#body switch

Red Robin knocked the futuristic gun out of the perpetrator’s hands but not before it fired into the fight and hit Robin square in the chest. There was a rush of chaos and confusion immediately following. Nightwing takes the unconscious teen into his arms and retreats while the rest of the bats take down the rest of the thugs with brutal efficiency.

Red Hood and Spoiler stay behind to question the criminals and do some more investigating while Red Robin examines the gun used.

It’s hours later, with Robin still unconscious in the Batcave medbay, they figure out it’s an alien device originally used to find others of the same endangered race. Frankly, it didn’t at all explain why Damian was still unconscious, or why he fell unconscious to begin with. From the research they found, it shouldn’t physically alter or affect the individual. Which leads them to believe the device had been tampered with.

Tensions were high. Answers were scarce. Doubts were increasing as well as fear and anger.

It came to a head almost twenty-four hours later when Damian violently wakes up.

From one moment to the next, the teen goes from being completely unaware to gasping awake. Dick, who had been by his side through this ordeal, is so startled he shouts in surprise. He jumps from his seat to keep Damian from hurting himself as the boy thrashes in the bed.

Tim comes running in from where he was stationed at the Bat computer to see Damian screaming and struggling against their older brother’s calming hands. The heart monitor is going ballistic and if Damian keeps flailing he’ll rip out his IV.

“Tim!”

He already knows what Dick wants and dashes toward the medicine cabinet for a sedative. It doesn’t take long for the drug to do its job with Dick holding down Damian.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I got you. I got you,” Dick reassures as Damian loses his strength and sags into the bed.

Tim is already texting Bruce about the situation, not wanting to leave Dick by himself.

“What was that?” Tim asks out loud.

He had never seen Damian act like that except for when he got fear gassed. They had run every test they could think of when he came in, he was clean.

Dick is running his fingers through Damian’s hair soothingly even though the teen is out of it.

“I don’t know. Something’s off.”

They only gave him a small dose, but Damian is out for another six hours. In that time they had ran all the tests again to find nothing abnormal and Jason had pulled in about four hours in to park his butt at the work bench to clean his weapons in front of Bruce and within hearing distance.

When Damian wakes again, it’s sluggish from the drugs. He blinks and groans. Dick is at his side immediately.

“Hey, Baby Bat. How you feeling?”

Damian pulls at the cushioned restraints around his wrists. The teen wrinkles his brows in confusion and looks down.

“You want them off? The first time you woke up you almost ripped your IV out,” Dick explains as he carefully unlatches the Velcro.

“Oh,” Damian mumbles and then thinks about the words. “What?”

Bruce walks through the door. Jason lingers in the doorway peering in to check on the kid.

“There you are. You had us worried,” Bruce says. He stands at the side of the bed to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder while his eyes scan the monitors.

“Sorry.”

That got their attention.

“‘Sorry’?” Jason asks incredulously as he pushes off the doorway to stand at the end of the bed. “Since when have you ever apologized for anything?”

“Jason,” Dick hushes. “He just woke up. Give him a break.”

Damian rubs his free wrists as he looks around at them and the room. The longer they watch him they can see the lack of recognition in his eyes.

“What- what happened?”

Dick and Jason give each other a look at the stutter, but it’s Bruce that responds.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Damian looks down in thought, a hand coming up to fiddle with the IV site. Dick reaches over to pull his hand away. Surprisingly, Damian lets him.

“Um, I was- I was-… sorry,” he says in frustration.

“That’s okay. Take your time.”

Damian rubs at his face in a nervous mannerism he’s never shown before.

“I think I was doing homework? I- There’s this stupid project in history class that’s due in like two weeks and I’ve been procrastinating,” Damian shrugs.

Damian hadn’t once mentioned a history project.

He looks up at Bruce.

“Did I pass out or something?”

Bruce squeezes his shoulder before letting it drop. Dick was right, something is wrong.

“First, can you tell me your identification code?”

Dick shoots him a look that he ignores.

Damian blinks up at him.

“My what?”

Tension immediately seeps into everyone present.

“Your identification code, Dami, you remember it, right?” Dick pushes.

Damian turns to him in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did he hit his head when he went down?” Jason demands. He turns to Bruce. “I thought you checked for a concussion!”

Damian actually shrinks away from the aggressive tone. Bruce raises a hand for silence. He bends to get eye level with the teen.

“Do you know where you are?”

