When Rohan Desai had first heard of The Avengers, his life had been changed forever. Of course, he had grown up hearing about all kinds of superheroes, the one he was awaiting for today’s special event was in World War Two. But it was still so odd to suddenly see them blossom in his life. He was in college when New York was first attacked and though he was far from the centre of the invasion, when you grow up in New York, you’d likely run into someone who knew someone who had been saved by one of the titular heroes.
Even still, the Avengers were no longer just an idea, they had become something akin to a brand. It was why Rohan was here, he had turned from college student watching New York get saved by superheroes into one of the lead developers of one of the first superhero videogames. It technically wasn’t the first, but it was one of since The Avengers had been established and it was focused on the titular character of Captain America. From what he understood at first, nobody wanted this game. Not him, not the company and certainly not Captain America.
But overtime, there were some…business dealings and briefings, investments from the one and only Stark Industries and nearly four years later they had something. It wasn’t great, hell Rohan was just glad it was good and they had complete creative control, meaning the game actually could have some sort of genuine story or meaning behind it. At least as much as he could try in between missions of Captain America beating up HYDRA agents in a hyperrealistic sandbox of New York.
Are we really doing this? That was the question Rohan first asked when they got approval to begin development and entered pre-production. Are we really doing this? He asked again when they had finished making the model of Captain America, the motion capture and voice work done by a man who had played him in the infamous Avengers musical.
Are we really doing this? It was the same question that he asked that morning.
The common ambience of the office with conversation and keyboard clacking had turned into something larger. It had become a storm of busyness and a business hard at work. Conversations were now the cacophonous rain of commands to staff and camera crew. Thunder was the heavy thud of sound and camera equipment as it was picked, pulled and moved around the office like new ornaments. Lightning were the glimpses Rohan got of their special guest.
Captain America.
In the flesh.
Instead of his other common appearances doing charity work or on missions, he was practically forced to do what a lot of celebrities had to do, sell out. Rumour had it the only way they convinced him to come to the office to shoot the interview was if he could make some pledge to charity. So that was how after months of scheduling, they finally had the one and only Captain America ready to come into a small office with Rohan Desai and have the two alone in a room for an interview as they played the game.
I guess we’re really doing this.
Rohan wondered why he was chosen besides being one of the leads. Perhaps it was because he was the opposite of Captain America in every way. The hero was tall, blonde and broad shouldered with enough strength to take out anyone in his way and an aura of confidence that could lead men into battle. Rohan was lanky, skinny, nerdy with bronze skin and curled black hair who was only good at leading people when it came to the office. And even then, he questioned if he was that good at it.
Apparently there was a reason the pair were put together, according to the director of the whole ordeal, they both just seemed ‘nice’. Nice, wholesome, a carefully curated picturesque pairing of two men with morals so the interview didn’t look so much like the promo that it actually was. Maybe that hunger for authenticity was why they were being left alone in a room together to ‘chat’ rather than have an army of a camera crew managing their every word, trying to get the perfect shot.
“You ready for this?” came the familiar voice of another project lead. Rohan would have felt guilty for taking the man’s spot but despite him being more attractive and in line with a man who’d look good around Captain America.
“Yeah,” Rohan lied, playing the role of someone having at least something resembling confidence. “It’s not that big of a deal.” Too much confidence, his mind warned suddenly like a computer error. “I mean it is- Don’t get me wrong- No like it totally…totally is, but I mean like- You know…I didn’t realise the whole office would have to move and uh…stuff.”
“Yeah…” The project co-lead replied, echoing only Rohan’s first word like that was all he was listening to. “Well y’know the director says he wants it to feel genuine, not like an actual game studio. So you get the soundproof therapy room and everything, just y’know don’t actually call it the therapy room.” Rohan wanted to ask why and then realised he really didn’t want to get bogged down in the details.
“Okay…so the interview and then-”
“Chat”, corrected the co-lead. “Then snap some photos and then Cap will probably stick around taking more selfies or autographs or whatever with folks. Look…I know you’re nervous.”
“That’s…Yeah pretty accurate,” said Rohan.
“But look at it like this, you get to spend an hour with Captain freaking America. Playing the game that we busted our asses off and we know is good…”
“True…”
“And it’s pre-recorded. Anything weird happens or there’s some mistake, they can just edit it our, redo it, whatever.”
“Right…”
“So…my point is…” The co-lead smiled. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
It had been something of an odd process, a social ritual playing out as people seemed to drag themselves away from Captain America’s alluring presence. Though they had trouble with their half glances and a couple snapshots on the phone, Rohan had to do the opposite. He felt as if he had to orbit the man, not knowing exactly when they were going to start filming. The camera crew was still busy and they had turned the ‘quiet room’ (a soundproof room nobody used that corporate decided to have if only to list as one of the company benefits) into a recording studio.
A different couch had been pulled in and positioned against the far wall. A couple of plants had been taken from people’s desks to put around and add some greenery. A coffee table had been moved in hastily stacked with some water bottles and granola bars and a collection of different wires were hastily organised and hidden away beneath and behind the couch.
They had somehow turned a glorified storage closet into a makeshift talk show set. Warm neon lights cast a purple haze over it all and a television had also been moved in with all the right equipment to start up the game, a camera positioned in the corner to capture some of the gameplay, though Rohan knew most of it would be recorded from the console itself.
The most surprising ornament of the room was the one that this was all for, Captain America. Unlike everyone else, the super soldier walked in with a casualness, an ease that contrasted with the panic and pressure of the crew around to try and get everything working and perfect and looking good all at the same time.
He had been busying himself chatting with some of the same crew and Rohan doubted it was about features he should mention or anything to do with the video. It looked more like he was just having a casual conversation. When Rohan first saw him up close, it was when he had already been sat down in the room as they did camera tests and soon Captain America had come in.
The door opened without ceremony yet the effect was instant. Conversations clipped themselves short; the shuffling of cables slowed, as if everyone had suddenly remembered they were supposed to move gracefully. Captain America walked in. The hero stood in the doorway for a moment, one hand on the frame as if politely asking for permission before he could come in. The hallway’s cooler light haloed him from behind, a contrast to the warm, overworked neon of the room within. His frame was unmistakable: tall, broad shoulders and a shirt that stretched across his chest that would make any man envious of his pecs. Rohan felt a knot in his stomach, like all his nerves had bundled together and pulled taut suddenly. He swallowed dryly and was suddenly glad there was water nearby before Captain America’s eyes met his and he smiled, showing off some pearly whites as he stepped forward.
“Hi, Steve Rogers,” said Captain America as if he had any need to introduce themselves. He leaned forward slightly holding out his hand and Rohan shook his.
“Rohan Desai, uh it’s an honour to meet you sir,” replied Rohan. He almost immediately regretted calling the man sir as soon as it tumbled out of his lips. Steve blinked and smiled wider. God I wish I was like him, Rohan thought as he felt a slight shiver at that.
“You don’t need to call me sir,” assured Steve as Rohan nodded, ignoring the heat that was invading his cheeks as he swore he could only hear his heart drumming in his chest. “Honestly sometimes I wish I could be more like you guys who are so smart with all this coding and programming kinda thing.” Steve’s grip tightened slightly as he was shaking Rohan’s hand, feeling a slight shiver. “Oh sorry uh….So you’re the one I’m interviewing-” Steve stopped himself and laughed.
“Sorry uh doing the interview with, I get all tongue tied with this sort of stuff.” The man admitted as if the concept that Captain America, a man who was used to leading armies and stopped an invasion only a decade ago wasn’t absurd. Rohan just nodded, still too awestruck to say anything.
“We’ll be doing a bit of gameplay first, just to do a bit of a camera test and then we’ll go from there if that’s all good?” A voice, likely the director, sounded out from behind a camera and Steve nodded.
“Uh yeah that’s…whatever’s best,” stammered Rohan as he could already see some of the crew leaving. It seemed the pitch of a more close and intimate interview setting wasn’t solely for show.
“Excited for it,” said Steve as he sat down finally, adjusting on the couch which sagged underneath his weight. “Have to admit, it’s great that a portion of this marketing budget gets to go to charity but…It is kinda interesting I guess, being able to go to an event and play a game about myself.” The hero’s enthusiasm was like gust in a heatwave. Rohan could feel himself relax, as Captain America’s looming presence was beginning to grow more comforting than intimidating.
“Uh yeah I totally agree, I really appreciate it not just being a typical ad and uh we worked really hard on the game with quantum processing so we…” Rohan started and then smiled. “Sorry, rambling. I’ll save it for the video.” Steve chuckled.
“Sure, sure, so…should we get started?” Captain America glanced around at the remnants of the crew that were ready for the go ahead. They simply nodded and after a silent countdown, started the recording before the last people around quietly filed out. Rohan took a few deep breaths before glancing straight ahead toward one of the cameras.
“So hi everyone, I’m Rohan Desai, the director of Captain America Rising and with me is a very special guest…” Rohan started, glad that his voice wasn’t too shaky. Steve gave a wave and smile.
“And I’m Rohan- Sorry uh I’m Captain America and I’m happy to be with Rohan here playing Captain America Rising,” said Steve with a dazzling smile. The main menu booted up with an orchestral swell of strings and brass as a logo glowed across the screen. “Wow uh it looks pretty serious huh. I…” He blinked. “Well I definitely look a little more square jawed than I am and…is that the old suit?” Rohan chuckled.
“Uh yeah the art department wanted that kind of look and uh did use some generative facial composites,” replied Rohan as the game started to load up a save file for a mission to play. Everything had been set up perfectly. “So uh…you did visit the set I believe where the mo cap was taking place right?” Steve nodded.
“Yeah, yeah…it felt…kinda weird to see someone who looks a lot like me in a sort of tight suit doing my voice and such,” replied Steve as he shifted. They selected a co-op mode, one where one could play as Steve and another as Bucky Barnes. “Huh…weird I can’t play as Cap.” Steve chuckled. “That’s ironic.” Rohan frowned.
“That’s weird uh…well I can choose, but uh we can swap if you’d like?” Rohan suggested, holding up his controller in case the hero wanted to take it.
“Oh no no no that’s fine,” laughed Steve. “Instead I’ll be playing as…well hey I’m happy to choose Bucky for now, I didn’t really know there’d be so many different heroes to choose though for co-op.” It was odd though, Steve thought. He assumed that he would be playing Captain America and that the developer would have been playing the other hero. But perhaps it made all the more sense for Rohan to be the one playing the titular hero. He knew the game best. “So uh I’ll be playing-”
“James Buchanan Barnes, best friend of Captain America and war hero,” started Rohan. Steve looked pleasantly surprised by the sudden answer. Rohan blinked. “Oh uh sorry yeah uh as Bucky Barnes, one of the newer members of the Avengers I believe.” Rohan blinked. He was a huge fan of Captain America but…how did he know the answer so suddenly? He didn’t mean to have taken over and straightened, assuming it must have just been his nerves taking over and wanting the video to go as smoothly as possible.
“That’s right…uh looks like we’ve loaded in.”
“Let’s go,” said Rohan with a sudden enthusiasm, wanting to show off his hard work. The two started off in a pre-selected mission in the open world of New York City where the camera swooped down from the skyline into a bustling digital Manhattan. Steam hissed from subway grates, detailed pedestrians moved with believable randomness and the ambiance of the city started to sound out. Before they knew it, a fight had broken out with some HYDRA agents in a warehouse and the two began to move in, with Rohan as Captain America tossing his shield and performing finishers whilst Steve struggled slightly with his aim as Bucky. “Oh uh so it’s important we work together on this part.” Rohan coughed, his voice sounding a little deeper for a moment there before he cleared his throat.
“Got ya, got ya…the game looks really detailed it’s sort of scary, having grown up around black and white movies and all,” Steve said with a smile as the two of them quickly engaged in a quick time event. The both of them concentrated on the screen as the game prompted them to mash a button to move some debris out the way of a door. As Rohan began to mash, something strange began to happen. At first it was just a pressure, a swell beneath his skin. With each frantic press of the button, his sleeves began to strain.
His biceps slowly began to inflate and thicken, pushing against the fabric until the seams squealed. At the same time, it seemed that Steve was feeling as if his hands were growing weaker and slightly numb. A bronze tone began to take over his hands as dark hairs started to sprout over the back of his hand and trail down his arms where the muscles felt like they were beginning to shrink. It felt like the strength was being sapped away.
Rohan didn’t seem to notice except the sudden wave of pleasure that he began to feel as he tensed his arms. Every shift, every adjustment in his seat, made the arms begin to stretch like they belonged on a larger body as he felt a tinge of euphoria that was just growing as he continued to adjust and feel his now much paler arms.
“You doing okay there?” Rohan asked as he saw that on Steve’s screen he was having trouble doing the prompt as fast as he was. Steve could continue to feel like his arms had somehow grown weaker, slightly more numb and skinnier as dark hairs continued to trail down and cause them to itch. He wanted to look down but he felt like he could hardly break his gaze away from the screen.
By the time the prompt was over and both characters shoved the debris to the side, Rohan was laughing to himself and Steve smiled, albeit with a little more nervousness as he shifted with embarrassment. He just couldn’t get a handle on this kind of technology. At least that’s what he told himself to explain how he couldn’t do something as simple as a prompt to press a button over and over.
“Uh yeah heh I don’t play a ton of games so I’m not sure,” started Steve, coughing and clearing his throat as he shifted in his seat. Played a lot of games? He didn’t have time for that sort of thing. He was usually on playing missions…right? He found his mind growing hazy as he tried to think, suddenly remembering the hours he got to let go and relax, playing some videogames instead of the list of movies, shows and books he had to read since he’d been frozen.
As they continued the mission, both the characters got in a vehicle with Rohan taking the lead in the driver’s seat. As they began a chase sequence, Rohan could feel himself naturally swerve the controller when they turned, straining his tight sleeves until-
RIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP.
A small but sudden tear sounded out and Steve barely caught a glance of Rohan’s suddenly meaty and paler biceps in his shirt. “So you work out a lot then?”
“Oh no I prefer working out to video games,” blurted out Rohan. He didn’t mean to say that. He knew he didn’t mean to say that. Yet words were power, and as he spoke them, Rohan felt something seize inside him. His grin faltered, replaced by a grimace as he instinctively arched his back. His indie band shirt that once hung loosely on his skinny frame was suddenly one size too small, if for just a moment. The change began deep in his torso, his ribcage expanding as his skin prickled and continued to pale, bubbling as if his skin was the top of some boiling elixir.
He grunted softly, caught between shock and exhilaration, feeling each part of his spine stretch and realign as his body lengthened. He leaned back, suddenly taller on the couch as the hem of his shirt inched upward, betraying a strip of his stomach, no longer soft but tightening into ridges of muscle that flexed and defined themselves in real time.
He tried to tear his gaze away from the screen, tried to see what was happening, but it was impossible to ignore the hypnotic pull of the light around him. Whether it was the glint that caught Captain America’s shield or the neon beams of HYDRA enemies or the detailed lights of the city, Rohan blinked.
“I uh…No I…I uh…”
Rohan struggled, almost moaning as he could barely see his stomach gurgle and froth in the corner of his eyes. Any fat of his stomach melted away, slowly descending to nothingness as it became as visible as air, fading away. All the mass left was converting into muscle, beginning to carve itself and hardening like it was some liquid as Rohan couldn’t help but let a deep groan slip from his lips, mixing it with an exhausted grunt as his body did feel like that both exhausted and heavy.
His shoulder blades writhed under the fabric, expanding outward, stretching his shirt to its limits. Each shift sent another ripple down his torso, where abs carved themselves across his stomach. The paleness continued to crawl all over his changing body as a dusting of brown hair grew to form a treasure trail below his abs.
“You okay there dude?” Steve asked as he tried to turn to look at Rohan. His mouth twisted into a frown of concern as he tried to check up on the man until he realised…he couldn’t remember their name. It began with an…S…something. Sanjit? Samir? But as he tried to focus, he felt a wave of nausea pass over him, like something was punishing him for not having his complete and total attention on the game. “W-What the heck is this game…”
As Steve looked back at the game, focusing and uncertain, his accent began to shift. His parted lips and widened eyes began to relax, giving off an almost slack expression as he stared at the mesmerising visuals of the game. “Game…looks…so…good…” Steve said in a murmur of a slightly higher voice that no longer sounded like his own.
At the same time Steve could faintly recognize something happening to his body. At first it felt like the strength was leaking out of him, little by little, until the familiar density of muscle gave way to something looser. The shift was oddly natural, almost comforting, as though a weight he’d carried for years was being peeled away. His broad abs began softening into nothing, the scars from his time as a soldier and the super soldier experiment all beginning to fade away.
What had once been a frame carved by years of training was becoming lankier and softer in all the places that used to be sharp. The pale skin began to darken, first beginning as a faint warmth and then deepening to bronze as it smoothly crept down his body like ink spreading through water. The sleeves of his shirt slid against thinner arms dusted with the faint hair that hadn’t been there before. All the while his fingers stretched longer, growing softer and more delicate and gripping the controller with an anxious energy he didn’t recognize as his own.
“Yeah the game looks so good, I’m…glad it uh…worked out…” said Rohan as he continued to stare. Steve blinked.
“Yeah worked out…No yeah I loved working on the game,” confirmed Steve as he grunted. He could feel his legs shrinking too, making him grow slightly shorter though with less muscles, he was beginning to seem more lanky than broad and tall. All the while Rohan could feel like air was being injected into his upper chest as his pecs began to swell, growing and inflating and making his nipples harden underneath the already tight shirt that could no longer cover the lower half of his stomach as he blushed and moaned.
“No I…worked on the game I…was…a developer consultant,” replied Rohan as he blinked. Consultant? No he was the lead…lead…consultant after all, who would know Captain America best?
He wanted to say something, but that was when he felt something else inflate as if it was filling with air, causing him to grunt and sit up even higher as his cheeks began to grow. The pressure of the changes coiled in his hips and thighs as his legs tingled with the same pleasure and heaviness that was spreading across his body. His thighs pressed outward, stretching the fabric as they swelled with new density, every seam groaning in protest.
His calves grew, once spindly but now carved into powerful bastions of muscle as his ass continued to grow and grow. The couch sagged deeper as his glutes surged, rounding and hardening with a weight that felt both foreign and inevitable. Rohan could feel the denim split, hearing the faint pop of stitching as eat of his jeans tried and failed to contain what was now unmistakably growing to be…AMERICA'S ASS.
“O-Oh my god…I…I…” Rohan would have squeezed his legs together in the past, like that could somehow stop the horniness that was invading his cock as his ass and legs grew paler and devoid of the usual dark hairs. His bulge was already growing next, half because he was harder than he had ever been before and half because his cock was growing from whatever forces was changing him.
“I had to do…so much work…for the game, really was a lot…”
Rohan added with a voice that wasn’t his own, one that was deeper and richer and sounded exactly like the voice that was coming from the game, the voice behind Captain America’s quips as a sharp pressure came at his feet. His toes pressed hard against the ends of his socks before finally tearing through, pale fabric ripping as his feet surged longer and wider. His toes stretched and spread as the soles expanded beneath him. The converses that he’d worn comfortably all day suddenly bulged at the seams, leather squealing under the new size and weight until it looked like they might split apart at any second.
“That…that doesn’t sound right, I’m trying to remember reading all about it,” mused Steve as his own voice had shifted completely to the slightly more higher pitched and nervous sounding tone of Rohan. He blinked, his eyes growing darker and hazier, already forgetting about the missions he had done for the past year and then the year before that and the year before that as all he could think about was the game.
“We’re over time but we shouldn’t stop, we’re nearly finished.” Steve scratched at his face as his fingertips no longer traced the familiar hard line of his jaw. His face was beginning to shift, His jawline, once sharp and square, softened under his touch.
The solid edge drew inward, narrowing into something more delicate, more angular. His cheeks followed suit, the fullness draining until they hollowed just slightly, reshaping his face into something that was longer as his eyes were suddenly adorned with thick glasses. The pale tone of his visage continued to shift, deepening shade by shade to match the rest of his body as his blonde hair darkened and grew longer, spilling out into dark messy curls over a higher brow. Steve blinked, unsure why he was so surprised, feeling his face…he was only 29 after all.
“Yeah…let’s not stop, we’re almost over-” and as Rohan leaned forward and continued to be mesmerised by the game, he was growing more and more infatuated with his character. He knew every detail of the suit, every move, every nuance of the character. But he blinked, blinked as his own glasses fell off his face as his nose shortened and disappeared before they hit the ground. His brown eyes turning blue as the pale tone that had reached his thickening throat was beginning to crawl over his jawline that suddenly widened and hardened. His hairline crawling back slightly as the dark curls receded into a natural slicked back blonde style whilst his features grew sharper and rougher and larger especially his growing lips as he blinked. Why wouldn’t he know his character? He was the character. He was Captain America. This was his game. “W-Wait…I think…”
But there was nothing to think about. The mission ended and just as Rohan and Steve looked at one another in shock and recognition, both their hard cocks throbbed at once and they had only the time for one thing and one thing alone; realisation. All before they suddenly felt their cocks throb in tandem and finally…release.
Their cocks spasmed violently, releasing in perfect sync, a shared climax as both their heavy moans suddenly filled the room as both bodies bucked. Rohan’s hips twitched as he was in Captain America’s muscular body with the hero’s hung cock between his legs spilling thick ropes of cum stained his clothes, pooling in his lap. At the same time Steve in Rohan’s body gasped as it felt like he was cumming for the first time in his life, the sweet bliss of pleasure rushing over him and making him forget everything for just a few moments as his own six inch cock twitched and come in his clothes.
“O-Oh god…w-what the-” Rohan in Steve felt his body, his face, his muscles. “W-What happened to me?!” Steve in Rohan panicked, gasping as he looked down at himself.
“N-no this can’t be-”
But then came another climax, making both men forget their panic for just a moment as their minds were colliding and folding into one another. The decks of their lives shuffled amongst one another that it was hard to tell which piece was what.
“M-my head…I keep remembering…battles and…and world war two and…Bucky and…god Bucky…”
“N-No I don’t want to forget…” Steve in Rohan’s body moaned as he tried to hold on. But all the willpower was in the muscular hunky body that was once his own next to him. “O-Oh god I’m-”
But their cocks twitched again and their old lives melted, dissolving into something else as Rohan Steve gasped as he came again one last time and Steve Rohan moaned as he couldn’t stop himself from doing the same. Rohan…or rather Steve was the first to move, blushing as he felt Steve Roger’s natural embarrassment for doing anything like cumming in public flare up whilst Steve or rather Rohan felt the same, but more out of natural awkwardness rather than dignity. Both the men’s eyes met.
“I’m…I’m you,” Steve said as he looked at Rohan and Rohan blinked.
“I’m you…but uh h-how? I…I can remember your life…fuck my head…”
“Swear,” both Steve and Rohan said simultaneously.
“T-This is…this isn’t right. The game, we used quantum computing for the engine, I- I don’t know how this happened…”
The air remained thick, not just with the fading warmth of their lust, but with a quiet and almost sacred stillness that followed a transformation too bizarre to name. The both of them still somehow had their minds as they gazed at one another, the other in their body. It was such a bizarre feeling, as if looking in the mirror and realising that the reflection was blinking all on their own.
But at the same time there was also a quiet thrill to it as the other looked down, prodded at their muscles (or lack of muscles), flexed a muscular bicep (or touched their skinny one) and felt their face, their new jawline and features. Both the men stopped as they realised what they were doing, almost mirroring each other in their inspections as they still managed to somehow keep their minds about them, even if it was fused with one another.
“I’m…you,” Rohan continued as he glanced down at himself and the massive muscles. In all honesty, he had never felt physically better and more mentally anxious than ever before in his life. It was as if the feeling he got from his runs on the treadmill or few times he decided to visit the gym had compounded and formed a permanent bliss that permeated his newer bigger body.
But there was something else too, as if he was watching a movie, he could see the memories of Steve Rogers all the way from the 30s and 40s, the skinny young man who was even thinner than he was, unhealthily so, doing anything and everything he could to serve his country. Rohan blinked and had to admit, being in such a muscular body felt good, even if there was a strange balance, like he was scared if he took a step then he’d fall over.
He felt Steve’s own earnestness, his confidence leaking into him and almost infecting him.
“And I’m…you?” Steve said, still not used to his newer voice. In his mind, there was still a tenacity, one that reminded him of himself before he got the Super Soldier serum. It didn’t come in the form of a man trying to fight for his country, but instead just navigating the modern world and trying to make something of themselves. He could see the memories as far back, trying to save up to start a company, registering the LLC, working late nights out of his home. All the sacrifices and meetings and blood, sweat and tears that had not only gone into making this game but making anything of value. It was a far cry from being a soldier, but isn’t that the kind of world Steve wanted? Where people could prove their worthiness in different ways that didn’t involve war? It felt like watching someone’s life on TV or that site, Wikipedia that helped him understand so much of what he missed whilst frozen. Although he missed his body, the strength and muscles, he had to admit, there was a sort of relaxing feeling being younger and skinny again. But this wasn’t right. They had to swap back! “H-how did this happen?”
“I…I don’t know,” replied Rohan as he glanced down at himself in disbelief. “This…this feels…”
“Weird?” Rohan was pleasantly surprised to see Steve chuckle in his body. “Look you clearly didn’t do this on purpose so let’s just figure out a way to work together and…turn back.”
“Y-Yeah I can’t…I mean this is…I can’t actually be Captain America…and you can’t be stuck in some…” Rohan gestured at Steve in his old body. “Uh well we know who got the short end of the deal.”
“Hey let’s not…say stuff like that,” said Steve. Even now he was being so…nice even if he went through something that should have been shattering his reality, his sense of self, should have made him panic. But if they still had their minds, then they must clearly have some of their old mental traits as well.
“Yeah…”
“Though I definitely felt like I was losing mine before. Now maybe it’s because we don’t know how this things work but I kinda get the sense that whatever this…thing is…” Steve gestured at the console.
“It’s true. You’re Captain America and I’m…uh…” Rohan glanced down at himself in the star spangled hero’s body. He tried to ignore how much the man’s pecs turned him on as he swallowed dryly.
“I could’ve been put in a billion worse people, besides you’re not…bad. A lot of this is just confidence, that and highly risky untested serum.” Steve gestured at the muscular body Rohan was in as Rohan smiled at that, at least appreciative the hero was still, well, being a hero, trying to assure him everything was okay. “The way I see it…somehow we both still have our heads.” Steve gestured at the console.
“It was trying to mess with our minds. I have the serum that could’ve helped but you seemed to keep yourself…as you too. Maybe it says a lot more about you than you think…and good thing too, I don’t know enough about this thing even with your head to…fix whatever this is.” Rohan blinked at the man’s words as he considered them.
