. "Like it's hugging me, tightly yet firmly." 

I lowered myself further, my other leg finding its place, the sensation of his massive thighs enveloping my own, heavy and warm, like pulling on a suit far too large yet impossibly snug. My hips settled into his, my slim frame sinking into the broad expanse of his pelvis, the weight of his ass pressing down beneath me, a dense, plump mass that felt alien and grounding all at once.

I pushed my arms through next, feeling the crevices widen for his thick biceps and forearms, my hands slipping into his, the fingers blunt and calloused, so unlike my own slender ones.

"My arms... they're in his now," I murmured, flexing experimentally, yet straining under the heavy weight of them.

The inside of his chest stretched tight as I pushed myself further down, the flesh straining with a soft creak, and I felt the dampness of his simmering sweat enveloping me, a musky scent that filled my senses, both repellent and intoxicating in its rawness.

"Keep going," Dan encouraged, his eyes wide. "You're almost there."

I pulled myself deeper, my chest sinking into his, the soft flesh brushing against my skin inside, a sensation so intimate it made my face burn with heat. The black hole's warmth enveloped my torso completely, and I bent my neck forward, sliding my head down into the darkness and then through a tight, slick passage that must have been his throat.

"It's so tight here," I gasped, darkness closing in, warm and suffocating, as I aligned my body with his.

For a moment, I panicked, blind and breathless, but then vision flickered to life, and I saw through Mr. Clarke's eye sockets, the world sharper, larger, as if my eyes now perceived everything as he did. Air rushed through his nostrils and into my lungs, filling me with a strange vitality. I pushed myself up slowly, his bulk around me loose and heavy, a staggering weight that made my movements slow and uncoordinated.

"God, he's so fucking heavy," I said, Mr. Clarke's deep timbre somehow resonated through me, a bizarre mixture of his voice and mine that boomed in the room.

I gripped the desk for support, my thick fingers leaving sweaty prints on the wood, and stood, feeling the floor creak beneath his mass. My legs, inside his now, felt like heavy pillars, each step a lumbering effort, his thighs rubbing together with a soft friction, khaki pants wrapped snugly around them. His hairy chest rose and fell with each breath I took inside, and his broad shoulders strained the dress shirt, the seams taut against the power beneath.

Dan gaped at me, his mouth open in awe. "Holy shit, Noah. You're wearing him! You look just like Clarke, but... it's you in there controlling him!"

"Yeah," I replied, my voice still that strange mixture of ours combined. "It's me. But god it feels strange being in here, like everything too big and heavy..."

Dan stepped closer, peering at my new bearded face. "How are you breathing? Seeing? It looks completely normal from out here."

"It feels like looking through a one-way mask," I explained, touching my cheek experimentally, and somehow feeling the scratchy beard poking me from the inside. "Like my eyes are hidden behind his, invisible from outside. And I'm breathing through his nostrils, the air flowing right to me. Sounds vibrate from his eardrums and fill this space I'm in. And my mouth, my tongue... they've slipped into his like a thick, larger sleeve. It's so freaky how this actually worked..."

"Damn," Dan said, reaching out to poke my arm, squeezing the thick flesh. "Can you feel that?"

"Barely," I admitted, the sensation dulled by the layer of Mr. Clarke's heavy flesh encasing me. "It's really like I'm wearing a big heavy skinsuit..."

But then he tried to reach into the hole on Mr. Clarke’s chest, his fingers brushed my real chest inside, tickling me lightly. "Hey, stop that!" I laughed, swatting him away, my voice booming louder than intended.

He grinned, then slapped my ass playfully, the thick flesh bouncing slightly, sending a jolt through me, a mix of embarrassment and a strange thrill at feeling this body respond under my control. "Damn... guess you're the one with the thick massive ass now, huh? How's it feel to have all that junk in the trunk?"

"Shut up, Dan," I said, but I couldn't help a small chuckle, shifting my weight and feeling the dense anchor pull me down. "It's weird. Heavy, but... powerful."

Then, noticing the clock on the wall, Dan's expression turned serious. "We need to hurry. The hall might fill up soon. I’ll unlock the door and check if it's clear. Remember, our plan is to get to the professor's office, change our grades on his computer, and then we’ll come back and I’ll help you climb back out."

I nodded before shuffling toward the door, each step slow and unfamiliar, but stopped when I reached the nearby cabinet.

Catching Mr. Clarke's reflection in the glass, I froze. His handsome, bearded face stared back, but the sternness was gone, replaced by my own shock and fascination in his eyes. His body was a colossus, shoulders a broad wall, chest heaving with each breath, and his ass a soft curve that shifted sensually with every movement. But then I saw the gaping black hole on the chest, a glaring void that would draw immediate questions from other students and faculty members.

"Wait," I said, my deep voice echoing. "I can't walk out like this. The hole's too obvious. The other professors would freak out seeing Mr. Clarke like this. Maybe I can just take it off for a while…"

Dan seemed preoccupied with checking the hallway outside. "Yeah yeah, whatever. Just hurry up. The coast is clear now."

Without thinking of the implications or consequences, my hands, now inside Mr. Clarke's thick, rugged hands, gripped the rim of the black hole. The surface was smooth, almost liquid under my fingers, and I pulled gently, peeling it away from the damp dress shirt. The moment it detached, a searing heat erupted around me, a burning wave that consumed every nerve, every fiber.

"Noah? What did you do?!" Dan asked, his voice rising in alarm as he turned his attention back to me.

I realized too late my mistake. The warm squishy walls inside of Mr. Clarke's body tightened suddenly, compressing around me like a vice, as if his flesh was collapsing inward, crushing my scrawny frame.

"No... it- it hurts!!" I gasped, my skin burning, my bones aching under the pressure. I felt my body, my real body inside, being crushed, warped, and dissolved into the vastness of Mr. Clarke's thick flesh, and then as if I was being wrung and dispersed throughout every pore and cell that was Mr. Clarke. The room spun wildly, Dan's scream echoing in my ears as my vision darkened. "Dan... help..." 

My last thought was a desperate wish for Mr. Clarke to forgive me for what we had done to him…

—

–

-

"Hey! Wake up! Noah, wake up!" Dan's voice pierced through the fog, his hands shaking my shoulders with desperate force.

I groaned, my body feeling like it had been crushed under a boulder, heavy and unresponsive. My eyes fluttered open, vision swimming as the chemistry lab's fluorescent lights stabbed into my skull like knives. I pushed myself up slowly, sitting on the cold hardwood floor, every muscle screaming in protest. My limbs felt sluggish, foreign, like they belonged to someone else entirely.

Dan knelt before me, his face pale, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. "Is it you, Noah? Or is it Clarke? Say something, please."

I frowned, my head throbbing with a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes. "What do you mean?" I croaked, but the sound stopped me cold.

The voice was no longer a strange mixture; my original reedy tone of a college senior was completely gone without a trace. It was now deep, gruff, resonant, the voice I had heard barking orders in class, laced with coffee and unyielding authority. Mr. Clarke's fully complete voice.

My hand shot to my throat, fingers brushing a thick, muscular neck, the skin rough with coarse stubble that trailed downward. I froze, my breath catching as I felt the unfamiliar texture, the sheer bulk of it. "Dan... why does my voice sound like this?"

"Noah, is it really you?" Dan urged, his voice cracking with tension. "Please tell me it's you."

"It's me, dude. Noah," I said, but hearing that booming timbre again made my stomach drop.

I opened my mouth to speak more, but my gaze dropped to my hands, and the realization finally hit me. They felt massive now, rugged with blunt fingers and knuckles dusted with dark hair. I turned them over, palms up, staring at the calloused skin, the deep lines etched from years of grading papers and handling lab equipment.

"What the fuck?" I whispered, Mr. Clarke's voice booming out, alien and wrong coming from my thoughts. Somehow it no longer felt like I was wearing an oversized suit of flesh, but instead every breath, every sensation, every movement felt like it was my own flesh and blood.

I touched my face, fingers trembling as they encountered a scratchy beard, a strong jaw, thinning hair atop a broad skull. My other hand pressed against my chest, feeling the solid mass, the faint give of flesh, a heartbeat that thrummed powerfully but wasn't mine. I shifted, the floor creaking beneath my weight, my hips and thighs spreading wider than I had ever known, the sensation of bulk overwhelming and inescapable.

"Dan, what happened? Where's the hole, and why am I still inside Mr. Clarke?" I asked, my voice shaking despite its depth, each word a reminder of the flesh I now controlled completely.

Dan swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the black hole lying crumpled on the floor, its edges still faintly shimmering. "When you pulled the hole off, you screamed and collapsed. I rushed over and reattached it to your chest, hoping I could pull you out like before. But when I reached inside... there was nothing. Just emptiness, like it was before you climbed in. Your real body, Noah... I think it's gone. Like completely gone."

I stared at him, my mind refusing to process the words. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?" I demanded, my voice rising, filling the room with Mr. Clarke's commanding timbre.

Dan flinched slightly, raising his hands to calm me. "I think when you took the hole off, something triggered. Your real body was still inside Clarke's, and without the hole to keep you two separate… I think you fused with him. You became his flesh, his organs, his nerves, and maybe even his brain now. For all intents and purposes, Noah... I think you're Bruce Clarke now. Permanently."

The words shattered my reality like fragile glass.

"No..." I whispered, shaking my head slowly, the motion feeling heavy and unfamiliar as the coarse beard scratched against the collar of my damp dress shirt.

I grabbed at my thick arms, tugging desperately at the muscled flesh beneath the fabric as if I could somehow peel it away and reveal my old scrawny self hiding underneath. But the skin was undeniably real, warm and alive, every pinch sending sharp jolts through nerves that now belonged entirely to this body. I pressed both hands firmly against my broad chest, feeling the dense thickness of it, the coarse hairs curling under my palms, the heavy weight shifting with each ragged breath I took.

"I’m stuck…?" I murmured, the deep gruff voice choking in my throat. "I’m… Professor Clarke now?"

I was no longer a senior, just months away from graduation, with a future full of freedom stretching out before me like an open road. Instead, I had become a man in his late forties, a college science professor infamous for his unrelenting sternness and biting criticism. And, as Dan had always joked in the lab, the man with the thickest ass in town, a massive rounded backside that strained every pair of khaki pants he owned. The thought of my secret crush on Mr. Clarke, now twisted into my permanent reality, made my stomach churn with a sickening mix of horror and disbelief. I had admired this body from afar for months, stealing glances and fantasizing about its power and presence. But living in it, trapped forever inside its overwhelming bulk, was nothing I could ever have prepared myself for. It felt like a cruel joke, the object of my desire turned into an inescapable prison of flesh and weight.

"Come on, Noah. Sit down for a second. You look like you're about to pass out again." Dan stepped closer, his expression a blend of pity and lingering shock.

He guided me toward Mr. Clarke's office chair behind the desk, the one we had mocked so many times in our whispers. I lowered myself carefully, the wooden frame groaning immediately under the sudden load of my new mass. The chair creaked loudly, a long, protesting sound that seemed to mock me as I settled into it, my thick thighs spreading wide, my heavy gut pressing forward against the edge of the desk.

I ran my rugged hands over my face, fingers tracing the scratchy texture of the full beard, the deep-set eyes that now held my panicked gaze, the thinning hair on top that felt slick with fresh sweat. The sensations were all so alien, so rugged and scratchy, nothing like the old skin I had known just hours ago. My broad shoulders slumped as the reality sank deeper, the dress shirt pulling tight across my back.

"Dan, please," I pleaded, my voice cracking despite its depth, coming out as a quiet, desperate whimper from Mr. Clarke's lips. It felt so strange, so wrong, to hear that authoritative rumble reduced to begging. "You have to help me... I can’t be stuck like this forever... I can't live as him..."

Dan opened his mouth to respond, his eyes soft with sympathy. "We'll figure it out, I swear. We'll—"

Right as the words left his mouth, I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, trying to find a position that didn't feel so foreign and constricting. My massive frame didn't move lightly; the simple adjustment sent my weight rocking backward, my thick ass pressing down harder into the seat. There was a sharp, ominous crack, like wood splitting under too much strain, followed immediately by a loud pop as one of the supports gave way completely.

The chair collapsed beneath me in an instant. The back legs buckled, the seat tilted violently, and I tumbled backward with absolutely no grace. My heavy body hit the hardwood floor with a thunderous thud that echoed through the empty classroom, the impact jarring every bone in this giant frame. My broad back slammed down first, followed by the dense weight of my ass and thighs, sending a shockwave through me. Papers scattered from the desk, a beaker wobbled precariously on a nearby shelf, and the air rushed out of my lungs in a deep, involuntary grunt from Mr. Clarke's chest.

For a moment, I just lay there sprawled on the floor, stunned and breathless, staring up at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My khaki pants had ridden up slightly from the fall, exposing thick, hairy calves. My dress shirt had untucked in places, revealing a strip of soft gut and the dark trail of hair leading downward. My bearded face burned hot with flush, sweat beading anew on my forehead as humiliation flooded through me like fire.

We had always joked about this exact thing in the lab. Dan and I had whispered about how Mr. Clarke's poor office chair creaked every time he sat down, how one day surely his big heavy ass would finally snap it in half and send him crashing to the floor in front of everyone. We had laughed about imagining the scene, the uptight professor reduced to an embarrassing heap in front of the class. But I never, in my worst nightmares, imagined I would be the one inside his body when it actually happened. I never thought I would feel the sheer mortifying weight of it all from the inside. The way his massive frame made every movement so consequential, the way this thick, powerful ass that I had secretly admired was now the very thing that had caused my downfall.

"Shit, Mr. Clarke... I mean, Noah... are you okay?" Dan asked, rushing around the desk, his voice caught between concern and barely suppressed laughter as he looked down at me.

I groaned, trying to push myself up on my elbows, but the impact stung and made it awkward and slow. My thick arms strained, my gut shifted heavily, and I felt every pound of this body resisting the effort. Looking up at Dan from the floor with my flushed bearded face tilted upward in helpless vulnerability, only deepened the humiliation. The man who commanded fear and respect from the entire school was now sprawled helplessly like a toppled statue, and I was the one living it.

"Don't... don't laugh," I muttered, my deep voice rumbling with embarrassment as I finally rolled to my side and heaved myself upright, the floor creaking again under my rising weight. But even as I said it, I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the way this body's natural authority clashed with the ridiculous position I had landed in. It was so wrong, so utterly humiliating, and yet buried somewhere beneath the shame was that perverse flicker of sensation, the raw physicality of it all, the undeniable presence of this massive, hairy form that was now mine.

Dan offered a hand to help steady me as I stood, brushing off my rumpled shirt. "Sorry, man. But... we really did always say that chair wouldn't last much longer."

"Yeah," I replied quietly, adjusting my pants and feeling the dense curve of my ass settle back into place. "Just never thought I'd be the one to break it."

The words hung heavy, a stark reminder that every joke we had made about Mr. Clarke's body was now my reality, every flaw and excess now mine to carry, to feel, to live with from today on.

—

The next hour was a nightmare, a desperate scramble to reverse the impossible. We stayed late in the school lab, the black hole's shimmering void mocking me from the floor as it lay there like a discarded shadow, its edges rippling faintly under the fluorescent lights. Dan paced back and forth, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, while I stood there in Mr. Clarke's towering body, feeling every inch of its heavy presence pulling me down.

"Okay, Noah, let's think this through," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe we can have you climb into another body. Like one of the jocks or another student. At least you wouldn't be stuck as this old lumbering giant forever."

I nodded eagerly, a spark of hope flickering in my chest, making my thick beard twitch as I spoke. "Yes, please. Let's try that. Anything but this. I can't stay like him, Dan. His body feels so... overwhelming. So heavy and thick everywhere." My deep voice rumbled with desperation, and I glanced down at my broad frame, the dress shirt still clinging damply to my hairy chest from the earlier sweat.

Dan picked up the black hole carefully, unrolling it like a fragile map. "Alright, hold still. I'll place it on the floor, and you try to squeeze through. Imagine slipping into one of the jock's bodies or another student. We could grab one of them after practice or something."

He laid it flat, the void pulsing invitingly, and I lowered myself awkwardly, my massive knees creaking as they hit the ground. I positioned my large callused hand at the rim first, feeling the warm, squishy pull of the anomaly, but as I tried to push my arm in deeper, the resistance built immediately. 

"It's tight already," I grunted, my rugged face flushing with effort. My broad shoulders caught painfully against the edge, the void stretching slightly but refusing to yield to my width. I twisted, sweat beading on my forehead and dripping into my beard, my thick chest heaving as I pushed harder.

"Keep going, Noah. You can do it," Dan encouraged, kneeling beside me, his voice tense. "Suck in your chest or something."

I tried, inhaling deeply, feeling the firm curve of my chest compress slightly, but it was no use. My thick chest, matted with coarse hair under the shirt, refused to squeeze through the narrow rim, the fabric straining as I wedged myself further. Pain shot through my shoulders, and I gasped, pulling back with a frustrated roar. "Damn it, it's not working. Clarke’s shoulders are too wide. This body is built like a wall."

We tried again, Dan suggesting I go feet first this time. "Maybe start with your legs. Your thighs are huge, but the hole might stretch."

I lay on my back, the floor cool against my broad shoulders, and slid one thick, hairy leg toward the void. The sensation was strange, the anomaly enveloping my calf with that familiar warm embrace, but as my massive backside approached, it jammed, the dense muscle and fat bunching up against the rim.

"Push harder," Dan said, grabbing my other leg to help guide me. "Come on, Noah, you're almost there."

I groaned, my deep voice echoing in the empty lab, sweat now soaking through the back of my shirt as I strained. "It hurts, Dan. These thighs and this ass are too damn big! It's like trying to force a tree trunk through a keyhole." After minutes of grunting and twisting, I yanked my leg free, panting heavily, my beard damp and itchy from the exertion.

We made a third attempt, this time with me on my side, but each try left me more exhausted, my beard dripping beads of sweat onto the floor as I gasped for air.

"Enough," I finally said, slumping against the desk, my thick frame trembling. "It's not working. I'm too fucking big now. Clarke's body is never going to fit that small hole..."

Dan shook his head in defeat, his face pale. "Damn it. Okay, plan B. What about recreating the chemical reaction? Maybe make another bigger hole or find a way to reverse the fusion somehow."

I nodded wearily, my rugged hands trembling as I stood up, feeling the weight of my ass shift with the movement. "Let's try. Anything to get me out of this."

For the next hour and a half we gathered beakers and compounds from the shelves, Dan reading off measurements while I poured with my blunt fingers, the liquids hissing as they mixed.

"Add more sulfur this time," Dan instructed, peering into the beaker. "That might be what triggered it before."