Damian glances around with cautious eyes.

“…The hospital?”

Dick puts a hand over his mouth in disbelief. Damian sends him a look.

“Not the hospital?”

“No,” Jason answers. “Not the hospital.”

“Do you know who I am?” Bruce asks next.

Damian studies him too closely, looking for context clues. It didn’t leave a lot of confidence.

“My… doctor?”

Dick stands abruptly to pace.

“What is happening?” He demands to no one.

“That’s what I want to know,” Damian chimes in.

“Damian,” Bruce calls to get his attention. “Damian, look at me.”

The teen turns to him in bewilderment.

“Who’s Damian?”

That question freezes them.

“What?” Jason asks. “Who the- If you’re not Damian, who are you?”

“Me? Who are you?”

Dick intervenes with raised hands. He approaches the bed like the teen is a scared animal.

“Okay. We’re starting over. Hi. I’m Dick. What’s your name?”

Not-Damian looks him up and down suspiciously.

“I’m Danny. Fenton. Danny Fenton. You- I thought you called me by my name earlier?”

Dick thinks back and gives a tight smile. “I said ‘Dami’, short for Damian, not Danny.”

Danny slumps back into the bed. “Oh.”

“We’ll figure this out, kiddo. Don’t worry-“

Bruce’s phone rings with an unknown number. He glances at the teen and shows him the screen.

“Do you recognize this number?”

“Yea, it’s mine,” Danny confesses.

Bruce puts it on speaker.

“Damian.”

“Father, it seems I’ve switched bodies with a civilian,” comes the voice.

"Ahhhhn... oh my gosh this body is too sexy... mmmph, this cock is leaking so much already, oohhh... I can't stop milking it..."

Few minutes ago Clara's mind just slammed hard into the Nathan's towering muscular frame. Thanks to her own botched stupid wish, her soul now stuck for god knows how long inside his insanely perfect fit physique.

Her new fingers slid slow and deliberate down every sweat-glistened inch of those massive heaving pecs and carved eight-pack abs that now pulsed under her control. The warm ridges of her rock-hard stomach, pressing deep into the firm grooves as raw electric fire shot straight to the thick heavy cock swelling thick between her legs. A high-pitched girly moan tore from his full lips, soft and needy, quite unmatched with the rest of masculine exterior. Her hips rolling forward on instinct while the pleasure built thick and hot inside.

Outside the door, Nathan's bros froze mid-step, smirking wide as those unmistakable feminine moans drifted through the wood, figuring the heartthrob jock had scored another random chick again for a hard, raw, mid-day fuck like always. They laughed low, one muttering about how loud the bitch was getting.

Tonight, I finally did it.

I waited until I knew he was alone in the gym after hours—he always stays late on leg day, pushing that last burnout set. I sat in the dark at home, cock already hard in my hand, staring at the newest mirror selfie he’d posted just minutes ago. I stroked slowly, deliberately, whispering his name like a spell. The ritual was simple but filthy: every pulse of pleasure I fed into the photo, every drop of pre-cum I smeared across the screen over his flexed arm, was a tether. A hook. A claim.

I came hard, groaning, ropes of cum splattering the phone, dripping down over his digital abs. And in that exact moment of release, I pushed.

My consciousness tore free of my own weak, skinny body and shot forward like a missile, riding the current of raw lust straight into him.

The entry was pure, obscene ecstasy.

I slammed into the back of his skull just as he was mid-flex in the empty gym mirror, phone still raised for another shot. His body jolted—his thick shoulders twitched, his breath hitched—and I felt everything at once. The heavy weight of his pecs shifting as he inhaled. The pump burning in his quads, so full they felt ready to split the seams of those slutty little shorts. The sweat cooling on his tanned skin. And lower—fuck—the thick, half-hard cock trapped against his thigh, already swelling from the adrenaline of the workout.

He fought for a second. I felt his mind thrash, confused, trying to hold on. But I was relentless. I flooded him with my desire, shoving memories of jerking off to his pics down his throat like cum. I wrapped my will around his like a hand around that fat dick and squeezed. He buckled. His resistance melted into a pathetic whimper that echoed only in the space between us, and then he was sliding backward, shrinking, forced out of his own nerves and muscles and skin.

I pushed him all the way out.

His soul slipped free with a wet, spiritual pop, leaving the body empty and waiting—just for me.

I settled in like I was sliding into a warm, tight hole that had been waiting to be fucked.