He had never even come close to thinking about it, but if the quantum computer could somehow change their bodies like it was code, it should have done the same with their mind, programming them as if they were caricatures, NPCs.
But it didn’t. They both managed to hold on. What did that say about the technology? And if it was meant to work and wipe their minds…what did it say about him? He blinked again.
He doubted that he was even half as attractive as the hero but there was something about seeing himself from another man’s perspective, the warped features he once hated in the mirror didn’t look…as bad from another person’s eyes. He blinked.
“Uh yeah your memories are…a lot,” Rohan half joked, not only were they heavy but there were so many of them reaching so far back. “N-Not that I’m complaining. I mean I don’t want to…uh…say your body is bad…but…I think maybe I shouldn’t look at them too much. Uh kinda an invasion of privacy and I wanna keep a hold of my mind.”
“Are you sure you can manage?” Even now, Steve in another man’s body was looking out for someone else rather than himself.
“Yeah I’m sure I can do this all day,” said Rohan with an ease before he blinked.
“What was that?” Steve questioned.
“I…I don’t know, that just felt…uh sort of right saying but that’s your…”
“Catchphrase…not that I really intended on one but growing up in wartime you learn that slogans stick,” said Steve with a casualness. Rohan was relieved, as if he half expected Steve to be angered someone else was in his body and now saying his words. “So what’s gonna happen? Am I gonna start listing off…game engine…things?”
“Game engine things?”
“Like how you used my words, am I going to suddenly start rambling about how quantum processing is actually a brilliant and efficient way to cut back on cut back on loading times, procedural generation overhead, and memory thrash- Oh…Oh fuck-”
“Swear,” both Rohan and Steve said simultaneously again.
“Okay, okay…maybe we just…calm down. And figure out how this happened and-” Rohan said, nervously pacing and fidgeting in Steve’s body.
“Alright relax, I’m not mad at you. Weirder things have happened to me…I get it,” said Steve with a slight smile, even now the way he spoke, the confidence leaked out even if it was in another body. “It was the game, something…” Then the man’s eyes widened with realisation. “The game!” Steve started as he sat up. “We need to fix this…if we can, uh we can get to Tony’s before he does what he does next.”
“Does next?” Rohan in Steve’s body asked as he blinked.
“He hacked into your office to play a demo of the game. He told me he would He’s playing with Bucky right now.”
“Oh…Oh no uh…” replied Rohan as he stood up awkwardly in the much taller and broader body than he was used to. “How do we stop them?” It was only then that he realised he had no idea, memories of programming and even the game’s engine having filtered out.
“I don’t know but I do know this…if that game gets into Stark’s servers and somehow mutates or gets shared then…”
Then a whole lot of men would suddenly find themselves swapping bodies or turning into Avengers, both Steve and Rohan thought to themselves. With no way to figure out the extent of it, no way to predict who transforms into who and no way to wonder what would happen if someone was playing alone? What if the game made clones of heroes? What if it recruited heroes, all with one transformation at a time? Steve and Rohan both glanced at each other and blushed, remembering the pleasure they shared, the mess they made and now the mess they may soon have to clean up.
Sooner or later, it seemed every man who got their hand on the game could get a body to marvel.
Rohan just wondered…does that mean he had to wear the suit?
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“Holy Mackerel,” I said. The words felt odd leaving my mouth, but what else could be said as I looked upon my reflection. Only, it wasn’t my reflection. It was me. But not me. “What’s happening?!” I brought my hands to what was my—this—whoever’s this chest was. The touch of meaty pecs filled my hands. I started to cry out, but I noticed my voice was deeper, growly, and more manly.
The me standing across from where I stood started to act similarly freaked out. He stooped lower and ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t seem to react, just slowly digesting what he saw. Then he brought his hand up to his—my?—chest and looked down at himself in confusion. “Jesus, fuck!” He cried with my voice—a high, whiny sound.
“Calm down, both of you,” Devon stated. Well, technically Dr. Devon, but between him and I, we both used our first names. It was too pretentious for two friends to call each other ”doctor” for their PhDs. “I can explain.” And he did, stopping every now and then to see if we digested what happened. So basically, when the Chad (the college’s football coach) and I (the chemistry professor) volunteered for an experiment with our friend Devon (the “Mad Scientist”) in exchange for a couple beers, he switched our bodies.
Needless to say, Chad and I gave Devon a piece of our mind. On this one thing Chad and I agreed on. Usually he’d tease me for my weak noodle arms or my nerdy glasses. And I’d purposefully make him feel stupid and brutish. But despite me calling Devon swears in several languages and Chad threatening to beat Devon into a pulp (with my tiny fists by the way), Devon told us the switch couldn’t happen just yet. He needed to collect data from us.
I thought I would hate being the dumb, jock coach, but when I had to run the football practice, I found it was exciting. His body already knew what to do. His reflexes were innate to his body and I used my mind to figure out what was supposed to happen. The jocks all fell in line. I used to hate them when they were in my chemistry classes. They were clumsy idiots who always skirted by on the favors of the college to graduate. Now they looked on me like a hero, a leader, a mentor. I worked those boys hard. Eventually I felt myself acting more and more like the coach.
Chad did poorly in my body. He lacked my knowledge and skill, so he blundered his way through the lessons. I should have felt awful (especially since it was my career at stake), but I couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t my problem. Let that nerd figure it out. Because of his poor performance, the students started to respect him less. The boys from the team gave him such a hard time. Chad still thought he was their coach and bro, but he was just some nerd prof trying too hard to relate to jocks. It was pathetic really. Chad was trying to show off his football knowledge in his scrawny body. Trying to be a bro.
When he got his ass handed to him, I got bored and went home (well, Chad’s home). A day after coaching and working out, his body smelled rank. I stripped off his clothes and I admired his body in the mirror. I guess I should call it my body. I felt up his abs. The way his skin stretched tightly over this stomach was so hot. I flexed in the mirror and kissed each bicep. My body was so hot! I laid on his bed and started to fondle his huge balls. I stroked his massive cock. It was amazing how it still looked massive in his large hands. With my old hands it’d look even bigger. More impressive. I was close to getting off when I heard the front door of his house open. I wasn’t worried. His body gave me so much confidence. It wasn’t something to be hidden, but something to be shared and loved.
Chad’s wife came in to the bedroom. By the look on her face, this was a surprise: to find her husband ass-naked on the bed, smelling like a college locker room, stroking his massive cock. But she welcomed the surprise. With a smile she asked if it were her birthday, and I said, “yeah, babe, blow the candlestick.” I made that bitch choke on this cock. I need to call Devon and ask about making this situation more permanent.
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."
Murphy's. Carrying drinks. The wet spot spreading across my crotch while Greg laughed and Dean ignored me. Being called "mascot."
Filming. Holding the phone with shaking hands while Miguel-in-my-body spitroasted Dean with Greg. Seventeen minutes. Dean gasping "I'm winning" while I documented my own obsolescence.
My cock pulsed inside Dean. Hard. Insistent.
I bit back a groan, hips shifting involuntarily. Dean made another pleased sound and fuck, my body wanted to keep going.
The smell hit me. Everywhere. Citrus body wash, salt, concentrated male musk saturating my sheets. Dean. And my body was responding like an addict. My nostrils flared automatically and my cock throbbed so hard Dean shifted in his sleep.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I looked down. Gray CHP workout shirt—too small, stretched tight. Saturated with dried sweat, soaked with Dean's concentrated essence. I brought the collar to my nose without thinking.
Breathed deep.
My cock pulsed violently.
NO.
But my body didn't want to think. My body wanted to stay buried in this heat forever—
Movement in my peripheral vision. On the floor.
Boots.
Black leather Chippewa engineers. Scuffed, road-worn. The ones Miguel had stripped off Greg at poker.
My mouth went dry. My cock throbbed so hard inside Dean that he stirred.
My hand reached out. Fingers brushing scarred leather. Electricity up my forearm, cock leaking inside Dean's body.
I grabbed the boot. Pulled it close. The smell—concentrated male musk, sweat-soaked leather—hit immediately. My hindbrain exploded. My cock pulsed so hard I nearly came.
I brought it closer to my face.
The smell was everything. My breathing got ragged, nostrils flaring, while my other hand moved on autopilot—gripping my shaft where it was buried in Dean, feeling myself pulse and leak.
NO.
I dropped the boot. It hit the floor with a thud.
Miguel's fetishes. Three days in his body. Three days of his neural pathways installed in my brain like malware. Targeted. Specific. An addiction to Dean Cammarata wired into my nervous system.
Dean shifted beneath me, ass clenching reflexively, and I nearly lost it.
I pulled out. Fast. The drag, the loss of warmth, my cock slick and glistening. My body protested violently—physical ache at the disconnection.
Dean mumbled, satisfied, completely unaware.
I stumbled out of bed. Looked around my apartment. My furniture. My life.
But Dean's smell was everywhere.
On my desk—a phone. Oh god, my own actual phone - relief. I grabbed it. My lockscreen photo - me and Dean at the triathlon last year – smiling, holding our medals and grinning like idiots. A simpler time.
I unlocked the phone, and it auto-opened to the photoroll. New videos and photos, time-stamped from the last seventy-two hours.
The poker game. Every hand. Every article of clothing stripped away.
The bedroom. All seventeen minutes from three angles.
Me-in-Miguel's-body. On my knees. Worshipping boots in the background. Filming Greg and me spit roasting Dean.
Evidence. Proof.
My cock twitched.
I was getting harder looking at evidence of my best friend’s violation.
From the bed, Dean stirred. Rolled over. Eyes opened—sleepy, satisfied.
"Jake?" Voice rough. "Bro, come back to bed—"
He stopped, seeing me with the phone. But he didn't look concerned. He looked amused.
"You reliving the dream?" Dean grinned, stretching. His cock was already hardening. "I looked good that night. Seventeen minutes. New personal record."
Talking about getting spitroasted like it was a triathlon result.
"I need to go," I said, voice strangled. Grabbed jeans from the floor, yanking them on.
Dean's smile faltered. "Go where? We don't start shift until—"
"The mascot?" Dean laughed—that harsh sound Miguel had trained into him. "What could that little freak possibly need? He just left like four hours ago. Said something about crashing at his own place like the foot of your bed isn't good enough."
Mascot. The word hit like a physical blow.
"Did he fuck up your work emails?" Dean sat up. "Just kick him. He probably needs it. Little guy was practically drooling over Greg's boots all night." Dean's grin widened. "Although you should check the foot of the bed anyway. Make sure he's not curled up there, sucking on a sock."
Before I could respond, Dean moved. Fast. Triathlete reflexes catching me, yanking me back by my wrist.
"Nah, fuck that," Dean said. "You're not leaving yet. Hangover protocol, remember?"
"Dean, I really need to—"
But Dean was already pulling me down, and my contaminated body betrayed me—didn't resist, wanted the contact. I fell onto the bed.
"Relax." Dean popped the button on my jeans. "No homo, bro. You did it for me yesterday. Now it's my turn."
He yanked my jeans down. My cock sprang free—still hard, still leaking.
Dean wrapped one hand around my shaft, pumping slowly. "See? Already there. Just lay back."
"Dean, this isn't—"
"Shh." Dean lowered his head, tongue dragging up the underside. The sensation shot through me like electricity. "Don't make this weird."
Then he swallowed me whole.
The heat was devastating. I groaned—raw, animal—hips bucking. Dean's throat opened easily, nose pressing against my pelvis.
"Fuck," I gasped.
Dean pulled off with a wet pop, grinning. "See? Already working."
He went back down, but this time his hands moved lower. Gripping my calves. Then—
He grabbed my foot.
"What are you—"
Dean's mouth left my cock and moved to my toes.
He took my big toe into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue working around it like he was giving it a blowjob.
The sensation was obscene. My whole body locked up, a moan ripping out.
"Aahhh—fuck—Dean, what—"
"Reflexology," Dean said around my toe. "Pressure points."
He sucked harder, teeth grazing. My cock leaked steadily, precum pooling on my abs. Dean switched to the other foot.
I was panting. Hips rolling. The combination—Dean's hot mouth on my toes, hands gripping my calves—was breaking my brain.
"Nngh—oh god—Dean—"
Dean pulled off. "Bro, you sound like a bitch in heat. Don't make this sexual. I'm just helping you out."
He went back to my foot, taking two toes this time, tongue working between them while his hand stroked my cock.
"Ah—fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Then cum," Dean said simply. "Get it out so you can function."
Mouth on my toes, hand pumping my shaft. The dual stimulation was too much. Already primed, already compromised—
I came hard.
My cock pulsed in Dean's grip, thick ropes shooting across my abs, my chest. The orgasm ripped through me in waves, toes curling in Dean's mouth as he kept sucking through it.
"Fuuuck—"
Dean released my foot, sitting back, watching with clinical satisfaction. He wiped my cum on the sheets casually.
"There," Dean said. "Feel better?"
I stared at him—this beautiful, broken man who'd just sucked my toes and was treating it like he'd given me Advil.
"I..." My voice came out hoarse. "I need to go."
"Yeah, you said that." Dean stretched. "Go deal with the mascot. But you owe me later. I want a full session tonight—team building."
Casual. Like scheduling a meeting.
I pulled my jeans up with shaking hands. Dean's smell was all over me. His saliva on my toes. My cum drying on my skin.
The addiction was worse. Feeding it had only made it stronger.
I grabbed the phone. My evidence.
"Yeah," I managed. "Tonight."
Dean flopped back, satisfied, already drifting back to sleep.
I walked toward the door. My body screamed to go back. My mind screamed for revenge.
I paused at the threshold. Looked back at Dean sprawled across my bed. At Greg's boots on the floor. My cock twitched.
Miguel's apartment was ten minutes away.
My fingers tightened on the doorframe until my knuckles went white.
He'd be waking up about now. Back in that scrawny frame. Realizing he'd lost everything.
He thought the addiction would keep me docile.
He had no idea rage could burn hotter than need.
I walked out. Got in my truck.
Time to confront this motherfucking rat.
Part XX: The Imposter's Claim
Half an hour later I was parked again in front of my own apartment building. Engine off. Looking at the photos on my phone with shaking hands. Dean was upstairs. I wasn’t ready to tell him the truth of what happened this weekend.
I'd banged on that rat's door for five solid minutes until an old lady in a bathrobe glared at me like I was an irate ex. Whatever. Plan B.
Back to my apartment to regroup.
The evidence. Three days of selfies, corruption, seventeen minutes of Dean's breaking. Proof.
Proof that would destroy Dean if I used it.
My finger hovered over delete. But I'd opened the videos again—watched Miguel-in-my-body spitroasting Dean with Greg—and my cock had gotten hard.
Even knowing it was a violation, my contaminated nervous system responded.
I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel.
A knock on my window made me jolt.
Dean.
Standing outside in a CHP t-shirt and sweatpants, looking concerned.
I rolled down the window. "Dean. I—"
"You okay, brother?" Genuine worry. "You've been sitting out here a while."
"I'm fine. Just needed a minute."
"Come inside," Dean said, opening my door. "Whatever's going on can wait."
I got out. Because my body moved toward Dean automatically.
We walked toward my building.
That's when I saw him.
Miguel.
Standing in front of my apartment door. Five-foot-seven, 130 pounds, wearing black running shorts and an oversized hoodie. His own body.
But when his eyes met mine, he smiled.
Triumphant.
"Dean!" Miguel called out, and his voice dropped an octave—forcing it deeper, more confident. "Bro, thank the fuck you're here."
He walked toward Dean with alpha body language—shoulders back, direct eye contact, despite the scrawny frame. Then he said the thing that made my blood run cold:
"Saturday night. Murphy's. You said watching Greg rail you from behind while I fucked your throat was the hottest thing you'd ever seen." His eyes locked onto Dean's. "You came just from that. No hands. Just from being used."
Dean's expression changed. Recognition. Familiarity. That casual intimacy of shared corruption.
"Wait, what?" Dean laughed, surprised but engaged. "You weren’t there for—"
Miguel was already reaching him, and what he did next made my stomach drop.
He grabbed Dean's arm—then slid his hand up to Dean's bicep, squeezing the muscle. Familiar. Possessive. "Missed you, man. Even if I'm stuck looking like—" He gestured at his scrawny frame with disgust. "—this."
His other hand went to Dean's chest, groping his pec through the shirt. Casual. Aggressive. The exact touching the corrupted Jake-Dean dynamic had normalized.
"Whoa, hey," Dean said, but he was grinning now. Surprised but not uncomfortable because Jake would touch him like this. "Easy there, brother. What's going on?"
"Something's wrong with me," Miguel said, both hands still on Dean—one on his chest, one sliding down to squeeze Dean's ass. Bold. "I woke up this morning and—this is going to sound insane—but I'm trapped in the mascot's body."
Dean's laughter faded. "What? How is that—so he stole your body?"
"I'm still Jake," Miguel said desperately, pressing his small body against Dean's frame, actually rutting against his thigh. Shameless, aggressive, alpha—exactly how the corrupted Jake would act. "Somehow I'm trapped in this. And HE—" pointing at me, "—must have done it last night. Revenge for making him film us after poker."
Film us. Making it sound like Jake had forced Miguel to document Dean's corruption.
"That's not what happened!" I said desperately. "Dean, listen. He's lying—"
Dean looked at me—really looked—and I could see it. The gears turning. Connecting dots that formed the wrong picture.
"Motherfucker," Dean breathed, stepping toward me. "You did this. You actually swapped bodies with him."
I flinched.
Couldn't help it. Dean's aggressive approach triggered every conditioned response—submit, defer, please—
Dean saw the flinch. His expression hardened.
"Jake would never back down from me," Dean said quietly. "Not in a million years. But you?" He gestured at my powerful body, betrayed by submissive tells. "I can smell a mascot from a mile away."
My mouth opened. Closed.
Dean looked between us. "Alright. What's our patrol call sign?"
"Seven-Adam-Twelve," Miguel said immediately. "And you always bitch about dispatch using Seven-Adam-Eleven for the rookie unit because it sounds too close on the radio."
Fuck. He'd learned that. Three days wearing my skin, stealing my memories.
"Dean, he knows that because he WAS me," I said desperately. "He wore my body—"
"Stop." Dean held up a hand. "You're not gonna fool me, Mascot."
"No, we swapped twice!" My voice cracked. "Three days ago and then—"
"Sure buddy, and I only fuck brunettes with tiny tits." Dean's voice went cold.
Miguel played his card. "Dean," he said softly, trembling. "Remember that night at your place, before everything started? I told you about my ex Sarah. How she cheated during my rookie year. How I didn't date for two years after."
A story I'd shared once, years ago, drunk and vulnerable. Miguel had learned it through my phone, through wearing my consciousness.
Dean's expression changed. Softened.
"Dean, NO—"
But Dean was already pulling Miguel into a protective embrace. Five-foot-seven of scrawny IT contractor dwarfed by Dean's massive build.
"I got you, brother," Dean murmured. "We'll figure this out. Get you back in your real body."
Miguel looked at me over Dean's shoulder.
And smiled.
"Thanks brother," Miguel said, voice muffled against Dean's chest, hands still roaming. "I thought you might not believe me. I might be trapped in mascot's body permanently. And HE—" pointing at me, "—could get away with living my life as an imposter."
"Motherfucker!" I was shaking. "Dean, please. LOOK at me. I'm Jake. Your partner—"
"My partner wouldn't be screaming at a scared victim," Dean said coldly, stepping in front of Miguel protectively. "My partner would want to help."
The addiction surged. Dean's disapproval felt like physical pain, my contaminated nervous system screaming I'd failed, needed to submit, to please him—
The weakness in my voice betrayed me. "Dean..."
Sounding exactly like a weak beta mascot.
Dean's eyes narrowed, seeing it. Seeing the submission.
"Here's what's going to happen," Dean said, command tone coming out. "We're going inside. We're figuring this out. And YOU—" pointing at me, "—are going to cooperate. No one gets to wear Jake like a meatsuit. We're stopping you right here, right now."
Miguel stepped around Dean, looking up at me—five inches shorter, sixty pounds lighter, but holding all the power.
"It's okay," Miguel said softly, reaching out to touch my arm with his small hand. "It must be hard, always wishing to be something you're not. You just have to accept you were never a real man, and whatever trick you forced onto me, we're gonna undo."
Never was real man. Rewriting reality. And Dean was his accomplice.
"Fuck you," I spat.
Miguel's hand stayed on my arm. Small. Weak. I could break every bone with one squeeze.
But Dean was watching. Would protect "Jake" from "Miguel's" violence.
"Inside," Dean commanded. "Both of you. Now."
Miguel led us toward my apartment door—already playing the alpha. Damnit.
I followed.
Because what choice did I have? My apartment. My space. Now Miguel's territory.
We walked inside. The smell hit immediately—Dean, everywhere. My contaminated nervous system lit up.
"Sit," Dean commanded, pointing at the couch.
I sat. Miguel sat next to me—too close, asserting dominance despite his smaller frame.
Dean stood in front of us both. Judge. Jury. Enforcer.
"Alright," Dean said. "We're going to get to the bottom of this, and when we prove you're Miguel, you're going to tell us how to get Jake back into his rightful body."
Miguel smiled.
Part XXI: The Transfer
"I can't stand this," Miguel said, plucking at the oversized hoodie with visible disgust. "Dean, I can't stand wearing his stuff. It smells like him. Like... desperation." He pulled the fabric to his nose and made a face. "It's making my skin crawl."
Dean's expression softened immediately. "Yeah, of course, brother. Go grab whatever you need from your closet. Get comfortable."
"Thanks." Miguel moved toward my bedroom, but paused at the hamper in the hallway. He dug his hands into the pile of dirty clothes—my dirty clothes—and pulled out a pair of jeans, still with my boxerbriefs inside. The ones I'd worn yesterday. Still holding my shape, my sweat, my scent.
"These," Miguel said, holding them up. "Perfect."
"Those are—" I started.
"Mine," Miguel interrupted, looking me dead in the eye. "My favorite pair. Broken in exactly how I like them." He pulled out a gray tank top next—the CHP workout shirt I'd been wearing this morning before Dean's toe-sucking session. It was still damp with sweat.
Miguel stripped right there in my living room. Kicked off his cheap sneakers, shoved the black running shorts, peeled off the oversized hoodie until he was completely naked—his own body, pale and scrawny, nothing like the powerful frame he'd worn for three days.
But he moved with confidence. Alpha body language in a beta frame.
Dean watched, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Approving.
Miguel stepped into my jeans and boxer briefs from yesterday, yanking them up in one go. They were way too big—the waistband gaped, the legs pooled around his ankles—but he cinched the belt tight. "God, so much better," he said, running his hands over the denim. "Even if they don't fit right on this body. Boxerbriefs are loose, but the texture’s right."
Then he pulled on my workout shirt. It hung off his narrow shoulders like a tent. Made a show of pulling up and breathing in the collar. "Still smells like me. Like my sweat."
Bullshit. It reeked of Dean—citrus body wash and concentrated male musk from this morning's "hangover protocol." My nostrils flared involuntarily at the scent even from here, my contaminated nervous system responding. And Miguel was claiming it as his own sweat, rewriting the narrative.
"Better?" Dean asked.
"Better," Miguel replied. Then his eyes landed on me. On my hands. My neck. My pockets.
"Wait," Miguel said, voice sharpening. "You're wearing my stuff."
I looked down. My rings—the academy ring on my right hand, the silver band my dad gave me on my left. My wallet in my back pocket. My phone in my front pocket. My Ray-Ban sunglasses hanging from my collar. My Saint Christopher necklace—the one I never took off—around my neck.
"Those are mine," Miguel said, stepping toward me.
"No—these are—" I backed up instinctively. "These are my things. I'm Jake. This is my—"
"Dean," Miguel said, not taking his eyes off me. "Help him understand, bro."
Dean smirked. "You're wearing Jake's bod, but that doesn't make you Jake. You don't get to carry around Jake's wallet and wear his rings just because you have his face."
Miguel moved closer. Stood right in front of me—five-foot-seven, 130 pounds, but Dean was behind him, a wall of muscle and authority.
"Give them back," Miguel said quietly. "Everything. All of it. It's mine."
"Fuck you," I said, but my voice shook.
"Dean," Miguel said without turning around. "Help him understand."
Dean stepped forward. Put a hand on my shoulder—my own shoulder—and squeezed. Not gentle. A compliance hold.
"Hand them over," Dean said. "All of it. Now."
"Dean, please—"
The squeeze got harder. Pain shot through my shoulder, and my body—my contaminated, conditioned body—responded immediately. Submitted.
My hands moved on their own.
Everything came off in a blur of surrender. The rings—both of them—pulled free and dropped into Miguel's waiting palm. The phone from my pocket, my own fingerprint unlocking it one last time before it became his. The wallet—my license, my credit cards, my badge—handed over like I was paying a toll. The sunglasses yanked from my collar.
Each item felt like losing a piece of myself, but I couldn't stop. Dean's grip on my shoulder, Miguel's expectant face, my body's complete capitulation to authority—it all combined into one devastating moment of transfer.
Miguel took each item calmly, methodically. Smiling at my phone's lock screen. Opened the wallet to examine the badge—"Officer Jake Delgado. That's me"—before pocketing it in jeans too big but now holding my entire identity. Put on the sunglasses that slipped down his nose but marked him as Jake anyway.
And then he looked at my neck.
"And the necklace," Miguel said, stepping even closer. "That's the important one. The one I never take off."
My hand went to my throat automatically, fingers closing around the Saint Christopher medal. My grandmother gave me this. Blessed it at church. Put it around my neck the day I graduated the academy and made me promise I'd never take it off because Saint Christopher would keep me safe on patrol.
"No," I whispered.
"Dean," Miguel said.
Dean grabbed my wrist, pulled my hand away from my throat. Held me still while his other hand went to the clasp of the necklace.
"Dean, please, my grandmother gave me this—"
"Jake's grandmother gave Jake this," Dean corrected, working the tiny clasp. "And you're not Jake."
The necklace came free. Dean held it for a moment—the silver chain, the worn medal—then handed it to Miguel.
Miguel took it, but instead of putting it on immediately, he stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell my own deodorant on him, my own clothes wrapped around his smaller frame.
He held the necklace up between us. Let it dangle. Catching the light.
Then he leaned in, his mouth near my ear, and whispered:
"I don't know how you did it. How you forced me back into this—" his voice caught with genuine frustration, "—into this form." His breath was warm against my neck—the spot where the necklace had rested moments before. "But you fucked up, Jake. Because Dean thinks you're the impostor. Trusts me. Loyal to me." He pulled back slightly, meeting my eyes with cold determination.
Dean fidgeted, still applying pressure to my wrist, locking me in place. "Eventually I'll figure out how to get back into your body. But until then?" He smiled, bitter and satisfied. "I've got everything that matters."