I complied, but the mixture just bubbled harmlessly, no void forming, no anomaly appearing. We tried variation after variation, frantically adjusting ratios, but without the exact accidental formula, it was futile. 

"This isn't the right combination," I said after the tenth failed batch, my hands shaking as I set down the beaker, the reality sinking in deeper like a stone in my thick chest. Each failure cemented my fate deeper, the reality sinking in that I was stuck as Bruce Clarke for the unforeseeable future.

"Shit, Noah," Dan whispered, leaning against the table. "I don't know what else to do right now…"

"I can't go home like this," I said finally, my voice exhausted and defeated after hours of trying. "My parents would freak out if I showed up looking like our science professor. What do I do now, Dan?"

Dan thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. "We leave it for today and try again tomorrow when we're fresh. I heard Clarke lives alone, in an apartment a town over. Maybe… you could go there, and just pretend to be him until we fix this. It's not ideal, but it's something, I guess…"

The words felt like a death sentence, the idea of stepping fully into Mr. Clarke's life making my hairy chest tighten. "Pretend to be him? Dan, I am him now. But... fine," I agreed reluctantly, my deep voice heavy with resignation. "I don't have a choice. Just promise you'll help me tomorrow. We meet back here first thing?"

"I promise," Dan said, clapping me on the shoulder, though his hand barely made an impact on my thick frame. "We'll figure this out, Noah. You're still my buddy."

We shared an awkward hug, my massive arms enveloping him easily, the powerful scent of Mr. Clarke's sweat and cologne filling the air between us. "Thanks, Dan. See you tomorrow," I murmured, pulling away.

"Take care... Mr. Clarke," he joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood, but it only made my bearded face flush deeper as I nodded and headed out.

—

After saying goodbye to Dan, I decided to take the bus instead of daring to drive Mr. Clarke's car, unsure if I could even handle the pedals with these thick legs or fit inside comfortably with this towering body. The evening air was muggy as I waited at the stop, my dress shirt already sticking to my broad back. When the bus arrived, I ducked my head to board, my broad shoulders brushing the doorframe, and lumbered to the back, the vehicle dipping slightly under my weight. Sitting on the bus without any air-conditioning, I felt stuffed and hot, the seat creaking loudly as I lowered my massive frame into it, my thick ass spreading wide and filling the space meant for two. Mr. Clarke's body started sweating profusely almost immediately, and I felt the back of the dress shirt and my armpits soaked through with his musky sweat, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my hairy skin, outlining every curve of my chest and back.

A group of college jocks from our school boarded a few stops later, recognizing me instantly. They stared, pointing, and laughing quietly among themselves. "Look at Clarke taking up the whole backseat," one whispered, snickering. "Guy's like a tank. Bet he could crush the seat if he bounces."

At first, I thought it would feel absolutely humiliating, my cheeks flushing hot under the scruffy beard, the heat making my sweat drip faster. I shifted awkwardly, feeling the dense weight of my thighs rub together, the khaki pants damp and tight.

Yet, for some strange reason, a flicker of arousal stirred within me, warm and unexpected, building in my core as their eyes lingered on my bulk. Instead of shying away, I stared back at the jocks with a stern glare, channeling Mr. Clarke's authority.

"Something funny, boys?" I boomed, my voice deep and commanding, rumbling through the bus like thunder.

The jocks went quiet immediately, their laughter dying as they looked away in fear, mumbling apologies under their breath. "Sorry, Mr. Clarke…" one said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

There were perks to being big, scary, and having authority after all, I realized, a small thrill running through me as I shifted in the seat again, feeling the power in my bulk ripple through my muscles. The arousal lingered, a warm pulse in my thick crotch, making the ride feel strangely empowering despite the discomfort.

—

At the apartment, I fumbled with his keys at the door, my thick fingers clumsy and uncoordinated at first, the metal slipping twice before I finally turned the lock and entered. The space was clean and masculine, smelling of cedar and faint coffee, but it struck me how minimalistic it all was. The furniture was sparse: a plain wooden table in the kitchen with two mismatched chairs, a worn leather couch in the living room facing a small TV on a simple stand, and bare walls except for a few shelves holding books on chemistry and physics. No decorations, no clutter, just functional and stark, like the home of a man who lived for his work and little else.

I wandered the rooms slowly, my heavy footsteps thudding on the hardwood floors, exploring this new life that was now mine. In the living room, photo frames on a side table caught my eye. I picked one up with my rugged hands, staring at the unfamiliar faces: a group of people at a family gathering, smiling warmly, with Mr. Clarke in the center, his arm around an older woman who must have been his mother. 

"Who are you all?" I whispered, my deep voice soft in the quiet space.

Another photo showed him with friends at a bar, laughing, beers in hand, a side of him I had never imagined. And on the wall in the hallway, diplomas hung framed: his bachelor's in chemistry, master's in education, awards for teaching excellence.

"All these achievements... and they're all mine now?" I murmured, tracing the glass with a thick finger, feeling a strange mix of awe and intrusion.

The closet in the bedroom was equally plain and boring, filled with rows of identical khaki pants, tight dress shirts in neutral colors, and a few pairs of sensible shoes. No flair, no variety, just practical clothes that strained over his massive frame.

"This is what I have to wear every day?" I said aloud, pulling out a shirt and holding it up, imagining buttoning it over my hairy chest.

Finally, exhausted, I collapsed onto the bed, the frame creaking loudly under my weight like a protest, the mattress sinking deeply beneath my bulk. I peeled off the sticky shirt slowly, button by button, exposing the broad, hairy chest and thick gut inch by inch. The air felt cool against the damp skin, but the heat from my body lingered. My hands roamed tentatively, tracing the unfamiliar terrain, a mix of revulsion and fascination washing over me as my fingers sank into the soft give of my belly, then up to the dense mat of coarse hair covering my pecs. This was my prison now, a body I had day-dreamed about from afar, now mine possibly forever.

That's when I realized this was the first time I had ever seen Mr. Clarke shirtless, even if it was my own view now. A mix of horror and fascination gripped me as I stared down at the insanely hairy chest and thick legs, the coarse hairs curling thickly over the skin, dark and wild.

"This is me now…" I whispered to myself, running my hands through the furry chest, feeling the texture rough and warm under my palms. I gave my own pecs a firm squeeze, the flesh yielding softly under my grip, sending a shiver through my new body, the hairs tickling my fingers sensually.

I had to come to terms with the fact that I was Bruce Clarke now, forced to take on his identity and career as a college science professor, infamous for being cruel and barely fitting through door frames. 

"Bruce... I said aloud, testing the name on my tongue, my deep voice making it sound natural. The thought that I would have to live with this giant hairy body for the rest of my life still horrified me, but at the same time, a strange thrill emerged, building slowly like a fire kindling in my core. I had secretly always admired Mr. Clarke's body, the way it moved with such commanding presence, the sheer mass of it filling every space. 

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all…" I murmured, my hands pressing harder into the hairy expanse, feeling the sweat-slicked skin respond.

My hands drifted lower, unbuckling the khaki pants with deliberate slowness, the belt loosening with a soft click, sliding them down over my impossibly thick thighs, the fabric brushing against the hairy legs. The air felt cool against the newly exposed skin, but the warmth from within built steadily, a pulsing heat in my heavy crotch. I explored further, my fingers brushing the unfamiliar weight there, Mr. Clarke’s cock thick and responsive, stirring under my touch, growing heavier and warmer in my palm.

"Oh god…" I murmured, my deep voice husky now, laced with building desire as I wrapped my hand around it fully, feeling the alien yet intoxicating sensations build with each slow stroke. It was slow, sensual, each movement drawing out the twisted acceptance of my fate, the veiny length thickening in my grip, the hairy base brushing my knuckles.

I lay there fondling myself, grappling with the knowledge that I had to take on the identity of Mr. Clarke from now on, even calling myself by the name of Bruce. "I'm Bruce Clarke…" I whispered repeatedly, the words sinking in as my strokes grew firmer, the pleasure coiling tighter in my thick frame. In the darkness of my new bedroom, I surrendered to the body's pull, my fingers tightening around the shaft, my breaths coming deeper and more ragged, slowly embracing the thick, hairy middle-aged professor I had become.

The slow realization deepened: I could be stuck as Bruce forever, this sweaty, heavy, hairy, and impossibly thick body my permanent home. The thought sent waves of conflicting emotion through me, a mixture of horror at the loss of my youth, yet the thrill at the power and sensuality of this form. The pleasure mounted gradually, waves of it washing over me, building to an unbearable peak until I arched my broad back off the bed, a low groan escaping my bearded lips.

My massive frame shuddered violently, the climax ripping through me, sending spurts of Mr. Clarke’s semen arcing onto the floor, coating my thick hairy thighs in warm, sticky trails, and some residue even splattering upward to get stuck in the scruffy brown beard, clinging to the coarse hairs like dew.

I lay there panting, the afterglow settling over my bulk, sealing my new reality in a haze of reluctant ecstasy.

- Epilogue -

Three years had passed since the accident in the chemistry lab, three years since my life as Noah, the scrawny college senior, dissolved completely into the void of a black hole and left me forever trapped in the massive, hairy body of Bruce Clarke, Westview High’s infamous uptight and cruel science professor.

The classroom, once a place of quiet dread and stolen glances, had become my domain, its fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, the sharp tang of chemicals as familiar now as the constant, grounding weight of my own thick frame. I stood at the front of the classroom each day, chalk dust coating my blunt fingers, my deep voice rumbling through the space as I lectured a new batch of students on molecular bonds and atomic structures that I barely knew anything about myself.

My dress shirts, always custom-tailored larger to accommodate the broad expanse of my chest and the soft curve of my gut, pulled snugly across the coarse hair beneath. My khaki pants hugged my powerful thighs and rounded ass, the fabric stretching with every deliberate step I took across the linoleum floor, a sensual reminder of the man I had fully become.

In the beginning, Dan and I had spent frantic weeks trying to undo the impossible fusion, experimenting late into the nights in the empty lab, recreating mixtures and testing the black hole on objects, animals, anything we could think of. But every attempt failed, and by the end of the first month, exhaustion and resignation settled over us like a heavy blanket. 

“It’s no use, dude,” Dan had said one evening, his voice quiet as he rolled the anomaly back up. “I don’t think you’re getting out of that big body. Ever...”

I nodded slowly, feeling the beard scratch against my collar, the weight of my chest shifting as I breathed deeply, and something inside me had quietly surrendered.

Eventually, Dan and I drifted apart, the strain of our changed dynamic too much to bear. He could not look at Mr. Clarke’s rugged face without flinching, could not hear that gruff voice without remembering the professor he had despised, even though he knew it was me trapped inside.

“It’s just too weird, man,” he confessed one afternoon in the empty classroom, his eyes fixed on the floor as the black hole sat rolled up in his backpack. “I hate that I still feel angry when I see you. It’s not fair to you, but I can’t help it.”

I understood, my massive hand resting gently on his shoulder, the touch heavy and paternal in a way that made us both uncomfortable. After that, our meetings grew shorter, rarer, until they stopped altogether.

I had no choice but to settle fully into Bruce Clarke’s life, his quiet apartment, his solitary routines, his very identity. The first months were a slow, deliberate adjustment, each day a lesson in inhabiting this towering body. I learned the rhythm of his mornings: the hot shower where steam clung to the thick hair on my chest and back, the way my heavy cock and balls swayed as I toweled off, the satisfying stretch of my broad shoulders as I buttoned a fresh shirt. I navigated grocery stores with my wide frame, feeling eyes linger on my bulk, my ass filling the seat of my small car. I graded papers late into the evening, my calloused fingers gripping the red pen, the creak of my new reinforced desk chair a constant companion beneath my spreading weight.

But as seasons turned, resistance melted into familiarity, then into something warmer, deeper. I began to crave the sensations of this body, the way sweat gathered in the dense fur of my chest on warm days, the powerful thud of my footsteps, the delicious heft of my thighs when I sat. 

Alone in the apartment, I found myself drawn to mirrors more and more. I would strip slowly, savoring the slide of fabric over hairy skin, standing naked before the full-length glass in the bedroom. The reflection mesmerized me: a stereotypical lumberjack of a man, 6’8” of solid mass, chest broad and forested with dark curls that trailed all the way down to my crotch. I ran my thick hands over it all, palms sinking into warm flesh, thumbs circling nipples buried in fur, feeling them harden under my touch. My arms, thick and strong, flexed as I explored, veins standing out beneath the hair-dusted skin. Lower still, my cock hung heavy between muscular thighs, stirring as I cupped the weight of my balls, the musky scent of the day rising warmly.

Yet it was my ass that truly captivated me, that massive, rounded mound of muscle and softness that shifted with every movement. I turned sideways, watching it in the mirror, reaching back to grip the cheeks, fingers digging deep into the dense flesh, spreading them slightly to feel the heat within. It jiggled subtly when I walked, filled my pants to bursting, and in those private moments I reveled in its size, its power, its sheer sensuality. This body, once a prison of shame and loss, had become a source of dark, intoxicating pleasure. I was no longer Noah. I was Bruce Clarke, and I slowly grew to love every heavy, sweaty, hairy inch of my new self.

Then, months later and right before graduation, Dan reappeared suddenly, his eyes burning with a wild, desperate hunger. He cornered me after school in the lab, the black hole clutched tightly in his hands. 

“I want it,” he said, voice trembling with excitement. “I want Austin’s body. All of it. The looks, the strength, the privileges. You have to help me, Noah. Please!”

I hesitated, memories of my own irreversible mistake flooding back, but the plea in his eyes, the years of torment we had endured from Austin and his crew, wore down my resistance. Against every instinct, I agreed.

That afternoon I lured Austin to the classroom under the pretense of discussing his borderline grades, my deep voice calm and authoritative as I gestured for him to sit. While the jock slouched defiantly, bragging about his athletic scholarship, Dan emerged silently from the supply closet behind him. In one swift motion, he slapped the black hole onto Austin’s broad, muscular back. The star athlete stiffened, a shocked scream escaping his lips before his perfect body went limp, collapsing forward onto the desk.

I watched, heart pounding in my thick chest, as Dan stripped off his shirt and climbed eagerly into the void, his slim frame disappearing inch by inch into Austin’s chiseled form. The sight stirred something dark in me, arousal mixing with guilt. When Dan was fully inside, eyes fluttering open behind Austin’s handsome face, he grinned wickedly and nodded. Without a word, I reached forward and ripped the black hole away, sealing his fate just as mine had been sealed years before.

The void came free with a soft, wet sound before Austin’s body shuddered and fell onto the floor, convulsing violently for a few minutes before returning to normal, although now permanently inhabited by my old friend.

“Holy shit,” the new Austin breathed, flexing powerful arms, running hands over sculpted abs. “It worked. I’m freakin’ Austin now!”

That evening, the new Austin insisted on coming over to the apartment, his voice over the phone laced with that cocky drawl he had already mastered. I could only agree, my deep rumble quiet and resigned, even though I knew exactly what dark intentions burned in his eyes. He arrived just after dusk, filling the doorway with his perfect athletic frame, shirt stretched tight over sculpted pecs, jeans hugging powerful thighs. The contrast hit me immediately: his smooth, golden skin against my hairy bulk as he stepped inside, grinning like he owned the place.

We barely spoke before he pushed me back toward the bedroom, hands greedy on my broad chest, tugging at my shirt buttons until they popped free. Clothes fell away in a heated rush, and soon he had me bent over, my thick palms pressed against the full-length bedroom mirror, my bearded face inches from the glass. Cool air kissed my sweaty skin as he positioned himself behind me, his hard cock sliding teasingly between my heavy cheeks before pressing in slow and deep. The stretch burned deliciously, and I groaned, the sound rumbling from my hairy chest as he buried himself fully in Mr. Clarke’s thick ass.

The mirror in front of us showed everything: Austin’s flawless chiseled body gleaming with sweat, muscles rippling with every thrust, while my massive, hairy form rocked forward, broad shoulders flexing, thick flesh shifting under coarse fur across my back and chest. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, my big ass bouncing loudly with each powerful drive, while the sound echoing off the walls like thunder.

“Look at you, Mr. Clarke,” he growled, voice dripping with triumphant venom as he gripped my wide hips harder, pulling me back onto his cock. “Always acting like you were better than everyone, barking orders in that stupid deep voice. Now you’re just a thick hairy daddy taking my dick like you were born for it.”

I moaned, eyes locked on my own reflection, mesmerized by the flushed bearded face staring back, mouth open in helpless pleasure, sweat dripping from my brow into the scruffy hair.

“That’s right, you massive old lumberjack,” he continued, slowing his thrusts to long, deliberate strokes that made my thick thighs tremble. “Feel this perfect cock stretching your hairy hole. I’ve got the body you could only dream of: tight abs, big arms, perfect skin. And you? You’re just a big, heavy brute with fur everywhere. Look at all that coarse hair on your chest. Bet it traps all your sweat like the thick bear you are.”

He laughed, reaching around to tug roughly at the dense mat on my chest, pinching a nipple hard enough to make me gasp. “God, these heavy pecs are huge under all that fur. And this trail running down your thick gut,” he traced it with mocking fingers, “leading straight to that musky crotch like the bearded giant you are.”

My cock throbbed harder at the degradation, leaking steadily onto the floor as I pushed back against him, craving more despite the shame. I moaned loudly, voice shaking as my broad back arched.

“Yeah, moan for me, Clarke,” he taunted, flexing one bicep beside my head so I could see it in the mirror, kissing the hard bicep while slamming deeper. “This is what real power feels like. I’m the star now, the perfect jock, and you’re just the thick hairy professor begging for my cock. Say it. Tell me how much better I am.”

“You… you’re better,” I rasped, voice thick and broken, staring at my own hairy bulk submitting so completely. “You’re perfect… young… strong…”

“Louder, you thick brute,” he demanded, slapping my ass hard, the cheek rippling wildly.

“I- I’m nothing like you,” I groaned louder, the words spilling out as he thrust harder, forcing them from me. “I’m just a big, hairy middle-aged college professor with a fat heavy ass!”

“That’s it, keep going, professor,” he laughed, pounding faster. “Now say how much you love watching your own reflection get fucked like this. Admit you’re just a hairy perverted man who deserves it for looking down on me all those years.”

“I love it,” I confessed breathlessly, the sight of my bearded face twisted in ecstasy pulling more words from me. “I love seeing my big hairy thick reflection being fucked against the mirror. This heavy old body I’m stuck in forever, jiggling and sweating in this small town as the uptight middle-aged professor who can barely fit anywhere.”

He reached climax then, roaring as he flexed both arms, veins popping. Hot pulses filled me, spilling down my thick thighs. “Fuck yeah! I’m Austin McCormack! Star athlete, perfect body, blowing my load deep in the science professor’s hairy ass! Look at these guns!”

