The antique grandfather clock in the hallway had a pendulum that swung with a heavy, metallic thud. It was a clumsy piece of furniture, smelling of lemon oil and old dust. Every sixty seconds, it let out a guttural chime that vibrated through the floorboards. It had been in the family for three generations, outlasting everyone who ever tried to wind it.
“I can’t be… no,” I groaned, the words coming out as a wet, wheezing rattle. I looked down and saw a vast, pale expanse of stomach spilling over the waistband of some beige slacks. The skin was mottled and loose. Suddenly, a hot, bubbling pressure surged in my gut, and a loud, wet rip echoed through the quiet room. A warmth spread rapidly across my rear, soaking into the fabric of the pants.
“Eww,” a voice piped up from below. I looked down to see my own young body—lean, smooth, and terrified—staring back at me with an expression of pure disgust. My uncle was inside me, his eyes blinking with a confused, childish innocence. He shrugged, a small smile playing on my lips. “Relax, uncle. It happens.” The humiliation hit me like a physical blow, and I felt a sob catch in my throat, but the urgency in my bowels was undeniable. I waddled toward the bathroom, my heavy thighs chafing with every step.
The bathroom was a cramped, tiled cell that smelled of bleach and stale urine. I barely made it to the toilet before the floodgates opened, a violent and messy release that left me shaking. I sat there for a long time, listening to the rhythmic thud of the grandfather clock in the hall, feeling the sheer weight of this alien, decaying body. When I finally cleaned myself up and stepped back into the hallway, the air felt colder, and my skin felt tighter, as if the fat were settling into new, permanent folds.
My aunt was waiting by the door, her floral dress clinging to her hips in a way I had never noticed before. She looked at me—at the man she thought was her husband—with a gaze that was far too hungry for a casual Tuesday afternoon. "Darling, could you hold the dog while I get the leash?" she asked, her voice a low, honeyed purr. Before I could answer, she stepped into my space, her chest pressing firmly against my bloated stomach.
I looked down at the tiny Shih Tzu yapping at my ankles, its fur matted and gray. "Relax," I muttered to the dog, though the voice that came out was a gravelly, masculine rumble that vibrated in my own chest. My aunt didn't seem to mind the tone; instead, she leaned in and pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to my jaw. Her tongue flicked against my skin, tasting of peppermint and something metallic, sending a jolt of electricity straight to the groin of this foreign, heavy body.
Across the living room, my uncle—trapped in my young, athletic frame—was sprawled on the sofa, legs kicked up, tossing a stress ball against the ceiling. He looked vibrant, his skin glowing, a smug grin plastered on my face. He was enjoying the novelty of a metabolism that actually worked and joints that didn't creak, while I was left to manage the logistics of a sagging midline and a wife who was suddenly very interested in my presence. The anger flared for a second, but as she slid her hand down my back to give my rear a firm, possessive squeeze, the resentment dissolved into a heavy, languid heat.
I tried to tell her that something was wrong, that I wasn't the man she thought I was, but the words died in my throat. As she pressed her body closer, grinding her hip into my thigh, a surge of blood rushed south. It was an intense, throbbing sensation, a biological imperative that ignored the psychological horror of the situation. This body was old and tired, but its desires were primal and insistent. My cock strained against the beige fabric of the slacks, hardening into a thick, insistent rod that left no doubt about my state of arousal.