He fastened the necklace around his own thin neck while maintaining eye contact, the movement sharp with resentment for the body he was forced to settle for. It hung too low on his smaller frame, the medal resting against his sternum instead of his collarbone. Wrong. Ill-fitting. But he adjusted it carefully, like he was claiming territory he'd been cheated out of.
Then he tucked it under the oversized t-shirt—my t-shirt—and patted it through the fabric. "Abuela Delgado," he said more loudly, so Dean could hear. "She died two years ago. Lung cancer. I cried at her funeral. Couldn't speak during the eulogy." He smiled, but there was edge to it now. Determination. "Because she was my grandmother." Back to a murmur: "And when I figure out how you swapped us back, she'll be my grandmother again."
I was shaking. Standing there in my own powerful frame, stripped of every marker of identity, while a scrawny IT contractor wore my life like stolen clothes.
"You good?" Dean asked Miguel, releasing my wrist.
"Yeah," Miguel said, touching the necklace through the shirt one more time. "Yeah, I'm better. Thanks for backing me up, brother."
"Always," Dean said, and the casual affection in his voice—affection meant for me, given to him—was worse than the physical loss.
Miguel turned away from me, wearing my rings on fingers too small, my necklace around a neck too thin, my wallet heavy in jeans too big.
Dean clapped Miguel on the shoulder—the way he used to clap mine. "You should sit down, man. This has gotta be overwhelming."
"Yeah," Miguel agreed, moving to my couch, sitting in my spot. "It is. But it helps having you here." He looked up at Dean with perfect vulnerable gratitude. "I don't know what I'd do without my partner."
Dean smiled. That warm, loyal smile I'd seen a thousand times. Never thought I'd see it directed at someone else while I stood watching, invisible.
"I'm gonna grab a shower," Dean said. "Wash off the shift. You two just... sit tight. Don't kill each other while I'm gone."
He headed toward my bathroom. I heard the door close. The water start.
And then it was just me and Miguel. In my apartment. Him wearing my identity. Me wearing nothing but meat and bone and betrayal.
Miguel leaned back into my couch, my rings catching the light, my phone in his hand, my necklace around his throat.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"You should sit," Miguel continued, gesturing to the chair across from him. "We have about ten minutes before Dean gets out. Plenty of time for us to have a conversation about your new place."
I should have refused. Should have stayed standing, maintained distance, clung to some scrap of autonomy.
But my legs moved. Carried Jake's powerful frame across the room—six-foot-four of dense muscle and authority—and deposited me on the couch beside this scrawny IT contractor wearing my stolen identity.
Our thighs touched. My thigh—thick, corded with muscle built through years of training—pressed against his. The contrast was obscene. I could feel how small he was, how fragile, and yet my body was the one trembling.
"Good boy," Miguel murmured.
My cock jumped violently in my jeans.
The response was instant, involuntary, devastating. Those two words hit some newly-installed button in my nervous system and my entire body responded like I'd been electrocuted. My cock went from half-hard to rigid in seconds, pressing painfully against my zipper. A wet spot bloomed immediately through the denim. I gasped, hands flying to grip my thighs, trying to hide the reaction even as my hips shifted involuntarily, seeking friction.
Miguel saw everything. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating, then narrowed with predatory fascination.
"Oh," Miguel breathed, his gaze locked on the bulge straining my jeans. "Oh, that's interesting." He leaned closer, studying my face—the flush spreading up my neck, the way my jaw clenched, the barely-suppressed whimper catching in my throat. "I should say it again. Good. Boy."
My cock throbbed so hard I saw stars. The wet spot spread, precum soaking through my boxer briefs and jeans, visible evidence of my body's complete betrayal. A sound escaped me—desperate, needy, pathetic.
"Submitting isn’t the whole story," Miguel said slowly, putting the pieces together. "It's praise. You need approval. You need to be told you're doing well." His hand landed on my thigh—small, cool fingers against the thick muscle wrapped in denim. The touch sent electricity straight to my cock. "Three days in my body didn't just teach you to submit to alphas. It taught you to crave comfort. Validation. Being taken care of."
"Stop," I managed, but my voice was weak. Pleading rather than commanding.
"You're such a good boy, Mascot," Miguel whispered, and I moaned—actually moaned, a raw sound of need that filled my apartment. My hips bucked, seeking friction against nothing. "Look at you. That big, powerful body, and all I have to do is tell you you're good and you fall apart."
His hand slid higher on my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Moving closer to where my cock was straining against my zipper, leaking steadily, pulsing with every heartbeat.
I looked down at myself. My chest was rising and falling rapidly, abs flexing with each breath, the defined V-cut of my lower abs disappearing into my jeans. Sweat was beading on my skin despite the cool air. Jake Delgado's body—powerful, trained, built for dominance—trembling under the touch of a man sixty pounds lighter.
"I thought Dean was the prize," Miguel continued, his voice soft and wondering. His eyes traveled over my torso, drinking in every detail. "Spent months obsessing over him. Watching him. Building my whole fantasy around possessing him." His hand squeezed my thigh—fingers couldn't reach all the way around the circumference of muscle, but the pressure was firm. "But you, Jake... god, that body. Always standing next to Dean, separated by two thin bits of cloth between your cocks. That beautiful body and pre-formed, trusting relationship with Officer Cammarata. It's wasted on you."
His free hand reached up, fingers tracing the center line of my abs. Following the groove between muscle groups, feeling them flex and twitch under his touch, his nose brushing up against my hairy areola.
"Look at this," Miguel murmured, almost reverent. His hand slid up to my chest, palm flat against my pec, feeling my heart hammering. "I wore this. For three days, I was this. Do you know what that felt like? Going from five-seven and pathetic to this?" He squeezed my pec, hard. "It was like putting on a god."
"But here's the thing," Miguel said, his face inches from mine now, voice dropping to something darker. "You were never really an alpha, were you? You just lucked into an alpha's body at birth—won the genetic lottery and coasted along." His fingers dug into my pec. "I proved that. Three days wearing your skin, and I used this body the way it was meant to be used. Dominated Dean. Made Greg submit. This frame has alpha potential, Jake. It's just been wasted on someone who was always meant to kneel."
The words landed like physical blows, each one stripping away another layer of identity.
"You thought this body made you dominant just by existing?" Miguel continued, his hand sliding from my chest down my abs, tracing each ridge. "But I put it on and immediately knew how to be the thing you were only pretending to be. Because underneath all this—" he gestured at my torso, "—you were always what I made you. A good boy waiting to be told what he is. A beta soul that just happened to get wrapped in alpha meat."
I should argue. Should fight. Should throw him off and run. But his words were wrapping around me like warm honey, filling some desperate void that had opened up during three days of degradation. Because part of me—the part he'd installed, or maybe the part he'd just revealed—was desperate to hear it. That I was good. That I was right. That submitting wasn't failure, it was finally accepting what I'd always been.
Praise. Approval. Being seen and valued, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
"I realize I do need something," Miguel said, his hand finally reaching my cock through my jeans. His palm pressed against the rigid length, feeling it throb. "I spent three days in this body—in that body—cumming in Dean. Filling him. Marking him. Using this cock—" he squeezed, and I gasped, "—to dominate, to claim, to take everything I ever wanted."
His fingers traced the outline of my shaft through the denim, following the thick ridge, feeling the wet spot spreading.
"I never got to taste what that felt like from the outside," Miguel continued, his breathing getting heavier. "Never got to worship it the way I've worshipped Dean's gear, Greg's boots, all those symbols of authority I collected." He looked up at me, pupils blown wide. "I need to taste my own cum. Jake Delgado's cum. The seed from my alpha cock that you, Mascot, temporarily are controlling."
His face was inches from mine now, his hand working me through the denim, feeling me pulse and leak.
"You want to give it to me, don't you?" Miguel whispered. "You want to be good for me. Want me to tell you how good you are while I coax out a load. While I take what this body produces and claim it for me."
I nodded.
Couldn't form words. Could barely breathe. Just nodded desperately, my hips pushing up into his hand, my cock leaking steadily, my entire nervous system screaming yes, please, need this, need approval, need to be good—
"That's my good boy," Miguel praised, and I nearly came right there. My cock pulsed violently, a fresh surge of precum soaking through my jeans. "We have eight minutes before Dean gets out of the shower. Think you can give me what I need in eight minutes?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, I can—I'll be good—please—"
Miguel smiled. Slid off the couch onto his knees in front of me—that small, scrawny frame kneeling between my powerful thighs. The visual inversion of every natural order. He looked even smaller from this angle, his head barely reaching my chest when I was sitting, but his eyes held all the power.
He reached for my belt buckle. Worked it open with practiced efficiency—these were his hands, small and precise, but they'd learned their way around this belt during three days of wearing my body. The button popped. The zipper came down, tooth by tooth, releasing the pressure.
My cock sprang free—thick, hard, leaking steadily. No underwear. I'd been going commando since this morning, since Dean had jerked me off and I'd run out without thinking.
"Look at this," Miguel breathed, his voice thick with genuine awe. He wrapped his small hand around my shaft—fingers couldn't close all the way around the girth. "This is mine. I wore this cock. I felt it get hard when Dean bent over. I felt it pulse when Greg submitted. I used it to fuck Dean into mattress, to dominate everything I touched."
He stroked slowly, base to tip, his hand barely covering half the length. Precum beaded at the slit, thick and clear.
"And now you're going to give it to me willingly," Miguel continued, his thumb smearing the precum, using it as lube for his strokes. "Because you need to be praised. You need to be my good boy. Don't you?"
"Please," I whimpered. My hips were rolling, fucking into his grip, chasing friction and approval in equal measure.
"Please what?" Miguel's hand kept working, steady rhythm, his other hand moving to cup my balls—heavy, full, aching.
"Please tell me—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't admit what I needed.
"Tell you you're good?" Miguel supplied, smiling up at me. "Tell you you're doing so well? That you're making me happy? That this beautiful body is perfect when it's being used the right way?"
"Yes," I sobbed, actual tears pricking my eyes. "Yes, please—"
"My cock is perfect," Miguel whispered, lowering his mouth toward my cock. His breath was hot against the sensitive head. "You're being so good for me, Jake. Such a good boy. I'm so proud of you."
And as his lips wrapped around the head of my cock—as his hot mouth enveloped me, tongue working the underside—I came.
Instantly.
Overwhelmed by sensation and praise and the complete psychological domination of being reduced to this: a powerful body made weak by words, an alpha cock serviced by the man who'd stolen everything, cumming in my enemy's mouth because being called "good boy" shattered every defense I had left.
I shot hard, the first pulse hitting the back of Miguel's throat before he was ready. He made a surprised sound—half-choke, half-moan—but didn't pull back. Instead he sealed his lips tighter around my cock and swallowed.
His throat worked, adam's apple bobbing, taking the first thick rope down. Then the second. The third.
I kept cumming—wave after wave, my balls clenching, emptying everything into his mouth. More than I'd ever produced, backed up from the morning's interrupted session with Dean, from the three days of constant arousal and violation.
Miguel's eyes went wide as his mouth filled. The volume was too much—I could see his cheeks bulge slightly, see him struggle to swallow fast enough. Cum leaked from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin, but he kept going, kept swallowing, determined to take it all.
"Good boy," Miguel murmured around my cock between swallows, and I pulsed again, another surge flooding his mouth. "So good. You're doing so well. So much for me—"
His tongue worked against the underside of my shaft, tasting, savoring. I could see it in his eyes—the hunger, the satisfaction, the fetishistic completion of finally experiencing this from the outside.
When the pulses finally slowed, Miguel pulled back slightly, just enough to hold the last mouthful on his tongue. He looked up at me, mouth full of my cum, and I watched him taste it. Really taste it. His eyes fluttered closed, his throat hummed with satisfaction.
Then he swallowed deliberately, slowly, making sure I saw. His tongue darted out to catch the strand that had escaped down his chin, licking it up, cleaning every drop.
"Fuck," Miguel breathed, voice rough. "That's... that's what I taste like. Thick. Hot. Salty-sweet with that sharp edge at the finish." He licked his lips again. "Three days I spent feeding Dean and never bothered to sample my own merchandise. Like power and musk."
He brought his fingers to his mouth, licked them clean where they'd been gripping Jake’s shaft.
"And there was so much," Miguel continued, almost reverent. "Your balls were so full. You produced all that for me because I told you you were good. Because you needed to please me." He leaned forward, tongue darting out to lick a stray drop from my cock head, making me gasp and twitch. "This essence, this seed—it should have been mine from birth. That body produces premium alpha juice and you were wasting it."
"There," he said softly. "Now I’ve tasted it. The premium juice. Say thank you, Mascot."
I couldn't answer. Could barely think. My brain was flooded with endorphins and shame and a desperate, pathetic gratitude.
"You feel good, don't you?" Miguel continued, standing up. "Because you were good for me. You gave me what I needed. That body belongs to me, and your real name, Mascot, is Miguel Coronado ."
My cock twitched weakly at the words. "Let's get you dressed properly, Mascot."
He picked up the discarded clothes he’d walked in wearing, before dressing himself from my hamper. The oversized hoodie. The black running shorts. The shitty Adidas sneakers.
He brought them over, dropped them at my feet.
"Put these on," Miguel said.
The post-orgasm clarity was starting to hit. The shame. The realization of what I'd just done.
"No," I said weakly.
"Yes." Miguel's voice was firm. "Because when Dean comes out, he needs to see the right picture. The Mascot wearing the right clothes. 'Jake' wearing Jake's clothes. Visual confirmation."
"Dean will know—"
"Dean will see what he expects to see," Miguel interrupted. "Now get dressed. Be a good boy for me one more time."
And god help me, I reached for the khakis.
Part XXII: Dress Rehearsal
I was still pulling on Miguel's running shorts when Dean emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing yesterday's jeans and had clearly raided my dresser—one of my undershirts stretched across his chest, my boxer briefs visible at his waistband when he reached up to towel-dry his hair.
The casual intimacy of it—Dean wearing my clothes like it was normal, like we'd crossed that boundary permanently—made my stomach twist.
He looked between us. Miguel in clothes too big, wearing my identity like stolen jewelry. Me struggling with shorts that were pulled tight at the waistband, the cheap fabric hugging my thighs because Miguel wore XS and I was anything but.
"We have a problem," Dean said, checking his watch. "Shift starts in ninety minutes. And there's no way I'm walking into the station with my partner looking like—" he gestured at Miguel's small frame swimming in my tank top"—that."
"I know," Miguel said quickly, touching the Saint Christopher medal around his neck—my medal, now resting too low on his smaller chest. "I know I can't go in like this. People would ask questions. We can't let anyone know about the swap."
Dean nodded, relieved. "Exactly. So what do we do?"
Miguel looked at me. That predatory smile.
"The mascot goes in as me," Miguel said simply. "He wears my uniform. My gear. He patrols with you. He pretends to be Jake Delgado."
The words hit like ice water. "No. Absolutely fucking not. I AM Jake Delgado."
"It's the only option," Miguel continued, ignoring my protest. "No one can know. So he—" pointing at me, "—has to act like me. Walk like me. Talk like me. Be me. Until we figure this out."
"You want me to pretend to be myself?" I said, voice rising, the absurdity making me dizzy.
Dean completely ignored what I said like I was invisible. He looked me up and down, squinting. "Can you do it? Can you act like Jake for one shift?"
The question was so absurd I almost laughed. "I AM—"
"Miguel," Dean corrected sharply. "Can you act like Jake? Be professional enough to get through a shift without raising suspicion?"
Miguel stepped closer. "He'll need coaching. He's been in that body for—what, maybe twelve hours? He doesn't know how to carry authority." He circled me slowly, appraising. "Look at him. Standing all wrong. Shoulders hunched. No confidence."
"Because this is INSANE—"
"Stand up straight," Miguel commanded.
My body responded before my brain could stop it. Shoulders back. Spine straight. The conditioning from three days in Miguel's submissive frame, still poisoning my responses.
"Better," Miguel observed. "See, Dean? He can learn. But he needs my help. I need to teach him how to be me."
Dean was nodding. "Alright. What does he need?"
Miguel walked to my closet. Opened it. Started pulling out my uniform.
Actual CHP uniform, fresh from the dry cleaners. Pressed and ready on its hanger.
"This," Miguel said, laying it on the bed with reverence. "All of it. Uniform, gear, boots. Everything has to be perfect. We can practice now."
He started unpacking my duty belt from the dresser. Heavy leather, every tool in its place. Radio. Cuffs. Baton. Weapon.
"Strip," Miguel ordered, looking at me.
"No."
"Dean," Miguel said calmly. "Make him strip."
Dean's hand landed on my shoulder. "Come on. We don't have time for this. Get out of those clothes so we can get you dressed properly."
Get you dressed properly. Like I was an invalid.
But Dean's grip tightened, and I pulled off the hoodie. Shoved down the shorts. The cheap seams had left red marks on my thighs, visible welts from fabric straining against muscle it was never designed to contain. I stood there naked, my cock soft but my body trembling.
Miguel picked up my uniform pants. Held them out.
"Put these on," he said.
I snatched them from his hands. Started pulling them on—and the relief of familiar fabric was immediate. These pants knew my body, broken in to accommodate my thighs, my ass, the exact proportions I'd built over years.
"No," Miguel said sharply. "You're doing it wrong."
"I'm putting on pants—"
"You're putting them on like Miguel would. Hesitant. Awkward. Jake puts his pants on with confidence. One leg, then the other, smooth motion. Do it again."
"This is fucking ridiculous."
"Dean," Miguel appealed.
Dean crossed his arms. "He's right. If you're going to pass as Jake, you need to move like him. Do it again. Properly."
I stared at them both. Miguel—five-foot-seven, 130 pounds—directing me on how to put on my own fucking pants. Dean enforcing it.
I stripped the pants off. Put them on again. One leg, smooth motion, pull them up, button, zip. The muscle memory was there—Jake's body knew this routine.
"Better," Miguel approved. "See? You're learning." He picked up my uniform shirt. "Now this. Arms through the sleeves, don't bunch the fabric."
I put on my shirt. Miguel circled me, adjusting the collar, smoothing the fabric across my shoulders. His hands lingered, feeling the muscle definition through the material.
"Good boy," he murmured, and my cock jumped. Started hardening despite everything, despite the humiliation, despite the rage.
Miguel noticed. Smiled. His hand brushed my cock through the uniform pants—casual, possessive—feeling it swell against the fabric.
"See that, Dean?" Miguel said. "He responds to praise. Authority."
The implication hung there. Evidence confirming bias.
Dean's eyes narrowed, studying the bulge forming in my pants. "Jake never got hard from being told he did something right. That's... that's submissive behavior."
"Exactly," Miguel said. "We can't let anyone see the Mascot's tell."
He picked up my duty belt. "This is important. I wear this every day. The weight. The balance. Every tool has its place."
He wrapped it around my waist, threading it through the loops. His small hands worked the leather with intimate knowledge—radio on the left, cuffs here, baton here, weapon on the right hip.
He buckled it. The familiar weight settled on my hips, and my body relaxed into it automatically. Six years of carrying this rig, my muscles knew exactly how to distribute the load.
"His body remembers," Miguel said. "We can work with that."
He picked up my boots. The black leather Danner Acadias. Broken in perfectly, still holding yesterday's shape of my feet.
"Sit," Miguel commanded.
I sat on the bed. Miguel knelt in front of me—that small frame between my powerful thighs—and held up one boot.
The smell hit me immediately. Leather, yes, but underneath—my own foot sweat from yesterday's shift. Concentrated. Masculine. I could feel it in my hindbrain, tht contamination, the urge to worship, to obey, now coming from my own gear.
"Foot," Miguel said.
I lifted my foot. Miguel guided it into the boot, his hands supporting my calf, working the leather over my heel. His breath was warm against my leg, his fingers lingering on my ankle as he positioned the boot.
"I like them tight," Miguel explained to Dean while beginning to lace. "Not too tight, but firm. Tactical lacing. Always double-knotted."
His fingers worked methodically—thread the lace through the bottom eyelets, pull, cross, thread through the next set. The sound was intimate: leather creaking, laces sliding through metal eyelets, Miguel's slightly quickened breathing as he focused.
He finished the first boot with a perfect double knot. His hands ran up my calf—feeling the shape of muscle through leather, the way the boot hugged my leg.
"Perfect," Miguel murmured. He started on the second boot, repeating the ritual. Thread, pull, cross, thread. His small fingers brushing my ankle, my calf, proprietary touches that said mine.
"There," Miguel said, finishing the second knot. He sat back on his heels, admiring his work. My boots. My legs. My body under his control. Why wasn't I protesting, telling this rat to fuck off?
He looked me over one last time, adjusting my collar, fingers lingering on my chest.
"You look just like me," Miguel said softly. "But there's one more thing."
He grabbed the full-length mirror from beside my closet, angled it so I could see myself.
Jake Delgado stared back. Six-foot-four, 190 pounds of muscle in perfectly fitted CHP uniform. Duty belt gleaming. Boots polished. Every inch the highway patrol officer I'd been for six years.
"That's me," Miguel said, standing beside my reflection—his small frame barely reaching my shoulder. "Say it. That's Jake Delgado."
"Fuck you."
Miguel's hand shot down, cupped my cock through my uniform pants—still semi-hard from the earlier praise. He squeezed.
"Say it."
The pressure, the conditioning, the three days of breaking—I couldn't fight it all.
"That's... that's Jake Delgado," I whispered.
"And who are you?" Miguel pressed, squeezing harder.
"I'm..." My voice broke. "I'm the mascot."
"Good boy." Miguel released me. Patted my chest. My cock throbbed, leaked, made a visible wet spot on my uniform pants.
Dean saw it. "He's leaking through his uniform. Jake never leaked on duty. That's..." He looked at me with something like pity. "That's pure beta response. You need to control yourself."
"I'm trying—"
"You'll do fine today," Miguel said, reaching down to pat my head. "Just remember—you're playing a part. Pretending to be Jake Delgado. But underneath, you're still the mascot. Still mine."
"We don't have a lot of time. I never show up at the Precinct in uniform," the rat lied. I often came to work prepped and ready to go. He continued not taking a breath to let me protest. "You'll have to do this routine again in the locker room in public. With Martinez and Chiu maybe watching. Strip. Back into your hoodie, mascot."
He pulled me to my feet, and before I knew it I was in his musky, disgusting hoodie and shorts he showed up in this morning.
"Let's go to work, partner," Miguel said to Dean.
Dean clapped him on the shoulder—the casual affection meant for me, given to him. "Let's roll."
They walked toward the door. I followed, my boots heavy on the floor, my duty belt creaking, wearing my own identity like a costume while the real me walked free in someone else's skin.
We headed to work.
To my job. My patrol route. My life.
With the most important person in my life believing I was someone else.
Part XXIII: The Commute
"I'll drive," Miguel said, pulling my keys from his jeans pocket—my my jeans hanging loose on his fucking hips.
Dean nodded, heading for passenger side. Natural. Expected. Jake always drove his own truck.
I stood there, staring at the driver's door. My truck. My wheel. Four years of driving this beast, and now I was watching a five-foot-seven IT contractor climb into the driver's seat like he owned it.
"You good getting in back?" Dean asked, not unkindly. Looking at me—"Miguel"—the passenger.
The rat adjusted the seat, sliding it forward so his short legs could reach the pedals. Adjusted the mirrors. Put his small hands on my steering wheel.
Miguel settled in, immediately adjusting things. The seat position—sliding it forward so his short legs could reach the pedals. The mirror angle. He flipped down the sun visor, examined himself, touched the Saint Christopher medal around his neck.
"Mejor," Miguel murmured, satisfied.
Dean glanced over. "What?"
Miguel caught himself, laughed lightly. "Sorry—'better.' Still a little fucked up this whole weekend. Hangover residuals."
"Yeah, you were speaking Spanish yesterday morning too," Dean said, accepting it easily. "Must be the stress. Your brain's all fucked up."
"Coffee first?" Dean asked.
"Yeah," Miguel agreed. "Usual spot?"
He said it casually. Like he knew. Like he'd made this drive a thousand times.
Dean nodded, turning toward Beanery—the coffee shop two blocks from the station where we stopped every Monday morning. Our routine. Mine and Dean's. For three years.
"Man, it's weird being this small," Miguel said, looking at his hands. "Everything feels wrong. I keep moving like I'm six-four and running into reality." He flexed his arm—thin, no definition. "Look at this. Six years of lifting, now just... noodles."
"We'll figure this out," Dean assured him. "Get you back where you belong."
The rat caught my eye in the rearview mirror. Winked.
"Remember that time," Miguel said, "when we pulled over that Dodge Charger doing ninety-five? The guy was so drunk he tried to run and ate shit within ten feet?"
Dean laughed. "Oh shit, yeah. Face-planted so hard."
"I was laughing so hard I could barely cuff him," Miguel continued, the story flowing easily. "And then he tried to bribe us with expired Taco Bell coupons."
They both laughed. The easy camaraderie of partners sharing war stories. Except the story was mine. My memory. My experience. Miguel was telling it like he'd lived it because he'd stolen the memory from three days of wearing my consciousness.
I sat in the back seat and said nothing.
"Or that domestic call where the wife was chasing the husband with a frying pan," Miguel continued. "She kept yelling about his fantasy football league."
"'You spent four hundred dollars on a quarterback!'" Dean quoted, and they both cracked up.
More of my memories. More of my partnership. Being retold by someone else while I watched from behind them like a dog who wasn't allowed to participate.
Dean pulled into the Beanery parking lot. The small coffee shop where Linda worked Monday mornings. She knew my order. Always had it ready.
"I'll grab it," Dean said, killing the engine.
"I'll come with," Miguel said immediately, unbuckling.
They both got out. Left me in the back seat.
"You good here?" Dean asked through the window. "We'll just be a minute."
Like I was a dog waiting in the car.
"Yeah," I said. "Fine."
I watched through the window. Linda looked up, smiled, waved. Her mouth formed words: "Morning, officers!"
Miguel stepped to the counter, pulled out my wallet. The badge visible as he fished for cash. Not flashing it—just the natural movement of someone who carried a badge every day.
Linda's eyes lingered for half a second on his smaller frame, but Miguel was already smiling, completely at ease.
"Rough morning," Miguel said. "Needed the caffeine before shift."
Linda accepted it. "You two work too hard."
Two. She said two.
She finished the drinks—large black coffee, two sugars for "Jake," Dean's espresso. TWO drinks. No third cup. No afterthought.
They walked back out. Miguel handed Dean his cup, kept mine. Brought it to his lips and sipped.
"God, I missed this," Miguel said. "This exact order. The way Linda makes it." Another sip. "Some things just taste right."