The overwhelming sensation pushed me over too. My cock erupted untouched, thick ropes splattering the mirror, streaking down over my reflected chest and fur. I whimpered pathetically, mimicking him in broken surrender. “I-I’m Bruce Clarke… just a middle-aged college professor… with a big hairy body and thick ass… stuck in this small town forever…”

He pulled out slowly, laughing as my hole gaped and leaked, then slapped my ass one last time, watching it bounce against the impact. “Fuck, this ass is unreal. So big and juicy and hairy, like two thick muscular pillows. No wonder you could barely fit through doors. Remember that day you sat down and broke the damn chair? Crack, boom, big bad Mr. Clarke sprawled on the floor like a toppled tree, fat ass in the air, face red as a tomato. Bet the whole school would’ve paid to see that. And now here it is, bouncing beautifully while I fuck it raw.”

I whimpered, the memory burning hot through me, my reflection showing Mr. Clarke’s stern eyes now soft and pleading, filled with lust. Without pause, he spun me around, shoved me onto the bed, and climbed over me, sliding back in with ease. “But we’re not done, old man. I’m fucking you all night. Years of payback in one evening.”

“Dan,” I gasped as he started thrusting again, my voice trembling. I thought we were just role-playing, but now I wasn’t so sure. “It’s still me inside, you know... Noah, your friend.”

He paused for a split second, then laughed coldly, gripping my beard and forcing my head back. “Friend? Nah, I don’t see Noah anymore. I see a thick bearded daddy, the uptight stern professor who always looked down on me. And look at you, loving every second of watching your own hairy thick reflection get railed. There’s no way we’ll ever be friends, you old perverted man. This is my final goodbye to you, one last fuck from a stud like me. You’re Bruce Clarke now, and I’m Austin McCormack, the prom king and aspiring athlete. Enjoy that big hairy body and your boring small-town life.”

And he did fuck me relentlessly through the night: position after position, hour after hour, he took me on my back with my thick legs over his shoulders, on my side with his arm around my broad chest, on all fours again while he pulled my beard and whispered more humiliating truths about my thickness, my hair, my heavy build. Each time he came, he proclaimed his new identity louder, flexing and posing, while I whimpered mine in quiet defeat, spilling over my own hairy torso again and again, our former bond shattered irreparably, cementing us forever in these new identities and lives.

By morning, he was gone. No note, no goodbye, just the lingering ache in my body and the sticky evidence on the sheets.

I learned later he had left town right after graduation, the black hole vanished with him, off to live the perfect life of Austin McCormack: scholarships, trust funds, and endless possibilities. I did not blame him. He had everything he ever wanted, while I remained the middle-aged science professor with the big, hairy body and the quiet unassuming life.

The disappearance of Dan and the black hole sealed my fate irrevocably. There would be no reversal, no climbing into a new body. My old life as Noah was gone forever, with no hopes of ever returning. But as I stood in the shower that morning, hot water cascading over my broad back, running down through the dense hair, down the curve of my big ass and between my thick thighs, a profound peace settled over me. I ran my hands over myself slowly, possessively, feeling every inch of this magnificent form.

Later, dressed in fresh khakis and a snug shirt, I sat at my desk with coffee and papers, the reinforced chair creaking comfortably beneath my weight, my ass spreading wide and familiar.

I was Bruce Clarke now, completely and without reservation. Science professor, hairy giant, and infamous owner of the biggest ass in town. And in the quiet moments, before the mirror or alone in bed, I celebrated this mature body with slow, worshipful touches, reveling in its size, its hair, its unrelenting presence. The black hole had taken everything from my old life, but it had given me this, a deep, sensual love for the man I had ultimately become.

The End?

MY SWEET LITTLE MARK

Continuing a Vignette from here

The bed creaked the way it had always creaked.

That sound was the thing that struck me first. Not the slick stretch of him inside me, not the deep stuttering moan rolling up out of a chest I should not have been straddling, nor the wet buzz of the toy he was working into himself with his free hand. The bed. The specific groan of the third slat from the headboard, the one I'd been meaning to replace for three years and never quite got around to. The sound was a key sliding into a lock I didn't know I had.

But I kept riding.

That was the worst of it, or the best, depending on which part of me you asked. My thighs were burning in a way that didn't feel like mine — narrow thighs, less stamina, bitten-down fingernails clutching at pecs they hadn't earned — this body I'd woken up in working harder than it should have to keep the rhythm going. But the rhythm itself was instinct. Up and down. The slow grinding pause at the bottom where he liked it, where the man under me liked it, because his hands tightened on a waist that didn't belong to either of us and his head pressed back into the pillow and that voice, my fucking voice, broke open into a sound somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

Tommy's POV

I woke up with David’s back pressed against my chest, my arm draped over his waist. Early morning light was coming through the blinds, and I just lay there for a minute, breathing him in.

Fuck… David Clemence is like the cutest guy ever.

I still couldn’t believe last night actually happened. I’d had a crush on him back when we swam together, but I never thought I’d get the chance to be with him like this. Fucking him last night was a dream. The way he moaned my name, the way his body reacted to every touch, how tight and warm he felt around me… I couldn’t stop replaying it in my head.

I carefully brushed some of his hair out of his face so I could see him better. Even sleeping, he looked good. Smooth skin, sharp jawline, those long eyelashes. He had no idea how cute he was, honestly. Guys like him never do.

I’d struggled to keep my hands off him all night at the bar. Every time he laughed at one of my stupid jokes, every time he leaned in a little closer, I wanted to pull him against me. But I held back. I really wanted to be respectful until I knew for sure he was into me too. The last thing I wanted was to make things weird or pushy.

Later at McDonald’s, when I finally made my move… I was so nervous. Sliding my hand around his waist in the booth, feeling the warm, smooth skin of his side and the hard lines of his abs under my fingers — fuck, I got so turned on. I kept glancing at my friends across the table, nervous as hell that I was being too forward. But then I felt David lean into my touch, his lustful gaze burning into me. When I rubbed the inside of his thigh before we left, I swear I could feel his breathing change. He wanted me too.

I pressed a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder, then another one a little higher on his neck. David stirred, letting out a quiet sleepy sound that made me smile.

“Morning,” I whispered against his skin, keeping my voice low. “You sleep okay?”

He nodded, still half-asleep, and pushed back against me a little. I tightened my arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

I ran my hand slowly up and down his side, enjoying the feeling of his smooth, toned body under my palm. I was already getting hard again just being pressed against him, but I didn’t want to rush anything. I wanted him to feel comfortable. Safe.

But I couldn’t help but let my mind wander.

He doesn’t know this either, but he was the reason I came out when I got to college. All those stolen glances I made in the locker room, trying not to stare at his body while we changed. Going back to his Instagram late at night just to look at every new cute photo he posted. I finally couldn’t deny it to myself anymore. I liked guys.

Unfortunately for me, I still haven’t found anyone I liked quite as much as I liked him back then. No one ever measured up.

I wondered what things would’ve been like if I had figured myself out while we were still in high school. Maybe we could’ve dated. Sneaking around, going to movies together, making out in my car after practice…

Can we date now?

The thought made my heart beat faster. It felt a little crazy, but it also felt right.

I leaned in and kissed the back of his neck again, speaking softly.

“Hey… I know this might sound sudden, but would you want to get dinner this week? Just the two of us. A real date.”

He looked back at me and smiled, still barely awake, and said, “I'd like that.”

Ryan's POV

It had been three weeks since I swapped into David’s body.

Tommy and I had been seeing each other almost every day since that first night. We weren’t officially calling it anything yet, but it felt like a relationship. Texts good morning and good night, dinners, movies at his place, waking up next to him on weekends. It felt natural. Easy.

David had been surprisingly cool about extending the swap. When I messaged him asking for two more weeks, he replied almost immediately saying it was fine. I didn’t tell him the real reason — that I was seeing Tommy. I just said I was having too much fun exploring life in a younger body and wanted a little more time. I was worried that if I mentioned I was dating someone — especially another former swimmer — he might get weird about it and demand we swap back.

Part of me liked to think he’d actually be excited for me. Worst case scenario, at least I’d be giving him a hot boyfriend when he finally got his body back. Best case scenario… I didn’t let myself think too far ahead on that one.

Having a boyfriend — or de facto boyfriend — was nicer than I ever imagined it would be. After years of hiding and pretending, being able to hold someone’s hand in public, kiss them goodbye on the sidewalk, or fall asleep with someone’s arm around me felt like something I’d been missing my whole life.

Tommy was every bit as sweet as I remembered from his swimming days. He was the perfect gentleman — always opening doors, checking in on how my day was, making me coffee in the morning exactly how I liked it. But when he wanted to turn on that raw sexual energy, he became something else entirely. The way he’d pin me against the wall the second we got back to his apartment, the way he’d look at me like he wanted to devour me, the low growl in his voice when he told me exactly what he was going to do to me… it made my knees weak every single time.

Tonight we were on his couch, half-watching a movie. I was lying with my head in his lap while he played with my hair. He looked down at me with that warm, affectionate smile that made my stomach flutter.

“You good?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing over my cheek.

“Yeah,” I said, looking up at him. “I have something I want to talk to you about.” I sat up.

“Hmm?” He kissed the top of my head. "What is it?"

I swallowed hard. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

He shifted so he could look at me better, his expression soft and patient. “You can tell me anything.”

I beat around the bush for a minute, stuttering. “I have this… kink. I’ve had it for a while.”

Tommy’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he smiled. “Okay. What is it?”

I opened my mouth, closed it, then tried again. My face felt hot. “It’s… body swapping. Like… the idea of switching bodies with someone.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t look weirded out. Instead, his smile grew a little.

“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said gently. “Actually sounds kinda hot. You want to pretend we’ve swapped bodies next time we fuck?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Not exactly pretending…”

“I found this site called SwapService. It says it can actually do it. For real.” I paused, then added the lie I’d rehearsed. “I’ve always been too scared to try it with anyone before… but I want to try it with you.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. He pushed himself up on one elbow so he could look at me properly.

“Seriously? Like an actual body swap?” He didn’t sound judgmental at all. If anything, he looked excited. “That sounds like a lot of fun. Assuming it actually works, of course.” He grinned and ran his hand down my side. “And let’s be honest… you’re super fucking hot. It’s not like I’d be giving much up.”

I let out a breath of relief.

“You’d really be okay with that?” I asked, still a little stunned by how easily he was taking it.

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation, leaning in to kiss me softly. “If it’s something you’re into, I want to experience it with you. Plus…” He smirked, that confident, playful look returning to his face. “I wouldn’t mind taking that cock for a test drive.”

He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hand sliding down to squeeze my crotch.

“So,” he murmured against my lips, “when do you want to do it?”

---

The next evening we sat together on Tommy’s couch with his laptop open. We made our profiles side by side, carefully filling in all the stats and preferences so the system would register us as a 100% match. Tommy kept laughing and teasing me the whole time, clearly enjoying how nervous and excited I was. Once everything was set, we confirmed the swap.

The flash hit.

When I opened my eyes, I was looking up at the ceiling from a different angle. Tommy’s bigger, stronger body. I flexed my new hands, feeling the thickness of his forearms, the power in his biceps. A rush of pure ecstasy ran through me.

I looked over at Tommy, now in David’s leaner body. He was sitting up, running his hands over his new smooth chest and abs, a big grin on his face.

“Holy shit,” he said, using David’s voice. “This feels weird… but not bad.”

He looked thrilled.

Before I could say anything, Tommy moved fast. He climbed on top of me, pinning my new, bigger wrists down to the bed with surprising strength. Even though I was now physically larger, the way he looked down at me with that confident, hungry expression made it clear nothing had really changed about who was in charge.

“Even in these new bodies,” he said, voice low and firm, “I’m still the one running things in the bedroom. Got it?”

I nodded quickly, already breathing harder.

Tommy reached down and slid his hand under the waistband of my underwear. His fingers found my hole and started rubbing slow, teasing circles against it. The sensation in Tommy’s more sensitive body made me groan.

“Good,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss my neck as his finger pressed more firmly. “Because I’ve got plans for this body tonight.”

Lying there pinned under him, feeling his finger teasing me, all I could think was:

David is going to have to wait a while longer to get his body back.

I hoped he’d be okay with that.

Ryan's POV

It had been three weeks since Cruz and I swapped back.

I was sitting on my couch with a beer in hand, staring at the SwapService app icon on my phone. I’d deleted it the day we returned to our own bodies, telling myself I needed a break. The whole experience had been intense. Eye-opening. Kind of incredible, honestly. For the first time in my life I’d been able to have sex with men without the crushing weight of fear that someone I knew would find out. I’d fucked, I’d been fucked, I’d finally let myself enjoy it. Cruz’s body had felt good. Young. Tight. Full of energy.

But the way he casually asked me on the last night if I wanted to make the swap permanent had freaked me out. Who the hell offers something like that so easily? Was that normal on this site? I’d said no immediately, and he’d just shrugged like it was no big deal. Still, I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t intrigued by the idea.

A do-over. Getting to live as an out gay man from a much younger age. No decades spent hiding. No pretending.

I shook my head and took another sip of beer. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ryan. One more swap. Just to explore a little more. Nothing permanent. Nothing crazy.

I reinstalled the app, set up my profile again, and adjusted my preferences.

The moment I hit search, a profile popped up at the very top with a bright green 98% compatibility score.

That was insanely high. Higher than anything I’d seen last time, even with Cruz.

I tapped on it.

My stomach dropped.

David Clemence, 25

One of my former varsity swimmers. Lean, athletic build, wavy brown hair, cocky smile in his profile picture. He was shirtless by the ocean, water still dripping down his chest. He looked exactly like I remembered him — confident, good-looking, and way too young.

What the hell was he doing on here?

I stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering. Part of me knew I should just close the app. But another part of me — the part that had spent years in high school and college fighting against stealing glances at other swimmers in the locker room — stayed frozen.

I opened his profile fully.

His bio was short:

“Former swimmer. Looking for an older, experienced guy who knows how to take charge. Open to anything, including longer swaps.”

My cock twitched in my shorts before I could stop it.

I told myself I was just curious. I clicked the message button.

A new chat window opened.

Before I could even type anything, David’s message came through.

David: Coach Ryan? Holy shit, no way. Is that really you?

I stared at the screen for a second, then typed back.

Ryan: Yeah, it’s me. Didn’t expect to see you on here, David.

David: Same here, Coach. This is wild. I just logged on tonight and your profile popped up. Crazy coincidence. What brings you on here>

I leaned back on the couch, heart still beating faster than it should. I decided to keep things vague.

Ryan: I’ve just been taking a little break from things. Trying to figure some stuff out, I guess.

David: I get that You doing okay?

I hesitated, then found myself opening up more than I planned.

Ryan: Honestly? I’ve been exploring my sexuality lately. First time I’ve really let myself do that. It’s been… new. Kind of freeing, but also scary as hell.

David: That’s awesome, Coach. Seriously. I’m really glad you’re doing that. You deserve to figure shit out without anyone giving you crap.

His words hit me harder than I expected. I felt a strange warmth in my chest. Out of all the people who could have said that to me, hearing it from one of my former swimmers felt surprisingly good.

Ryan: Thanks, David. That means more than you know.

We messaged back and forth for a while. He was easy to talk to — supportive, casual, and didn’t make it weird. After twenty minutes of chatting, he finally said it.

David: So… would you want to swap for a few days? I’m down if you are.

I read the message twice. My stomach tightened.

Ryan: You sure that wouldn’t be too weird? ... Exploring my sexuality, I mean.

David: Nah, not weird at all. That’s kind of what the site is for, right? Exploring stuff. Besides, I haven’t been getting much attention from guys lately anyway. I’ve worked hard to keep this body in shape. Might as well let someone who actually put it to good use. And if it’s an old friend like you? Even better.

Shit, I didn't realize David was gay. I mean, I guess in retrospect that makes sense, but I hadn't really thought that much about it. That would make things a bit easier.

I could feel myself getting tempted. The 98% match, the easy conversation, the way he was reassuring me… it all made it feel strangely safe.

Ryan: You’re really okay with me being in your body?

David: More than okay, Coach. I’d actually like it. I've always looked up to you, it would be cool to repay you for that.

I stared at my phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Ryan: Alright then, let's do it.

David and I agreed on a four-day swap. The process felt smoother than with Cruz. A bright flash behind my eyes, a moment of vertigo, and then everything settled.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in an unfamiliar bed in a small, tidy apartment. I looked down.

David’s body.

Lean, smooth, athletic. My new hands were younger, veins less prominent. I sat up slowly and walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.

It was so fucking weird.

I was staring at one of my former swimmers. The same kid I used to yell at for lazy flip turns and sloppy streamline. Now I was him. I ran David’s hands over his chest and abs, feeling the tight muscle definition I used to see every day at practice. His skin was smooth, almost no hair except a thin trail leading down from his navel. His cock was already half-hard just from the novelty of the swap.

I wrapped my new hand around it and gave a slow stroke. A sharp jolt of pleasure shot through me. It felt different. More sensitive. Quicker to respond.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered in David’s voice. It still felt surreal hearing his younger tone come out of my mouth.

I kept stroking, watching myself — watching him — in the mirror. The way his abs flexed, the way his biceps popped when I tensed my arm. I imagined all the times I’d stood on the pool deck trying not to look too long at these exact bodies. Now I was inside one.

I jerked off faster, breathing harder, until I came hard across David’s tight stomach, thick ropes landing on his smooth skin. I stood there panting, looking at the mess I’d made in my former swimmer’s body.

It was the strangest mix of guilt and arousal I’d ever felt.

A few days later I was at a gay bar downtown in David’s body. It was crowded, loud, and full of guys in their twenties. I felt both out of place and strangely excited. Being young again, being able to be here without anyone recognizing me, was liberating.

I was nursing a vodka soda at the bar when I saw him.

Tommy Morrison.

He was standing near the edge of the dance floor with a couple of friends, laughing at something. He’d filled out nicely since high school — broader shoulders, solid arms, a confident stance. He looked good. Really good.

I remembered him clearly. He joined the swim team as a junior when David was a freshman. It was supposed to be cross-training for running after he injured his ankle pretty badly. Less impact on the joints. But Tommy took to swimming so naturally that he stuck with it. Skipped indoor track his senior year just so he could keep swimming.

He’d always been one of the nicest kids I ever coached. Respectful, hardworking, good attitude.

And now I was staring at him like he was a piece of meat.

I quickly looked away, heat rising in my face. What the hell are you doing, Ryan? You were his coach.

Then it hit me.

In this body, I was younger than Tommy now.

The realization sent a strange thrill through me. I wasn’t his coach anymore.

Before I could decide whether to look away or go say something, Tommy started walking straight toward me. My stomach flipped. I tried to act casual, but when he tapped me on the shoulder I still startled slightly.