The first full breath I took in his lungs was intoxicating. Deep, powerful, filling a chest far broader than mine had ever been. I flexed his right arm experimentally—the bicep ballooned, hard and round, veins popping across the peak. A low, involuntary moan rumbled out of his throat—my throat now. The voice was deeper, rougher, sexier than I’d imagined.

I looked into the mirror and saw him staring back. But the eyes were mine now—hungry, predatory.

I let the phone drop to the floor with a clatter and brought both hands up, running them greedily over the body I’d just stolen. Palms slid over sweat-slick pecs, thumbs brushing his stiff nipples until they ached. Down the ridges of his abs, tracing every deep line. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of those tiny maroon shorts and tugged them lower, just enough to free the heavy cock that sprang up against his abs—my abs now—already fully hard, thick, uncut, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

I wrapped his big hand around it and groaned again, louder this time. The grip felt perfect—calloused from years of gripping bars, strong enough to squeeze just right. I gave one slow stroke, foreskin gliding over the swollen head, and the pleasure hit like a drug. Ten times stronger than anything my old body had ever felt. His balls—my balls—hung heavy, full, drawn up tight from the sudden rush of arousal.

I leaned closer to the mirror, watching his handsome face twist with raw lust as I started pumping faster. Sweat dripped down his neck, over the chain, between his pecs. I licked his lips, tasting salt. I flexed his free arm again, admiring the pump, the size, the power that was finally mine.

“Fuck yes,” I growled in his deep voice. “This body is mine now.”

I’m just getting started. I haven’t even made him cum in the gym mirror yet. I haven’t stripped these shorts off all the way, haven’t bent over the bench and spread these thick cheeks, haven’t felt what it’s like to edge this stolen cock for hours…

I couldn’t stay in the gym forever—even though part of me wanted to drop those shorts, bend over the weight bench, and fuck this new body raw right there under the fluorescent lights, mirrors on every side watching me claim what was mine. But the risk of getting caught only made my stolen cock throb harder. I edged myself mercilessly for twenty minutes, slow strokes turning into frantic pumps, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head until my balls ached, then forcing myself to stop. Every time I got close, I flexed—pec bounce, ab crunch, quad pop—just to feel the power surge, to remind myself this wasn’t a dream. This body was mine now.

I finally tucked the leaking dick back into those tight maroon shorts (it made an obscene bulge, the outline unmistakable) and grabbed his gym bag. Walking out felt unreal—those massive legs carrying me with easy, heavy strides, the pump making every muscle feel swollen and alive. The chain bounced against my new pecs. Sweat cooled on my skin. I drove his car home on pure instinct, one hand on the wheel, the other palming my bulge at every red light, squeezing just enough to keep the edge.

The second I stepped inside his apartment, I stripped.

The cropped tank came off first—peeled it over my head and let it drop, watching in the hallway mirror as the full torso came into view. Fuck, those pecs were even bigger up close, heavy slabs striated with veins, nipples dark and stiff from the cool air. I bounced them deliberately, left then right, groaning at how they moved under my control. Then the shorts—hooked my thumbs in and shoved them down, kicking them aside. The cock sprang free again, fully hard now, curving up thick and proud against my abs. Balls heavy, drawn tight. I gave it one long stroke, just to feel the weight in this big hand, then forced myself to stop again.

I needed to savor this.

I crashed onto the couch, sprawled back exactly like in the photo you just sent—head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that post-workout glow still shining on my skin. Curly hair a mess from the cap I’d tossed aside. Beard thick and dark. The little gold hoop earring catching the light. Chest heaving slow and deep, every breath making those massive pecs rise and fall like they were built for worship.

I ran both hands over them now, slow and greedy. Palms sliding through the light dusting of hair, thumbs circling the nipples until they ached. I pinched hard—gasped in his deep voice, cock jumping against my abs, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum. One hand stayed on a pec, kneading the thick muscle, feeling it flex and harden under my fingers. The other trailed lower, tracing every ridge of the eight-pack, dipping into the deep V that pointed straight to the prize.

I spread my thighs wide, feet planted on the floor, letting the heavy cock bob free in the air. Took it in a loose grip and just held it—feeling the pulse, the heat, the sheer size that my old body could never match. Slow strokes started again, foreskin gliding smooth and wet. Every pump made my pecs twitch, my abs tighten. I watched myself in the phone camera propped up on the coffee table, recording every second of this private takeover.