Dean started the engine. "She's good people. Never fucks up the order."
"Yeah," Miguel agreed. "Three years of consistency."
My timeline. My relationship with Linda. My coffee.
The smell of fresh coffee filled the cab. My mouth watered.
Neither of them offered me any. Neither even looked back.
We merged onto the highway. Ten minutes to the station. Ten minutes of smelling my own coffee being drunk by someone else while I sat behind them, thirsty, invisible, erased.
Part XXIV: Performance Review
Stale air, industrial cleaner, burnt coffee, too much gun oil. Home. Still fond smells and just like I remembered, even considering I spent most of this last weekend locked in a IT supply closet.
"Morning, Delgado."
Chiu, crossing the lobby with a stack of reports. No pause, no second look. Just the Monday script.
"Morning," I managed.
Behind me, Dean and the rat walked together. I could feel Miguel watching my back, clocking the hesitation.
We headed toward the locker room.
"Delgado. Looking solid, brother."
"Yo, Delgado, you catch the game?"
Every greeting hit like a double punch. Validation—yeah, they saw Jake. Violation—they had no idea who was inside.
Then Greg stepped towards us, stiffly rushing out of the locker room.
Backup uniform. Backup boots. The shirt a little too big in the shoulders, the Magnums stiff on his feet where his Chippewas used to be. Forty-five minutes early and moving like he was late.
Our eyes met for half a second.
Greg went pale. Looked away immediately. No “morning,” no nod. Just a muttered "’Scuse me," shoulder brushing mine as he pushed past, almost jogging for the exit.
The door slammed behind him.
"That was weird," Dean said, watching him go. "Bull never shows up early."
Miguel, my rings flashing on his too-small fingers, gave a sly shrug. "Maybe he just wants break in those backup Magnums. Doesn’t look good."
I was also in on the joke.
Greg couldn’t look at me after Saturday. Not after losing his boots, his gear, his composure. Not after he’d fucked Dean from behind while Jake called the plays and the dude he named Mascot filmed it from the floor. Not after realizing how much of it he'd liked.
He thought that had been me calling the shots. Thought Jake Delgado had stripped him, used him, turned him into another tool to break Dean. Now Greg was in his backup kit, avoiding eye contact like proximity alone might drag him back into that night.
"Come on," Dean said, nudging my shoulder toward the door Greg had just escaped through. "Let’s get you geared up."
We reached the locker room. The heavy door swung open, and the familiar chaos hit—officers in various stages of dress, lockers slamming, Velcro on duty belts being adjusted, Martinez's voice carrying over everything.
"—and I swear to god, the guy had a fucking peacock in his passenger seat—"
Laughter. Vulgar jokes. The easy camaraderie of men who worked together, trusted each other.
I walked to my locker. Number 47. Second row from the bottom, third from the left. I'd opened this locker five days a week for six years. Knew the combination better than my own phone number: 17-32-8.
My hands moved automatically. Click. Click. Click. The lock popped.
I opened the door. My space. My life condensed into two cubic feet of metal.
Extra uniform shirts, pressed and hanging. Spare duty belt. Box of protein bars. Small red framed mirror. Photo of me and Dean at our academy graduation taped inside—both of us younger, leaner, grinning like idiots. My backup boots. Deodorant, cologne, the good hand lotion.
Everything exactly where I'd left it Friday.
But now I stood in front of it like a stranger.
I reached for the spare uniform shirt. Hesitated. Did I usually grab the shirt first, or the belt?
"Delgado, you stroking yourself off over there?"
Rubio, three lockers down. Still shirtless, his duty belt half-assembled on the bench. Grinning.
I forced a laugh. "Nah, just... tired. Long weekend."
"Tell me about it," Martinez agreed from the other side, yanking his belt tight. "I spent Saturday helping my ex move. She owns, like, seventeen bookshelves. And where the fuck was her new guy?"
Normally I'd have a comeback. Something about Martinez's taste in flat-chested brunettes, or the only books he reads having centerfolds. Easy banter. Automatic.
But my brain snagged, trying to calculate what Jake would say, and the window closed. Martinez turned back to his locker. The moment died.
My jaw clenched. That should have been reflex.
I pulled out the uniform shirt. Started unbuttoning my civilian clothes—Dean's undershirt that I'd borrowed this morning, the jeans I'd put on before we left.
"Need help with anything?"
The voice was small. Meek. Apologetic.
The rat.
He was standing just inside the locker room door, wearing my oversized workout clothes, holding a tablet like he belonged here. Playing the part of the timid IT contractor.
But his eyes. His eyes were sharp, predatory, locked on me with absolute focus.
"No," I said, turning back to my locker. "I'm fine."
"Just making sure," Miguel said, his voice loud enough that a few officers glanced over. "Dean said you might need... orientation. Since everything's still confusing."
Orientation. In my own locker room. At my own locker.
I gritted my teeth and started changing. Pulled off Dean's shirt, reached for my uniform shirt. Slid my arms through the sleeves. Tucked the shirt in. Reached for my duty belt.
"Hey, Delgado."
Captain Morrison's voice cut through the locker room noise. Everyone straightened slightly—not quite attention, but the ingrained response to command presence.
Morrison stood in the doorway, coffee in hand, looking directly at me. "Got a minute? Need to talk about Friday's report."
My stomach dropped.
Friday's report. What had I written on Friday? Was there something wrong with it?
"Yeah, Captain," I said, trying to sound normal. "Let me just finish—"
"Now's fine," Morrison interrupted, his tone making it clear this wasn't optional. "Conference room. Two minutes."
He left. The locker room went back to its normal volume, but I felt every eye that had briefly landed on me. Wondering what I'd fucked up.
I looked at my duty belt, half-assembled. My boots, still unlaced.
"Better not keep him waiting," Dean said from across the room. He'd been changing too, already in uniform. "I'll finish gearing up and meet you in the squad room after."
The rat stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Friday's report was about the DUI stop. Older woman, failed the field sobriety test, blew a .12. You—Jake—wrote that she was cooperative and remorseful. Suggested first-time offender programs." His eyes bored into mine. "Morrison's probably just signing off on the disposition. Don't overthink it."
He was feeding me information. Coaching me through my own life.
I wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to grab his narrow shoulders and shake him.
But Morrison was waiting.
"Thanks," I forced out, the word tasting like battery acid.
"That's what I'm here for," the rat said quietly, so only I could hear. "Making sure you don't blow your cover... mascot."
The word hit like a cattle prod. Quiet enough that no one else heard, loud enough that I felt it in my bones.
I walked out of the locker room in my half-assembled uniform, boots unlaced, duty belt in my hands.
The conference room was at the end of the hall. Door open. Morrison sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet.
I knocked on the doorframe. "Captain."
"Delgado. Come in. Close the door."
I stepped inside, shut the door. The click of the latch felt final.
Morrison gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. This won't take long."
I sat, my duty belt clanking awkwardly on my lap, my boots still unlaced and flopping. Professional as fuck.
"Friday's DUI stop," Morrison started, eyes on his tablet. "Linda Vasquez, fifty-three, blew a .12 on the portable. You wrote her up with the standard charges but noted she was cooperative, remorseful, first-time offense."
"Yes, sir," I said, trying to remember the stop. Older woman, crying, kept apologizing.
"I apologize for my tardiness in reviewing Friday's report just now. I'm approving your recommendation for the diversion program," Morrison continued. "But I wanted to talk to you about the body-cam footage."
My blood went cold.
"The footage?" I repeated, keeping my voice neutral.
"Yeah." Morrison looked up from his tablet, meeting my eyes. "You handled it by the book. Professional, courteous, explained everything clearly. But..." He paused, studying me. "You seemed off. Distracted. Kept looking at your phone between the field sobriety test and the breathalyzer."
Fuck.
I'd been watching porn. Friday afternoon, late shift, and I'd been bored during a routine DUI stop. The woman had been crying, cooperative, taking forever to find her registration, and I'd pulled out my phone. Checked some videos. Got distracted.
Unprofessional as hell. The kind of thing that could cost me my job if Morrison decided to make an issue of it.
"I was..." I started, scrambling for an explanation that wasn't I was watching Asian MILFs get railed while your taxpayer-funded body camera captured everything. "I was checking on something. Personal matter. It didn't affect my performance—"
"I'm not saying it did," Morrison interrupted. "Your performance was solid. I'm saying you seemed distracted, and I want to make sure everything's okay." He leaned forward slightly. "You're one of my best officers, Delgado. Six years, spotless record, commendations for three major arrests. If something's going on—personal issues, stress, whatever—I need to know my officers stay squeaky clean because those microphones pick up everything."
The concern was genuine. Morrison being a good captain, looking out for his people.
And I was sitting here unable to admit that the "personal matter" had been me being a lazy piece of shit on duty.
"It's handled, sir," I said carefully. "Personal situation. Won't happen again."
Morrison studied me for a long moment. "You sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"Because if you need time—"
"I don't," I said, maybe too quickly. "I'm good. Ready to work."
Morrison nodded slowly. "Alright. But I'm keeping an eye on it. Any more distracted stops, we're having a longer conversation. And Jake?" He held my gaze. "Phone stays in your pocket during stops. I don't care what's happening in your personal life. When you're on duty, you're on duty."
The implication was clear: he'd seen what I was looking at. Maybe not the specific content, but enough to know it wasn't work-related. Enough to know it was inappropriate.
"Understood, Captain."
"Good. Get geared up and hit the road. Dean's waiting for you."
I stood, duty belt still in my hands, boots still unlaced, feeling the weight of Morrison's disappointment even though he'd been professional about it. "Thank you, sir."
I left the conference room and headed back to the locker room. The conversation had gone fine—better than fine, Morrison had approved my recommendation—but I felt like I'd just navigated a minefield blindfolded.
Back in the locker room, I found the rat waiting. Standing near my locker, tablet in hand, looking like he was checking something technical. But his eyes tracked me immediately.
"How'd it go?" the rat asked, quiet enough that the noise of other officers covered it.
"Fine," I said shortly, moving to my locker.
"Friday's DUI report?"
"He approved the recommendation." I finished lacing my boots, not looking at him.
"But?" The rat stepped closer. "Something happened. You look rattled."
I hesitated, then realized he'd find out anyway. Probably already knew.
"He saw the body-cam. Mentioned I was distracted. Looking at my phone during the stop."
Understanding flickered across the rat's face. Then amusement. "Oh. That stop. Friday afternoon. You were watching porn."
My jaw clenched. "How the fuck—"
"I watch everything," the rat said simply. "Every body-cam upload. Every report. Every interaction. I've been studying Dean for months, remember? His cam catches most of the same stuff. But your feed is good too. I should say... my feed, though." He smiled. "Asian MILFs, wasn't it? About twelve minutes into the stop, right after she started crying about her kids?"
I wanted to kill him.
"So," the rat continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "Morrison knows you're unprofessional. Knows Jake Delgado—the model officer, the perfect CHP golden boy—watches porn on duty while citizens cry in front of him." He tilted his head. "How does it feel, having that on your record? That little stain on your perfect career?"
"It's handled," I gritted out.
"For now," the rat agreed. "But think about it, mascot. That's the real Jake. Not the hero you pretend to be. The guy who gets bored during routine stops and pulls out his phone to watch women get fucked. That's who you really are."
He was rewriting my identity even as I stood there. Taking my moment of weakness and making it definitional.
"Get the fuck out of the locker room," I said, my voice low and dangerous.
The rat smiled. "Good. That sounded like Jake. Keep that energy."
He walked away, and I stood there, hard in my uniform again from his praise even as rage made my hands shake.
The real Jake.
Flawed. Compromised. Human.
And now everyone knew it.
Part XXV: Patrol Protocol
Seven-Adam-Twelve. Our call sign for six years. I was behind the wheel because Jake always drove—our routine, our rhythm, carved into muscle memory through thousands of shifts. The vinyl seats were already heating up in the morning sun, the cabin filled with familiar scents layered like sediment: stale coffee, gun oil from our service weapons, and underneath it all, Dean. His deodorant. His sweat and citrus shampoo. His particular musk that this weekend, it turns out I was now very fucking attuned to. Aroused by. Fuck you, rat.
Dean rode shotgun, handling the laptop, running plates, managing dispatch communication. Everything looked normal from the outside—two CHP officers on morning patrol, professional and competent.
Except nothing about this was routine.
Twenty minutes into the shift, 101 southbound, traffic light for a Monday morning. My hands gripped the wheel at ten and two, knuckles white, every muscle in my body coiled tight with the effort of performing my own fucking life.
"You're going to blow this."
Dean's voice cut through the road noise. Flat. Annoyed.
"What?"
"Look at yourself." Dean gestured at me with visible irritation. "Shoulders up around your ears. Jaw clenched. You look like you're about to snap." He shook his head. "Anyone who knows Jake is going to take one look at you and know something's wrong."
"I'm handling it," I said through gritted teeth.
"No. You're not." Dean shifted in his seat, angling toward me. "And when you fuck this up, it's on me. I'm the one who vouched for you. I'm the one who told Morrison everything's fine." His hand landed on my thigh. Hard. High. "So I'm going to fix this before you embarrass me."
My entire body went rigid. "Dean, what are you—"
"Hangover protocol," he said, the words clipped and businesslike. "Same thing I do for Jake when he's wound too tight. You're in his body now, you get his maintenance."
His hand slid higher, gripping my inner thigh with enough pressure to make me flinch.
"That's not—we don't need to—"
"I don't care what you think you need." Dean's voice was cold, impatient. "I need you functional. I need you to stop looking like you're about to have a panic attack in the driver's seat of a patrol car." His hand moved to cup my cock through my pants. "This isn't for you. This is so you don't fuck up my career."
I grabbed his wrist. Instinct. Self-preservation. "Don't."
Dean looked at my hand on his wrist, then at my face. His expression was utterly calm, utterly annoyed. "Let go."
"Dean, we're partners—"
"You're not my partner," Dean interrupted. "My partner is in Miguel’s body back at the station, and I'm stuck babysitting you so you don’t shit the bed roleplaying a cop." He twisted his wrist—not violently, but with enough controlled force to break my grip. "Now here's what's going to happen. I'm going to get you sorted so you can do your job. You're going to let me, because the alternative is you fess up that you stole a cop’s body and we put you in the ice box until we figure this out. Clear?"
"Fuck you," I spat.
"Clear?" Dean repeated, his hand already popping the button on my pants.
Was that rat watching this? Monitoring our patrol car GPS? Checking our location, our status, knowing exactly when this was happening? Did he plan this? Did he tell Dean to do this?
"Dean—stop—" I tried to grab his hand again, but he was faster, one hand already massaging my shaft as I felt my hips shift, spreading open to give him better access.
"I get it, you’re a loner, you’ve never had friends," Dean said, almost conversational now. "But real bros help each other out. I happen to know my way around Jake’s cock and you’re being difficult." It was getting real hard to focus on the road with Dean’s attention on me with his casual, corrupted narrative of our fucking history. "We can drop the act when it’s just us, but I am going to make sure you can function for the next eight hours without blowing Jake’s cover."
"Nngh—" The sound escaped before I could stop it. My cock was already hardening in his grip, the conditioning the rat had installed firing on all cylinders despite my desperate attempts to will it down.
"See?" Dean's tone was matter-of-fact, clinical. "That bod knows what it needs even if you don't want to admit it." He stroked once, base to tip, his grip firm and practiced. "Now shut up and let me work."
"Dean, please—this isn't—"
"This isn't what?" He stroked again, and I felt myself leak, precum spreading under his palm. "Isn't professional? Isn't appropriate? Jake and I do this all the time. You're just borrowing his protocols along with his body."
The rat’s lies spewing out of Dean’s mouth were seamless. Three days of corruption and Dean believed this was normal. Believed this was partnership.
"Dean… I don’t…," I said, hating how weak my voice sounded.
"Don't care." Dean's hand moved faster, the slick sounds filling the patrol car. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. "What I care about is you not fucking up a traffic stop because you're too tense to think straight." He squeezed harder. "We’ve been called in for backup - a speeding Mercedes coming up in two miles. Soccer mom, probably late for carpool. You're going to walk up to that car, chat with the other Officer like this isn’t your first day on planet earth, act cool in case she throws a fit, and act like Officer Jake Delgado. Can't do that if you're shaking like a leaf back there on Saturday, carrying pitchers back to the table."
I tried to focus on the road. Tried to ignore the sensation of his hand working my cock, the way my hips were starting to roll despite my attempts to stay still, the sounds coming out of my throat that I couldn't quite suppress.
"That's it," Dean said, but there was no warmth in it. Just assessment. "Almost there. Come on, get it over with so we can do our jobs."
My hands were shaking on the wheel. My vision was blurring. The pressure was building, and I hated it, hated him, hated the rat, hated my own body for responding—
"Good boy."
Dean said it quietly, almost absently, like he'd said it a thousand times before to "Jake."
The trigger detonated.
I came with a choked sound—"Ahh—fuck—"—my cock jerking violently in Dean's grip, cum spurting in thick ropes that painted his hand, my uniform shirt, the inside of my pants. Wave after wave while I fought to keep the car steady, the orgasm ripping through me with brutal intensity I couldn't control.
"There we go," Dean said, completely unmoved. He kept stroking, milking every drop with efficient, mechanical precision. "Get it all out."
My cock kept pulsing, the smell of cum sharp and unmistakable in the enclosed cab. I could feel it soaking through my boxer briefs, spreading down my thigh, warm and obscene.
Finally it stopped. I slumped in the driver's seat, chest heaving, destroyed.
Dean pulled his hand out and examined it with detached interest. "Lot of volume. You really were wound up." He grabbed the Beanery napkins and wiped his hand clean, casual as anything. "Now can you do your fucking job?"
I couldn't speak. My uniform was ruined—cum soaking through the front of my pants, visible wet spots spreading, the evidence of what had just happened obvious to anyone who looked.
"You'll need to change when we get back to the station," Dean noted, back to scrolling through the laptop like nothing had happened. "Can't do the rest of the shift like that. But for now, you should be able to think clearly enough to handle one soccer mom."
The Mercedes was coming up. Pulled over to the side, the officer’s car already parked behind it.
"Better zip up," Dean said. "We're pulling over in thirty seconds."
I fumbled with my zipper, trying to tuck my sensitive cock back into soaked underwear, trying to make myself presentable while cum cooled against my skin and the smell of my own degradation filled the car. But underneath the rage, underneath the humiliation—something else. A settling. Like my nervous system had been screaming static and Dean's hand had tuned it to a clear frequency. I hated that I felt... steadier. Calmer. Ready to work. Fuck. Was this what the rat had installed? Or maybe something he revealed?
"And mascot?" Dean's voice was flat, final. "Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. I don't have time to fight with you while you're wearing my partner's face. Understood?"
"Understood," I forced out.
I could see the driver in the Mercedes now. A woman in the driver's seat, visible stress, probably rehearsing her excuse. Officer Chiu was already walking over from his unit, one hand resting casually on his duty belt.
Chiu. I'd worked with him for four years. Covered his shifts when his kid was born. Helped him move apartments last summer. He'd been at my birthday party—the one Dean organized, the one the rat now claimed as his own memory. I adjusted my duty belt to cover my wet spot over my crotch as I opened the door and stepped out.
In thirty seconds, I'd be standing next to Chiu, talking to this woman, performing the job I'd done five days a week for six years. And Chiu would see Officer Jake Delgado. Would greet me by name. Would treat me exactly like he always had.
And if I tried to tell him—I'm Jake, I'm really Jake, I'm not pretending, I'm not the IT guy borrowing this body, I'm ME—he'd look at me like I'd lost my mind. Because of course I was Jake. I looked like Jake. I wore Jake's uniform. I drove Jake's patrol car.
The cruelest part wasn't that no one believed I was Jake.
The cruelest part was that everyone believed I was Jake—and none of them knew what that meant anymore. Not when Dean called me "mascot" in private. Not when the rat wore my identity like a stolen jacket. Not when I'd just been jerked off against my will by my own partner, forced to cum in my own patrol car, reduced to a "maintenance task" that Dean completed with all the warmth of changing the oil.
The cum cooling in my boxer briefs was proof of what I'd become.
But to Chiu, to this soccer mom, to everyone at the station—I was just Jake. Having a normal Monday.
"Better get moving," Dean said, already opening his door. "Chiu's waiting."
I got out of the car. Felt the wet fabric shift against my thigh. Smelled myself—sex and shame, obvious to anyone who got close enough.
"Delgado!" Chiu called out, nodding in greeting. "Thanks for the backup. She's been crying for ten minutes. Could use the good cop energy."
Good cop energy. From Jake Delgado, model officer, cum drying on his uniform because his partner decided he needed "maintenance."
"Got it," I said, and my voice sounded almost normal. Almost like me.
Because I was me. I was Jake fucking Delgado.
And no one would ever believe how much that didn't matter anymore.
The rat had won this round.
But the shift was eight hours long, and somewhere in this nightmare, I'd find a way to turn this rage into something the rat couldn't control.
I just had to survive long enough to figure out how.
Part XXV-B: Muscle Memory
The call came through forty minutes after Dean's "maintenance." Dispatch's voice crackled over the radio:
"Seven-Adam-Twelve, 10-50, northbound 101 at the Sepulveda exit. Two vehicles, minor injuries. First unit on scene."
"Copy," Dean responded. "Three minutes out."
I hit the lights and siren, muscle memory taking over. The cum in my boxer briefs was still wet, still uncomfortable, but my hands were steady on the wheel. This wasn't performance. This was work.
The accident was minor—rear-end collision, two cars, both pulled to the shoulder. A silver Lexus with a crumpled bumper and a black Audi that had clearly been the one doing the rear-ending.
I was out of the patrol car before it fully stopped, six years of training overriding everything else.
The Lexus driver was already out—older woman, visibly shaken but uninjured, on the phone with her insurance. "I'm fine, officer. Just startled."
"Stay with your vehicle, ma'am. I'll be right back."
The Audi driver was still in his car.
I approached the driver's side window, and he looked up.
Fuck.
Mid-twenties. Dark hair, styled but mussed from the impact. Strong jawline. Athletic build visible even sitting down—fitted button-down shirt that showed off his shoulders, sleeves rolled to reveal toned forearms. And his eyes—sharp green, tracking me as I approached—held recognition. Interest.
"You okay, sir?" I kept my voice professional, authoritative. "Any injuries?"
"I'm good." His voice was smooth, confident. "Airbag didn't even deploy. Just a tap." He smiled—not sheepish, not apologetic. Appreciative. "Though I have to say, the response time is impressive. And so is the responder."
The compliment hit my system hard. Warm. Immediate. My cock stirred in my cum-damp boxer briefs.
No. Stop. Not now.
"Step out of the vehicle," I said, maintaining professionalism. "Need to make sure you're not injured."
He complied, unfolding from the driver's seat, and he was tall—maybe six-one—broad-shouldered and clearly fit. He moved with confidence, no shock, no fear. Just confidence.
And he was standing close. Very close.
"I'm fine, officer," he said, and his eyes traveled down my body—the uniform, the duty belt, the size and strength of Jake's frame—and something in his expression heated. "No injuries. Clean impact. Actually this might be the best accident I've ever had."
He was flirting. Openly. With a cop at an accident scene.
"Sir, I need you to focus," I said, but my voice came out lower than intended. "Any pain? Dizziness? Neck stiffness?"
"No pain." He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked onto Jake’s body, roving up and down as he inventoried Jake’s pecs and biceps. The gesture was submissive but somehow still confident. "Unless you want to make sure."
My thumb traced his jawline and my cock jumped. Three days ago - fuck, even three HOURS ago - would I have noticed his forearms? The way his ass looked in those jeans? My cock stirred watching him stand there - confident, direct, looking at me like he was cataloging something. Had the rat made Jake's body recognizable to men who cruised online? Had Marcus seen this torso on Grindr three days ago while the rat wore it? I had no fucking way to know.
His skin was smooth. Hairless in the right places. Was I… feeling him up? His pulse jumped under my fingertips.
"Feels fine," he murmured, and his voice had dropped too. "Strong hands, Officer."
I was checking his neck for whiplash and my cock was getting hard. Professional assessment and arousal bleeding together until I couldn't separate them. Was I always like this? Three days in the rat's body and I couldn't tell my impulses from his anymore.
But I didn't. My hand lingered. My thumb brushed against the edge of his jaw. And some corrupted part of my brain whispered he wants this, he likes your touch, you could—
"Officer Delgado?"
Dean's voice cut through the fog. I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned, stepping away from the civilian, my face hot.
"Yeah," I managed. "He's uninjured. Just checking."
Dean was looking between us, one eyebrow raised. "I'll get statements from both drivers. You want to do the paperwork?"
"Yeah. Good." I turned back to the Audi driver, forcing professionalism. "I'll need to see your license and registration."
"Of course." He leaned back into his car, and his shirt rode up slightly, exposing a strip of toned lower back, the curve of his ass in well-fitted jeans. He took his time retrieving the documents, and when he straightened, he held them out with a business card on top.
"License and registration," he said. "And my card. In case you need to follow up. For the report."
I took them. Our fingers brushed. His card read: Marcus Rossi, Personal Trainer, FullBody Fitness.
"A personal trainer," I heard myself say.
"Mmm." Marcus smiled. "I work with a lot of law enforcement. Help them maintain their physique. Stay in fighting shape." His eyes traveled over me again, slower this time. "Though you clearly don't need help. You ever think about training as a second career?"
The card was in my hand. Marcus Rossi. Personal Trainer. My cock throbbed looking at it. Three days ago I would've thrown it away without thinking. Now I was picturing those forearms, that exposed lower back. Ugh. The rat again.
"I'll need you to wait with your vehicle," I said, but even I could hear how my voice had roughened. "Until we finish the report."
"I'm very patient," Marcus said. "Take your time, officer. I'm not going anywhere. Call me if you need anything else,” Marcus said, and despite the uncertainty in his eyes about where he'd seen me, his tone was pure confidence. “Consultation. Professional or otherwise.” This was definitely an offer. How the fuck did I know this was an offer?
I walked back to the patrol car, documents in hand, my cock throbbing with every step. Dean was already there, writing in his notepad.
"So," Dean said without looking up. "You get his number?"
"What?"
"The card. Personal trainer." Dean glanced at me, grinning, tapping his finger on the card, clipped to the pile of insurance documents. "Rossi. That was smooth. ‘Consultation.'" Dean laughed. "Guy wants you to follow up on more than the accident report."
"I was being professional," I said, but my voice sounded defensive.
"Sure. Professional. That's why you were feeling him up for a full thirty seconds." Dean's grin widened. "Motherfucker didn't even glance at me. Zeroed in on you like I wasn't standing there. Jake's height? The uniform? Who knows. But you should use it before you give the body back. Usually Jake doesn't touch back though, just smirks."