“Hey man, how are you?” Tommy said with a big smile. Without hesitation he pulled me into a quick, firm hug. He smelled like cologne and beer. When he stepped back, he looked me up and down, his eyes lingering for a second, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight grin.

I felt my cheeks heat up instantly. David’s face was probably bright red.

Tommy didn’t seem to mind. “This is crazy, I haven’t seen you in forever. Come meet my friends.”

He introduced me to the group as David. For the rest of the night I stayed with them — laughing, drinking, moving between the bar and the dance floor. I couldn’t stop watching Tommy. The way he carried himself was magnetic. He was masculine and confident without trying too hard, but he was also goofy and playful — teasing his friends, making dumb jokes, dancing badly on purpose just to make everyone laugh. Guys kept glancing at him and checking him out as they walked by.

He was everything I wished I could have been as a gay man — comfortable in his skin, open, free.

By the end of the night we were all drunk and starving. The whole group ended up at a McDonald’s a couple blocks away. We crammed into a booth, laughing too loud for the late hour. Tommy slid in right next to me. Without saying anything, he smoothly wrapped his arm around my waist and let his hand rest on my side, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.

The casual touch sent heat rushing through David’s body.

When it was finally time to leave, Tommy’s hand moved to my thigh under the table. He rubbed the inside of it, fingers pressing just firm enough to make my breath catch.

“My apartment is right around the corner,” he said, voice low and close to my ear. “I’ve got some new records if you want to come see them.”

I didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice coming out a little rough in David’s throat. “I’d like that.”

We said goodbye to his friends and started walking. Tommy kept his hand on my lower back the whole way. His apartment was only a five-minute walk, but it felt longer with the tension building between us. When we got inside, he locked the door behind us and turned to face me, that same slight grin playing on his lips.

I wandered over to his record collection, pretending to look through the sleeves while trying to calm my nerves. A few seconds later I felt Tommy come up behind me. His hands gently grabbed my waist and turned me around. Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was tender at first, almost careful. Then he deepened it, one hand sliding up to the back of my neck. When he finally pulled back, he looked me in the eyes and said quietly, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.”

My heart slammed in David’s chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just kissed him again, harder this time.

We made our way to his bed, still kissing as we pulled each other’s shirts off. Tommy laid me down gently and started kissing down my neck, then across my smooth chest and stomach. Every touch of his lips sent electricity through me. I couldn’t stop staring at him — his perfectly toned body, the way his veiny biceps flexed as he held himself over me, that cute smile, the light mustache above his lip, his warm sweet eyes, and the cool geometric tattoo on his forearm.

He was gorgeous.

I was so turned on I could barely think straight. This was one of my former swimmers — a kid I used to coach — now kissing his way down my (David’s) body like he’d been waiting years to do it. The guilt and the thrill mixed together in a way that made everything feel even more intense.

Tommy looked up at me, eyes dark with want, his hand sliding slowly up my thigh.

He stood up and pushed his underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside. His cock sprang up, hard and thick, curving slightly upward. I stared at it, my mouth going dry. He had already stripped me completely naked.

He reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube. Then he climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself on his knees between my spread legs. Looking down at me with dark, hungry eyes, he poured some lube onto his fingers and warmed it up by rubbing them together.

He leaned forward slightly and pressed one slick finger against my hole. I tensed for a second, but his other hand gently rubbed the inside of my thigh, slow and soothing. He pushed the finger in carefully, working it deeper with small, patient movements. A low moan escaped my throat.

After a minute he added a second finger, stretching me open. I squirmed on the sheets, breathing heavier, my cock leaking against my stomach. The combination of his fingers and that steady, comforting hand on my thigh was driving me crazy.

Tommy looked me straight in the eyes, his voice low and commanding.

“Are you on Prep?”

I could barely form words. I was so desperate to feel him inside me that it came out shaky and needy.

“Yes,” I managed, practically whimpering. “Yeah, I’m on it.”

Tommy gave me that same endearing, cute, confident smile — the one that made my chest tighten. Without another word, he pulled his fingers out, slicked up his cock, and lined himself up.

He thrust into me in one smooth, steady motion.

I gasped loudly as he filled me, my hands grabbing at his arms. He felt huge inside David’s tighter body. Tommy let out a deep groan, eyes half-closed for a moment, then looked back down at me as he started moving his hips.

“Fuck, David…” he breathed, leaning down closer.

Tommy started thrusting, deep and steady. Every roll of his hips sent waves of pleasure through me.

Fuck, he’s so hot. The thought kept repeating in my head as I watched him above me. The way his shoulders flexed, the way his chest moved with each breath, the confident look on his face. This is exactly how I want to be. Masculine. At ease in my own skin. Open. Desired.

This was my first time having sex without a condom. The feeling of Tommy’s bare cock sliding in and out of me was overwhelming. I couldn’t tell if raw sex just felt this incredible, or if it was specifically his cock — thick, curved, and hitting the perfect spot every single time. Honestly, it was probably both.

Tommy’s rhythm picked up. His eyes had turned darker, hungrier. He looked down at me and said in a low, rough voice, “I wish you could see how sexy you look right now.”

That sent me spiraling.

I closed my eyes and pictured it — being inside Tommy’s body instead. Looking down at David’s lean, smooth body spread out beneath me. Seeing my new, stronger hands gripping these hips. Fucking him with this powerful body while wearing that cute, confident smile.

The fantasy hit me like a freight train.

I came hard, moaning loudly as my cock pulsed between us, shooting across David’s stomach and chest. My hole clenched tight around Tommy’s cock with every wave.

“Fuck— David—” Tommy groaned. His thrusts became shorter and harder, then he buried himself deep and came. I felt every pulse as he filled me.

He dropped down onto me, chest to chest, our sweaty skin pressing together and smearing my cum between us. I pulled him into a deep kiss, tasting beer and salt on his tongue.

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard.

All I could think, over and over, was:

I was lying in bed scrolling through Grindr with one hand, the other resting on my stomach. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fan. It was a Thursday night and I wasn’t expecting much — just killing time before I passed out.

I swiped past a few generic torso shots and blank profiles when a new face popped up. My thumb froze mid-air.

Ryan Callahan. Coach Ryan. My high school swimming coach. For four years I had shamelessly tried to get his attention. I used to “accidentally” flex every time I climbed out of the pool and knew he was watching. I’d linger in the locker room with my towel slung low, joking around with the other guys while making sure he got a good look. I was still deep in the closet back then, so I played it off as regular jock shit. But he never took the bait. Never even gave me a second glance that I could tell.

Now here he was. Less than three miles away. Active twenty minutes ago.

Now forty years old, he had a beard with streaks of gray, short hair going silver at the temples, and the same heavy, hairy chest I used to stare at every day in high school. He was shirtless in the bathroom mirror selfie. His shoulders and pecs still looked solid, the dark hair across his chest even thicker than I remembered. The profile listed him at 5'11", 205 lbs, and looking for “fun, no strings.”

My heart started beating harder. I let out a slow breath and tapped the message button.

Before I could even type anything, the typing bubble appeared.

“Fuck dude you’re super cute.”

Two pictures followed right after. The first was a close-up of his cock, thick and heavy, hanging soft but already filling out. The second showed the same dick gripped in his hand, now mostly hard, head flushed dark. A thick vein ran along the top. His hand looked big around it.

I was practically salivating.

“Damn, you don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that,” I replied.

He didn’t waste any time.

“Looking to get off tonight. You down?” He said.

“I have work in the morning but fuck it. Send me the address.” I responded.

Twenty minutes later I stood outside his apartment door on the third floor of a quiet building a couple towns over. My heart was pounding hard. I knocked twice.

The door opened.

Ryan stood there shirtless in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips. His chest and stomach were covered in dark hair mixed with gray. His shoulders and arms still carried the muscle from years of coaching and lifting. He looked at me with heavy, hungry eyes and stepped aside.

“Holy fuck,” I said under my breath as I walked in.

He closed the door, turned to the kitchen counter, and poured two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to me. I took a sip. The burn went straight down.

Ryan didn’t speak. He stepped closer, set his glass down, and reached for my shirt. His thick fingers undid the top three buttons smoothly. Then he leaned in, pressed his mouth to the side of my neck, and started kissing me there. His beard scratched against my skin. One hand slid under the back of my shirt, rough and warm as it moved up my spine.

I took another sip of whiskey while his mouth worked lower, sucking lightly at the spot where my neck met my shoulder. His other hand stayed on my lower back, pulling me closer until my hips bumped against his.

We never finished the drinks. Ryan took the glass from my hand, set it aside, and nodded toward the hallway. I followed him into the bedroom. The only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand. The bed was already turned down.

He pushed the door shut and took full control. He stripped the rest of my clothes off slowly, then shoved me back onto the bed. He climbed on top of me, his heavy, hairy body pressing me into the mattress.

He took his time. He pushed my legs up and back, then buried his face between my cheeks. His beard rubbed rough against my skin while his tongue worked me open, slow and wet. I gripped the sheets and let out low groans every time he pushed deeper. He kept going until my hole was slick and relaxed.

When he finally pulled back, he grabbed a condom, rolled it on, and lubed up. He lined himself up and pushed inside me. The stretch burned at first, but once he was all the way in, pure bliss took over. Ryan fucked me deep and steady, his hips rolling in a strong, controlled rhythm. His hairy chest hovered over me as he held my legs open. Every thrust felt better than the last.

We fucked for at least half an hour. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin and my moans growing louder. Ryan stayed in charge, shifting angles until he hit the spot that made my back arch off the bed.

Finally I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Please take off the condom,” I said, voice rough.

Ryan paused mid-thrust, eyes dark. “Fuck kid, you don’t have to tell me twice.”

He pulled out, ripped the condom off, and tossed it aside. His bare cock looked even thicker now, slick and flushed. He pushed back inside me in one smooth motion.

He leaned down closer, still fucking me deep. One big hand wrapped around my lubed cock and started stroking me slowly, twisting at the head on every upstroke. His other hand found my left nipple, rolling and pinching it. Then he leaned in and kissed me, beard scratching my face, tongue sliding into my mouth.

That pushed me over the edge. My whole body tensed and I came hard, shooting across my stomach and chest while he kept stroking me through it. My hole clenched tight around him.

Ryan lasted another five minutes. His thrusts got shorter and harder. Then his breathing changed. He buried himself deep, let out a low guttural groan, and came. His face twisted in the hottest way — jaw tight, eyes half-shut, mouth open just enough to show his teeth. I felt every pulse as he filled me up.

He stayed inside me for a long moment afterward, both of us breathing hard. His sweaty, hairy chest pressed against mine while his cock slowly softened.

We lay there in the afterglow, bodies slick with sweat. Ryan’s heavy chest rose and fell against my side, his arm resting across my stomach.

After a few minutes he turned his head toward me.

“You clean?” he asked, voice low and rough.

I let out a small laugh. “Damn Coach, don’t you trust me?”

Ryan gave me a strange look and pushed himself up on one elbow.

“Wait, fuck… do you know me?”

What a weird way to phrase that question, I thought.

“Yeah Coach,” I said. “I was on your team for four years. You made me captain senior year. Don’t you remember?”

His face changed. “Fuck… shit shit.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “He told me not to do this. He’s gonna be pissed.”

He stared at the ceiling, then shrugged. “Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now. Guess it’s his problem.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Ryan let out a long breath. “This isn’t my real body. I’m not actually Ryan. My name is Cruz. We swapped for a few days using this site called SwapService.”

I stared at him. “Swapped?”

“Yeah. Ryan and I swapped bodies.” He ran a hand through the short graying hair. “How it works is you enter your own body stats — height, weight, age, build, everything. Then you put in the type of guy you want to swap with. The site gives you compatibility percentages with people looking to swap. Ryan and I hit like 85%.”

I stayed quiet for a second, then asked, “Why would Ryan ever want to swap?”

Cruz scratched at the thick hair on his chest. “I don’t remember every detail, but he said he’s been reckoning with his sexuality. He wanted to experiment with being an openly gay man for a few days. Guess he’s been in the closet a long time.”

He shrugged Ryan’s broad shoulders.

“The only rules he gave me was to stay DL and safe. He’s not out to anyone, not even his doctor, so he’s not on PrEP. He didn’t want it getting back to anyone he knows. So fucking one of his old swimmers raw…” He let out a short laugh. “That was a double no in his book.”

I looked at him and gave a stunted, incredulous laugh. “So do you swap often then?”

Cruz laughed low in Ryan’s deep voice and scratched at the thick hair on his chest. “Oh, I do it all the time. I like being older muscle hunks. Lets me fuck guys like you.” He looked me up and down slowly, eyes still hungry. “Young, lean, blonde jocks with tight asses. Never gets old.” He reached over and gave my thigh a squeeze before continuing. “And you felt even better and tighter than most.”

I felt my face heat up. Cruz leaned back against the pillows, looking completely relaxed in Ryan’s body.

I couldn’t stop myself from asking more. I was dying to know what kind of guy Ryan would actually trade this body for.

“So… what kind of body did you leave behind?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. “You must have offered Ryan something he really wanted if he agreed to the swap.”

Cruz grinned, Ryan’s bearded face looking amused. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his phone, and scrolled for a second before turning the screen toward me. The photo showed a 23-year-old Latino guy with a muscular twink build — smooth tan skin, sharp jawline, dark hair, and a tight six-pack. He was shirtless in a gym mirror, flexing with a cocky smile.

“That’s me,” Cruz said. “My real body.”

He locked the phone and tossed it back onto the nightstand. “I don’t like being a twink. Never have. So I swap all the time. Usually, once I’m a few days into a swap and the guy is really enjoying himself, I ask if he wants to make it permanent. Still haven't gotten on to say yes though. It's a big commitment I guess and I only offer to swap with the hottest guys.”

Cruz shrugged Ryan’s broad shoulders, his thick fingers idly scratching through the graying hair on his chest.

“I haven’t asked Ryan yet, though. Wasn’t sure how he’d react.”

My mind started spinning with possibilities.

If Ryan was willing to swap with a guy like Cruz — a complete stranger — then maybe he’d be open to swapping with me too. And if he liked being in my younger, lean, blonde body… maybe he’d agree to make it permanent.

All of the sudden, I pictured myself waking up inside Ryan’s body for good. Looking down at this thick, hairy chest every morning. Feeling the weight of these heavy muscles. Walking around with this deep voice and this powerful build. My cock started getting hard again just thinking about it, twitching against my stomach as the fantasy took hold.

Cruz noticed immediately. His eyes dropped to my growing erection and a slow, knowing smirk spread across Ryan’s face.

“Looks like you’re ready for round two already.”

He rolled on top of me again and pushed my legs apart. “And for the rest of the night, you still call me Ryan. Got it?”

“Yes, Ryan,” I breathed, voice already thick with need.

He lined himself up and slid back inside me raw, slow and deep. I groaned loudly as he bottomed out.

Ryan started thrusting in a steady, powerful rhythm, his heavy, hairy body moving over mine.

With every thrust, I imagined running my hands over this thick chest, feeling the weight of Ryan’s muscles under my fingers.

“Ryan…” I moaned.

He picked up the pace, hips snapping harder as he drove deeper into me.

I pictured myself lifting his arm and burying my face in his hairy pit, inhaling his scent while I was in his body.

“Fuck… Ryan,” I gasped.

Cruz leaned down, beard scraping against my neck as he growled in my ear, “You like that, kid?”

Another deep thrust made my back arch.

I imagined wrapping my hand around Ryan’s thick cock — my new cock — and jerking off slowly in front of the mirror, watching his body respond.

“Ryan… fuck, Ryan!” I cried out, voice breaking.

His thrusts grew rougher, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

The more he fucked me, the more certain I became.

I was going to become Ryan.

No matter what it took.

He pinned my wrist harder to the bed, pounding into me with deep, possessive strokes.

I saw myself bending Ryan over in my old body, sliding this fat cock inside him and fucking him deep after he finally agreed to make the swap permanent. I imagined finally cumming inside him.

“Ryan… don’t stop,” I moaned desperately, my hole clenching around him.

Cruz leaned closer, voice low and rough against my ear. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Every powerful thrust pushed me closer to the edge while the fantasy burned hotter in my mind.

This body was going to be mine.

"Um... I'm sorry, do I know you?" you ask, that soft voice so different from the deep rumble that used to vibrate through this chest. My chest now. Your hand fidgets with the bottom of your oversized tank top - probably one of your old shirts that hangs off your new frame like a fucking dress.

I flex casually, watching your eyes track the movement of muscles that used to belong to you. The pump is incredible in this body. Every vein, every striation - I'm still getting used to how fucking good it feels to inhabit this much raw power. And the best part? You have no idea you're staring at yourself. Or what used to be yourself.

I’d been living in the building for about four months when I first noticed the way my next-door neighbor Kevin looked at me.

Mid-to-late fifties, silver hair cropped short, always dressed in either crisp button-downs or very nice workout clothes. Even on the days he clearly wasn’t trying, he looked put together. Every time we passed each other in the narrow hallway, he’d stop, smile that slow, easy smile, and find some reason to chat. The weather. The new gym down the block. Whether I’d tried the Thai place on the corner. His eyes would linger just a second too long on my shoulders, my arms, the way my tank top clung after a boxing session. I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what those glances meant.

I wasn’t interested. Not really. Kevin was handsome for his age — tall, still broad in the chest, with a deep voice that carried easy confidence — but he was over thirty years older than me. I just wasn’t into that.

Still, the attention was flattering. A man like him could probably pull plenty of guys my age if he wanted. He didn’t push, didn’t make it weird, so I just smiled back, kept the conversations short, and went about my business.

Then one Thursday night, close to midnight, there was a knock on my door.

I was sprawled on the couch in gym shorts and a hoodie, half-watching Netflix and half-scrolling on my phone, when the sound startled me. I figured it was the delivery guy with the wrong apartment again. Instead, when I opened the door, Kevin was standing there in a dark sweater, looking unusually nervous.

“Hey, Gio,” he said, voice low. “Sorry to bother you this late. Mind if I come in for a minute?”

I hesitated, then stepped aside. “Yeah, sure. Everything okay?”

He walked in, hands in his pockets, and glanced around my living room.

He didn’t sit down.

“I’ve been thinking about how to say this,” he started, then gave a short laugh. “There’s no graceful way, so I’ll just be direct.”

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms across my chest. Here it comes.

But instead of the expected confession, Kevin reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, sleek device — black, palm-sized, with a glowing blue ring around the edge. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

“This is, uh… this is a Chronovac,” he said, holding it up. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned it in his hands. “It, um… it can change things about reality. Like… swap stuff.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking between the device and my face.

“I can swap people’s ages… temporarily. Or, or, or permanently if you want, I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve used it, but since you moved in I just… I don’t know, you seemed like the right kind of guy who might… who might want to give it a try?”