“This is my chest now,” I growled low, voice rumbling through the broad cavity. “These tits are mine to play with. This cock is mine to edge until I decide to blow.”

I’m not done yet. I haven’t flipped over on this couch, ass up, and spread these thick cheeks wide to see what this body feels like from behind. Haven’t tasted my own cum shooting across these pecs. Haven’t even started thinking about what I’ll do tomorrow—wearing his sluttiest clothes, hitting the gym again, maybe finding someone to use this body on…

I couldn't take it anymore on the couch—the edge was too sharp, balls throbbing like they were about to burst, pre-cum dripping in thick strings down the shaft every time I flexed. I needed more. Needed to see everything this body had to offer, slick and shining under better light.

I hauled myself up, heavy cock swinging between my thighs as I walked naked through the apartment, feeling the weight of it slap against my legs with every step. The bathroom door was already cracked open—steam still lingering from his earlier shower, mirror fogged at the edges. Perfect.

I grabbed the bottle of body oil from the shelf (he kept it right there, the slut—probably for exactly this kind of worship). Poured a thick stream into my palm and started rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles over these massive pecs. The oil made them gleam, highlighting every striation, every vein snaking across the slabs. I worked it lower, over the abs, into the deep grooves, watching them pop and shine like they were carved from bronze. Thighs next—quads so thick my hands barely spanned them, hamstrings flexing as I shifted weight. Calves diamond-hard. Every muscle responded instantly to my touch, like the body was eager to be used, claimed deeper.

Then I turned to the mirror, phone in one hand, and let the oil drip lower.

The cock was half-hard from all the teasing, hanging heavy and thick, foreskin pulled back just enough to show the fat head glistening. I poured oil straight onto it—watched it run down the shaft in shiny rivulets, pooling around the base in that thick bush of dark hair. Wrapped my big, oiled hand around it and gave a slow, twisting stroke from root to tip. The sensation was filthy—slick, hot, the foreskin gliding effortlessly now, head swelling fatter with every pass.

I groaned deep in his throat, eyes half-closed just like in the shot, beard framing that smug, horny face that's mine now. The oil made everything shine obscene under the bathroom light—pecs heaving, abs clenched, cock growing fully rigid in my grip, curving up thick and veined against the oiled abs. Balls hanging low and heavy, slick and swinging as I pumped faster.

"Fuck, look at this body," I muttered, voice rough and low, echoing off the tiles. "Oiled up like a whore. This fat dick is all mine to stroke whenever I want."

I edged harder now—hand flying up and down the oiled shaft, thumb smearing across the head on every upstroke, collecting more pre-cum to mix with the oil. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, wet and loud. I flexed one arm behind the phone, bicep peaking huge and round, veins bulging under the oil. The other hand never stopped—squeezing the base, milking upward, making the cock twitch and leak.

I'm not cumming yet. Not until I've turned around, spread these oiled cheeks in the mirror, seen how tight and perfect this ass looks shining. Not until I've tasted the oil mixed with pre-cum off my fingers. Not until I've decided if I'm posting this nude on his accounts, letting everyone see what I've stolen...

The oil was everywhere—slick down my pecs, abs, thighs, coating that thick cock in a shiny sheath that made every stroke feel like fucking a tight, wet hole. I turned around in front of the mirror, bent forward, spread these massive cheeks wide with both hands. The sight was obscene: glutes round and hard, oiled up and flexing, that tight pink hole winking under the light, untouched but begging to be claimed now that I'm in control. I slapped one cheek hard—watched it ripple, groaned deep as the sting shot straight to my balls. Fingered the rim just once, teasing, promising myself I'd wreck this ass later with toys, fingers, whatever I want.

But the pressure was building lower—balls so full they ached, bladder twitching from the workout hydration and all the edging. I couldn't hold it anymore. Cock still rock-hard and leaking, I stumbled to the toilet, dropped down heavy on the seat exactly like in the pic—legs spread wide, thighs bulging, chain dangling between these oiled pecs. Slipped on his reflective sunglasses from the counter (the cocky bastard kept them in here for exactly these kinds of selfies), hiding my predatory eyes behind the mirrored lenses as I aimed the phone for one last shot.

The first stream hit the bowl loud and strong—hot piss gushing out of my stolen cock in a thick arc, relief flooding through this powerful body. But fuck, the sensation was too good. The release, the vulnerability of sitting there exposed, legs splayed, heavy balls resting on the seat, cock throbbing as the stream pulsed. A drop of pre-cum mixed with the piss, dripping from the fat head. I couldn't resist.