My stomach dropped. "I wasn't—I was checking for injuries—"
"Uh-huh. On his jaw?" Dean clapped my shoulder. "Look, man, I get it. He's hot. You more talk to servers than to people as Mascot. And dropped like a hot rock into that body—" he gestured at Jake's frame, "—it comes with perks. Might as well enjoy them."
Enjoy them. Enjoy being attracted to men. Enjoy the attention. Enjoy the corruption that the rat had sunk so deep into my nervous system that it was bleeding into every interaction. My own straight patrol partner giving me tips on how to flirt with men. Now Dean believed this was normal. Believed Jake had always been like this. Three days. That's all it took for the rat to rewrite six years of partnership into something I didn't recognize.
I looked back at Marcus, still standing by his Audi, leaning against it casually. He caught me looking and smiled—slow, knowing, confident.
And my cock pulsed.
"Finish the report," I told Dean, my voice tight. "I need to use the bathroom when we get back to station."
"I'm fine." But I wasn't fine. I was hard as stone from a man flirting with me at an accident scene. I was contaminated so thoroughly that I couldn't even do my job without my body betraying me. I was losing myself in increments, and everyone thought it was normal, thought it was me, thought this was just Jake being Jake.
We finished the scene. Exchanged insurance information. Filed the preliminary report. Marcus gave me one last lingering look before getting in his Audi and driving away, his business card still in my hand with his number written on it.
As we pulled back onto the highway, Dean said, "You should call him."
"What?"
"Marcus. You should call him." Dean gestured at the card. "Show's you're actually settling into the role. Jake gets hit on all the time - might as well keep the seat warm for Jake when he gets back into his rightful bod." He glanced over. "So text him and set up a workout session. See where it goes."
Jake deserves to have some fun. With a man. Because apparently that's who Jake was now.
"Maybe," I heard myself say. Everyone. Not just women. Dean said it like it was obvious. Like Jake - real Jake - had always been this way. Had I? The rat wore my body for three days. What had he done? Who had he fucked? What preferences had he performed until everyone believed they were mine?
And the worst part—the absolute fucking worst part—was that some corrupted corner of my brain was actually considering it.
Marcus's number glowed on my screen. One text and I could be someone new. Not Jake the cop. Not Miguel the mascot. Just... someone who trains with a hot guy and sees where it goes. Someone who doesn't carry six years of partnership or three days of violation. A reset that had nothing to do with the rat or Dean or any of this. My thumb hovered. But that's not strategy. That's running. And Jake Delgado doesn't run. I saved the number under 'Evidence - Marcus Rossi' and put the phone down. Not calling him. Not deleting him. Keeping options open while I figure out the real play
Fuck you, rat. Look what you've done to me.
"We should head back to station," Dean said. "Finish the paperwork. And hey. You weren’t bad back there. You actually looked like you knew what you were doing. First time today you haven't second-guessed yourself.”
Back to station. Where the rat would be waiting. Where I'd have to use the bathroom eventually. Where every space was a potential trap.
But for those few minutes at the accident scene, I'd been Jake. The competent officer who controlled situations and handled emergencies.
Except I'd also been the Jake who got hard from a man's attention. Who touched a civilian too long. Who took his number and considered calling him.
The rat's corruption ran deeper than I'd thought. It wasn't just submission to him or Dean. It was changing how I moved through the world, who I was attracted to, what my body wanted.
And everyone else thought it was normal.
This isn't over, I told myself as we drove back to station. I'm still in here. Still fighting.
The rat hadn't just taken my life.
He'd changed who Jake Delgado was and I was terrified I couldn’t tell the difference.
Part XXVI: Facilities Management
Four hours into the shift and I needed to piss. Not want—need. The kind of urgent pressure that came from the large coffee Dean had ordered this morning, the coffee I hadn't been offered, the coffee I'd watched the rat drink while sitting in my seat.
We were back at the station for a break. Dean was in the break room, writing up reports. I headed for the men's room, my cum-stained uniform still clinging to my thighs under the spare pants I'd changed into from my locker, the smell of my earlier degradation still faint but present.
The bathroom was empty. Fluorescent lights, white tile, three urinals, two stalls. The same bathroom I'd used five days a week for six years.
I was halfway to the urinal when I heard the door open behind me.
The rat.
Small frame. My oversized workout clothes. That fucking tablet clutched to his chest like a security blanket, my fucking rings and St Christopher’s cross around his neck. Not a single fucking person noticed he was wearing my shit. The rat’s eyes locked on me immediately.
"What are you doing here?" I said, not stopping. I had to piss. I was going to piss. He could fuck off.
"Making sure you don't fuck up something as simple as using the bathroom," the rat said calmly, following me. "You've been second-guessing everything all morning. Walking wrong. Talking wrong. I overheard in the break room if 'Jake' was feeling okay today."
I reached the urinal. Started to unzip my fly.
"Hold on, bud."
The word hit my nervous system like a command. My hands froze.
"What?" I said, turning to look at him.
"Did I give you permission?" The rat's voice was quiet, conversational. Like we were discussing the weather. "To use my cock? To touch Jake's body without asking first?"
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. "I need to fucking piss."
"I know." The rat stepped closer. "But you're going to ask me first. You're going to ask permission to use my body you're borrowing."
"I'm not—" I caught myself. Lowered my voice to a hiss. "I'm not borrowing anything. This is MY body."
"Is it?" The rat tilted his head, studying me. "Because from where I'm standing, you're a beta trapped in alpha meat, and that meat belongs to Jake Delgado. Me. Which means I'm the authority on what happens to it." He gestured at my crotch. "So. Ask permission."
The pressure in my bladder was building. I could feel it, urgent and insistent, bordering on painful.
"Fuck you," I spat.
"Wrong answer." The rat glanced at the door—still closed, still empty—then back at me. "You're going to stand there until you ask properly. And if you piss yourself in Jake's uniform, you'll have to explain to Morrison why you're walking around with wet pants for the second time today."
My hands were shaking. With rage. With desperation. With the sheer fucking absurdity of being held hostage by a five-foot-seven IT contractor while my bladder screamed for relief.
"Please," I forced out, the word tasting like poison. "May I use the bathroom."
"May I use the bathroom, what?" the rat prompted.
My vision was going red. "May I use the bathroom... Jake."
"Good boy." The rat smiled. "But you're too worked up. Your hands are shaking. You'll make a mess." He stepped closer, reaching for my belt. "Let me help you."
"Don't you fucking—"
His hands were already at my waist. Undoing my belt buckle with practiced ease. Popping the button on my pants. Lowering the zipper.
"Stand still," the rat ordered.
My entire body locked up. Not from fear—from pure, incandescent rage. This scrawny little fucker was undressing me in a public bathroom, treating me like someone who needed help, and my body—my powerful, six-foot-four frame—was just standing there taking it.
The rat pulled down my zipper fully. Reached into my boxer briefs—the clean pair I'd changed into after Dean's "maintenance"—and pulled out my cock.
His small hand wrapped around my shaft. Holding it. Aiming it at the urinal.
"There," the rat said. "Now you can go."
I stared down at him. At his hand on my cock. At the casual violation, the complete assumption of control, the degradation of having someone else hold my dick while I pissed.
"Go on," the rat encouraged. "You said you needed to. So piss."
The pressure was unbearable. But my body wouldn't cooperate. Couldn't relax enough to release with his hand wrapped around me, with his small frame standing so close, with the sheer wrongness of the situation locking every muscle.
"Having trouble?" The rat's thumb rubbed along the underside of my shaft. "That's okay. Take your time. We're not in a rush."
"Let go of me," I growled, my voice dropping to something dangerous.
"No." The rat's grip tightened slightly. "You asked permission. I granted it. Now you're going to piss while I hold you, because that's what Jake needs right now. Help. Guidance. Someone to make sure he doesn't make a mess."
Something inside me snapped.
My hand shot out—Jake's large, powerful hand—and grabbed the rat's throat. Slammed him back against the tile wall. His tablet clattered to the floor. His eyes went wide, but not with fear.
With satisfaction.
"Let. Go. Of. My. Cock." Each word came out between clenched teeth, my grip tightening on his throat, feeling his pulse rabbiting under my palm. I could crush his windpipe. Could make him regret every fucking second of this nightmare.
The rat smiled around my chokehold.
"Good boy," he whispered. "Stand down."
My hand released.
Not gradually. Not reluctantly. Just—released. Like my fingers weren't connected to my brain anymore, like the command had bypassed my consciousness entirely and gone straight to my muscles.
I staggered back, staring at my own hand like it had betrayed me.
Because it had.
"See?" The rat rubbed his throat, his voice slightly hoarse but still calm. "Jake's body. My rules. You can rage all you want up here—" he tapped his temple, "—but down here—" he grabbed my cock again, still hanging out of my pants, "—you're mine."
"I'll fucking kill you," I breathed.
"No, you won't." The rat started stroking my cock, slow and deliberate. "Because every time you try, I'll just say the magic words and you'll stop. Like a good dog. Like a good mascot."
My cock was hardening in his grip. Despite the fury. Despite the violence still screaming in my veins. Despite everything.
"Now," the rat said, his hand still working my shaft, "you're going to piss. And then you're going to do something else for me."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." He released my cock, stepped back. "Piss. Now."
The command bypassed my resistance. My bladder released, the stream hitting the urinal with force and relief so intense it made my knees weak. The rat watched me the entire time, his eyes tracking every second of my vulnerability.
When I finished, I reached to tuck myself away.
"No," the rat said. "Leave it out. We're not done."
"Done with what?" But I already knew. Could see it in his expression. In the way he was looking at my body like it was a toy he hadn't finished playing with.
"I want to see if Jake's hole remembers me," the rat said casually. "Three days I spent training it. Making it responsive. Making it mine." He walked to the stall, opened it, gestured inside. "Get in there. Bend over the toilet. Pants down."
"No."
"Yes." The rat's voice hardened. "Because if you don't, I'm walking out there and telling Morrison that Miguel tried to assault me. That he grabbed my throat. That he's dangerous." He touched the red marks on his neck where my fingers had been. "I've got the bruises to prove it. And when they ask me why, I'll tell them he finally snapped from the stress of being trapped in the wrong body."
The threat was real. Calculated. Devastating.
"You fucking—"
"Mascot," the rat interrupted. "Get. In. The. Stall."
My feet moved. Not because I chose to. Because the command structure he'd built over three days was still there, still active, still turning my body into a puppet that danced when he pulled the strings.
I walked into the stall. The rat followed, closing the door behind us. Locking it.
"Pants down," he ordered. "Bend over. Hands on the tank."
"Someone could walk in—"
"Then you better be quiet." The rat smiled. "Now do it. Be a good boy."
The trigger phrase made my cock pulse. Made my hands move to my belt, my zipper, pushing my pants and boxer briefs down to my ankles. Made me turn around, bend forward, brace my hands on the toilet tank while my powerful frame folded into submission in a public bathroom stall.
I heard the rat moving behind me. Heard fabric rustling. Then felt his hands on my ass, spreading my cheeks, exposing my hole.
"Beautiful," the rat murmured. "Still a little swollen from yesterday. Still remembering what I taught it."
"I swear to god—" I started, but then his tongue was there, wet and warm, licking across my hole, and the words died in my throat.
"Mmm," the rat hummed, the vibration making me shudder. "Tastes like Jake. Smells like Jake. But responds like a beta." His tongue pressed inside, breaching me, and my cock jumped between my legs.
He ate my ass with methodical precision. Long, slow licks from my balls to my tailbone. Short, rapid flicks across my hole. Deep, probing thrusts of his tongue inside me. My legs were shaking, my hands white-knuckled on the porcelain, trying to stay quiet while the rat violated me in the most intimate way possible.
"Such a good hole," the rat praised between licks. "So responsive. So eager. Jake's body loves this. Loves being reminded what it's for."
"Fuck—" I gasped, barely keeping my voice down. "Stop—please—"
"Please stop, or please more?" His tongue pushed deep, curling inside me, hitting something that made my vision blur. "Your hole is clenching on my tongue, mascot. That's not a 'stop' response."
He was right. My body was betraying me again, my ass pushing back against his face, seeking more contact, more stimulation, three days of conditioning making me desperate for the degradation.
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps. Someone at the sinks.
The rat didn't stop. Just kept eating my ass, quiet and thorough, while I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood trying not to make a sound.
The footsteps moved closer. Someone using the urinal. The sound of piss hitting porcelain, a sigh of relief, then the flush. More footsteps to the sink. Water running. Paper towels. The door opening and closing.
Silence.
The rat didn't pull back. Didn't stop. His tongue pushed deeper, curling inside me, finding that spot that made electricity shoot up my spine.
"Nnh—" The sound escaped before I could stop it, and the rat's hand cracked across my ass. Sharp. Warning.
"Quiet," he hissed against my hole. "Unless you want Martinez walking in here and finding Officer Delgado bent over a toilet getting his ass eaten."
But his tongue went back to work immediately, more aggressive now, like the near-discovery had excited him. Long, deep strokes. Rapid flicks across my rim. Then inside again, fucking me with his tongue while his hands gripped my ass hard enough to bruise.
My cock was throbbing between my legs, untouched but leaking steadily, and I could feel it building—the pressure, the heat, the inevitable—
"Fuck—I'm gonna—" I whispered, panic threading through my voice.
"I know." The rat's voice was muffled against my ass but satisfied. "I can feel it. Your hole's clenching. Getting desperate. You're going to cum just from having your ass eaten, aren't you, mascot?"
"No—" But even as I denied it, I knew it was happening. Could feel the orgasm coiling at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight, my cock pulsing with each thrust of his tongue.
"Stay quiet," the rat commanded. "Whatever you need to do, stay fucking quiet. I want to feel you cum on my tongue without making a sound."
I was going to scream. Could feel it building in my chest alongside the orgasm. There was no way I could stay silent through this, no way—
My hand shot to my duty belt. Grabbed the baton. Yanked it free from its holder and shoved it between my teeth, biting down hard on the textured grip.
"Good boy," the rat praised. Then his hand reached around, grabbed my cock—hard, leaking, ready to explode—and angled it down. Pointing directly into the toilet bowl. "There. Can't have you making a mess. Cum goes where I tell it to go."
His other hand never stopped working my hole, tongue pressing deep, hitting that spot, and—
The orgasm detonated.
My cock jerked violently in his grip, spurting thick ropes directly into the toilet water. Splash. Splash. Splash. Each pulse audible, obscene, my entire body convulsing while I bit down on the baton hard enough to taste rubber and plastic. Muffled sounds forced through my nose—nnnh, nnnh, NNNH—desperate and animal while the rat held my cock steady, controlled exactly where every drop went.
"That's it," the rat murmured, feeling my cock pulse in his hand. "Every drop in the bowl. Such a good mascot. Cumming hands-free like the beta you are."
My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stay upright. Wave after wave, my cock spurting into the toilet while his tongue kept working my prostate, milking every last drop. More cum than should have been possible after Dean's "maintenance" just hours ago.
Finally—finally—the spasms stopped. My cock gave one last weak pulse, dripping the final drops into the water below, and I slumped forward against the toilet tank, the baton still clenched between my teeth.
The rat released my cock. Stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looked down into the toilet bowl. At the cloudy water. The evidence of my complete degradation floating there.
"Look at that," the rat said, his voice sharp with disappointment. "All that cum. Jake's cum. Wasted. Down the toilet like it's nothing."
I couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. The baton dropped from my mouth, clattering against the toilet tank.
"Do you know how valuable that is?" the rat continued, staring at the bowl. "How much protein? How much essence? And you just—" he made a disgusted sound, "—flushed it away. Like garbage."
My brain couldn't process what he was saying. He'd been the one who positioned my cock. He'd been the one who made me cum into the toilet.
"I'm disappointed, mascot," the rat said, shaking his head. "Jake's body produces such quality loads, and you're just wasting them. Letting them disappear down the drain instead of putting them where they belong."
"You—you made me—" I started, but he cut me off.
"I made you cum, yes. Because you needed it. Because you were wound too tight. But the waste?" He gestured at the toilet. "That's on you. You could have asked me to catch it. To save it. But you didn't. You just let it spill into the water like it didn't matter."
The logic was insane. Circular. Designed to make me wrong no matter what I did.
"Now flush," the rat ordered. "Get rid of the evidence. And next time—" he leaned close, his voice dropping, "—next time you cum, you better make sure it goes somewhere useful. Understood?"
I stared at him. At this scrawny little fucker who'd just eaten my ass, made me cum untouched, and was now berating me for wasting the load he'd deliberately directed into the toilet.
"Understood?" he repeated, his voice hardening.
"Yes," I forced out.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes... Jake."
"Good." He stepped back. "Now clean yourself up. Fix your uniform. You've got four more hours of shift, and Dean's probably wondering where you are."
I flushed the toilet, watching my cum disappear down the drain. Pulled up my pants—still feeling the rat's saliva cooling on my hole, still feeling the ghost of his hand on my cock. My boxer briefs were damp with precum and the residual mess, but at least the bulk of the load had gone where he'd directed it.
Small mercies.
The rat picked up his tablet, unlocked the stall door. "You're learning," he said. "Slowly. But you're learning. By the end of the week, you won't even hesitate anymore. You'll just obey. And you'll stop wasting what belongs to me."
He walked out. Left me standing there, my baton back in its holder, my ass still tingling, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Just got his ass eaten, came hands-free, and got scolded for wasting his own cum.
Four more hours.
Four more hours of this nightmare.
But underneath the conditioning, underneath the humiliation—the rage was still there. Growing. Patient. Deadly. The rat thought he'd won.
But this shift was only half over.
And somewhere in the remaining hours, I'd find my moment.
I just had to be smart enough to take it when it came.
Part XXVII: Strategic Patience
The locker room was empty when I got back from the bathroom.
My legs were still shaky. My hole was still wet with the rat's saliva, clenching involuntarily with phantom sensation. And my cock—fuck, my cock was already starting to swell again in my clean boxer briefs, like the hands-free orgasm twenty minutes ago hadn't even happened.
I walked to my locker on unsteady legs. Started changing out of my uniform, and that's when I saw it.
The rat's tablet. Sitting on the bench between the lockers. Unattended.
My heart rate spiked. Everything was on that thing. Years of surveillance. Evidence. Proof.
I could end this. Right now. Walk it to Morrison's office and—
Heat surged low in my gut. Full hardness in seconds, tenting my boxer briefs.
What the fuck.
I stared down at myself. At the obvious bulge. At the wet spot already forming because apparently Jake's body leaked constantly now, always ready, always responsive.
My dick twitched. Not from fear. From the thought of what happens if I take it. Show Morrison. End the game. Get my life back.
And then what?
Go back to being Jake Delgado who doesn't need Dean's approval, doesn't respond to "good boy," doesn't leak in his uniform from a man's tongue in his ass? That Jake is gone. And if the game ends before I figure out who I am now...
The rat gotten in me, deep. He'd made corruption feel good. And taking this tablet meant choosing chaos over the rewards I was already drooling for.
I reached for the tablet with a shaking hand—
Arousal spiked. A drop of precum soaked through the fabric.
My hand stopped.
But underneath the rage, underneath the humiliation—I felt something else. A settling. Like my nervous system had been screaming static all day and the thought of maintaining this dynamic tuned it to a clear frequency. I hated that keeping the longing felt... steadier. Safer.
Fuck. Or did that rat reveal something I had buried?
I couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't separate my own thoughts from that rat’s tinkering.
Think. Focus. You need to—
But thinking was impossible with my cock this hard. With blood pounding in my ears and my hole still sensitive and my entire nervous system screaming for stimulation I didn't want to want.
I sat down on the bench. Right next to the tablet. My hand was inches from it.
The locker room door opened.
I yanked my hand away, tried to look casual, but my cock was obviously hard and my face was flushed and—
The rat walked in. Saw me. Saw the proximity to the tablet. Saw the state I was in.
His smile was slow, knowing, satisfied.
"Left my tablet," he said, picking it up. "Thanks for watching it." His eyes traveled down to my crotch, to the obvious tent, to the wet spot. "Though you look like you've been... busy."
"Fuck you," I managed.
"Not yet." He tucked the tablet under his arm. "But maybe later." A pause, his eyes still on my cock. "You're hard. Again. What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." He stepped closer. "Were you thinking about taking my tablet? About playing hero?" His voice dropped. "Your body tells me everything you won't say out loud."
He was right. My cock had answered for me.
"That's why you didn't take the tablet," the rat continued. "Your cock made the choice for you." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Dean said you did well today. At the accident scene. Met someone new for me. Made me look good. An alpha, even. "
My cock pulsed so hard I nearly came.
"Good boy," the rat added. "Same time tomorrow."
He left.
I sat there. Cock painfully hard. The opportunity I'd let slip dissolving like smoke.
The worst part wasn't the orgasm earlier. Wasn't even the violation. It was the thirty seconds after—when my hands had stopped shaking, when my breathing had evened out, when I could suddenly think clearly. The rat had just eaten my ass in a station bathroom and my brain treated it like hitting reset. Like this was... maintenance. Like Dean's hand in the car. Like I responded, craved this.
That can't be right. That can't be what I am.
But my body disagreed.
I drove to the apartment in a daze. Twenty-three minutes through surface streets, my cock finally softening, the reality settling in.
Not my actual apartment—Miguel's shitty studio with the stained carpet and broken blinds and the perpetual smell of the taqueria downstairs. The place I'd been relegated to while the rat occupied my space.
I parked. Walked up the exterior stairs to the second floor. Lights off across the courtyard at Dean's place—he lived in the same complex, different building. That's when I noticed the sightline.
From Miguel's bathroom window, I could see directly into Dean's bathroom. Clear as day. Three months of surveillance. The rat had been watching him shower, watching him piss, cataloging every private moment from right here.
Explains everything.
Inside, I pulled off my uniform in the cramped studio. Stood in Miguel's bathroom staring at Jake's body in a mirror too small to show the full frame.
My phone buzzed.
I should call Dean. My actual partner. My best friend. The one person who might—
I opened texts. Found Dean's number.
Me: You home? Need to talk. I’m across the hall
The response came fast:
Dean: bad time guy, with Jake atm at his place. He's pretty shaken up from the swap, asked if I could crash here tonight.
At his place. At my actual crib.
Dean was in my apartment. With Miguel. The rat was in my bed, using my shampoo, occupying my space. And Dean was there, protective, keeping "Jake" company while I stood in this shitty bathroom three miles away.
My stomach dropped.
I could picture it perfectly—Dean on my couch, close enough to touch, that protective instinct he always had with me now focused entirely on the rat. Maybe Miguel was playing vulnerable. Maybe Dean's hand was on his shoulder. Maybe—
Heat coiled low in my belly.
No. Not that.
But I'd watched it happen Saturday when he had my face. And now they were alone together, Dean thinking he was caring for his traumatized partner, and the rat probably—
I opened a new text. Miguel's number—my own number, since he carried my phone now.
My thumbs moved:
Me: Tomorrow after shift. My place. We need to talk about the situation.
Three dots appeared immediately. The rat was awake. Probably checking his phone while Dean sat next to him in my living room.
Miguel: Talk? Or something else?
My dick twitched reading that, already hard and leaking. I typed faster:
Me: You spent 3 days building an addiction. Maybe proximity burns it out. Only one way to find out.
Miguel: You're inviting me into your space. Why?
Me: Because I'm tired of reacting. Because you want access and I'm giving it to you. Controlled exposure.
The response took longer this time. I imagined Miguel reading it while Dean was in my bathroom, thirty seconds of privacy to plan his next move.
Miguel: Or maybe you're already addicted and eight hours without me felt too long.
Arousal shot through me. Hard again. I should have been angry. Should have thrown the phone. Should have—
But I was typing:
Me: Tomorrow. 6 PM. Don't make me regret this. Just you and me.
Miguel: Good boy. See you then.
I came.
Right there. Standing in Miguel's bathroom, overlooking Dean’s. No hands. Just those two words on a screen and three days of conditioning detonating in my nervous system. My cock pulsed, spurting against the sink, my vision whiting out while I bit my fist to stay quiet.
When I could breathe again, when the aftershocks stopped, I stared at my phone.
At the invitation I'd sent.
At "Good boy" still glowing on the screen.
A new text from Dean appeared:
Dean: Jake asked me to stay over tonight. Says he doesn't want to be alone. Won’t be back tonight
My hand squeezed my phone so hard the case creaked.
I typed back:
Me: Yeah. Later bro
What else could I say?
Dean: Cool. Don't stay up too late - you've got shift tomorrow too. See you in the bullpen
The irony was a knife in my chest. Not even "thanks"—just a reminder to be ready for work.
I cleaned up the sink. Stared at Jake's reflection. I got my face back but lost everything else.
Controlled exposure. Using his obsession against him. Document everything. Build the case. Classic strategy.
That's what I told myself.
But I'd just came untouched from a text message.
And I'd invited the man who destroyed me back here because the thought of going eight hours without his voice calling me "good boy" made my chest feel hollow.
My phone buzzed again.
A photo.
Dean and Miguel in my bed. My sheets. My pillows. Dean was completely naked, one arm draped across Miguel's small frame, both of them clearly post-sex relaxed. Miguel's head was on Dean's chest, that fucking Saint Christopher medal visible around his thin neck, and he was smiling at the camera—the angle made it clear he'd taken the selfie while Dean dozed.
My stomach lurched. My cock hardened. The contradiction made me want to vomit but I kept staring.
The text underneath:
Miguel: Dean's worried about "Jake." Needed comfort. You understand.
I did understand. I understood too well. My cock throbbed looking at Dean's arm around my replacement, at them in my bed, at the satisfied smile on Miguel's face.
Miguel: Don't worry. He thinks I'm fragile right now. Thinks I need protection. It's sweet how much he wants to take care of me.
Another photo. Closer. Dean's face peaceful in sleep, Miguel's small hand resting possessively on Dean's lower chest, brushing his treasure trail.
Nausea and arousal fought for dominance. I was getting harder looking at proof of my own erasure.
Miguel: Tomorrow he’ll be here again. In my bed. Still thinking I need him. And I'll take everything I wanted.
Miguel: Sleep well, Mascot. Try not to think about what position we're in right now.
I should have deleted the photos. Should have blocked the number. Should have driven over there and kicked down my own door.
But I saved them. Every one.
More evidence, I told myself. Building the case.
But I pulled out Marcus's business card with my other hand. Entered the number. Saved it as "Personal Trainer - Evidence."
I should call him. Should reach out to someone outside this nightmare. Someone who represented escape, normalcy, a path back to being Jake Delgado who didn't leak in his uniform.