I stared at him.

Kevin nodded quickly, eyes flicking between the device and my face.

“Yeah. It could make me be in my mid twenties again. And you’d… you’d become sixty-one,” he said.

Damn. He was even older than I’d realized—and he still kept himself in incredible shape.

“…Just for the weekend, if that’s all you’re comfortable with. I know it sounds completely insane. It’s just… it’s been so long, and I’ve really been craving it. With someone like you.” The pieces clicked together in my head, and I almost laughed. This had to be some elaborate joke. Or maybe the guy was having a midlife crisis and this was his weird way of flirting. Either way, it was ridiculous.

“You’re serious,” I said, half question, half statement.

“Dead serious.” He turned the device slowly in his hands, thumb brushing over the glowing ring. There was something hungry in his eyes now, something raw and long-denied. Something in his face confirmed to me he wasn’t kidding.

I thought about it—really thought about it. About what sixty-one would feel like sitting on my frame. About the weight of those extra decades suddenly pressing into my bones, my skin, my cock. My mouth went dry.

Finally, I let out a slow breath.

“Alright,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

Kevin’s face lit up with pure relief, edged with something darker and hotter. “You’re sure? No pressure if it’s too weird—”

“I’m sure. Just the weekend, right? We swap back Sunday night?”

“Right.”

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne mixed with warm skin. He held the Chronovac between us, pressed his thumb to the glowing ring. A soft chime filled the room.

“Ready?” he asked, voice husky.

I nodded.

The device hummed to life. A warm, heavy pressure bloomed deep in my chest, then surged outward like liquid heat flooding every vein. My vision blurred for a heartbeat. When it cleared, the world felt… different. Heavier.

My shoulders were still broad, but the muscle sat differently now—denser, more substantial. My arms looked thicker, the veins less razor-sharp, the skin just a little looser over the bulk. And I was covered in a thick layer of hair.

I looked back over at him. Across from me stood a version of Kevin I’d never imagined.

Twenty-seven years old, and fucking stunning.

“Fuck…” he whispered, voice now younger, smoother, and full of energy. He ran both hands over his new chest, then down his flat stomach, clearly savoring every inch. His fingers lingered at the waistband of his shorts, tracing the sharp V-lines. A wide, almost boyish grin spread across his bearded face. “This feels even better than I remembered.”

I cleared my throat. My voice came out deeper, rougher, with a slight gravelly edge that hadn’t been there before. “Jesus, Kevin… you’re really sixty-one, I swear I never would’ve thought you were that old?” I said, feeling up my new body.

“Sixty-one last month,” he said, still staring at his new arms like he couldn’t believe they were his. He rolled his shoulders and laughed softly. “God, I missed this. The energy. The way everything just… moves.”

He stepped closer to the mirror hanging by the door and turned sideways, checking out his profile.

Meanwhile, I was still trying to get used to the new balance in my own body. I shifted my weight and felt the subtle difference in my posture. My back didn’t hurt exactly, but it felt… like it had carried a lot of years.

Kevin turned back to me, eyes bright with excitement. “How do you feel?”

“Weird,” I admitted, running a hand over my new jaw. The stubble was coarser, the skin a little rougher. “Heavier. But not bad. Just… different.”

He smiled. “Well you look good, Gio. Really good. That silver looks sharp on you.”

It was already one in the morning, so eventually he slipped back to his own apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with a body that was and wasn’t mine.

I stood there for a long minute, then walked slowly to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I turned sideways, ran a hand over the new softness of my stomach, tested the solid weight of my arms. I lifted my shirt and studied the thicker chest hair, the gentler swell of my midsection, the way my shoulders still carried a lifetime of muscle even if the sharp definition had mellowed into something heavier, more mature.

It was weird. Surreal, even.

But as I stood there flexing my hands and feeling the quiet, grounded strength still humming beneath the surface, a strange sense of relief settled deep in my chest. If this was a glimpse of my future… it didn’t feel bad at all.

—

Sunday evening, just after eight, there was a knock on my door. Kevin — well twenty-seven-year-old Kevin — stepped inside with a bright, almost boyish grin.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth and energetic. “I just need to thank you again before we switch back. That was… incredible. Best weekend I’ve had in years.”

He looked flushed, like he’d just come from the gym or maybe from somewhere more exciting.

“I hope it wasn’t too much of a paid for you” he said.

“Not at all, it was actually… enlightening,” I replied. My voice came out deeper and steadier than it had been just a few days earlier. “I guess we have to swap back. I’ve got work in the morning, and I don’t know what they’d do if I showed up as a sixty-one-year-old version of myself.”

Kevin nodded, already pulling the Chronovac from his pocket. “You’re right. Real life calls.” As he toggled with the settings, I asked, “What else can that thing do, anyway?”

He took a shaky breath, still fiddling with the device, eyes fixed on the glowing ring instead of me. “A lot, actually. Age swaps are just the beginning. It can tweak personality traits — make someone more outgoing, more disciplined, more… submissive, whatever you want. It can shift sexualities, heighten or dull certain drives. Hell, it can even do full body swaps. I’ve only really played with the lighter stuff like the age swaps, but yeah… the potential is… it’s wild.” Just as he finished speaking, he paused, thumb hovering over the glowing ring like he was wrestling with something. The air between us thickened again. Before he could press it, I stopped him.

“Wait,” I said, my deeper voice cutting through the tension. My heart was pounding hard enough that I could feel it in my thicker chest. “What if we didn’t swap back right away?”Just as hew as finished toggling, he paused, thumb hovering over the glowing ring, as if he was thinking. Before he could say anything, I stopped him and asked

“Wait,” I said, my deeper voice cutting through the tension. “Instead of just swapping our ages back… what if you took my real body for the whole week? You could go out into the world and actually be me. Go to my job at the warehouse, hang with my friends, live a real twenty-seven-year-old’s life.”

Kevin blinked, his borrowed young face flashing surprise. “Gio… that’s a big step. I don’t want to take advantage—”

“You’re not,” I cut in, stepping closer. “I’m offering. You seemed really happy just now, and I didn’t exactly hate being older. We can’t stay age swapped forever since we both have real lives to get back to this week, but there’s nothing saying we can’t fill in for each other. Why not let the fun last a little longer?”

He hesitated, fully wanting to take me up on it, but his eyes searching my older face for any sign of doubt. They didn’t find any. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “Alright. If you’re really sure.”

He adjusted the settings on the Chronovac, the blue light pulsing brighter. “Full body swap it is.”

The hum was deeper this time, almost electric, vibrating through my bones. A rushing sensation pulled at every part of me—bones, skin, muscle, even the rhythm of my heartbeat and the flicker of memories at the edge of my mind. When it finally stopped, I was staring at myself from across the room.

Perfect copy. My face, my build, my tattoos, even the small scar above my left eyebrow from that bad sparring session two years ago. Kevin was now me, completely.

And I was him.

Every inch of Kevin’s sixty-one-year-old body—which I had to admit was far more impressive than the sixty-one-year-old version of me had been—was now mine.

He flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulders, and grinned with my mouth. “Holy shit. This feels… fantastic. Your body feels so much more sensitive than mine. I feel so fucking horny right now.”

My original frame was a bit shorter than the twenty-seven-year-old version he’d just had, but he seemed to love the difference in build. As I watched him move around my apartment, testing the lighter, more agile limbs, something hot and unnameable stirred deep in my gut. I couldn’t quite place it, but I liked that he was me now. It was distinctly different from the age swap. This… this was him pretending to be me. Knowing he would go see my friends later, talk like me, move like me, live my life—it made my thicker cock twitch with a rush I wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

We parted ways again, except this time I went back to Kevin’s apartment and he stayed in mine.

Even though it was only Sunday night at 9 pm by the time we’d finished the full body swap, Kevin had clearly wasted no time. I had barely settled onto his couch — still getting used to the weight of his broader frame and the way his legs stretched out longer than mine used to — when I heard the front door of my apartment open and close next door. Then voices. A girl’s light laugh, followed by Kevin’s — my — voice, smooth and confident, saying something low that made her giggle again.

I sat there in the dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city outside the window, and listened.

The sounds were unmistakable.

Low laughter turning into soft moans. The rustle of clothes hitting the floor. The rhythmic creak of my bed as they moved onto it. Her gasps growing sharper, breathier. And his deep voice — my voice — encouraging her, telling her how good she felt, how tight she was, how he wanted to hear her moan louder.

He fucked her hard and loud.

The headboard started banging steadily against the shared wall, each thrust punctuated by her cries and his low, satisfied grunts. I could picture it perfectly: my younger, athletic body moving with that cocky new energy he’d already picked up, hips snapping forward, sweat glistening on my old skin.

I sat on Kevin’s couch, heart pounding, something strange and warm stirring deep in my gut. He was fucking as me.

My hand moved almost on its own. I reached down, pushed aside the loose sweatpants I was wearing, and wrapped my fingers around Kevin’s cock — thicker, heavier than mine had been, already half-hard from listening. I started stroking slowly at first, matching the rhythm I could hear through the wall.

As Kevin picked up the pace next door, I picked up mine.

Every time the headboard slammed against the wall, I stroked in unison. His groans grew deeper, more urgent. The girl was practically whimpering now, begging him not to stop. My own breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling heavily in this older body.

When Kevin finally came — letting out a loud, guttural groan that echoed through the thin walls, followed by the sound of him bracing himself against the wall with one hand to steady himself — I came too.

Hot spurts landed across my stomach and chest, thick and warm. I bit back a groan of my own, thighs tensing as the orgasm rolled through me, leaving me panting in the dark.

For a long minute afterward, I just sat there, cum cooling on my skin, listening to the muffled sounds of them catching their breath, soft laughter, the murmur of voices. Then the apartment next door went quiet.

I looked down at the mess on Kevin’s stomach — my stomach now — and let out a slow, shaky breath.

This was only the first night.

—

A week — and what sounded like numerous fuck sessions with different girls and guys — later, Kevin knocked on my door again — or rather, on his old door this time.

He looked a little sheepish but energized, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he couldn’t quite decide whether to smile or look guilty. My face looked good on him — flushed from whatever workout or adventure he’d just come from, eyes bright.

“Time to swap back?” he asked, rubbing the back of my neck with a familiar gesture.

I shook my head, smiling with Kevin’s calm, older face. The expression felt natural now, steady and knowing. “Nah. You’re welcome to stay like that a bit longer if you want.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and young coming from my throat. “I appreciate it, Gio, but I wouldn’t want to do that to you — steal your youth like that. It’s generous, but no. Let’s get you back in your body.”

We swapped back. I had to admit, being back in my twenty-seven-year-old frame felt good — though I’d miss something about being Kevin, thats for sure.

So before he left, I just had to ask, “Hey… can I hang on to the Chronovac for a little while? Just to understand it a bit more.”

Kevin hesitated only a second, then handed it over. “Sure. Just… be careful with it. And bring it back when you’re done.”

The next night, alone in my apartment, I powered the device on and scrolled through the advanced options until I found the personality settings. I selected Kevin’s profile and made careful adjustments: a strong, growing craving for youth. A quiet voice in his head that would make him regret turning down the offer. I hit confirm.

Less than twenty-four hours later, there was an urgent knock on my door.

Kevin stood there, eyes wide, breathing a little fast. My body looked tense on him, shoulders tight, like he’d been pacing before he worked up the nerve to come over.

“Gio… I changed my mind,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I want to swap again. Please. Just for a little while longer. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, and raised an eyebrow with a teasing smile. “Really? I thought you didn’t want to steal my youth.”

He flushed, shifting on his feet, my face turning a shade darker. “Oh please, I didn't really say that, did I? Come on, man. I was being polite before. I want this. I need it.”

I watched him for a moment, enjoying the hunger in his eyes — hunger I’d put there.

Then I picked up the Chronovac, adjusted the settings back to full body swap, and held it between us.

“Alright,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

The device hummed to life again.

—

A few days later, while he was out “being me” at the gym, I opened the Chronovac again. This time I went deeper into the personality settings. I dialed up the cockiness — just a notch at first. Made him a little more arrogant about how good he looked now, how much attention he got, how naturally the role of young, hot boxer fit him. I added a strong, swelling desire not just to be young, but to be me — to own my life completely.

I hit confirm and waited.

It didn’t take long to see the changes.

He started walking with more swagger when he passed my door. He’d knock, lean against the frame with my arms crossed, and smirk with my mouth like he owned the hallway. “Fuck, man, it is so easy to get laid as you,” he’d say, voice dripping with new confidence. “Girls at the gym are practically throwing themselves at me. Some of your boxing buddies keep checking me out on the DL too — I fucked that guy Connor actually. He's in the closet and apparently loves the taste of your cock.”

I’d just smile with Kevin’s calm, older face and nod. “Glad you’re enjoying it.”

One evening, we ran into each other in the building gym and I asked casually, “You ready to swap back soon?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, no way. Sorry, I’m having way too much fun. Can we stay like this just a bit longer?”

I played it up after that. Every few days I’d sigh and tell him I really wanted my body back, that I missed my own routine, my friends, my fights. He’d get this desperate look in my eyes and start begging.

“Come on, Gio, please,” he’d say, stepping closer, voice low and urgent. “Just a little more time. I need this. You don’t understand how good it feels. I’ll do anything — just don’t make me give it back yet.”

The more I pretended to hesitate, the more he begged. It was addictive watching him squirm inside my skin.

And every single night, without fail, he came home with another fuckable young guy or girl. Each time I lay there in Kevin’s bed in the dark, listening through the thin walls, a warm thrill would roll through my borrowed body. I’d hear my own voice commanding some girl to take it deeper, rough and confident, or sometimes a guy’s low groan calling him a good boy while he got fucked harder.

I’d lie there stroking Kevin’s thicker cock slowly, letting the sounds wash over me.

I liked watching “Gio” own my life. No — I loved it.

One quiet evening, after another marathon session next door, I decided it was time to push further.

I picked up the Chronovac and went all in on Kevin’s profile. I cranked the craving until it was overwhelming: an all-consuming need to be me forever.

Then I waited.

Two nights later, I woke up to a faint noise in the living room. I got up, moving with Kevin’s heavier steps, and found him — my body, my face — crouched by the coffee table where I’d left the device. He had it in his hands. Before I could say anything, he raised it high and smashed it hard against the edge of the table. Plastic cracked. The blue ring flickered once and died.

He looked up at me, eyes wild with triumph and lust.

For a second I just stood there, staring at him —chest heaving, sweat already glistening on my old skin from the adrenaline. He had made it permanent.

And it turned me on so fucking much I couldn’t think straight.

I crossed the room in two strides, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and shoved him back against the wall. “You little shit,” I growled with Kevin’s deep, authoritative voice, pretending to be furious even as my cock thickened in my borrowed sweatpants. “You really think you can steal my life? What the fuck!?”

He grinned — my grin, sharp and defiant — and didn’t even try to push me away.

I spun him around, pressing his chest to the wall, yanking his shorts down with one rough hand. “You’re such a greedy, selfish piece of shit,” I snarled hotly against his ear, freeing my thicker, heavier cock. It was already leaking, the fat head slick as I rubbed it up and down his crack, teasing his hole. “Stealing my youth, my face, my tight fucking ass… acting like you own it now.”

He moaned loudly, pushing back against me with desperate hunger, his hole twitching against the head of my cock. “Do it,” he gasped, voice cracking with need.

I didn’t need more invitation.

I shoved inside him raw and deep, one hard thrust that made us both groan. He was tight, hot, and already rocking back to meet every stroke. I fucked him right there against the wall, one hand gripping his hip, the other braced beside his head.

“Fuck… you feel that?” I growled between savage thrusts, my voice thick and ragged with lust. “That’s what you get for thinking you could just take what’s mine. Stealing my cock, my life, my fucking future—now you’re getting fucked by the old man whose body you trapped me in.” He was whimpering, pushing back harder, his own cock—my cock—leaking steadily against the wall as I railed him. “Yes—fuck yes—keep going,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Harder. Ruin me. I don’t care—I made it permanent because I needed this. Needed to be you. Needed your life.”

The confession, the sheer filthy greed in his words, sent a white-hot spike of arousal through me. I fucked him even harder, deeper, grinding against his prostate with every brutal snap of my hips. The knowledge that there was no way back—that he had destroyed any chance of returning—made the pleasure darker, more intense. I was trapped in Kevin’s mature, powerful body, balls-deep in my own stolen young form, and it was the hottest thing I’d ever felt. I didn’t last long. The tight clench of his ass, the way my own body was milking me so perfectly, the raw, taboo thrill of it all pushed me over the edge fast.

With a deep, guttural roar I buried myself to the hilt and came hard inside him, pulsing again and again in thick, heavy ropes. I flooded my own stolen body with Kevin’s load, filling him until it started leaking out around my cock with every shallow thrust.

We stayed locked together, breathing heavy, bodies slick with sweat, my cock still twitching inside him as the last spurts drained out.

Then he turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder—my own face flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with satisfaction and filthy victory.

“Worth it,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “So fucking worth it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything went black

---

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

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

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

I wasn’t Olivia anymore.

I was a guy.

A very real, very male guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. Drink first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One thing led to another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

They bought it.

---

The first couple of weeks were actually lit.

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

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

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

So I made a couple of changes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

We barely made it to the bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. This body was fucking dangerous.

---

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

---

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

Or at least… I thought I was.

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

“Dear Nuno,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This body was mine now.

And I wasn’t giving it back.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is good.

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

He’s me now. Completely.

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

It's a bit longer, but I am super happy with how this one turned out. Enjoy!

The email about the Serbian exchange program hit my inbox on a Tuesday morning, buried beneath the usual flood of meeting invites and project updates. I almost deleted it on reflex, but the subject line—Host Opportunity: Belgrade Team Visit—$5K Bonus—caught my eye. Five grand wasn’t nothing. And besides, I’d heard murmurs about it before—last year, a handful of engineers from our Belgrade office had filtered through the US branch for a few months, shadowing teams, attending meetings, and, from what I gathered, drinking heavily at every happy hour within a ten-mile radius. Nobody I knew had hosted, though. Or if they had, they hadn’t mentioned it.

I skimmed the details. The company was flying over a dozen employees from Serbia, all of them mid-level or higher, for a three-month immersion program. The idea was to give them a taste of life at the US office—how we worked, how we (allegedly) collaborated, how we complained about the same corporate nonsense in a different language. And if they liked it? Well, then maybe they’d angle for a sponsored transfer. The host bonus was just grease to make sure enough of us volunteered to house them.

I didn’t think too hard before signing up. My apartment had a guest room that had been functioning as a glorified storage closet for the better part of a year. A real, live human being might actually put it to good use.