I wrapped one oiled hand around the shaft mid-stream, started stroking slow while still pissing—filthy, forbidden, the warmth splashing over my fingers as I pumped. The sunglasses reflected everything: my smug face twisted in pleasure, beard dark against tanned skin, pecs heaving with every breath. The chain swung as I jerked faster, piss tapering off into pure pre-cum now, slicking the glide.

"Fuck yes," I growled, voice echoing off the bathroom walls. "Pissing and stroking in your body... my body. Gonna cum so hard everyone hears it."

Hand flew now—twisting at the head, squeezing the base, milking every inch of this thick, veined cock. Balls drew up tight, abs clenched into steel ridges. I bounced the pecs one last time, pinched a nipple hard, and lost it.

The orgasm hit like a freight train—whole body flexing, quads popping, glutes clenching on the seat as rope after thick rope shot out. Cum splattered my oiled abs, chest, even hit the chain and dripped down between the pecs. I milked it relentlessly, groaning loud and deep, sunglasses hiding the roll of my eyes as wave after wave emptied these heavy balls I'd been edging for hours.

Finally spent, cock twitching in my grip, cum pooling in the ridges of my abs, piss and oil and seed all mixed in the filthiest mess. I leaned back, breathing hard, admiring the wreckage in the mirror.

This body is mine forever now. Possessed, claimed, used exactly how I want.

I was almost afraid to go to sleep after fucking Jake last night. He went off back home with a sore ass. No wonder when Mr. Mills’s dick is so huge, he’s extremely hung! I am now, hehe.

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes. If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Christmas Exchange

— Holy shit! – Harlon stared at himself with fascination, flexing his muscles in the tight red spandex. His gaze was eager and somewhat hungry as he looked at himself, licking his lips with a certain amusement. Although that wasn't quite the Harlon Wikson he knew. But to tell the whole story, one must start from the beginning.

The Wikson family used to be very close, especially around Christmas time. It consisted of Harlan, a widower and father of two college-aged children, and Rolan, the eldest, a successful athlete with a girlfriend who was a cheerleader on the official cheerleading squad.

And then there was Caspian, thinner and more scrawny, who preferred books and artistic pursuits to strenuous sports. He also had a couple, only he was... well, another guy. Blake was his name. With a tan complexion, jet-black hair, a good pair of muscles, and a somewhat daring attitude.

It was the first time any of the sons had brought someone else to Christmas dinner, and to make matters “worse”, it was... well, a guy. Harlon wasn't homophobic, but seeing one of his sons with another man wasn't exactly what he expected.

— Are you sure Dad won't disinherit you or something? – Rolan asked his brother as they set the table. Their father pretended not to hear them from the kitchen.

— I hope not. I know it's kind of... complicated, but Blake's a good guy, and we've been together for almost two years. I wanted to introduce him and make it official. You know?

— I get it, bro. I'd bring Jen too if she didn't have to be at her parents' house. I support you, though... try to go as calmly as possible with Dad. Okay?

The man gripped the sleeve with the turkey juice too tightly and had to put it down for a moment, bringing his hand to his forehead. How would he handle the situation? His wife, who was no longer with them, was supposed to know how to deal with these things. He didn't want to be rude to Caspian or his... “friend”, but the news that his youngest son was gay and, moreover, in a relationship, hadn't been the best way to start Christmas Eve.

He wanted to be a good father, to support him and love him unconditionally, but he felt that the situation was partly overwhelming him. He wanted to understand him, he really did; he went over to one of the display cases in the house, taking a snow globe in his hands to shake it. He often did that to find answers or comfort when he didn't quite know what to do about fatherhood.

— I just want to understand him better – he murmured softly, watching the snow and silver glitter fall and float in the magical orb.

He sighed again, then went back to the kitchen to finish dinner. Blake arrived around eight o'clock at night wearing a white tank top, a navy blue cap, and a demeanor far too relaxed for Harlon's liking. This was supposed to be a formal, family affair, not a damn basketball game.

— Welcome – he muttered. The burly athlete smiled warmly and shook his hand.

— It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I appreciate you having me today. My parents are in another country, and these holidays are usually lonely for me. Thank you – The guy had a slight Hispanic accent, a friendly demeanor, but... Shit. Was that sweat? Harlon had to restrain himself from wincing at the overpowering stench of sweat and testosterone emanating from the man.