But my thumb opened Miguel's text thread instead. Scrolled back to the photos. Dean naked. Miguel smiling. My bed.
My cock was fully hard again.
I told myself: tomorrow Miguel would come here. To Miguel's apartment. My prison. While Dean slept in my bed across town. And I'd... what? Burn out the addiction? Build my case?
Or would I just get on my knees the moment he said "good boy"?
I set a reminder for 5:30 PM tomorrow: Clean apartment.
Because if Miguel was coming over, I wanted everything perfect.
There are many things that fuck with your mind when you swap bodies. One thing is seeing your reflection. Especially when it’s your douchey think as shit brother looking back at you. I swore to myself I’d be true to myself, but it’s harder than you think. I told myself I’d eat a sensible amount, but soon, I’d eaten everything in the fridge. I was just so fucking hungry. I told myself I’d stick to my routine of getting up early to study. But I just couldn’t sit still and ended up at the gym to blow off some steam. And 30 minutes turned into 2 hours. And I enjoyed it so much more than I would like to admit. More than my studying… Also hearing that voice that annoyed me so much growing up coming out of my own mouth is insane. At first, I didn’t want to speak, but there’s no avoiding it really.
I told myself I’d be much more hygienic than my brother ever was, but I came back from the gym several hours ago and I only just got round stripping off my gym clothes and having a shower. And in my defense, normally he smells pretty sweaty. His room too, but I couldn’t smell too much, so I am assuming it wasn’t too strong today, even though I did sweat a ton. First I needed to eat, then I got distracted by my new cock (that’s a whole other mind fuck), and then I think I lost an hour or two just in front of the mirror. My mind justified it that I needed to accept being in this body, but I think deep down, there was another reason I spent so long checking myself out.
But I think the biggest mind fuck to date is brushing my teeth. It feels so gross to use someone else’s toothbrush, but then I have to remind myself, that logically speaking this brush is for this mouth and it would be gross to use my old toothbrush. I tell ya, this shit messes with your mind big time.
The winter break means that most students decided to leave this quiet university town to go back to spend Christmas and New Year with their family. Not for Jeremiah though, as the foster kid practically has nowhere to call home so the sophomore sticks around in his dorm while his boyfriend, Marcus, dejectedly leave Jeremiah behind to spend the holiday with his mom and her new boyfriend that he despised judging from their only two encounter during summer break and Thanksgiving. Marcus actually wanted to ask his mom about the idea of having "a friend from college with no family" back to their home as a way to spend Christmas with Jeremiah, but he digressed before even asking. His mom, Elaine, is a high-powered Chief Legal Officer for a company that is planning to get listed in NYSE by next Spring. She's sharp as a tack but mostly blinded to solely focus on her career development and the looming IPO. Is she homophobic? Marcus is not sure, she seems indifferent, but she did say a lot to Marcus about having girls so she might not be very open. Tyrone in the other hand, that's an entirely different matter.
Dude's an arrogant douchebag through and through, and Marcus already spoke about him at length to Jeremiah. That man is a gold-digging brute only eyeing to be Marcus's mom eye-candy while definitely playing around on the side (not like he can proof it, just the vibe). He treated Marcus like he's a pesky, disrespectful brat and despite still just a boyfriend only separated by 13 years to Marcus while the gap between Tyrone and his mom is like 15 years, Tyrone acted less of an older brother and more like as if he's Marcus's dad or something. That frustrated Marcus but Jeremiah said that he should go home to accompany his mom anyway and paid zero attention to Tyrone, so he eventually head home and leave Jeremiah on his own in the dorm as Jeremiah's probably the only student in the entire floor of their dorm that skipped the chance to get out from the quaint little town during the break.
But, instead of digging himself to read books or play games, on a rather plain yet crisp December morning, something extraordinary happened. Jeremiah, experimenting with an obscure occult ritual he'd found online, accidentally triggered a possession ritual. One moment, he's in his dorm room; the next, his consciousness slammed into Tyrone's hulking body as his mind wandered to check on Marcus and how Marcus spent his holiday. The transition as his soul ripped out from his body to then crash into another one hundred miles away is pretty disorienting, a rush of heat and power that made his nerdy frame feel like a distant memory. He blinked, staring at the bathroom mirror in Elaine's upscale condo that he recognized pretty well from all the visual story Marcus give him, and grinned. Tyrone's face stared back: sharp features, a neatly trimmed beard, curly hair twisted into tight coils, and skin a rich caramel tone that screamed confidence.
Jeremiah flexed his new arms, watching the biceps bulge like coiled pythons under the skin.
"Holy shit," he muttered in Tyrone's deep, rumbling voice. It's gravelly, commanding, the kind that could silence a room. He then run his hands over the chest—broad, pectorals like slabs of marble, nipples dark and pert. The sensation is electric; every touch sent shivers through this borrowed form. He lifted an arm, bringing the pit close to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent is musky, a mix of sweat from last night's gym session, cologne that smelled like leather and spice, and something primal, almost animalistic. Jeremiah's mind reeled with excitement as he never really enjoyed other people's scent this much and yet, smelling himself in this form is intoxicating and gives him some sense of forbidden thrill. He buried his face deeper, tongue flicking out to taste the saltiness, groaning as the flavor exploded on his palate: tangy, earthy, utterly masculine.
He stripped off the remaining clothes, standing naked before the mirror. Tyrone's physique is a masterpiece, six-pack abs etched like a washboard, veins popping along the forearms and down to the hands, which were large and calloused from weights. Jeremiah traced the V-line dipping toward the groin, feeling the coarse hair there, then cupped the heavy balls, warm and full. The cock is a spectacle, thick, uncut, hanging semi-erect and it twitched at his touch. He stroked it lightly, marveling at the weight, the way it swelled into a beer-can size in response as it feels heftier in his hands. The sound of his own ragged breathing filled the room, heavy and rhythmic, echoing off the tiles. He posed in between strokes, flexing his quads, watching the muscles ripple. The feel of power is overwhelming; every movement is effortless, like piloting a sports car after years on a bicycle.
Jeremiah spent what felt like hours in self-worship. He turned sideways, admiring the lats flaring out like wings, the traps rising to meet the neck. He squatted, feeling the glutes tighten, then jumped, landing with a thud that vibrated through the floor. The taste of his own skin lingered on his lips as he licked sweat from his upper lip. Salty, with a hint of the protein shake Tyrone had chugged earlier. He heard the distant hum of the city outside, but it faded as he focused on the internal symphony: heartbeat strong and steady, lungs expanding like bellows. He imagined Tyrone's life: endless workouts, picking up women (or so he bragged), but now it's his playground to explore. Then, it hit him. Marcus is literally in the same unit as him now, so with a smirk, he then inhale for a deep breath as he readied himself to see how far he can play along in this look
Jeremiah sauntered into the kitchen, clad in Tyrone's usual gym shorts and tank top, the fabric clinging to every curve.
"Mornin', babe," he drawled, pulling Elaine into a rough kiss.
She melted, oblivious to the change. Inside, Jeremiah smirked, how easy it was to mimic Tyrone's douchey swagger, the way he slapped her ass possessively, the drawl, this is all based on the recent and surface-level muscle memory of Tyrone, and he chugged every drop of it and poured it into action. Marcus is at the table, scrolling his phone, avoiding eye contact. Jeremiah ruffled his hair roughly using Tyrone's calloused hand.
"Hey, kid, pass the eggs. And fix your posture; you look like a slouch."
"Whatever, Tyrone." Marcus said as he rolled his eyes, and yet also still handing out the eggs.
Jeremiah sensed an opportunity to push this further so he leaned in, voice dropping to a petty growl.
"Watch your tone, boy. Or I'll tell your mom how disrespectful you're bein'."
He snitched right then, turning to Elaine.
"Babe, your son's got an attitude this mornin'. Thinks he can talk back."
Elaine sighed, checking her watch.
"Marcus, behave. I don't have time for this. Remember, no access to my card unless Tyrone told me you've been good to him and don't mess up with him," She was already in her power suit, briefcase in hand, heading out for work. As she kissed Tyrone on the lips for a quick second, she then said, "You two play nice. I'll be back late for today," with the nice stated directly to Marcus, guess it's easy to tell which man is the fave in this household and it ain't the pesky, bratty son
As the door clicked shut, Jeremiah's pulse quickened. Alone with Marcus, but still in character. He reveled in the deception—Marcus had no idea his boyfriend is inside this homophobic brute. Jeremiah flexed subtly, feeling the tank top strain.
"Gonna hit the gym, kid. You comin' or what? Nah, you probably too soft for real work."
Marcus muttered something under his breath, retreating to his room. Jeremiah laughed inwardly, amused with how perfect everything has been. He headed to the home gym in this private section of the condo unit, pushing Tyrone's body to its limits. He clearly is not experienced enough to handle any of these equipment, but Tyrone's muscle memory quickly takeover as he then gravitate to the weight racks. Deadlifts first: gripping the bar, he heaved 400 pounds like it's nothing, grunting with each rep. Sweat poured down, soaking the shorts. The burn in the hamstrings and back is quite an exquisite pain, a testament to the form's power. He moved to bench presses, loading the bar heavy, chest exploding with each push. Then, pull-ups followed, bodyweight feeling light as he cranked out sets of 20. The mirrors reflected a god: veins bulging, muscles pumped, face contorted in effort. Jeremiah paused between sets, sniffing his armpits again—deeper musk now, post-workout intensity. He tasted the sweat trickling down his abs, salty heaven. Touching himself, he can feel the hardness everywhere, the cock stirring in the shorts.
Hours blurred; Jeremiah lost track, immersed in the worship. He posed like in those Instagram fitness pics—double bicep, most muscular, abs crunched, pecs popped. Fooling them had been a rush: Elaine's trusting kiss, Marcus's annoyed glances. No one suspected the nerd inside the alpha. He imagined revealing himself later, but for now, the charade is too fun.
Exhausted but exhilarated, Jeremiah headed upstairs with his body glistening with sweat still. But that's when he heard it: groaning from Marcus's room. Low, rhythmic, unmistakable. Curiosity piqued, he crept to the door, peeking in. Marcus is on his bed, pants down, hand stroking furiously to gay porn on his laptop—two muscular guys going at it. A wicked grin spread across Tyrone’s full lips. Inside his borrowed skull, Jeremiah’s nerdy excitement buzzed like electricity. This is the moment he’d been building toward all day: the perfect collision of fear, arousal, and revelation.
He shoved the door open without knocking. The sudden intrusion made Marcus jolt upright, eyes wide with pure terror.
“Tyrone! What the fuck--get out!” Marcus scrambled for the blanket, yanking it over his lap, but it's too late. The laptop teetered on the edge of the mattress, still playing the unmistakable slap of flesh on flesh and the loud groan of two men completely succumbed to lust in the background. Jeremiah stepped fully into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. He filled the doorway like a wall of muscle as his broad shoulders straining the tank top, veins still pumped from the basement workout, skin shining under a fresh sheen of sweat. Tyrone’s deep voice rumbled out, thick with feigned disgust.
“What the hell is this, boy?” He took another deliberate step forward, towering over the bed, “You in here jackin’ off to faggot shit? Two dudes fuckin’ each other?”
Marcus’s face drained of color, yet he still tried to speak back
“It’s none of your business! Get out, Tyrone, I swear to God—”
“You swear to God what?” Jeremiah interrupted, voice dropping to a dangerous growl that sounded insidiously threatening coming from Tyrone. He leaned in, planting one massive hand on the mattress beside Marcus’s thigh, caging him.
“You gonna do somethin’ about it, little man? Huh?”
Marcus shoved at Tyrone’s chest with both hands hard. His palms met solid, unyielding pecs, slick with sweat. The push barely budged the bigger man. Jeremiah didn’t even flinch; he just let the resistance roll through Tyrone’s powerful frame like it's nothing.
“Get off me!” Marcus hissed, panic rising. He swung a fist this time, aiming for Tyrone’s jaw. Jeremiah caught the wrist mid-air effortlessly, Tyrone reflexes, thick fingers wrapping completely around it.
“Boy, you done lost your damn mind,” Jeremiah snarled in character, twisting the arm just enough to make Marcus wince. With his free hand, he snatched the blanket away, exposing Marcus fully as his erection still half-hard from the interrupted session, now rapidly deflating under the weight of fear.
Marcus kicked out, trying to scramble backward on the bed, but Jeremiah is faster. He climbed onto the mattress, knees pinning Marcus’s thighs, using Tyrone’s sheer mass to immobilize him. The struggle is brief and one-sided; Marcus thrashed, cursing, but every twist and push only pressed him harder against the immovable wall of muscle above him.
“Stop—stop it!” Marcus panted, chest heaving. “I’ll scream. Mom’ll hear—”
“Your mom ain’t here,” Jeremiah growled, leaning down until their faces mere inches apart. Tyrone’s breath is hot, smelling faintly of pre-workout and raw masculinity, "and even if she's here, what you think she’d say seein’ her son jackin’ it to gay porn, huh? She’d throw your ass out on the street.”
Marcus went still, breathing ragged, eyes glassy with humiliation and dread.
“Please… don’t tell her. Tyrone, please.”
Jeremiah’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Beggin’ now? Pathetic.” He shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels but keeping Marcus pinned. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his own gym shorts. Marcus’s eyes followed the movement, wide and unblinking.
Jeremiah tugged the shorts down just enough to free Tyrone’s heavy, thick, uncut cock that is already half-hard from the dominance play. It flopped out with a soft thud against Marcus’s bare thigh, the foreskin partially retracted, the head glistening. The scent hit immediately: musky, potent, a mix of dried sweat from the workout and fresh arousal. It dangled inches from Marcus’s face as Jeremiah leaned forward again, letting it sway teasingly.
“Look at it,” Jeremiah commanded in Tyrone’s low timbre. “That’s what a real man’s dick looks like. Bet you wish yours was half this big, don’t you, fag?”
“Fuck you.” Marcus replied as he turned his head away, cheeks burning
Jeremiah chuckled darkly. He gripped the base of his cock and give it a slow stroke, making the shaft swell thicker, veins pulsing along the length. A bead of precum formed at the tip. He angled it closer, brushing the slick head against Marcus’s clenched lips.
“Well, guess I'll be doing just that, with your assistance though. Open up and say sorry, boy. Maybe I won’t tell your mama what a little cocksucker you are,"
Marcus jerked his head side to side, lips sealed tight, but his breathing had changed into shallow and quick exasperated breath. His own cock, traitorously, twitched against his stomach.
Then Jeremiah let the mask slip.
His voice softened, the gravelly edge melting into something familiar, something Marcus knew intimately.
“Babe… it’s me," he said in a tone completely foreign from Tyrone
Marcus froze. His eyes snapped up to Tyrone’s face as he really looked at the face this time. The cruel smirk had transformed into something warm, loving yet mischievous.
“Jeremiah?” he whispered, disbelief cracking his voice.
Jeremiah’s grin widened ear to ear, Tyrone’s perfect white teeth flashing.
“Surprise.”
Marcus stared, mouth falling open.
“No fucking way. You—you’re inside him?”
“Every inch,” Jeremiah said, giving Tyrone’s cock another playful pump for emphasis. “Possessed him this morning. Been flexing and sniffing myself all day like a total narcissist. Then I heard you in here…figured it was time to scare the shit out of you before I gave you the best Christmas present ever.”
Marcus let out a shaky laugh that bordered on a sob.
“You asshole. I really thought—” He reached up, hands trembling as he touched Tyrone’s chest, tracing the ridges of muscle he’d only ever admired from a distance. “I thought he was gonna kill me. Or tell Mom.”
“Nah,” Jeremiah murmured, leaning down to kiss him gently, putting Tyrone’s full lips soft against Marcus’s. “I’d never let that happen. But admit it… you were kinda into the fear, weren’t you?”
“Shut up," Marcus flushed darker
Jeremiah laughed, the sound rich and deep in Tyrone’s chest.
“Knew it.”
The shift is immediate. The terror melted into hunger. Marcus surged upward, capturing Tyrone’s mouth in a desperate kiss, hands roaming greedily over the broad back, the pumped delts, the taper of the waist. Jeremiah groaned into it, letting Marcus explore the body he’d spent all day worshipping himself.
“Been hard all day thinking about this,” Jeremiah admitted between kisses. “Kept smelling these pits, licking the sweat off these abs… now I get to share it with you.”
Marcus pulled back just enough to stare. “You’re such a freak.”
“Your freak,” Jeremiah corrected, and pushed him flat again—this time willingly.
Clothes comed off fast. Marcus’s shirt yanked over his head meanwhiJeremiah peeled off his underwear fully. Marcus’s hands are everywhere—palming the heavy pecs, tracing the deep cuts of the eight-pack, wrapping fingers around the thick shaft that had terrified him minutes ago.
“God, it’s even bigger up close,” Marcus breathed, stroking slowly, watching the foreskin glide over the head.
“Suck it. Been edging myself thinking about your mouth all day.” Jeremiah hissed in pleasure
Marcus didn’t need telling twice. He scooted down, lips parting to take the head in. The taste exploded across his tongue, salty skin, faint bitterness of precum, the overwhelming musk of a man who’d just crushed a brutal workout. He moaned around it, taking more, cheeks hollowing as he worked the shaft.
Jeremiah threaded fingers through Marcus’s hair, guiding gently at first, then firmer. “That’s it… take that alpha dick. Take your mom’s boyfriend’s cock down your throat like a good side whore!"
The roleplay sent a fresh surge through both of them. Marcus pulled off with a gasp as his moan momentarily stopped
“Say it again.”
Jeremiah grinned down at him.
“I’m Tyrone. And you’re the dirty little secret I’m gonna fuck senseless while your mama’s at work.”
Marcus whimpered and dove back down, taking him deeper, gagging slightly but pushing through. Jeremiah’s hips rocked subtly, fucking Marcus’s mouth with controlled thrusts, watching the lips stretch around Tyrone’s girth.
Eventually, Jeremiah pulled him off with a wet pop.
“Turn over. I want that ass.”
Marcus scrambled to comply, getting on all fours. Jeremiah grabbed lube from the nightstand and slicked his fingers. He worked Marcus open slowly, teasingly, crooking fingers to hit that spot that made Marcus bury his face in the pillow and moan.
“Mmpphhhh.....please,” Marcus finally begged, pushing back. “Ty ....Fffuuuccckkkk......I need it, give....mmmmpphhaaahh....it to meee,"
Jeremiah lined up, the fat head pressing against the entrance. He slide in inch by inch, savoring the tight heat, the way Marcus’s back arched and his breath hitched. When he bottomed out, balls pressed against ass, both men stilled, breathing hard.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Jeremiah groaned the same way Tyrone would growl when he fucked Elaine. He pulled back and thrust in again, setting a steady rhythm that quickly built to something harder, deeper. The bed creaked under Tyrone’s powerful strokes.
Marcus reached back, gripping Jeremiah---Tyrone---thigh.
“Nghhhh...harder! Punish me!"
Jeremiah obliged, grabbing hips with bruising force, pounding relentlessly. Skin slapped against skin, the room filling with grunts, moans, the wet sounds of lube and flesh. He leaned over Marcus’s back, chest to spine, one hand snaking around to stroke Marcus in time.
“Gonna fill you up,” he growled in Marcus’s ear, voice rough with impending climax. “Gonna breed this ass with Tyrone’s load while you think about how close you came to getting caught.”
Somehow, such threat is enough because Marcus instantly cried out, coming first—stripes of cum painting the sheets beneath him. Soon after, the tight clench of Marcus asshole pushed Jeremiah over the edge. He buried himself deep and unloaded, pulse after pulse of thick seed flooding Marcus, hips jerking with each spurt.
They collapsed sideways, still joined, Jeremiah’s arms wrapped possessively around Marcus from behind. For several minutes, there's only heavy breathing and soft kisses along Marcus’s shoulder.
Then, the front door lock clicked.
Both men froze for a second
“Marcus? Tyrone? I’m home early, the meeting got canceled!” Elaine’s voice echoed from the first floor, heels clicking on hardwood.
Panic surged. Jeremiah pulled out carefully, cum already leaking from Marcus. “Shit----ughhh, shower....shower, I need to go now," Jeremiah said as he tiptoed out from the bedroom and headed to the bathroom right in the opposite side from Marcus bedroom, heart pounding in Tyrone's chest like crazy. Marcus grabbed tissues, wiping his creamed ass dry and all sorts of residue and spots of cum in his bed frantically, while Jeremiah cranked the shower on full blast, stepped in for exactly ten seconds, just long enough to soak his skin and hair, then shut it off. He grabbed whatever clothing he could find that he usually hung around the bathroom while making sure that the water from the quick shower dripping strategically.
Marcus managed to yank on his boxers and a T-shirt, snatched his phone, and already sprawled on the bed scrolling like nothing happened by the time Elaine knocked lightly and pushed the door open.
“Hey, baby,” she said, smiling at Marcus. Her gaze then shifted to the bathroom behind her back as Jeremiah opened the door quite loudly purposefully to ensure that Elaine does not spend too much time scanning the ground zero as he leaned casually against the doorframe, in damp clothes and still smelling like a wet dog. The air still hung heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, but the steam from the shower masked it just enough.
“Just finished cleanin’ up,” Jeremiah drawled in Tyrone’s lazy baritone, running a hand through wet curls, “Hit the gym hard today. Boy was there playin’ games or whatever kids do.”
Elaine wrinkled her nose slightly—probably catching the lingering musk—but dismissed it.
“You've been speaking like an old man the past few hours, a bit try hard as I might say. And you do smell like you worked out, babe. Anywau you two, dinner in an hour, okay?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Marcus mumbled, eyes glued to his phone, cheeks still flushed but passing as college student sullenness, meanwhile Tyrone just mumbled in agreement
Elaine left, closing the door behind her and kiss Tyrone as she said
"Can't believe we'll have some times for tonight since I'm home early....hmmm......love this smell on you, don't clean-up further, okay? I want this scent imprinted on me tonight,"
"Oh, you'll get it and more, babe," Jeremiah said seductively as he grabbed Elaine's ass and bite his lips sensually, really playing Tyrone to the tee.
She chuckled in excitement as she then stepped down to put on everything into her study room on the first floor while preparing some food test she wanted to make for Christmas later next week. The second her footsteps faded, Jeremiah opened the door to Marcus room and both men locked eyes. Marcus bit his lip to stifle a laugh. Jeremiah grinned, droplets still sliding down Tyrone’s carved torso, underwear tenting slightly from residual arousal.
“That was too close,” Marcus whispered.
Jeremiah sauntered over, leaning down to kiss him softly.
“Worth it.”
Marcus glanced at the strained underwear, then back up.
“Round two after she goes to sleep?”
Jeremiah’s grin turned wicked.
“Oh, we’re just getting started.”
---
Amazingly, I have finished this series on my draft so you'll see me dropping the next parts in the next couple days before closing it right on Christmas. If you have any thing you want to be added to the storyline, please comment or you can DM me and I'll see what I can do. Until then, see ya!
The fashion magazines were becoming a thing of the past after covid. Many company realised that they still can have many employees without paying the rent for offices. But CosmoGuy remained.
That’s where two friends, Lucas and Elias eventually met. They probably wouldn’t have ever spoken to each other, if it wasn’t for the working environment. But they found out that they understood each other pretty well. They were both into fantasy and videogames, but Lucas was a straight muscular, gym addict with a fiancée, while Elias was a homosexual slim, nerd and single.
They shared an office next to their boss, being writers and assistants at the same time, which meant that they spent a lot of time with each other, talking about all kinds of stuff. At first they both shared just superficial information, but eventually they became good friends and got to know each other.
Monday 21st October, 10:34 AM
Lucas and Elias had a pretty boring morning ahead of them. The boss went for vacation, but they still had to come to the office. Obviously, they finished their job quite swiftly and proceeded to talk.
Lucas:”I brought beer.”
Elias:”Drunk at work, that’s something I am not really keen on doing.”
Lucas:”Come on, man. You know she’s not gonna come today. Let’s enjoy it then. You never wanna go out with me, so we gotta bring the party here.”
Elias thought about it for a while, but Lucas’s cute face and the hinted motive of potential closer interaction was worth it. Elias grabbed the bear. “Cheers, man.”
They proceeded to talk about their free time. Lucas talked about gym, which Elias didn’t really listen to, but he kept staring at his gorgeous face and occasionally his body. He checked out his Instagram page from time to time, whenever he needed a jerk-off material. But he had to admit, he had a big crush on Lucas. Unfortunately he was straight and there was no chance he would ever want him.
Lucas:”… and after I finish I usually go back home to fuck my fiancé.”
Elias nervously replied:”That sounds great man.”
Lucas:”Yeah… well. To be honest there has been something missing lately and the sex wasn’t as good as before. We talked about it with Chloe.”
Elias:”Yeah? And what did you come up with?” he said and took a big sip of the bear he was holding. He felt the tension in the room building up, but he wasn’t sure If it wasn’t only him that felt it.
Lucas:”Well, Chloe admitted that she wants to do some role playing. We tried, but when it’s only the two of us, we tend to laugh it off. You know. So, would you like to try threesome with us?”
The bear Elias had in his mouth and neck suddenly flew out threw his nose. He started choking as the bear poured on the ground.
Lucas:”Easy, man. You ok?”
Elias’s face was red and wet. He tried to catch his breath. “Yeah… eh. I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
Lucas:”Look, man. I noticed how you looked at me and you even liked some random old photos on my insta where I flex, so I figured you might want to join. I showed Chloe your photo and she agreed. So it’s up to you.”
Elias couldn’t believe what was happening. Lucas knew about his crush and he wanted to have sex with him? This was a nightmare and a dream come true at once. He looked deep in the eyes of the man he desired.
Elias:”I’m in.”
Monday 21st October, 10:57 PM
Elias was pacing on the sidewalk. What if its some sort of a prank? What if they just take photos of him while he undresses? He wasn’t as hot as Lucas, so why would Chloe pick HIM? The door buzzed and Elias was let in.
He pushed to button for the elevator and waited. The door opened and Lucas was already there in a tank top and sweatpants.
Lucas:”Hey, maaaan. I’m so happy you came. Come on in!”
Lucas pressed the button with number 9 and the elevator started moving.
Lucas:”Are you nervous?”
Elias:”A bit. I have never done this.”
Lucas:”No worries. We won’t judge you at all. Try to enjoy it as much as you can. And be gentle.” Lucas winked. Elias wasn’t really sure what the comment was supposed to mean, but hopefully no one would force him to fuck Chloe. Sex with a girl didn’t excite him. But if Lucas was kissing him while he was doing that, then maybe.
They entered the appartement. It was really clean and spacious. Chloe entered the hall in her pink night robe.
Chloe:”Oh, hello. You must be Eric.”
Lucas:”Elias.”