A few days later, the assignment email landed in my inbox. I clicked it open, scanning the spreadsheet until I found my name paired with Nikola Vasić, DevOps Engineer. His photo showed a guy in his late twenties—maybe a few years younger than me—with a sharp jawline, short-cropped dark hair, and sleeves of tattoos running down both arms. His bio read: 5 years with company. Powerlifting, MMA, craft beer.

Hell yeah. This was going to be easy. We’d hit the gym, crush some deadlifts, maybe grab a beer after. I could already picture it—Nikola nodding approvingly at my protein shake stash, me pretending I knew anything about MMA. A total bro situation.

I shot him a quick LinkedIn message—Hey man, looking forward to hosting you. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from the airport. He replied almost immediately: Appreciate it! Will send flight details soon. Excited to train together. Perfect. This was going to work.

Then, three days later, another email.

Subject: Host Assignment Update

Due to a last-minute adjustment in seniority prioritization, your guest has been reassigned. You will now be hosting Dragan Kovačević, Infrastructure Architect. Nikola Vasić has been reassigned to Mark Teslik. Apologies for any inconvenience.

I pulled up Dragan’s profile, which I hadn’t bothered to check before.

It was a selfie—dim lighting, the kind taken in what looked like a basement, the camera angled slightly upward. And Dragan was, inexplicably, shirtless and flexing, but not in a particularly attractive way. The bio beneath read: 20 years with company. Enjoys hiking, chess, and American whiskey.

I sighed. Of course. Instead of a gym buddy, I got a middle-aged, bare-chested supervisor.

Well. At least it was only three months.

---

A few weeks later, the Belgrade team arrived, and the office threw a welcome reception in the cafeteria—plastic cups of cheap wine, a sad platter of cubed cheese, and a banner that read Welcome Serbian Colleagues!

I spotted Nikola first. He was even bigger in person—broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of guy who looked like he could deadlift a car. He noticed me and walked over, his expression serious.

"Sam," he said, his accent rough around the edges. "Is shame we are not paired."

I shrugged. "Yeah, but we can still hang out. Hit the gym, grab a beer."

He nodded, but there was something off in the way he said, "Mark is... very skinny." He flexed one arm slightly, as if to emphasize the contrast. "I did not want to be him for three months."

I frowned. His English was a little broken, so maybe he meant something else—like he didn’t want to train him, or room with him? Before I could ask, the HR coordinator clinked her glass and announced, "Alright, everyone, find your host or guest and take a seat!"

I scanned the room for Dragan.

He was sitting at a table in the corner, watching me. Not in a casual oh-there’s-my-host way, but in a slow, deliberate stare, like he was sizing me up. When I approached, he stood and shook my hand—his grip was firm, almost testing.

"American Sam," he said, his voice deeper than I expected. "I am very excited."

There was something in the way he said it—not quite enthusiasm, more like anticipation. I forced a polite smile. "Yeah, it’ll be nice to have you."

The HR coordinator clinked her glass again, signaling for silence. "Thank you all for participating in this year's cultural exchange program," she said with a smile that felt a little too rehearsed. "The swaps will begin first thing tomorrow morning. Please report to the designated conference rooms by 8 AM."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the American employees. I glanced around—most of the American team looked baffled, but the Serbians all had placid looks on their faces.

"Swaps?" I muttered under my breath.

Dragan leaned in slightly, his voice low. "You did not read paperwork?"

Before I could respond, the HR coordinator continued. "For full immersion, participants will temporarily inhabit one another's bodies, with access to each other's memories. To avoid legal complications, you are expected to maintain your host's professional and personal life as closely as possible during the exchange."

My stomach dropped. What the hell?

A guy from Marketing shot his hand up. "Wait, so we’re just—switching bodies? Like, for real?"

"Yes," the coordinator said, unfazed. "It’s all outlined in the consent forms you signed. Section 12, subsection C."

I didn’t remember signing anything about body swapping. Then again, I’d skimmed most of it, clicking through the digital paperwork just to get to the bonus disclaimer.

The coordinator wrapped up with a cheerful, "Get a good night’s sleep! Tomorrow’s a big day."

---

The next morning, they led us into sterile white chambers that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Two by two, employees disappeared behind frosted glass doors, emerging minutes later—swapped.

Just before my turn, I watched Mark stumble out, his movements awkward in Nikola’s muscular frame. He kept flexing his tattooed arms, his eyes wide with childlike wonder. Nikola followed behind in his body, just seeming borade

Dragan gave me a knowing smirk before we entered. Then inside, there was a flash of light, a sensation like falling—

—and then I was standing again, but wrong. My center of gravity was lower, my shoulders heavier. When I lifted a hand, it was thick-fingered, lightly hairy. Dragan’s hand.

Across from me, my body blinked rapidly—then broke into a grin. "Ha!" Dragan said with my mouth, his English flawless, his tone giddy. "This is perfect!"

Meanwhile, my thoughts were... sluggish. Words didn’t come easily. Instead of English, my brain churned in Serbian, the syntax heavy and familiar. When I tried to speak, the accent rolled thick off my tongue. "Šta je—? What the—?

Dragan barked a laugh. "You sound just like me!" He clapped my shoulder, delighted. "And I don’t understand a word you’re saying!"

---

That night, he vanished into the city the second we got home, leaving me to wrestle with his body alone. The weight of it, the way it moved—none of it felt right. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. A gross longish beard. A thicker neck. A patchwork of ugly tattoos.

Dragan stumbled in past midnight, reeking of whiskey. He leaned against the doorframe, my usually neat shirt unbuttoned halfway, his—my—face flushed. "You missed a hell of a night," he slurred, though his English was still weirdly perfect.

I scowled, struggling to force out the words. "You... left me... like this." The accent mangled the sentence, made it sound like a complaint.

He grinned, swaying slightly. "Aw, poor Dragan," he mocked, using his own name like a joke.

I wanted to snap back, but the English tangled in my throat. Instead, I muttered something crude in Serbian.

Dragan just laughed harder, pointing at me like I was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. "God, this is even better than I thought."

---

The next few months were pure, unrelenting hell.

Dragan, in my body, was like a kid who’d been handed the keys to a candy store. He wanted to do everything—especially the kind of obnoxiously American shit I’d never even bothered with.

"We’re going to go shooting today," he announced one Saturday morning, already pulling on my favorite jacket.

"What? No, we—" I fumbled for the English words. "I don’t shooting."

"You do now!" He grinned, clapping me on the back. "Your friends think it’s funny you’re bringing your ‘Serbian coworker’ to the range. Play along."

So I did. I had to stand there in Dragan’s bulky frame, nodding awkwardly while he laughed and high-fived my buddies, pretending to be me. He was a disturbingly good shot.

"Damn, Sam," my friend Jake said, slapping him on the shoulder. "When the hell did you get so good at this?"

Dragan just smirked and said "natural talent," before pulling the trigger of his shotgun, exploding the clay disk.

---

The dating was worse. He always dressed to the nines and I have to admit, it looked great.

But , he came home one night, still buzzing from whatever bar he’d crawled out of, and flopped onto the couch. "American women," he sighed, stretching my arms behind my head, "are very impressed with you."

I glared. "You—what?"

"They assume you’re boring in bed," he mused, inspecting my fingernails. "But then—surprise! Serbian passion!" He winked. "They like it."

I wanted to strangle him.

---

Then there was the shirt thing.

Dragan refused to keep it on. Ever. Working out? Shirtless. Drinking whiskey on the balcony? Shirtless. Cooking (badly)? Shirtless, with an apron that barely covered anything.

"Put on a damn shirt," I growled one evening, my Serbian accent thickening with frustration.

"Why?" He flexed my biceps—which, thanks to him, were actually looking better. "This body is so in shape, I just want to show it off."

He would also smoke all the time, somethg I never did. When I complained to HR, Dragan, smug bastard that he was, dug up a single photo from my buddy’s bachelor party two years ago, where I’d half-heartedly smoked a cigar.

"See?" he said, waving the evidence in front of the HR rep. "Sam smokes."

They caved.

---

The final insult was the wedding.

My college friend Chris was getting married, and of course, Dragan insisted on going.

Chris had been talking about setting me up with his fiancée's cousin for months. "She's perfect for you, man," he'd said.

But of course, Dragan went instead of me.

I spent that night alone in the apartment, stewing in Dragan's body while he was out living my life. The photos started popping up on social media around midnight—there I was, looking sharper than I'd ever looked in my life, my arm around the bridesmaid Chris had wanted to set me up with. She was beaming up at me like I'd hung the moon.

Dragan stumbled in at 3 AM, reeking of whiskey and expensive perfume. "Ahhh," he groaned, flopping onto the couch next to me. "American weddings. So much food. So much drink. So much..." He made a crude gesture.

My stomach dropped. "You didn't—"

"She was very disappointed when I said I don't do girlfriends," he chuckled, inspecting a hickey on my neck. "But not too disappointed, if you know what I mean."

I nearly punched him.

---

By the last two weeks, I was done. Completely, utterly done.

Dragan, of course, was in the best mood of his life. He sprawled across my couch—shirtless, obviously—sipping whiskey while scrolling through visa application forms on my laptop.

"The company wants someone in US for my same infrastructure role," he mused, grinning. "And when we swap back, my English will be even better thanks to you practicing all this time. Its perfect."

I clenched my jaw. My English had improved slightly—enough to get by without sounding like a complete beginner—but it wasn’t perfect the accent still clung stubbornly.

"Great," I muttered in Serbian-inflected English, not even hiding my bitterness.

Dragan finally glanced up, studying me. "You hate this," he said, not a question.

"Yeah. I do."

A long silence. Then, to my surprise, he sighed and closed the laptop. "We could swap back early."

I froze. "...What?"

The whiskey glass clicked softly as Dragan set it down on the coffee table. For the first time since the swap, his expression was completely earnest—no smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just quiet gratitude.

"Sam," he said, my own voice sounding strangely solemn coming from my lips. "I see how much you hate this. And... I want to thank you." He gestured to himself—to my body. "This has been... more than I hoped for. The freedom, the experiences. And you—" He nodded at me, sitting stiffly in his heavier frame. "You worked hard. My body will return to me much improved.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "We can swap back tomorrow. Before HR arrives. No one needs to know."

"Yes," I blurted, the Serbian accent rough with urgency. "Yes. Let’s do it."

Dragan smiled—soft, almost relieved. "First thing in the morning, then." He stood, stretching my arms overhead with a satisfied groan. "One last night as you, yes? I think I will enjoy it."

He grabbed his keys and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to throw me a wink over his shoulder. "Do not wait up."

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sank back into the couch, Dragan’s body suddenly feeling lighter, the weight of those final two weeks already slipping away. Tomorrow, I’d be myself again.

Tomorrow, this nightmare would be over.

---

The predawn darkness clung to the empty streets as we drove to the office in silence. My truck’s headlights cut through the gloom, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh from Dragan in the passenger seat. He kept rubbing his face—my face—with a look of quiet regret, like he was already mourning the loss of my younger, fitter body.

Meanwhile, my fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Every second in his overweight, middle-aged form had been torture, and now freedom was so close I could taste it.

When we pulled into the deserted office parking lot, Dragan hesitated before getting out. "Maybe we should—"

"No," I cut him off, already unbuckling. "We’re doing this."

The security guard wasn’t at his desk—convenient—and Dragan led me through the maze of cubicles to the sealed-off wing where the swapping chambers were kept. He punched in a code I didn’t recognize, and the door clicked open.

"How the hell did you get access?" I asked.

He ignored me, walking straight to the pod controls.

Inside the sterile room, Dragan stripped off his clothes without hesitation. I averted my eyes at first—then did a double take. Damn. My body did look good. Leaner than before, muscles more defined. Dragan had clearly been putting in work.

The machine hummed to life with a low, ominous whine. We stepped in. Dragan hesitated one last time, his hand hovering over the activation switch. "You sure about this?"

"Do it."

He pressed the button.

A flash of blinding light—

—and then, relief.

I stumbled forward, catching myself on the pod’s edge. My hands were mine again. Slimmer, familiar. I patted my chest, my face, no more thick beard. Just me.

Across from me, Dragan flexed his fingers, his expression unreadable. He ran a hand over his own thicker frame, his mouth twisting slightly.

"Happy now?" he muttered.

I didn’t answer.

I was too busy grinning.

---

The day before the official swap-back ceremony, I pulled Dragan aside, my stomach twisting with nerves.

"What’s the plan?" I hissed. "They’re expecting to swap us tomorrow. If they find out we already did it—"

Dragan waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. I talk to the Serbian tech who runs the machine. He know we already did swap. He fake it tomorrow—will not activate it for us. We walk in, play along, walk out. Easy."

I frowned. "And he’s cool with that?"

"Of course," Dragan said, grinning.

The next day, we lined up with the rest of the swapped employees in the sterile white chamber room. The air buzzed with nervous energy—some people looked relieved, others apprehensive. I caught the eye of the Serbian technician, a wiry guy with a buzzcut, and gave him a subtle, knowing smile.

He barely glanced at me. Just shook his head slightly and turned away.

Right. Discretion.

Dragan nudged me as our turn approached. "Ready?" he murmured.

I nodded, stepping into the pod beside him. The glass door hissed shut, sealing us inside.

Then, just as I was getting ready to get out, the machine whirred to life. A wave of panic washes over me and I turn to Dragan expecting to see a similar look. Instead, he smile and whispers "I will love being you, American Sam."

My blood ran cold.

The light flashed—

—and suddenly, I was staring at my own face from across the pod.

My face.

Wearing the widest, most triumphant grin I’d ever seen.

I looked down.

Thick fingers. Heavy frame.

Dragan’s body.

Again.

Across from me, Dragan—now me—stretched luxuriously, rolling my shoulders with delight. "Ah," he sighed, his voice mine now. "Much better."

A spin-off of my previous story, Raj's Break.

After three straight years of grinding in NYC, Pedro and I had finally done it. We bought tickets for a real vacation. Pedro had found the deal on some sketchy travel site, but the photos looked insane: turquoise beach, infinity pools, palm trees swaying. We didn’t ask too many questions, but maybe we should’ve.

“Finally,” I said, stepping out of the transport bus and stretching. “No spreadsheets for seven whole days.” Pedro grinned beside me as he hauled our suitcases from the trunk.

The lobby was even better than the pictures—white marble, soft blue accents, and the faint smell of coconut sunscreen and expensive rum. We were pinching ourselves about how cheap the package had been for such a nice place when the cheerful front desk attendant slid our keycards over with a bright smile.

“Welcome to Azure Sands! Just a heads-up—your orientation starts in twenty minutes at the Sapphire Lounge.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Orientation?”

“Oh, it’s our signature Body Harmony Experience!” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Everyone swaps bodies for the duration of their stay. Temporary, of course… unless you don’t want it to be.” She winked like she was sharing a fun secret.

Pedro and I exchanged a look. My stomach did a little flip.

By the time we made it to the Sapphire Lounge, the place was buzzing. The staff explained the process: random pairing unless you requested to swap with someone you came with. Most people seemed excited. A few looked nervous. I scanned the room and immediately spotted way too many creepy older guys eyeing the crowd like it was a buffet.

I leaned over to Pedro and whispered urgently, “No way am I risking some random dude in my body. Please, can we just swap with each other? I trust you.”

Pedro hesitated, his eyes drifting across the room to a group of ridiculously sculpted guys laughing near the bar. True Adonises—broad shoulders, sharp jawlines. Honestly they were all his wet dream. For a second I thought he was going to say no.

“Come on, Pedro,” I begged, grabbing his arm. “I do not want to spend a week wondering if some stranger is jerking off with my clit or whatever. Please?”

He sighed dramatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. But I’m filing a formal complaint that I’m missing out on prime vacation dick potential.”

We told the staff we wanted to swap with each other.

That evening, after a welcome dinner that was way too fancy for the price we paid, they walked us through the final details in a smaller group session.

“The swap activates at dawn,” the coordinator explained. “It’s completely reversible at checkout… provided no vaginal or anal intercourse occurs between the swapped individuals and their original bodies.”

Pedro and I made almost identical faces of mild disgust at each other.

“Yeah, hard pass,” I muttered. He glared at me before we both broke out into a bit of laughter. Then, as if to just fuck with me, he quickly raised his hand and asked, “Can we still fuck other people at the resort?”

I slapped his arm as the coordinator calmly and professionally responded, “Yes, having sex with any other guests will still allow you to swap back at the end of your stay.”

Later that night we sat on the balcony of our villa, feet up, sipping something sweet and strong while the ocean whispered below us.

“Still can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said, staring at the stars. “Seven days in someone else’s body. Your body.”

Pedro smirked, swirling his drink. “Hey, you’re getting the upgrade. This ass has been doing squats religiously. You’re welcome.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Just promise me you won’t do anything too embarrassing in my body.”

“Same goes for you, bestie.”

We clinked glasses, both of us pretending the whole thing felt completely normal. But as I lay in bed later, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, a tiny flutter of nerves settled in my stomach. Tomorrow morning I’d wake up as Pedro. Short brown hair. A mustache and some scruff. Some tattoos. And a cock.

And he’d wake up as me.

I pushed the thought down, rolled over, and tried to sleep.

—

Two days later, the swap already felt… normal. Weirdly normal.

Pedro’s lean, athletic build moved easily. The way people looked at me now was different too—more direct, more appraising. I kind of liked it.

Pedro, meanwhile, had practically sprinted off to sign up for every free excursion the resort offered. Snorkeling, kayaking, some jungle hike that sounded miserable in the heat. “I’m living my best gay life in your hot little body,” he’d texted me this morning, along with a selfie of my face smiling way too brightly on a catamaran. “Don’t wait up.”

So I stayed behind. Beach chair, sunscreen, endless piña coladas, and zero plans. Pure vacation mode.

I was stretched out on a lounger by the infinity pool when he approached.

“Hey, mind if I take the chair next to you?”

I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun. The guy standing there was stupidly good-looking. Tan skin that glowed under the Caribbean light, dark hair still damp from the pool, and a mustache that was just a little longer and thicker than the short beard framing his jaw. A light dusting of dark hair trailed down the center of his chest and over abs. His biceps flexed naturally as he set his towel down—really nice biceps.

“Sure,” I said, sitting up a little. “Plenty of room.”

He dropped into the chair with an easy grin, that big, bright smile flashing white against his tan. “Thanks, man. I’m Aidan.”

For the first time out loud, I introduced myself as someone else.

“Pedro,” I said, testing the name on my tongue. It felt strange, but not bad. “Nice to meet you.”

We chatted for a while. Aidan had this effortless bro energy that made everything feel easy. He laughed loud and often. As he relaxed in the lounge chair, he draped one thick arm behind his head, causing his bicep to flex and pop under his tan skin.