— Darling! – Caspian shouted before throwing himself into the guy's arms. His father noticed the size difference, as if the other man could easily crush his son. The displays of affection between them made him somewhat uneasy, seeing his son so... delicate.

Caspian's behavior wasn't exactly a new phenomenon. Yes, he was more effeminate and delicate than other guys his age, with a high-pitched voice, a colorful wardrobe, and pop music constantly playing on his phone. But seeing them was one thing, having them both so close was quite another. Blake's chest practically pressed against his face, his hands anxious, unsure where to rest, that gaze heavy with desire…

— Why don't we just go straight to dinner? – Harlon had to intervene. Caspian nodded, taking his boyfriend's hand so he could sit down. Rolan just raised an eyebrow at the guy and his extravagant attire.

The evening progressed as expected, with a few stumbles, like an awkward conversation about who was the man and who was the woman in Caspian and Blake's relationship, but also some successes, like the nearly thirty-minute conversation between Rolan and his brother's boyfriend about sports.

But every time he saw them holding hands, whispering things in each other's ears followed by a tender laugh, that feeling of unease still lingered within him. « Please, I want to understand, please » – he reminded himself of his wish.

— Do you have room for dessert? – he asked amiably, getting up to collect some plates and heading to the kitchen for the cream cake he had prepared. Blake stood up immediately.

— Let me help you, Mr. H! – The father had no choice but to accept the help, letting the man carry the dishes to the sink while he cut some slices of the cake.

— I really want to please you, sir. Your son is important to me, and I want to show you that you can trust me.

— Thank you, I'll… keep that in mind – he said, pressing his lips together as politely as he could, placing the slices of cake on the table.

Again, a few trivial topics came up as they ate.

— It tastes delicious… Did you put anything different in it this year? – Caspian asked, savoring the dessert. Harlon just shook his head, concentrating on his plate. 

— I think he might have put something in it, it is – Rolan paused, on the verge of revealing the "secret ingredient", but instead, his eyes glazed over as he looked around, confused – I… I feel… What did you put in it?

He watched fearfully as Blake's fork clattered against his plate, his gaze unsteady and unsteady.

— I don't feel... well… – Harlon felt his stomach churn, and everything began to blur and become a blur. Caspian didn't even have time to say anything before collapsing onto the table. He tried to stand, but only managed to fall backward, feeling his weight, almost like tons, slam against the floor. The world went dark around him as he lost consciousness.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still in the same dining room, only... different. He remembered that in the last few moments he had been lying on the ground, but now he was sitting up, and his gaze shifted to the right to find Caspian beside him, also beginning to wake up and putting his hand to his forehead, wincing in pain.

— Damn, my head – he muttered in a slightly deeper tone, but his voice was still just as high-pitched.

Caspian didn't usually swear. Although a heavy noise, like a growl or a groan, sounded beside him, when he looked in that direction, he could see something rising from the ground, heavy and large. It was...

— Ugh… – he heard his old voice. He saw his old body stretch in pain, as if the blow of several years leading up to middle age had suddenly struck him.

But the worst part was when a scream from Rolan filled the room. His eldest son, always confident and "tough", was now frantically waving his hands around, his eyes wide as he looked him up and down, his hands coming out at his cheeks and slapping them hard with his open palm as if trying to wake himself from a dream.

— What the hell?! – Caspian jumped up, almost lunging at Rolan, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him – Why are you in my body?! Who are you?!

A confused Rolan looked at him with the same confusion and bewilderment, a single movement making the skinny boy back away.

— Why are you in my body, anyway?! – Rolan shouted again, his voice sounding more... melodious? As if that enormous body truly didn't belong to him, completely alien to him.

They stared at each other for a long time. Caspian was the first to swallow, unsure how to speak, as if the cat had eaten his tongue.

— Cas? Are you... are you in there? – Rolan nodded slowly, perplexed.

When Harlon dared to look at himself, he glanced down to find a white sleeveless shirt. He took a drag, catching the scent of sweat. He felt a cap on his head, damn it. He couldn't resist the urge to run to one of the bathrooms. Only hearing the screams of his old body and the apparent body of "Rolan" behind him did he slam the door shut, locking it.

If you have the proper certifications, you probably care about your clients. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Here's a short experiment in capturing a few different steps in the "process" of body swapping.