Chloe:”Oh right, sorry. I’m so bad with names.”
Elias:”It’s fine. It’s nice to meet you, Chloe. You have a lovely home.”
Chloe:”And even more lovely bedroom. Wanna check it out?” she came closer and tried to take his hand, but Elias moved away from her nervously.
Elias:”Could you maybe point me to a bathroom? I don’t wanna be lost later on.”
Chloe had an irritated grin on her face. “Sure, just to the right behind the corner. First door. You can’t miss it.”
Elias entered the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. “What the fuck am I doing here?” he splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself. He could hear Chloe and Lucas talking in the hallway.
Chloe:”You said he would be into it.”
Lucas:”Just give him some time. You’d be nervous too if you were in his place.”
Chloe:”Fine.”
Elias came back to meet them, but the light in the hallway was off and the only light on was in the bedroom. He entered and saw Lucas and Chloe sitting on the bed.
Chloe:”Come Elias. We have a glass of champagne for you.”
Elias:”I’m not really su…”
Lucas:”Drink up, man. It will calm you. You’ll see.”
They drank their glasses. Elias felt really weird. His world was spinning. He had to sit down. Did they drug him? He was sitting next to Chloe. She put his head in her lap. He could feel a different head touching the top of his, but he didn’t really care about that. He wanted the vertigo to stop.
Suddenly all was good again. He felt Chloe’s hand in his hair. It felt really nice.
Chloe:”So are you ready, boys?”
“Hell yeah, baby.” A very familiar voice responded, but it wasn’t Lucas. Elias opened his eyes and turned to see the face. His face. He jumped up.
Elias:”What the fuck?! What’s happening? Did you drug me?”
Chloe:”Calm down. Everything is fine. Nothing will happen to you. This is fully reversible.” She got up and tried to get close to him, grabbing his arm
Elias:”Reversible?! What are you…” as he pulled away his arm from Chloe, he noticed that something was very wrong. That wasn’t his arm. The arm now was significantly hairier, wider and tanned. Both of his arms were. He looked down. He was wearing a tank top and under the tank top were large protruding pecs.
Elias:”What did you do to me?”
Lucas:”Come with me, it’s gonna be easier.”
His own body grabbed his hand and took him in front of the mirror.
Elias felt sick. His own body didn’t respond to his actions, instead next to him was a reflection of Lucas, which mimicked every single moved. Lucas touched his scruffy face and his now longer hair.
Lucas:”Pretty cool, right?”
Elias:”How…”
Lucas:”That’s not really important. The important thing is, that we have a very horny woman in the bed waiting for us. So shell we give her some attention? LUCAS?”
Elias looked back at his face, now smiling, but there was something different. He now looked more confident. More manly. He turned around and was faced with naked Chloe. Lucas pushed him closer and forced him to put a hand on Chloe’s tits.
Lucas:”They’re great, right Lucas?”
Elias couldn’t believe what was happening. He was standing in the body of his crush, holding a breast of his fiancé, while Elias was in his body smiling at him and holding his shoulder.
Lucas:”Come on, tiger. Her pussy is hungry. You can’t keep her waiting.”
There was a strange overwhelming thrill in Elias’s mind. He found Chloe attractive. Not only that. His dick was hard. No, Lucas’s dick was hard. And it was fucking HUGE. And Lucas’s body wanted to fuck Chloe. Elias was gay, why would he even do that. He had to stop.
Before he could come up with a plan how to stop it, his body already undressed Chloe and with Lucas’s help even his own. He was now on top of Chloe. Chloe screamed Lucas’s name and begged to be fucked hard.
Elias moved his body and slid his new dick in her pussy. He knew what to do, or at least his body did. But he could feel the thrill, the horniness. The head of his cock was making slow moves there and back, giving him insane amounts of pleasure. Elias looked to the left where his body sat on a chair next to them, observing them and jerking off his small dick. Normally he would scream at him to stop, especially since he didnt even ask. He was really sensitive about his body, but he was indisposed with a much better activity. He was pounding Chloe senselessly. Chloe screaming in pleasure. Lucas jerking off. Elias was squeezing Chloe’s breasts, making out with her. And then it happened. He came into her.
Elias collapsed next to Chloe. They both hyperventilated, while Elias was sucking on Chloe’s breast, fondling them.
Lucas got up and sped up with the jerking off and then he shot streams of cum on Elias. Even though it was technically his cum, he was disgusted. Another man came on his torso. His borrowed torso. Wait, he never disliked a gay sex, hell he is gay. What was happening?
Lucas:”You better go clear me up, man. Don’t want to have your cum on me for too long. Haha.”
Elias got up and left for the bathroom. He still couldn’t believe the whole situation. He was Lucas. He was looking at his body, that hot body he used to jerk off to on Instagram. He flexed and posed. “Fuck, I look hot!”. He observed his now flaccid, but still pretty big dick. Waaaay bigger than his own. “What a body”
Before he returned to the bedroom he waited if he could eavesdrop some more.
Chloe:”… so even if I do this?”
Lucas:”I mean it feels nice, but not as much as in my body. I’m telling you, I’m still straight, but damn this body is SO gay for my body. I would honestly want to suck off my dick if he told me to.”
Chloe:”Look at our little fag with a teen tiny dick. Haha. I’m so proud of for fulfilling my fantasy.”
Lucas:"How small do you think it is? It's not even 2 Inches, right? Look at it."
Elias entered the room. Chloe was lying next to his body. They eyed him as he entered. Smiling mischievously.
Lucas:”Hello, handsome. Hungry for more, right?”
Chloe:”It seems you enjoyed it. Did you?”
Elias:”Yeah… I did.” He was back to his nervous self, but still in his new muscular body.
Lucas:”Before we switch, could you give us a show?”
Chloe:”Oh come on, Lucas. Don’t be so self-centred. I am hungry, so let’s get on with this.”
They drank the champagne again and swapped as before. Elias felt so strange as he was back in his body, as if someone has taken his favourite toy from him.
Tuesday 22nd October, 9:02 AM
Elias was nervously biting his nails, sitting behind a computer. Lucas was late. Suddenly the door swung open and Lucas entered. He was wearing his suit and holding two cups of coffee.
Lucas:”Good morning!”
Elias:”Where the hell have you been? I was worried that I would have to cover for you.”
Lucas:”Relax, she’s still on vacation. No one’s gonna know.” He winked and sat to his desk. “Man, I feel so exhausted after the swap, don’t you? Ah right. YOU were just jerking off, while MY body was working my ass off. Hahaha”
Elias:”Shhhh. What if anybody hears.”
Lucas:”No one will know or believe us, don’t worry.”
Elias:”Lucas, I feel different after yesterday. I mean a bit more confident.”
Lucas:”Who wouldn’t be after being in my body.”
Elias:”I’m serious.”
Lucas:”Yeah, that’s the after effect of the swap. The strong qualities are partially transferred for a while. Sometimes they take over, but it depends on a person. For example, I can’t stop thinking about sucking my own dick.”
Elias:”Are you saying you’d be into swapping again?”
Lucas smiled and handed him a coffee. “I’m saying you should drink you latté and meet me in the bathroom.” He sipped his coffee and left
Elias was back I Lucas’s body. He grabbed his growing bulge over the pants. "Much better."
He waited in the bathroom, while his body entered the stall.
Lucas:”Hello, BIG boy. Long time no see.”
He unbuckled his belt, unzipped the pants and pulled out Elias throbbing dick, sucking him dry.
Thursday 24rd October, 9:29 PM
Elias was invited to their apartment again. The night progressed just like the last time, except after Elias licked Chloe’s vagina and Lucas sucked his old cock, while jerking off his tiny one and all three came, Chloe came up with an idea. Alle three o them, naked, hugging each other. Sweat drops on their bodies, mixing on the surface.
Chloe:”No more champagne tonight, boys:”
Elias:”What do you mean?”
Chloe:”I want you to continue the roleplay. You’re still Lucas and he’ll stay as Elias. You both will go to work and show off your new bodies, pretending to be the other one.”
Lucas:”Cool with me, if it turns you on, babe.” He said and kissed his old shoulder, his hand travelling to his old butt cheeks.
Elias:”So we’ll swap back tomorrow night and just live each other’s life?”
Chloe:”Yeah. You both know each other’s routines quite well, so it shouldn’t be hard for you.”
Lucas:”I’ll show you how to work out and tomorrow at work, we’ll do what we normally do.”
The two of them headed out to the nearby gym, that was opened 24/7. Elias couldn’t help but admire his body in the mirror again, while Lucas worked out, but observed Elias. Elias struggled to understand some machines, but Lucas gave him a detailed explanation and even showed him how to do it. They parted their ways and headed to their homes.
Friday 25th October, 7:50 AM
Lucas was early at the office, waiting for his body to arrive. He could feel that Elias’s body was nervous. He watched joyfully as he saw his body enter the office with a very confident look, his T-shirt unbuttoned and his dick outline showing. He could see that the night in his body made Elias feel more comfortable than before. Elias sat down a spredded his legs to make room for his hard dick.
Elias:”Sup”
Lucas:”Don’t over act, man. I don’t talk like that.”
Elias:”You do now, BRO. You shouldn't talk to me like that, with that tiny dick of yours."
Lucas:”Ew, ok sidenote for myself to never say that. And it's your dick, just to remind you."
Elias:"Seriously, how do you walk with this thing? It's so huge and I got hard even by the friction of the fabric. How do you even sit comfortably with it? It's so tight.
Lucas:"You get used to it.m and I usually don't wear these tight pants that show the outline of my dick to everyone."
Elias couldn't help but grin while lucas said that.
Elias:"Must be a relief to be a 2incher now. Haha"
Lucas:"You're teasing yourself, man. I don't care about that." But Lucas couldn't help, bit feel embarrassed by the size of his penis, even if it wasn't his.
They worked for a while, but Elias left after someone gave him a call and didn’t come back for 3 hours. Lucas sent him bunch of texts, but no answer.
Elias came back and was smiling from ear to ear.
Lucas:”Where the hell have you been?”
Elias:”Ehh, I… heh. I was asked to be a model for a photoshoot here in the building.”
Lucas:”What?”
Elias:”Yeah. Turns out that I might have a talent for that.”
Lucas:”No, you have my body, that’s why.”
Elias:”But they never asked you, did they?” that hit Lucas in the feelings. Elias was right. He knew that Lucas tried to model before, but he wasn’t interesting enough for them, it seems that something in Elias might have sparked the interest now.
Lucas observed as his body made a deal with his colleagues to transfer to model and couldn’t believe he didn’t say anything. He was so impressed, scared and aroused at the same time. He wanted to suck that dick right now at the spot. But he wanted his body as well. To enjoy the hard earned muscles.
Sunday 27th October 8:36 AM
Chloe:”Good morning, boys. I prepared a breakfast for you.”
Elias:”Yumm, looks delicious. But I’m hungry for a tight wet pussy.” He grabbed Chloe and pulled her to the bed.
Lucas:”Come on, can’t you let me sleep?”
Chloe:”Wake up, tiny dick. We wanted to talk to you about something.”
Lucas opened his eyes, frustrated by all the name calling. He looked up at the sight of his body and Chloe on top of him. He wasn’t that thrilled about Elias being him anymore. Maybe it was jealousy, but at the same time Elias’s body was really into his body and he like that. He could enjoy his body in a way he never could before.
Lucas:”Ok, what’s up.”
Elias:”You should move in. We could use that one rent for more fun stuff.”
Lucas:”Wait, what do you mean that I SHOULD move in?”
Chloe:”You’re doing a great job as Elias, Lulu. And Elias is freaking great as you. He found you a better paying job and the sex… you know. He doesn’t have issues to get hard. And since you now don't even need to be hard with your tiny dick..."
Lucas:”Chloe you said you wouldn’t talk about that.”
Chloe:”Sorry, just stating facts. But I love you both. I think we would make a great throuple as they say. What do you say?”
Lucas really wanted to think this through, but he couldn’t focus, because his old body flexed his arm in his face and showed off his hard cock as well. All Lucas could think about was how to push Chloe away to suck that dick.
Elias:”Come on ELIAS. You know you want this.” He pulled down the foreskin of his dick for Lucas to see.
Lucas:”Fine, whatever. Give that HUGE cock to me!”
Elias couldn't believe how lucky he was. He got a fine body, beautiful girlfriend, basically became bisexual in the process and now he has his own personal cocksucker with his TINY dick, who he can humiliate with his lovely girlfriend. Life is not so bad afterall.
I hate PE. I hate it so freaking much that I’d rather have history with Mr. Douglas every day than to run in front of Mr. Mills every day. He hates me, ever since I came out as gay at school I received mostly good feedback from others. Even my bullies were kinda nice about it. Thank God I live in the twenty first century. But one person didn’t really take It well.
I browsed through his instagram a few times. And while I looked for the perfect photo of him flexing his biceps, showing his abs or anything that would help me for my jerk off session, I found out that he was quite hardcore republican. How a person like this could get into education is beyond me.
As always I finished jerking off while looking at his regular bathroom gym photo. Man, what I would give to fuck him. Why do jerks always have the perfect body?
My phone buzzed. I snapped back into reality. Jack, my friend who is also gay, but not out yet, texted me.
“Hey, are we gonna ditch school tomorrow? I can’t hear any more of that Mills bullshit while we climb the rope”
“We’re gonna be rope climbing? Ah fuck me. He’s gonna be insufferable.”
“My thoughts exactly. So? Are we skipping school?”
“I can’t man. I gotta keep up my attendance after missing so many days thanks to Mr. Mills”
Next day, 2:29 PM
I stood next to the rope, waiting for Jake to finish his turn. Mr. Mills stood below him, screaming. Jake couldn’t get to the top. Mr. Mills told him to get down and screamed at him some more. What an asshole. It was my turn. The bell rang. “Fuck yeah. No more rope climbing for me.” My classmates, me included, turned to head to the lockers.
Mr. Mills: ”González? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Me: ”Sir, the class is over and it’s Friday.”
Mr. Mills: ”The class is over when I say it is over. Get on the fucking rope and stop talking back at me. The rest of you can leave.”
I got close to the rope. I grabbed it and squeezed the rope between my feet. I started pulling myself up and immediately felt the pain of lifting myself. I knew I was weak, I didn’t really need some wannabe teacher slash gym freak to remind me and scream at me what a lazy piece of shit I am. I tried to ignore him. I gave myself a goal to just finish it and leave, but Mr. Mills stood directly below me to comment on my fat ass slowing me down.
I was almost at the top, a wave of happiness swept over me. “Shit, I’m gonna make it!”
And right then I slipped. And instead of locking my feet, I just let go off the rope.
THUD
“I survived. Fuck. I fell from the freaking rope. My head was hurting so hard. My head? But I thought that I fell on my back? Ahhh the pain.”
I opened my eyes. My vision was blurry from the fall. I tried blinking several times and my vision was slowly getting better. I lifted my arm to grab on my head, but as I did it didn’t feel right. I looked at my arm. It was bigger. As in full of muscles.
“What the hell?” I said out loud, but instead of my young squeaky almost too feminine voice a low baritone came out of my throat.
“How the fuck…?!” I looked to my left. There was my body getting up from the ground
Me: ”Mr. Mills?”
Mr. Mills: ”Ah you gotta be fucking kidding me?! Is that you González?”
Me: ”I… Yes. How… How did this happen?”
Mr. Mills: ”Does it look like this happens to me a lot?”
Me: ”But… it’s scientifically impossible”
Mr. Mills: ”I bet this was caused by those covid vaccines to make you immigrant fags take over our lives.”
Me: ”Yeah… right. Cause everyone wants to be a stupid republican”
Mr. Mills: ”Shut your mouth or…” he was interrupted by the janitor telling us to leave so he can lock the school. Mr. Mills gave me his car keys and I gave him instructions how to find my locker. We decided to meet each other in his car and to figure out what to do after that.”
After many unsuccessful attempts I found his Chevrolet and entered the passenger’s seat. Few moments later, I realized that I’m gonna be the one driving so I switched seats and got behind the wheel for the first time in my life. His car was amazing, it smelt great and was clean. How should I even drive this thing? I don’t drive a car. I’ll get us into trouble.
I stopped overthinking about the car. “I am in my teachers body. The one who bullied me almost every day. I am an adult male.” I looked into the rearview mirror. “Fuck, I am in one of the hottest man’s body around. And I am wasting it just worrying here. I flexed and squeezed my new biceps. Fuuuck. It’s so huge. I checked if no one else was around and lifted up my shirt.
“Oh my gooood” I slammed my head into the seat. “This is so hot!”
My new abs and pecs now uncovered were the most perfect ones I have ever seen. The ones I jerk off to every night before sleep. And now it’s here. All for me.
I opened my eyes and saw Mr. Mills in my body approaching the car. And behind him ran Jake. They entered the car.
I tried to improvise: „Why is your friend here?”
Jake: „Holy shit. So it is true. Mr. Mills would never react so calm. Is that really you in there, Daniel?”
I turned at Mr. Mills who now had a very irritated face. “I didn’t say anything, he figured it out.”
Jake: „I didn’t believe it at first, but Daniel never swears like this. And your vocabulary isn’t exactly rich so I knew really quickly where I heard the phrases before. Damn, I’m good. So? What are we gonna do? We should test it out somehow. Shit, Daniel you should get drunk tonight!”
Mr. Mills: „No! There won’t be no drinking, touching or anything with my body. This is definitely temporary and we will be back by tomorrow morning.”
Me: „If you think so…”
I drove Jake and my body home. Mr. Mills had to give me a speed course of driving, but his muscle memory helped me out way more than I thought. We set up some ground rules. No drinking, no drugs, no permanent changes to our bodies, no photos and no sex. He left the car while saying something about a fag in his body, but I couldn’t care less anymore. I speeded to get to his house asap.
I didn’t really explore the house as much when I arrived. I went straight to where I thought was the bedroom and immediately started taking off my clothes. His black speedo was PACKING and getting tighter every minute, but I really wanted to make this first exploration as perfect as possible. I lifted up the shirt, touching my new hairless and fatless stomach. I flexed and sets of abs appeared. I touched every last one of them. My hand continued up to my new large pecs.
“God damn, Mr. Mills. These are some perfect man titties.” I squeezed them. They looked so tight in all the photos, but when I wasn’t flexing them, they were quite soft. Must be amazing to lay on these. I played with them some more before taking off my shirt and releasing my new hairy pits. I took a long whiff off them. “I smell like a proper MAN now!” I licked it as well, enjoying the salty taste of Mr. Mills’s pits. I looked at myself in the mirror. My new dick was hard as a rock and waited for me to take care of it.
I headed to the shower and turned on a hot water. “Your body is probably not used to a hot water, am I right, Mr. Mills? I bet you are one of those cold water freaks who bathe in the icy waters.” I hated his voice before, but right now as I was controlling it, I began to like it so much.
The water poured all over my large body, from the perfect face, over my massive pecs, hairless abs and right to my beautiful dick. “Nice dick, Mr. Mills!” I said and chuckled over the fact that I just said that.
I suddenly got a mischievous idea. I came out of the shower and texted Jake.
Jake: „I can’t believe I’m doing this. I am just squeezing Mr. Mills’s pecs and touching his abs. Can you believe it, Daniel?”
Me: „It’s wild, right? But I got an idea. Wanna make it more interesting?”
Jake: „Interesting how?”
Me: „Stop touching me you lazy fag” I said in an authoritative voice and Jake moved his hands away from me quickly.
Jake: „Why did you do that? I got scared.”
Me: „I bet you are scared, you little fag. I know you just came over so that you could jerk off you little dick and watch me enjoy myself.”
Jake: „Daniel?”
Me: „Daniel won’t save you right now. You will do as I say. Ok?”
Jake finally caught up to my roleplay scenario and started acting as well. And by the look of his face I knew that he was really into it.
Jake: „Yes, Mr. Mills. I will do whatever you say.”
I sat down on the couch watching. “I want you to admire my body and say how hot I am and how horny it makes you.”
Jake got his hands on MY body and got a bit nervous: „You have sexy abs, Mr. Mills.”
Me: „You think that’s enough? That they are just sexy?”
Jake: „I think they’re the hottest abs I have ever seen”
Me: „How about my biceps. You like them?”
Jake: „They are SO big. I want you to squeeze my head in them. I want to lick your armpit hair. I want to kiss you.”
Me: „That’s a good boy. How about you show me how good you are, you fag?”
I moved his hands over to my new hard crotch.
Jake smiled and licked his lips
I fucking love being in this body.
And I bet Jake’s ass is gonna love this body even more.
This is a long one but I hope you enjoy it. Had this story in mind for a while but I was looking for the perfect pair of men to use. The pics here are the SFW version. If you wanna see the full NSFW version, you can see them on my discord: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS
There’s considerably less photos in the tumblr post than the one on discord
A Body Swap Study:
Posters had begun appearing throughout the city, each one promising an opportunity too good to be true. The details were vague yet enticing: a groundbreaking psychological and neurological study seeking male participants between the ages of 18 and 60. The commitment was significant—a full year in a secured facility—but so were the incentives. Housing, meals, and an eye-watering sum of money were offered in exchange for participation. A non-disclosure agreement was mandatory, hinting at the study’s highly confidential nature. Some dismissed it as a scam, but for those desperate enough, it was an irresistible lifeline.
Silas was one of those people. A twenty-year-old aspiring actor in Los Angeles, he had once been confident that success was just around the corner. Yet, after countless auditions and endless rejections, he found himself unable to pay rent, with no prospects in sight. Handsome, fit, and brimming with charisma, he carried himself with the bravado of someone who had the world at his feet. But behind that confidence lay a man aware of how precarious his situation had become. When he saw the poster, he barely hesitated before signing up. It was money, stability—just for a year. How bad could it be?
Rob, on the other hand, had just lost his job. It wasn’t the first time. Overweight since childhood, he had grown accustomed to the silent judgments and casual dismissals of others. He was highly intelligent, kind-hearted, but plagued with insecurities that made it difficult to navigate social situations. His appetite was insatiable, his body unaccustomed to exercise, and he often sweated excessively, making him self-conscious about his appearance. When he stumbled upon the poster, it felt like a godsend. He needed money, and if spending a year in a research facility was the price, so be it.
The research team was flooded with applications, but two names stood out: Silas and Rob. Their physical and psychological differences made them ideal candidates. When they arrived at the state-of-the-art facility, they were greeted by Dr. Hank, a middle-aged man with an air of quiet authority. He welcomed them into a sleek, modern space filled with cutting-edge technology and a team of eager scientists. As Silas and Rob exchanged glances, their immediate impressions of each other were hard to ignore.
Silas couldn't tear his eyes away from Rob, his gaze flickering between disgust and disbelief. The sight of him—slouched and bloated—made something twist deep in Silas’ gut. How could someone let themselves reach this point? Rob's clothes hung loosely on his frame, but it was clear the fabric couldn’t fully conceal the rolls of flesh beneath. His face, once vaguely youthful, now sagged with an unflattering weight, his skin stretched tight around the folds like it was struggling to keep up with the overwhelming bulk.
The size difference between them was so stark it almost seemed like a cruel joke. Silas stood tall, lean, a picture of discipline and control. And then there was Rob, who looked as though he'd long given up on any semblance of self-respect. His greasy hair hung limply, a stark contrast to the neatly combed strands Silas took so much pride in. The small beads of sweat on Rob’s forehead seemed to reflect a deeper, unspoken struggle—one that Silas couldn’t quite place but that filled him with an uncomfortable mixture of superiority and contempt.
A huff of disbelief escaped Silas before he could stop it. How does someone let themselves go like that?
Yet, even as the thought crossed his mind, he scolded himself. He knew nothing of Rob’s life, his struggles, or how he had ended up this way. It wasn’t fair to judge him for his body alone. Still, it was difficult not to feel a sense of superiority.
Rob’s gaze lingered on Silas, and for a moment, he felt a sharp pang of envy twist in his chest. Silas exuded a kind of effortless confidence that Rob had always longed for, something he could never seem to grasp. His eyes traced Silas’ lean, sculpted form, the way his clothes fit him perfectly, as if every inch of him had been meticulously designed for maximum impact. There was a magnetic energy around him, a self-assuredness that Rob could never seem to summon, no matter how hard he tried.
It was frustrating—almost maddening—watching Silas move with that kind of ease, as if nothing in the world could faze him. Rob had dreamed of that confidence, had imagined walking into a room and commanding attention without even trying. He’d fantasized about being in shape, about going to the gym and chiseling his body into something that might make him proud, but the reality of his lazy habits, his poor diet, and his inability to break free from his patterns always held him back.
But standing next to Silas now, the gap between them felt painfully insurmountable. He couldn’t ignore the stark contrast: where Silas was sharp, defined, and disciplined, Rob felt sluggish, soft, and weak. A bitter jealousy simmered under his skin, but there was something else too—a strange, almost involuntary thrill at the sheer difference between them.
As his eyes briefly scanned Silas’ body, he felt a jolt, a tightness in his chest that he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just envy. There was a certain pull to Silas—something more than just admiration. Rob didn’t quite know how to label it, but there was a raw, magnetic attraction in the way Silas stood, in the way his presence seemed to fill the room. It stirred something deep inside Rob, a hunger he’d never fully understood, an aching desire to somehow be that person, to embody that power, that control.
But, even as these thoughts circled in his mind, he pushed them down, focusing instead on the fleeting hope that this experiment, whatever it was, might be his chance to finally change. To escape his stagnant life and step into something new. The envy was still there, but now it was tinged with a desperate yearning, an almost primal desire to shed his old self and embrace whatever might be possible with Silas’ image, if only for a moment.
Dr. Hank soon gathered them for an explanation. The study, he revealed, was not just about the brain—it was about identity itself. The goal was to explore what happened when the mind was gradually reshaped to fit a new body. This wouldn’t be an instant switch. Instead, over the course of months, every aspect of their lives would be systematically exchanged. By the end of the experiment, their minds would fully adapt to their new identities.
Both men were horrified. The idea of losing themselves, even temporarily, was unnerving. But Dr. Hank calmly reminded them of the immense compensation they would receive. He assured them that the process would be entirely reversible and that Silas and Rob would return to the outside world when the study concluded. It was a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. With some hesitation, they signed the NDA and the consent forms, sealing their fate.
After signing, they were introduced to the rest of the research team and given a tour of the facility. It was more luxurious than either of them had expected—a strange fusion of laboratory and resort. There was a buffet, a gym, an arcade, and even outdoor spaces like a pool and lush green parks. Each man was given a private room, equipped with all the comforts of home. For a moment, it almost felt like a vacation. Almost.