At first, I thought he was completely straight. His voice was deep and relaxed, the kind of guy who probably played pickup basketball on weekends and talked shit with his buddies. He kept the conversation light — complaining about the overpriced drinks, joking about the resort’s cheesy “harmony activities,” and asking if I’d tried the jet skis yet.

But then I caught the glances.

While I was mid-sentence about the ridiculous infinity pool and looking off into the distance, I could feel his eyes flick down to my waist, lingering on the sharp cuts of Pedro’s obliques. A second later I turned my gaze back to him and they snapped back up to my face, innocent again. When I stretched my arms overhead to crack my back, his eyes dropped to my chest and shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle before he quickly looked away.

Once I noticed, I couldn’t stop seeing it. And fuck, it sent a warm little thrill straight through me.

I started flirting back without even meaning to. Every time he cracked a joke, I leaned in closer, laughing low. When I reached for my drink, I flexed my arm just a little more than necessary. Pedro’s body responded instantly — heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse picking up.

Aidan’s smile grew wider, slower, more interested.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

“So…” I said, swirling the last of my piña colada, “what’s your real body like? You know… before all this.”

“So… what’s your real body like?” I asked, taking a slow sip of my drink. “You know, before.”

Aidan blinked, then gave me the most perfectly innocent look. “Oh no man, I actually didn’t have to swap. The guy they matched me with ended up having to leave unexpectedly. But I’m not mad about it, the whole thing seems a bit too out there for me.”

He said it so smoothly. But there was this tiny, cheeky grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Alright, well… my original name’s Luna, actually,” I said, watching his reaction. “This is my best friend Pedro’s body.”

Aidan’s eyebrows lifted, and that big, beautiful smile spread across his face again, slower this time.

“No shit? A gender swap too?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving me a much more obvious once-over now that the cards were on the table. “I haven’t met anyone yet that’s done that. How’s it feeling? Being in a guy’s body?”

I shrugged, feeling a little heat rise in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. “Weird at first. But I’m getting used to it. Pedro seems to like it more, he’s probably flirting with half the resort on some boat tour right now.” Aidan laughed, low and warm. He leaned back to stretch and lifted his arms up flexing them slightly before reaching over and gently rubbing his shoulder. He pretended not to realize I was admiring his physique.

Then, his gaze lingered again—this time openly—tracing the lines of Pedro’s torso, the light definition in my arms and chest. “Gotta say… you wear it well, Pedro. Really well.”

I smirked, flexing one arm just enough for the bicep to tighten.

We let the silence linger for a moment and then laid back down in our chairs.

—

That night, while Pedro snored softly on the other side of the room, I slipped out of bed. My heart was hammering in Pedro’s chest as I pulled on a pair of loose shorts and padded barefoot down the moonlit path toward Aidan’s room. He’d mentioned his room number earlier, all casual, like it was no big deal. I told myself I was just going to talk. Maybe have another drink. But we both knew that was bullshit.

He opened the door shirtless, that light dusting of hair across his chest catching the low light, and gave me that big, beautiful smile. “I was hoping you’d drop by.”

We didn’t waste much time on small talk.

The second the door clicked shut, Aidan pulled me in, his hands sure and confident on my waist. His mouth found mine—warm, tasting faintly of rum—and I let myself melt into it. Pedro’s body responded fast, heat pooling low in my stomach as Aidan’s fingers traced down my sides, mapping every new inch of me like he had all the time in the world.

He was slow about it. Deliberate. The kind of dominance that came from years and years and years of experience. He laid me back on the bed, kissing down my neck, my chest, his mustache brushing softly against my skin. His hands ran along every curve of muscle, slow and attentive, like he was savoring the body he was in just as much as the one he was fucking. When he finally pushed inside me—his thick cock sliding into my tight hole—I gasped, back arching off the sheets. Aidan let out a low, amused chuckle, deep in his throat, like he couldn’t quite believe how good it felt.

“Fuck… so tight,” he murmured, staying perfectly still for a moment, letting me adjust. Then he started moving—slow, deep rolls of his hips that made my toes curl. He was in no rush. Every thrust was controlled, experienced, hitting just the right angle while his hands kept exploring, stroking my chest, my arms, my cock with lazy confidence.

It reminded me of one night in Miami I’d spent with some 46-year-old model—same attentive patience, same way of making every touch feel intentional. But this was better. Hotter. Maybe because it was happening in Pedro’s body, with this gorgeous guy who kept looking at me like I was the best thing he’d seen all week.

In the middle of it, as his rhythm stayed steady and deep, Aidan’s breathing got rougher. His voice dropped into these low, filthy grunts right against my ear.

“God… haven’t felt this good in forever,” he groaned, hips snapping a little harder. “So fucking tight… so good…”

Then, he moaned his own name softly. “Aidan… fuck, Aidan… fuckkkk”

Then, a bit louder, almost reverent: “Aidan… thank you, Aidan… for letting me have this.”

My brain was too fogged with pleasure to fully process it at first. But then he pulled back just enough to look down at me, eyes dark and gleaming. Realization flickered across his face.

Instead of stopping or apologizing, he just smirked. That cheeky little grin from the pool earlier, only darker now. Hungrier. He started thrusting faster, one hand wrapping around my cock and stroking in time with his hips.

“Yeah… that’s right,” he growled, voice thick. “This body’s mine now. Forever.”

We both came hard—me first, spilling over his fist with a choked groan, then him a few deep thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed inside me. The room spun for a minute, nothing but heavy breathing and the distant crash of waves outside.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on our skin. I turned my head to look at him, still catching my breath.

“So… I’ll ask again. Who are you?” I asked quietly.

Aidan propped himself up on one elbow, that same small smirk playing on his lips. “My nephew and I came here together.” He said, gesturing to himself. “And within an hour of the swap, we made it permanent.”

I blinked. “Why would you do that?”

He gestured again lazily at his body—tan skin, curly hair, those perfect biceps and the light trail of hair down his abs. “Wouldn’t you?”

I let out a short laugh. “Let me reframe. Why would he do that? What did you look like before?”

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, scrolled for a second, then turned the screen toward me. The photo showed a guy in his late 40s—still handsome, salt-and-pepper stubble, decent build, the kind of “cool uncle” vibe.

He looked good for his age. Really good. At least if the pictures he was showing me were recent. But still, nowhere near the level of the twenty-five-year-old Adonis currently lying next to me.

“I was the cool, muscular bachelor uncle,” he explained with a shrug, voice still lazy and satisfied. “Guess it was more idolization than anything.”

I looked at him pensively, he shifted.

“My nephew always looked up to me,” he continued. “I figured I’d invite him on a nice trip just the two of us, pretend I didn’t know about the whole Body Harmony thing, convince him it’d be a cool bonding thing to swap, I’d get a week of this—” he ran a hand down his own chest, flexing slightly, “— have some fun, then swap back.”

He leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling smirking to himself.

“But then he agreed so fast. Surprised the hell out of me,” he said. “And I knew how horny my body was just from the anticipation of swapping with him and not having jerked off in a few days… so when I started sucking his cock that morning, he didn’t want to stop… And when I lined my new ass up over my old big uncut cock…” He turned to look at me, “well he wanted to cum so bad that I didn’t really have to do any convincing.”

The way fingers kept tracing lazy circles on my hip told me he wasn’t exactly broken up about it.

“And so I didn’t think it was worth telling you because, well, it doesn’t really matter now,” he added, leaning in to kiss my shoulder. “For all intents and purposes, I really am Aidan.”

I slipped out of Aidan’s villa sometime after 3 a.m., the warm night air cooling the sweat on my skin as I walked back along the torch-lit path. My legs still felt a little shaky in the best way. When I eased open the door to our room, Pedro was still dead asleep, curled up on his bed with my long hair fanned across the pillow, breathing slow and even. I slid back into bed carefully. Pedro didn’t even stir.

—

The next few days blurred into a lazy, sun-drenched rhythm that felt dangerously good.

Aidan and I kept finding each other. We had way more in common than I expected—same dry sense of humor, same taste in music, same low-key hatred for overly touristy bullshit. He asked me endless questions about New York, leaning in close on our loungers with that big, easy smile. Turns out the real Aidan—his nephew—had moved to the city just a few months ago. The new Aidan would be heading back to that apartment soon and knew almost nothing about actually living there.

“So… best cheap sushi spot in the West Village?” he’d ask, tracing idle patterns on my arm with his fingers. “And where do people actually go running without getting hit by cabs?”

I gave him all the tips I could—hidden bagel spots, which subway lines sucked the least, the best rooftop bars that weren’t completely overrun.

We did one of the excursions together—jet skiing out on the turquoise water. The engine roared under us as he drove, my arms wrapped tight around his waist from behind, my chest pressed to his back. Every time we hit a wave and bounced, he’d laugh as I grabbed him tighter. When we stopped in a quiet cove to float for a while, he pulled me in for a slow, salty kiss. We barely made it back to shore without getting ourselves in trouble.

The rest of the time we just relaxed. Long hours by the pool or on the beach, tanning side by side, talking about everything and nothing. And whenever the mood struck—and it struck often—we’d sneak off to some secluded spot: behind a cluster of palm trees, an empty cabana at the far end of the resort, once even a quiet corner of the beach after dark. He’d fuck me slow and deep again, that experienced, patient dominance making my brain melt every single time. His hands always seemed to know exactly where to touch, how hard to grip Pedro’s hips, how to stroke my cock until I was biting back moans.

One afternoon, while we were tangled up in a shaded lounger, he ran his fingers over the tattoos on my—Pedro’s—arm and murmured, “Fuck, I love these tattoos on you…”

He caught himself almost immediately, blinking like he’d said something dumb, because they weren’t actually mine. I laughed softly, still catching my breath.

“Actually… I’m the one who picked out most of these,” I told him, tracing one of the lines on my own bicep. “Pedro came to me for advice on pretty much all of them. The haircut too. And half his clothes. He really does listen to me about that stuff.”

Aidan’s smirk softened into something warmer. “Makes sense. You’ve got good taste.” His hand slid lower, squeezing my thigh possessively. “Clearly.”

I thought about it more later, lying there while Aidan dozed beside me. I really had shaped a lot of how Pedro presented himself. He trusted my eye for that kind of thing. It felt strangely intimate now—seeing those choices from this perspective.

I only really saw Pedro at dinners. He’d show up flushed and buzzing from whatever random adventure he’d dragged my body into that day—parasailing, some rum tasting tour, a dance class that apparently involved way too much hip movement. He looked happy as hell in my skin, laughing loud, gesturing with my hands, flirting shamelessly with anyone who caught his eye. We’d catch up over cocktails and fancy seafood, swapping quick stories, but he was always itching to run off again afterward.

“Best week ever, Luna,” he’d say with my face, clinking his glass against mine. “Don’t wait up.”

I never did.

On the fifth day, Pedro cornered me at dinner looking equal parts excited and sheepish. We were halfway through some fancy grilled fish dish when he leaned in, my own face flushed and eyes bright.

“Okay, so… I met a guy,” he said, biting his lip in that way I usually did when I was nervous. “And holy shit, Luna, he’s super into me. Like, really into me. I’m so fucking horny right now I can barely think straight. Would it be okay if… you know… he fucked me? In your body?”

I had to press my lips together hard to keep from laughing out loud. If only he knew. I was literally sitting there full of Aidan’s cum from earlier that afternoon—it was slowly leaking out of me into my borrowed shorts.

Instead, I kept my face perfectly chill, shrugging one of Pedro’s shoulders like it was no big deal.

“Yeah, of course,” I said, taking a casual sip of my rum punch. “Go for it. Have fun.”

Pedro’s eyes lit up—my eyes, technically—and he grinned wide. “You’re the best. I’ll tell you everything later.”

He practically bounced off after dinner. A couple hours later he came back to the villa glowing, hair messy, cheeks pink, walking a little funny in my body.

“Oh my god, Luna,” he whispered as he flopped onto the bed beside me. “That guy is the hottest person here. Tall, built like a Greek god, cock like… fuck, I don’t even know how to describe it. He fucked me so good. Bent me over the balcony, then on the bed, then in the shower. I came twice. He kept calling me pretty and telling me how tight I was. Your body? Absolute MVP. Props to you for keeping it in such good shape.”

I just smirked, feeling a weird mix of pride and amusement. I’d seen the guy he was talking about around the resort—he definitely was objectively the hottest one at the resort. Pedro had done well. And yeah… props to my body, I guess.

—

A day before the end of the trip, Aidan and I were tangled together in a big woven hammock strung between two palm trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The sun was low, painting everything golden. My head rested on his chest, one of his arms wrapped around my waist while his fingers idly traced patterns on my skin.

“We gotta make plans to meet up once we’re back in the city,” I murmured, running my hand over the light hair on his abs. “I’ll show you all the spots I told you about.”

Aidan smiled, that big beautiful grin flashing as he looked down at me. “I’m excited to be there. But I’d be way more excited if I had a boyfriend waiting for me.”

I chuckled softly. “With a body like that? You’re not gonna have any trouble finding one.”

He shifted a little, pulling me closer so our bodies pressed together in the hammock. His voice dropped lower, warm and serious. “It won’t be a problem at all… if you agree to be my boyfriend.”

I froze for a second, then laughed, pushing up on one elbow to look at him. “I can’t. This isn’t even my body, Aidan. Maybe the real Pedro would be interested though—”

He cut me off gently, his fingers deliberately tracing the tattoos along my arm—the ones I’d helped Pedro pick out years ago. “You are the real Pedro now,” he said, voice low and confident, thumb brushing over the ink like he was claiming it. “As far as I’m concerned, this is you.”

My stomach did a slow flip. I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how good his hand felt on Pedro’s skin.

“…Is there any chance you’re bi?” I asked quietly.

Aidan gave a soft laugh and shook his head, that cheeky little smirk returning. “Not even a little bit…. Guess we’ll just have to enjoy the time while we have it,” his voice dropping from low to a whisper. “Drop by my room around 9 tonight, and I’ll make sure we leave this on a good note.” he said, before standing up and flashing me a cheeky grin and walking off. I hung back and decided to watch the sunset by myself.

—

That night, my phone buzzed as I was scrolling through my feed. It was from Aidan.

Aidan: “You coming over?”

Aidan: “Want to spend at least one full night sharing a bed with you before we leave.”

I stared at the text for a second, a little thrill running through me. Pedro was sprawled on this bed in my body, scrolling through his phone with a lazy grin.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’m gonna spend the night with a guy I met. That cool?”

Pedro looked up, my eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated surprise, then he burst out laughing. “Holy shit, finally! Good for you, Luna. Go get some. I’m heading to the bar anyway. Try to find some dick for myself before we leave.”

When I got to Aidan’s room, I knocked but there was no answer. I turned the handle and the door was unlocked, but the place was empty. The lights were on low, the balcony doors open to the ocean breeze, but no sign of him. I wandered around for a minute, heart beating a little faster than it should. The bed was neatly made, his suitcase half-packed in the corner. I snooped a bit—nothing weird, just normal vacation stuff—until I stepped into the bathroom and spotted it on the counter: a blister pack of Viagra with one pill punched out.

I raised an eyebrow. Interesting.

I sent him a quick text telling him I was in his room and asking him where he was.

My phone buzzed again.

Aidan: “Stay there. I’ll be there in like 10 minutes.”

I shrugged and kicked off my shoes, settling onto the edge of the bed to wait. Ten minutes turned into fifteen. Then twenty. At the twenty-seven-minute mark, I was starting to wonder if he’d gotten distracted when the door finally clicked open.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, when the door opened.

Aidan walked in first, that familiar big smile on his face. Right behind him was Pedro—in my body—laughing at something Aidan had just said. My own long hair was a little messy, my sundress riding up slightly on my thighs.

Pedro froze the second he saw me. His eyes went wide.

“Wait… that’s my body,” he said, pointing straight at me, voice pitching up in surprise.

I blinked hard, genuinely shocked. I played it cool though, keeping my expression surprised and trying not to let on what started to race through my mind of what Aidan was trying to do here.

“Uh… yeah. Small resort, I guess.” I responded.

Aidan acted like he had zero idea we knew each other, raising his hands innocently. “Whoa, you two know each other? Shit, I didn’t realize.” He flashed me a knowing glance. “This could be fun, though, right? No pressure.”

Pedro—in my body—shifted uncomfortably, crossing my arms over my chest.“I don’t know, man… I don’t want the swap to become permanent or anything.”

But I could read the look on his face: Pedro really really wanted to get some tonight and he was really into Aidan.

Aidan stepped closer, grabbing Pedro’s waist, voice smooth and reassuring. “Ahhhh… if that’s what you’re worried about baby, don’t be. It’s only permanent if he cums in your pussy.”

Pedro still looked hesitant, biting my lower lip the way he sometimes did. But Aidan didn’t give him time to overthink it.

“I’ll keep that pussy all to myself then,” he said in a low husky voice as he suavely dipped his hand under the dress and underwear and started to gently rub his clit. Pedro made a soft surprised noise but didn’t pull away.

Aidan gently leaned him back onto the bed, kissing him harder. As he did, Aidan glanced over at me quickly and winked—quick, dirty, and full of mischief.

I moved in, heart racing, and started making out with Pedro while Aidan kept working on him. It felt so fucking weird—kissing my own mouth, tasting the familiar lip gloss I usually wore, feeling my own soft lips move against mine.

And Aidan was good at faking it. Really good. He’d told me flat-out he wasn’t even a little bi, but the way he kissed and touched Pedro in my body looked completely convincing—hungry, experienced, completely in control. I was actually a bit unnerved.

Before long, Aidan had flipped Pedro onto all fours. He pushed the sundress up over his hips, pulled his panties aside, and slid into his pussy from behind in one smooth, deep thrust. Pedro moaned loudly, gripping the sheets. Aidan started fucking him doggy style—slow and steady at first, that same experienced dominance I’d grown addicted to over the week.

Then Aidan looked over at me, voice low and rough. “Come here. Let him suck you off.”

I moved around to the front. Pedro hesitated for half a second, then leaned in and took my cock—his old cock—into his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing, tongue working the underside, sucking with just the right pressure. I got rock hard almost instantly, groaning as I threaded my fingers through my own long hair.

Aidan and I leaned in over Pedro’s back and started kissing each other deeply while he kept sucking me. The whole thing felt filthy and surreal—my best friend blowing me in my own body while the guy who’d been railing me all week fucked her from behind.

I started getting close way too fast. Aidan noticed immediately. He reached forward, gently but firmly pulled Pedro’s mouth off my cock, and pushed his face down into the pillows. Then he looked at me, eyes dark with heat, and motioned for me to come around behind.

Aidan pulled out of my old body completely, smooth and quick. Before Pedro could even register the sudden emptiness or turn his head, Aidan was already moving. He gripped my hips firmly from behind, guiding me forward with strong, experienced hands until the head of my cock—Pedro’s cock—was pressed right against the slick, warm entrance of my own pussy.

With one deliberate push on my waist, Aidan lined me up perfectly and shoved me forward.

I slid inside her—inside myself—in one smooth thrust.

The feeling was insane. Hot, tight, and wet in a way that made my brain short-circuit. Pedro (in my body) let out a shocked, muffled moan into the pillows as I bottomed out.

Aidan didn’t stop there. He took my right hand, wrapped it around the back of my old body’s head, and firmly pushed her face deeper into the pillows, arching her back even more for me.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and rough with approval. Pedro thought he was talking to him, but he said it looking directly at me.

I matched Aidan’s original thrusting pace—rhythmic, deep strokes that made my old body’s hips jolt forward with every push. Pedro was moaning loudly now, the sound vibrating against the pillow, his pussy clenching around me.

Aidan stepped back for a second, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and snapped a quick picture. Then he walked back over, pressed himself against my back, and whispered hot against my ear:

“I want to remember seeing my man take what’s his.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. He reached around me, hands sliding to gently rub and pinch my nipples while his lips found the back of my neck, kissing and sucking softly as I kept thrusting harder into my old body.

Pedro’s moans grew louder, more desperate, muffled by the pillow.

Aidan’s voice dropped even lower, right against my skin. “Now do it, Pedro. Fill her up.”

That was all it took.

I came harder than I had the entire trip—my biggest load yet—burying myself deep as my cock pulsed and spilled inside my old pussy. Wave after wave of it, hips jerking involuntarily while Aidan kept kissing my neck and teasing my nipples, holding me through every shudder.

The room spun for a long moment, nothing but heavy breathing and the distant sound of waves outside.

—

A few months later, the city was deep into fall. I was sprawled on Aidan’s massive sectional in his Upper West Side apartment, legs kicked up on the coffee table while he cooked something that smelled ridiculously good in the kitchen. This place till felt too nice to be real—its amazing what Aidan’s finance salary and no student loans could get him.

My phone buzzed. Another text from “Luna.”

Luna: “This fucking guy ghosted me after three dates. Thought he was different. Whatever. At least the sex was good while it lasted.”

I snorted softly and didn’t reply right away. She was still pissed. Every other message was some variation of complaint about how unfair life was now, how she missed her old body, how she hated having to relearn everything. I’d tried telling her once that she’d actually won out—she made more money in my old job, lived in a nicer apartment now, and was getting regularly fucked by the exact kind of tall, masc, Equinox jock types she used to pine after but could never pull. She’d usually just sent back a middle finger emoji.

Deep down, I was pretty sure she knew it too. She just liked complaining—girls like her were just a bit delusional about shit like that.

The doorbell rang.

Aidan wiped his hands on a dish towel and grinned at me. “Showtime.”

When the door opened, in walked his “uncle” — late forties, salt-and-pepper stubble, still decently built in a navy button-down. Right behind him was his boyfriend Matt, about thirty, clean-cut with an easy smile.

“Uncle Tony! Matt, nice to meet you finally! Come on in,” Aidan said warmly, pulling them both into quick hugs. He turned and gestured to me. “This is my boyfriend Pedro, by the way. Pedro, meet my uncle Tony and his boyfriend Matt.”

“Nice to meet you” I said, standing up to shake their hands. “Tony, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise, kid.” He said, with an expression a bit difficult to read.

We chatted for a while in they entryway before we settled into the living room. Aidan stood at the open concept kitchen island, making us drinks and sliding effortlessly into polite-boyfriend mode.

“I’m really happy you two got together,” he told Matt, voice warm and genuine. “Uncle’s been single for so long — it’s awesome to see him finally settling down.”

Matt laughed, clearly charmed. “He’s been spoiling me rotten.”

“That sounds exactly like him,” Aidan said with a grin. “He deserves someone who appreciates him.”

I caught the way Uncle Tony’s jaw tightened just slightly as he forced a smile. His eyes flicked over to me — taking in the tattoos on my arms, the way I filled out the fitted shirt, the casual way I was lounging on what used to be his couch. I hate to admit it, but his jealousy felt good.

Aidan handed us all each a cocktail as Matt glanced around the sleek apartment, taking it all in. “So how long have you two been together?” He asked.

“A few months now,” Aidan answered easily, settling in next to me on the couch and sliding an arm around my waist. “We actually met on a trip Uncle Tony treated me to down in the Caribbean, right before he met you.”

Matt whistled. “Lucky nephew. Most uncles just send a birthday card every year.”

Uncle Tony gave a tight smile, looking out at the river view beyond the windows. “Yeah… figured the kid deserved a nice trip before he started grinding in the city.”

Aidan kept laying it on, completely deadpan. “Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better uncle.”

Matt beamed, totally buying the sweet, supportive nephew act. But the rest of us could feel the cockiness simmering under Aidan’s polite tone.

Uncle Tony’s gaze lingered a beat too long on Aidan — on the tan skin, the light dusting of chest hair at the open collar of his shirt, the easy confidence in every movement. For a second raw jealousy flashed across his face before he buried it. He knew there was nothing he could do.

Aidan kissed the side of my head, casual and possessive, his hand resting low on my hip where his favorite tattoos disappeared under my waistband.

After a night of drinking and laughing, Tony and Matt finally left the apartment. The moment the door clicked shut and the living room fell quiet, Aidan turned to me, still wearing that perfect, polite nephew smile he’d kept up all evening.

“Your uncle so wished he never swapped with you,” I said as he settled back in with me on the couch.

Aidan stared back at me for a second, then let out a light laugh, the kind that said I was being ridiculous. “What are you talking about, babe?” he replied, still in that same warm, innocent tone.

His grin slowly widened, dark and knowing. We both understood. We weren’t ever acknowledging the swap again. This was our reality now — me as Pedro, him as Aidan — forever.

Without another word, he pulled me in hard for a deep, hungry kiss, his hands already sliding under my shirt as we stumbled toward the bedroom, ready to fuck like the couple we had become.

Based on the concept from Reps by @malebodyswapper

I belong to Echo Fitness.

Honestly, I never thought I’d stick to a gym, but Echo’s different. The core concept is wild—it lets you work out in the body of anyone that’s currently in the building. Trainers, members, whoever’s signed in.

The first time I walked in and saw it in action, I thought I was hallucinating. There were three versions of the same guy—one deadlifting, one stretching, one on the assault bike. Identical tattoos, same haircut, same everything. But it was all real.

The only rule? You had to swap back into your original body before you left. No exceptions. They didn’t say how they enforced that, but I’d heard rumors of alarms going off if you even tried to push the doors while still borrowed.

The magic part—or whatever tech it was—was that you still kept the gains. If you borrowed a trainer’s body and benched twice your weight, when you swapped back, your chest and arms had actually done the work. The soreness, the progress, it all transferred.

It was perfect for me. I was mid-thirties, a little overweight, and the thought of struggling through push-ups in front of people made my skin crawl. Here, I could hop into the body of some shredded twenty-something and bang out pull-ups without anyone snickering. By the time I went back to my own body, I’d be stronger anyway.

There was a status board right by the entrance. Big digital screen, like an airport departures list. It showed all the possible bodies inside at that moment, each with a photo and a name. Underneath, there were little icons of who was currently borrowing them—tiny profile pictures in a row. Sometimes there’d be four or five people stacked under one guy’s photo, all using his body at once.

I’d stand there for a few minutes every session, sizing up my options. Trainers were usually the best choice—they could handle serious weight. But sometimes you’d spot a random member who was just built like a tank and barely had anyone borrowing him. Those were gold.

---

Every third Thursday of the month, they held what they called Leavers Night. On Leavers Night, they changed the rules and allowed you to actually leave the premises in someone else’s body. The catch was that you had to be in that body for at least an hour before walking out the door. The time delay kept people from swooping in, grabbing a body, and vanishing before anyone noticed.

The system was simple. Next to our usual headshots on the big status board, timers would appear. They showed how long each of us had been inside the body we were using. If the timer hit an hour, the number flipped green and that was the signal to go if you wanted. And once you left, your original body would stay on the board, meaning that someone else would have to leave in it by the end of the night.

Leavers Night was unpredictable. Sometimes the place was packed, bodies changing hands every minute, people strategizing and changing quickly like it was a game. Other times, it was quiet—only a handful of members coming in to swap with one of their friends for a month.

I’d actually never managed to leave as someone else on Leavers Night. After all, my body wasn’t exactly prime real estate: mid-thirties, still carrying extra weight. Every time I got close to hitting that green timer, the body’s owner would notice and quickly duck out before I could leave.

It was frustrating. I wanted to know what it felt like to live a month—or maybe more—as someone else. But every time, I ended the night the same way. Back in my own skin, watching the timers flip green for everyone else, wondering if maybe next month I’d get lucky.

---

Tonight, the crowd was on the slimmer side. I spotted a few familiar faces as soon as I walked in. Kyle and Vlad were already there—two very shredded bros who had a habit of swapping with each other every single Leavers Night. Honestly, at this point, I wasn’t even sure they remembered which body was their original anymore. They always strutted around with the same cocky energy, cracking jokes that walked a fine line between “bro talk” and something more charged.

I’d catch them slapping each other’s asses and flexing in the mirror together, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the bravado was just a cover.

Their timers were closing in on the hour mark already. They’d probably leave soon.

The rest of the place looked about the same as any other Thursday. The usual group of bigger guys—guys built more like me—were going through sets inside the trainers’ bodies. Trainers were exempt from the Leavers Night rule change. And since those other overweight guys knew nobody would ever let them take their body, they treated it like any other night.

I sighed and went to one of the kiosks to make my pick. No point overthinking it. I tapped on Tor’s photo, one of the trainers I liked. Reliable, tall, a thick beard, and a really cool sleeve of tattoos. At least I’d get a solid workout in.

I’d just finished my first set when the front doors opened and Sergio walked in.

He was younger—early twenties at most. He’d joined maybe three months ago. I’d borrowed his body a few times. He was hot. Lean and athletic with just enough muscle to make lifts feel natural. Strong, but not bulky. The kind of frame that turned heads.

From what I’d seen, he mostly liked using the largest trainers’ bodies to do really heavy lifts. I figured his plan was to build himself up as fast as possible.

I’d never seen him show up for a Leavers Night before, though. With a body like that, why would you ever think about coming?

He walked past the board without even glancing at the timers, tapped at a kiosk, and took Tarek—another trainer.

I went back by the kiosk for a second, Tor’s picture glowing back at me. Then I back looked over at Sergio’s headshot on the board.

“Why not?” I muttered under my breath. I laughed softly and told myself I should at least give myself a fighting chance to leave as him, even if I knew he’d never let it happen.

I tapped his picture, and suddenly I was standing in Sergio’s body again. That lean, young frame, the quickness in my step—it felt incredible. Better than the hulking bulk of most trainers. This body didn’t lumber; it just moved.

I stretched out my arms, rolled my shoulders, and let out a low “fuck” under my breath. It was just as good as I remembered.

I didn’t want to draw attention, though. So I scurried off to a quieter corner of the gym, by the row of older machines that nobody really used anymore.

I loaded up the seated row, adjusted the handle, and got into position. The first pull sent a jolt through me—the lats firing, forearms tight, chest engaged. Every rep felt solid, controlled. I couldn’t stop grinning as I pulled the handle to my torso again and again.

“Fuck, this just feels so great,” I whispered, my breath catching as I knocked out another set. The muscles burned, but in that way that made me want to keep going, not stop. I added more weight and went right back at it, the bar clinking lightly as I racked it after each pull.

I settled into a rhythm on the rows, sweat beading across Sergio’s smooth skin. Between sets, I leaned forward on my knees and let my mind wander.

What would it even feel like to be him for more than an hour?

I pictured it clearly—waking up in the morning, padding through some tiny apartment kitchen in just briefs, coffee mug in hand, abs flexing without even trying. Going on a run through the neighborhood, shirtless, the air hitting me while eyes followed every step. Heading out to the club, where guys I usually only stared at from the corner would actually stare back. Not just stare—flock. And not because I was borrowing some trainer’s bulk for an hour in the gym, but because they wanted me. Taking me home, pushing me against the sheets, fucking me hard while their gaze locked on mine.

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “Yeah, right,” I muttered. There was no way. Guys like Sergio knew exactly what they had.

Still, I got lost in the reps, in the rhythm, in how light this body made everything feel. Sets blurred into each other. Time stretched.

At some point, I realized Sergio hadn't left yet. That made no sense. He should’ve been out of Tarek’s body and gone by now, leaving me back in my old body.

My stomach tightened. I wiped my palms on my shorts and glanced toward the board.

There it was. Next to Sergio’s headshot, under my profile picture, the timer glowed: 1:04:39.

Green.

I blinked hard, like I was imagining it. But no, it stayed there. I could leave. I could actually leave.

My pulse spiked. I didn’t wait. I racked the weight, grabbed a towel, and made a beeline for the exit.

Halfway there, weaving past a group of guys by the free weights, I nearly collided with someone. My shoulder smacked into him, and I looked up.

It was one of the Tarek copies—shorts, tank, tattoos. But I knew immediately.

Sergio.

His eyes flicked over me—over himself—and his smirk deepened. He tilted his chin just slightly, blocking the path to the exit.

“Nice, huh?” he said casually. “My body’s pretty good, right?”

I froze for a beat. My throat went dry. “Uh—yeah,” I said, careful, cautious. I forced a shrug, trying not to let my voice give anything away. “Yeah, man. It’s solid.” My answer came out too quick, too sharp. I tried to smooth it over with a nod, but I knew I sounded off.

Sergio didn’t seem to notice. He chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I love seeing guys using my body around here. Little ego boost, you know?”

I forced a laugh. “Makes sense.” Then, trying to sound casual, I asked, “But… do you actually like being in someone else’s body?”

He shrugged. “Not really. It’s more utility. I mean, come on—if I can use a trainer’s body and push three times the weight, why wouldn’t I?”

I blinked at him. “So… you’ve never wanted to, I don’t know, stay as someone else?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah man, I love my body—I mean just look at it! Besides, ut’s not like any of the swaps here are permanent, man. This place is just... a tool. That’s it.”

And that’s when it hit me.

He didn’t know.

Sergio pushed off the wall with that same cocky grin. “Anyway, man, enjoy it. I’m gonna get a few more sets in before I switch back.”

And just like that, he walked off toward the dumbbells, rolling his shoulders like a dumb gym bro.

I stood there for a moment, heart still hammering, then forced myself to move. I grabbed my bag from the cubbies, towel still damp from the workout, and headed toward the front. The kiosk gave a soft chime as I tapped my fob, the turnstile clicking open. I stepped through, the hum of the gym fading behind me.

On the board, I caught it out of the corner of my eye—Sergio’s photo, no my photo, vanishing from the list as I crossed the threshold.

I raised my voice just enough to carry back across the room. “Hey, Sergio! Ask management about Leavers Night. You’re gonna want to look into it next month.”

Then I pushed the door open and walked out into the night air, my pulse thrumming in this younger, sharper body.

Behind me, faint through the glass, I heard shouting. Sergio—still inside Tarek’s body—was trying to bolt after me. A sharp alarm cut through the noise, and a staffer’s firm voice followed: “You can’t leave in a trainer’s body. Rules are rules.”

The sound dulled as I crossed the lot, sliding into my car. By the time I pulled out and hit the street, it was just background noise, fading into the distance as I drove off in my new skin, a whole new life stretched out in front of me.

Part I https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/804788356374544384/asset-forfeiture-extinci%C3%B3n-de-dominio?source=share

Part II https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/805103844518445056/asset-forfeiture-part-ii?source=share

Part XIX: Monday Morning Reversal

I woke up wrong.

Not disoriented—wrong. The wrong weight. The wrong smell. My nervous system screamed before my eyes opened.

My ceiling. The hairline crack from light fixture to corner. My apartment.

My body.

I lifted my hand—Jake Delgado's hand. Scarred knuckles, crooked pinky from the academy. Six-foot-four, one-ninety of earned muscle.

I was back.

But something was… wrong.

Heat. Impossible furnace heat wrapped around my cock. Tight, pulsing muscle contracting, drawing me deeper.

I looked down.

Dean. Face-down in my bed. Naked except for black socks. Morning light painting his back gold—every muscle defined, purple bruises on his hips like fingerprints. Bite marks on his shoulders.

My cock—thick, rigid, leaking—buried deep inside him.

Horror and arousal collided.

Pull out. Get away. Figure out—

But it felt good. Perfect. The heat gripping my shaft with unconscious contractions. My hindbrain roared: more, deeper, stay, claim.

My hips rolled forward on instinct. Dean made a small satisfied sound and the noise bypassed thought, went straight to some newly-installed circuit screaming yes, good, mine.

Three days. I'd been trapped in Miguel's body for three days while that freak wore my skin. The memories hit like shrapnel:

Kneeling on cold tile, boot sole on my tongue. Miguel's voice—my voice—commanding: "Lick it clean."

Part I: https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/804788356374544384/asset-forfeiture-extinci%C3%B3n-de-dominio?source=share

Negotiation

I returned to the station Sunday night, when the building was a tomb. Jake's boots echoed down the corridor—my boots now—and I couldn't stop looking down at them.

Black tactical leather, size 14.5 wide, laced tight over my thick ankles. Every step was a reminder of what I'd become. The weight of them. The authority. I'd spent Saturday breaking them in properly—walking around Jake's apartment, standing in front of his full-length mirror just staring at my feet. These boots that I'd worshipped the moment I woke up in this body, that I'd pulled off my own feet and licked clean in the locker room, were now mine. Attached to my body. My massive, powerful, alpha body.

I flexed my toes inside them, feeling the leather creak. Size 14.5 wide. Miguel had worn size 8.5 narrow Adidas with orthotic inserts because his arches collapsed without support. Pathetic.

The IT office door was still locked. I slid the key in and pushed it open.

Miguel's body—my old body—was awake. Sitting upright against the filing cabinet, knees pulled to his chest, the floor littered with discarded protein bar wrappers he’d clearly eaten out of boredom. The bruise on his temple had darkened to purple-black. My phone lay on the tile near his foot, the screen smashed but glowing with a red warning: iPhone Unavailable. I smirked. He must have panicked and guessed the wrong passcode ten times in a row until it locked him out. He had my fingers, my face, and my entire digital life in his hand, but he was too stupid to access any of it.

But it was the eyes that stopped me. Jake's eyes, staring out from Miguel's pathetic face with pure, incandescent rage.

And below, on Miguel's feet: those sad Adidas sneakers. White with navy stripes, scuffed and creased. Size 8.5. I could see the insoles through the mesh—bright blue orthotics that Miguel needed just to walk without pain. The laces were frayed. There was a coffee stain on the left toe.