The first phase of the experiment was simple: a swap of personal objects. They were instructed to exchange clothes in front of each other, a task that made Silas uneasy from the start. As he pulled off his fitted designer t-shirt, he couldn’t help but glance over at Rob’s exposed body standing before him. The difference between them was almost jarring. Rob’s stomach protruded noticeably, his belly soft and rounded, the fabric of his shirt clinging tightly to the folds of flesh beneath. His arms were thick, but the weight wasn’t muscle; his skin, slick with residual sweat, reflected a life of neglect.
Silas’ gaze lingered briefly on the stretch marks crisscrossing Rob’s torso, a stark contrast to his own firm, meticulously cared-for body. It wasn’t a feeling of disgust, not exactly, but a deep sense of disbelief at the reality of the man in front of him—someone who lived in a completely different world, a world Silas had never been forced to acknowledge until now.
As Rob peeled off his jeans, Silas’ eyes flickered downward despite himself, taking in the full extent of the contrast between them. Rob’s thighs were thick, heavy, pressing against each other with every movement, the skin slightly chafed where they rubbed together. His calves, though large, lacked the definition Silas was used to seeing on his own body, and his knees seemed almost swallowed by the surrounding flesh. Silas couldn’t help but notice the way Rob’s stomach sagged slightly over the waistband of his underwear, the elastic digging into his skin, leaving faint red marks. His hips were wide, his lower body carrying the bulk of his weight, and even the way he stood—feet planted firmly apart for balance—was so different from Silas’ own natural stance.
As he slid Rob’s oversized, sweat-dampened shirt over his head, Silas was hit with an immediate discomfort. The fabric, heavy and loose, hung off his own frame like a sack, draping over his well-defined muscles in an unfamiliar way. The scent of Rob’s body—a mixture of stale deodorant and the lingering musk of someone who didn’t care much for hygiene—clung to the fabric, making Silas wrinkle his nose. The jeans were even worse—baggy and stretched out in places that seemed unnatural. They hung off him awkwardly, as if he were a child playing dress-up in his father’s old clothes. His discomfort deepened, the weight of Rob’s existence—his habits, his choices—pressing down on him in a way that felt almost suffocating. Silas swallowed hard, fighting the unease rising in his chest. This wasn’t just an exchange of clothes; it was a glimpse into a life he had never truly understood, and the reality was far more unsettling than he had imagined.
Meanwhile, Rob’s hands trembled slightly as he peeled off his old, sweat-stained t-shirt and handed it to Silas. He had seen fit men before—on television, at the gym he had always been too intimidated to enter—but never had he stood so close to someone like Silas, let alone stripped down before them. His eyes traveled over Silas’ body, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Silas was everything he had ever wanted to be—lean, toned, effortlessly powerful. His chest was firm, each muscle subtly defined without being overly bulky, his stomach tight and sculpted, as if he had never known the struggle of excess weight. His shoulders were broad, his arms chiseled, his entire frame carrying a natural confidence that came from discipline, from a life of control.
As Silas removed his last layer, Rob felt a pang of something deeper than envy—an aching realization that they were built for entirely different worlds. When he stepped into Silas’ crisp, perfectly fitted clothes, the waistband snug against his stomach, he felt like an imposter. This wasn’t just an exchange of fabric—it was a fleeting, painful glimpse into the life he had always wished for but had never been able to reach.
Rob’s eyes traced Silas’ form with an almost analytical intensity, absorbing every detail of the body he had always longed for. His chest was firm and smooth, his pectoral muscles subtly defined, rising and falling with steady breaths. His collarbones jutted out ever so slightly, accentuating the lean, angular structure of his upper body. Silas’ arms, even at rest, carried an effortless strength—biceps and triceps taut beneath his skin, veins faintly visible along his forearms, a sign of low body fat and rigorous training. His stomach was a masterpiece of discipline, each muscle carved into a set of defined abs that tensed slightly with every shift of his posture. Lower down, his hips were narrow, his waist trim, leading to long, toned legs with thighs firm and proportionate, the muscles apparent even in stillness. His calves were sharply contoured, the kind Rob had always envied in runners or athletes, shaped by years of movement and effort. Even his stance was different—relaxed but assured, as though he had never once worried about how much space he took up. Rob swallowed hard, not out of embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the comparison. Silas’ body wasn’t just different—it was proof of everything Rob wasn’t, everything he had always wished he could be.
Rob couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy mixed with awe. Was it really possible for a person to look this… perfect? He had always admired fit men from afar, but seeing Silas up close like this made his own body feel even heavier in comparison.
Sliding into Silas’s clothes was an entirely different experience—one that filled Rob with a strange, exhilarating thrill. The shirt was snug, hugging his body in ways he wasn’t used to. It was strange, almost suffocating, but he didn’t hate it. In fact, he reveled in it. The fabric was soft, clean, and carried a faint scent of expensive cologne—nothing like the lingering musk that clung to his usual clothes. When he lifted his arms again, the motion brought a fresh wave of Silas' scent—an intoxicating mix of soap, skin, and something subtly masculine that Rob couldn't quite place. He inhaled before he could stop himself, a flicker of something heady and unfamiliar stirring inside him.
The jeans were impossibly tight, and he struggled to button them over his stomach, but he relished the sensation of wearing something meant for someone like Silas. He stood up straighter, tilting his chin slightly, imagining what it must feel like to actually *belong* in these clothes. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe—just maybe—this experiment could give him more than just money.
Aside from that, they also exchanged wallets, IDs, and phones. The symbolism was clear—this was the first step in becoming each other. From that moment on, they were required to wear each other's clothes. It felt ridiculous, even surreal, but they reminded themselves that it was all temporary. Just a year, and then they would return to normal. Or so they thought.
That afternoon, Silas and Rob sat across from each other in one of the facility’s sleek, minimalist lounge areas. A small recording device sat between them, its red light blinking steadily, a silent witness to the exchange that was about to take place. Dr. Hank had given them clear instructions—share everything. Every detail of their lives had to be known by the other, down to the smallest habits and personal quirks. If they were going to live as each other, they had to be each other.
Rob cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together nervously. "Alright… I guess I’ll go first," he said. "My full name is Robert Daniel Whitmore. I was born in Chicago, Illinois. I’m twenty-six. Only child. My mom raised me on her own after my dad left when I was a baby. We didn’t have much growing up, but she worked hard to give me a good education. I was always the smart kid, the one with his nose in a book. I studied computer science at the University of Illinois, but I never really fit in. I… I always felt like an outsider, you know?" His voice softened, eyes darting away. "And yeah, I’ve always been… big. I tried to lose weight a few times, but food was kind of my escape. It still is."
Silas listened, arms resting on the back of the couch. He forced himself to absorb everything. It wasn’t just words—it was supposed to be his new reality. "Alright," he said, exhaling. "I’m Silas Maddox. Full name Silas James Maddox. Born and raised in Los Angeles. I’m twenty. I have one sibling. It’s just my dad, sister, and I after my mom passed away when I was a kid. He’s a talent agent, got me into acting when I was little. Did a bunch of commercials, tried for bigger roles, but nothing really stuck. I work part-time as a waiter, but acting’s always been my dream. I hit the gym every morning, keep myself in shape—image is everything in my business. And, well…" He gave a dry chuckle. "Let’s just say I’m used to getting attention."
Rob nodded, trying to picture himself in Silas’s world. The glitz, the constant pressure to be seen, to be perfect. It was so far from his own reality that it almost felt like fiction. Meanwhile, Silas tried to imagine Rob’s life—long nights behind a computer, the loneliness of always being the outsider, the struggle of trying to change and never quite succeeding.
For the next few hours, they drilled each other on details. Favorite foods, childhood memories, allergies, daily routines. Silas now had a mother who sent long-winded texts about his health. Rob now had a father who expected him to make it big in Hollywood. The longer they spoke, the more their lives intertwined, and the more unsettling it became. By the end of it, they weren’t just learning—they were becoming.
Afterwards, Dr. Hank paced in front of them with a clipboard in hand. The sterile white walls of the facility seemed to press in on him, making him feel trapped in something far more intense than he had expected. He glanced at Rob, who looked equally uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, his thick fingers fidgeting with the hem of Silas’s former shirt. Dr. Hank finally stopped pacing and turned to them with a sharp, expectant smile.
"Alright, let’s begin," Dr. Hank said, adjusting his glasses. "Silas—" He paused, then corrected himself with a smirk. "No, I should say… Rob. Let’s hear you introduce yourself."
Silas hesitated. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke. "Uh… My name is Robert Daniel Whitmore, but you can call me Rob." The words felt foreign, wrong, like an ill-fitting costume.
Dr. Hank nodded encouragingly. "Good. And how old are you, Rob?"
Silas clenched his jaw. He wanted to say twenty, but he knew that wasn’t the right answer anymore. "I’m twenty-six," he muttered.
Dr. Hank’s smirk widened. "And tell me, Rob, between you two, are you the fit man or the overweight man?"
Silas exhaled sharply through his nose. His instinct was to scoff, to argue, but he caught himself. That wasn’t what Rob would do. That wasn’t what he was supposed to do anymore. "I… I’m the overweight one," he admitted, his voice quieter than before. The words felt like acid on his tongue.
Dr. Hank nodded approvingly before turning to Rob. "And you—Silas—let’s hear it."
Rob sat up straighter, as if already stepping into his new role. "I’m Silas James Maddox, but you can call me Silas," he said, his voice steadier than Silas had expected. "I’m twenty years old." He paused, then smirked slightly. "And I’m the fit one."
Silas narrowed his eyes at Rob’s confidence, while Dr. Hank merely chuckled. "Excellent. Now, let’s make sure this sticks."
For the next hour, Dr. Hank continued his relentless questioning, drilling into their heads who they now were. Silas had to repeat again and again that he was Rob, that he was the older, overweight man. Rob, meanwhile, seemed to grow more comfortable each time he stated that he was Silas, that he was the younger, athletic one. By the end of the session, Silas felt mentally exhausted, as if his very identity was being pried from his grip.
Dr. Hank set his clipboard down with a satisfied nod. "Good work, gentlemen. From now on, there are no mistakes. You will refer to each other, and yourselves, by your new identities. The more you embrace it, the easier it will be."
Silas let out a slow breath, glancing at Rob. He had no idea just how deep this experiment was going to go. And worse—he had no idea if he was ready for it.
The weeks that followed the initial introductions were grueling, both mentally and physically. Dr. Hank made it clear that the next phase was about full immersion. But it wasn’t just their identities that were being exchanged. Their diets were next. "If you’re going to live as each other," Dr. Hank had said, "you’ll eat as each other. Starting now."
The new Silas—Rob, still in his own chubbier frame but tasked with assuming Silas’s habits—stared at the plate in front of him: grilled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and a side of quinoa. Across the table, the new Rob—Silas, with his muscular build but wearing Rob’s baggy clothes —eyed a towering burger, fries glistening with oil, and a milkshake dripping with whipped cream.
“You actually eat this stuff?” Silas muttered, poking at the burger with a mix of disgust and curiosity. Rob smirked, shoveling a forkful of quinoa into his mouth. “Better than rabbit food,” he shot back, though the dryness of the healthy meal made him wince.
What neither of them realized, however, was that the food had been tampered with. The meals, though appearing perfectly ordinary, had been subtly altered by the research team. The healthy dishes prepared for Rob were enhanced with compounds designed to make nutrient-dense foods more palatable, triggering cravings for lighter fare. Meanwhile, the indulgent meals given to Silas had been treated to mimic the addictive flavors of greasy, calorie-laden comfort food. Their bodies wouldn’t gain or lose a pound—Dr. Hank had ensured that—but their preferences were another matter entirely.
At first, the meals were torturous. Rob struggled to finish the modest portions, his stomach growling in defiance as he longed for something heavier. Silas, on the other hand, grimaced with every bite of greasy fries, his usual discipline warring with the newfound compulsion to clean his plate. But as the days turned into weeks, the changes began to take root. Rob found himself enjoying the lightness of a spinach salad, while Silas’s hand reached for a second helping of lasagna without hesitation. They didn’t notice the shift—not consciously, at least. But Dr. Hank did. From behind the mirrored glass of the observation room, he watched with quiet satisfaction as the experiment progressed exactly as planned. The transition wasn’t just about knowledge anymore. It was about instinct. The lines between Silas and Rob were beginning to blur, and neither of them could see it yet.
The gym was pristine, almost clinical in its design, with mirrored surfaces and gleaming equipment that looked barely touched. Silas and Rob stood in their respective rooms, separated only by the large glass wall between them. Everything had been designed to be identical—the machines, the placement of the dumbbells, even the lighting. It was as if they were inside a perfectly symmetrical illusion. The only thing breaking the reflection was the fact that the man staring back at them wasn’t their own.
Silas adjusted the snug, moisture-wicking shirt he had been given, shifting uncomfortably. It clung to his torso, emphasizing his lean, muscular build.
Across from him, Rob wore the same outfit—except on him, it stretched awkwardly over his stomach and arms, highlighting every roll and bulge. Silas tried to keep his expression neutral, but he could already feel the discomfort creeping in.
Dr. Hank’s voice crackled over the intercom, instructing them to begin their workout, ensuring they mirrored each other’s movements perfectly.
Rob exhaled and gripped the dumbbells, his fingers tightening around the cold metal as he pulled them upward in a slow, deliberate bicep curl. His eyes immediately darted to the glass wall, where “his” reflection—Silas—moved in perfect sync. The thick veins running down “his” forearms bulged with each rep, his biceps peaking, flexing, contracting like coiled steel beneath his skin. His shoulders, broad and sculpted, rolled with effortless precision.
Rob felt a thrill surge through him.
The illusion was mesmerizing. It was like looking into a mirror, but instead of seeing the soft, pudgy form he had known all his life, he saw strength. Definition. Perfection.
He relished every second of it.
He transitioned into shoulder presses, pushing the dumbbells overhead. His delts flared, the striations in “his” muscles appearing more defined with each movement. He admired how “his” pecs tightened, the sweat glistening over smooth, firm skin. It was intoxicating to see “his” body move with such effortless power. He had never looked so good—never *felt* so good. The glass wall was no longer just a tool for training; it was a portal into the life he had always craved.
His favorite part of the session was squats. As he lowered his body, he savored the way his quads flexed and stretched, the way his hamstrings tightened with tension before he pushed back up with ease. The sheer athleticism reflected back at him made his pulse race. This was his body now. The reflection belonged to him.
Silas, on the other hand, could barely stomach what he was seeing.
Every movement felt wrong.
Each rep, each squat, each contraction of his muscles only reinforced the horrifying illusion. He lifted his arms for a bicep curl, but instead of seeing his strong, defined arms moving in the reflection, he saw Rob—a version of himself that had become thick, heavy, and painfully out of shape. His once-chiseled forearms now looked soft. His chest, which had once been tight and strong, now appeared bloated, lacking any of the sharp contours he had worked so hard to maintain.
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his breathing steady as he moved through the motions. The glass wall was unrelenting, forcing him to watch every painful second. The worst was when they moved to planks—he held himself up on his forearms, trembling not from exertion, but from disgust as he saw “his” stomach sag slightly, a clear reminder that Rob’s body was nowhere near as taut or conditioned as his own.
It was unbearable.
Rob, however, was still entranced. He smirked, flexing his arm slightly in between sets, watching “his” bicep bulge and harden. He turned slightly to get a better view of “his” back in the reflection, grinning at the way “his” lats flared out, creating the V-taper he had always dreamed of having.
Silas caught the expression on Rob’s face and felt something bitter rise in his throat.
Rob was enjoying this.
His hands clenched into fists. He had spent years crafting his body into peak condition, years sculpting every muscle, and now, here was Rob—lazy, overweight Rob—basking in the illusion that he had built this physique. That it belonged to him.
Silas wanted to scream.
But there was nothing he could do except continue the workout, moving in perfect sync, locked in this cruel, twisted reflection of reality.
Mid-workout, the gym was filled with the rhythmic sounds of exertion—dumbbells clanking onto the rubber flooring, controlled breaths exhaling between sets, the occasional grunt of effort. Sweat glistened on both men’s bodies, soaking through their clothes as they pushed themselves further.
Then Dr. Hank’s voice crackled through the intercom.
"Now, switch gym clothes. All of it."
Silas stiffened. Rob’s breath hitched in excitement. That meant everything they were wearing.
With no choice but to obey, Silas peeled off his tight, sweat-drenched compression shirt, grimacing as the cool air hit his damp skin. He looked down at his chiseled torso—his torso—before reluctantly reaching for Rob’s oversized, moisture-soaked tank top. The fabric was thick with sweat, carrying the unmistakable scent of Rob’s exertion. As he pulled it over his head, he shuddered at the way it clung uncomfortably to his body, the foreign musk invading his senses.
Rob, on the other hand, grinned as he grabbed Silas’s sleek, fitted gym shirt. The material was thin, designed to hug every contour of Silas’s sculpted physique. As he slipped it on, he gasped—it fit. It actually fit. The snug compression wrapped perfectly around his man boobs, his flabby arms, emphasizing every ridge and valley of fat. He felt powerful. He also enjoyed smelling Silas’s musk on his own body.
Silas tugged at the loose tank top draped over his frame, feeling utterly disgusted. The fabric sagged at the chest, pooled slightly around his waist—*it didn’t belong on his body*. He tried to ignore the way it smelled, the way it reminded him with every inhale that this wasn’t *his* usual scent anymore.
Then came Dr. Hank’s next command.
"Silas, stand in front of the mirror and flex."
Rob’s pulse quickened.
Silas hesitated, jaw tightening. Slowly, he stepped forward until he was directly in front of the glass. He knew what he would see. It never got easier. The reflection staring back at him wasn’t his own—it was Rob’s. His breath hitched slightly, the weight of the reality sinking in.
Behind him, Rob watched with barely contained excitement.
Silas lifted his arms, forcing his biceps to contract. The thick, rounded muscles peaked, veins pulsing beneath the surface. Rob mirrored the movement behind the glass wall, watching with hungry eyes as “his” body flexed in response.
"Continue flexing through a full routine, Silas—keep mirroring Rob."
Silas moved through each pose reluctantly, muscles rippling as he transitioned from a front double bicep to a side chest flex, his abs tightening with every motion.
Rob, however, relished every second of it. He struck the same poses, mimicking the movements exactly, grinning as he watched his reflection respond. It was intoxicating, seeing himself like this. Strong. Dominant. Perfect.
He hit a side tricep pose, watching the muscles coil and stretch, the lines crisp and well-defined. Sweat trickled down his forehead, dripping onto his chest, making his already toned body gleam under the gym lights.
Silas, meanwhile, felt his stomach twist with resentment. He was being objectified—by Rob, of all people. He could feel the way Rob was drinking in the sight of “his” reflection, the way his eyes lingered on every flex, every contraction.
"Now, continue your workout." said Dr. Hank
Silas turned away from the glass wall, thankful to be done, but Rob was still fixated on the illusion. He grabbed the barbell with renewed energy, eager to lift, to feel *his* muscles working.
Silas did the same, but with every movement, he could feel Rob’s oversized tank top shifting awkwardly against his body, could smell the lingering musk of Rob’s sweat. His skin crawled.
And yet, when he glanced up, Rob was staring at his reflection with utter admiration. The realization made his blood boil. Rob loved this. Loved the body that wasn’t even his.
And worst of all—Silas couldn’t do anything about it.
After the grueling workout, their bodies were glistening with sweat, muscles sore yet warm from exertion. Dr. Hank’s voice crackled once again over the speaker.
“Now, head to the showers. Same procedure applies—mirror each other’s actions.”
Silas let out a slow, shaky breath. His body was screaming for relief, but the thought of yet another humiliating exercise made his stomach churn. Rob, however, practically vibrated with anticipation. He followed Silas out of the gym, every step feeling more natural—like he belonged in this role.
When they arrived at the showers, Silas froze in the doorway. Just like the gym, it was designed to reinforce their mirrored roles. A false mirror stretched across the length of the shower stalls, but Silas knew better by now. It wasn’t a mirror at all—it was a transparent glass wall. On the other side, Rob stood in the exact same spot, his eager eyes locked onto Silas like a predator finally cornering its prey.
“Similar in the gym, Silas leads. Rob follows.”
The words rang in Silas’s ears like a death sentence.
Rob moved himself forward, standing in front of the shower controls. Silas’s hands moved on autopilot as he turned the knob, warm water cascading down his body, rinsing away the sweat from the brutal training session. Every movement—every flex of muscle, every lift of his arms to wash his hair—was him copying Rob with unwavering precision.
Rob’s eyes raked over Silas’s reflection—his reflection, in his mind—watching the way the water slid over his toned chest, down his sculpted abs, trailing lower and lower. He swallowed, enthralled by every defined muscle, the way Silas’s shoulders tensed, the sharp angles of his jawline when he tilted his head back into the stream. Even the way Silas ran his fingers through his wet hair looked effortlessly cool, effortlessly right.
Rob mimicked every motion perfectly, but there was a difference. Silas was enduring this. Rob was savoring it.
For Silas, this was another level of hell. Every time he opened his eyes, he wasn’t greeted by his own reflection, but by Rob’s body, doing exactly what he was doing. He scrubbed his arms, his chest, but every movement was mirrored by a body that wasn’t his—one that was softer, rounder, completely alien. His jaw clenched as he reached up to wash his armpits, his biceps flexing involuntarily—only to see Rob’s reflection doing the same. It almost felt hypnotic.
His stomach twisted when he moved downward, washing his torso. The glass left nothing hidden. Every action was performed in sync, and even though he was looking at Rob, his mind hated how natural it felt—how his brain was beginning to accept that the body staring back at him was his own.
Meanwhile, Rob was in heaven. He took his time, watching Silas’s every motion like it was a performance crafted just for him. His favorite part? Seeing the shifting expressions of frustration, anger, and helplessness on Silas’s face. It fueled him. It made him bask in the reality that he was winning—he was Silas now.
When the shower ended, Dr. Hank’s voice returned.
“Now, put on your clothes.”
Silas let out a slow breath, desperate to escape this psychological torture. But the torment wasn’t over yet. Their clothes had already been laid out for them—Rob’s outfit on Silas’s side. Silas’s outfit on Rob’s side.
It was deliberate.
With no choice, Silas grabbed the oversized shirt and loose sweatpants that reeked of Rob’s scent. The fabric felt wrong against his skin, swallowing his frame in a way that disgusted him. He tugged the shirt over his head, feeling like he was drowning in the unfamiliar cloth, the musk clinging to him.
Rob, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He grabbed the fitted t-shirt, sliding it over his shoulders, marveling at how perfectly it contoured his chest, how snug it felt against his arms. He pulled on the athletic joggers, admiring the way they sat on his hips.
When they stepped out of the showers, it was almost laughable how much they looked like each other. The real Silas, dressed in Rob’s oversized clothes, looked tired, burdened, out of place. The real Rob, dressed in Silas’s perfectly fitted outfit, looked energized, confident, as if he had never not been Silas.
Without another word, they walked to their respective bedrooms. Or rather, each other’s bedrooms.
Silas stepped into Rob’s room, the scent of junk food and unwashed clothes filling his nostrils, making him gag. Rob stepped into Silas’s room, inhaling the crisp, clean air with a satisfied smirk.
This was exactly how it should be.
The psychological and the physical phases had started. Now it’s the social phase. At first, managing each other’s social media accounts had felt like a chore—a game of memorization, carefully choosing words and tones to match their new identities. But as weeks turned into months, it became second nature. Silas found himself scrolling through Rob’s old messages, responding to conversations about coding projects and online gaming as if he had always been part of that world. The new Rob was very hooked into gaming to escape his new reality.
Meanwhile, Rob was thriving, slipping effortlessly into the role of Silas Maddox. He flirted with confidence, set up dinner plans with strangers who had no idea they were speaking to someone completely different, and basked in the attention that came with being an attractive, fit young man.
The dating profiles became a particular source of amusement for Rob. He had never experienced so many matches before—his inbox was flooded with eager messages, women (and even a few men) vying for his attention. But photos were crucial. Every potential match wanted proof that the man they were talking to was real, and that’s where Silas came in. Rob would direct him meticulously, instructing him to pose just right, flexing in ways that accentuated his muscles. "A little more light on your abs," Rob would say, adjusting the angle. "Turn your shoulders a bit—yeah, perfect." Sometimes Rob would do a picture for Silas to copy. Silas found the whole thing humiliating. His body had become a product for Rob to use, a tool to maintain the illusion. But the paycheck, the contract, the experiment—he reminded himself it was all temporary.
Rob, however, had never felt more powerful. He scrolled through his matches, feeling giddy at the thought that people saw him—well, saw Silas—as desirable. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t invisible. He was the man others wanted. And with every post, every video, and every flexing picture he had Silas send, he felt himself sinking deeper into his new identity, wishing that maybe—just maybe—it didn’t have to end.
After a few more weeks, the next phase began. They were given necklaces that were simple, unassuming—thin chains with a small metallic pendant, cool to the touch as Dr. Hank placed them around their necks. Silas eyed his warily, rubbing the pendant between his fingers, but it felt ordinary. Rob, however, was eager. He had learned by now that every step of the experiment brought him closer to fully embodying Silas, and he welcomed it.
Dr. Hank cleared his throat, beginning the usual round of questions. “Rob, what’s your name?” asking Silas.
Silas exhaled sharply before answering, “Rob Whitmore.” But as soon as he spoke, his eyes widened. The voice that left his mouth wasn’t his own—it was deeper, heavier, unfamiliar. It was Rob’s voice. He pressed his fingers to his throat in shock.
Dr. Hank smirked. “Good. And how old are you?”
Silas hesitated. He knew the answer. He had rehearsed it for weeks. But now, with the strange weight of the voice coming out of his mouth, it felt disturbingly real. “I’m twenty-six.”
Dr. Hank nodded and turned to Rob. “And you? What’s your name?”
Rob swallowed hard. A shiver of anticipation ran through him. “Silas Maddox,” he said, and his heart nearly stopped. His voice—Silas’s voice—was smooth, confident, effortless. He let the words settle in his mouth, repeating them in his head.
Dr. Hank continued. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“And are you the overweight man or the muscular one?”
Rob almost smiled. “Muscular.”
The words sent a thrill through him. He glanced at the glass wall, catching sight of Silas in his reflection, and for a moment, it was as if his mind filled in the gaps. The voice, the posture, the way he had been living—He was Silas.
Silas, however, felt the opposite. Every answer he gave pulled him deeper into a reality he didn’t want to accept. His voice was wrong. His name was wrong. He had been forced to embrace so many parts of Rob’s life already, but this was different. This was intimate. It wasn’t just about acting anymore. It was starting to feel real.
Later that day, Rob stood in front of the glass wall of the gym again, watching "himself" move in sync. He had loved these sessions before, but now, knowing his voice matched the man in the reflection, it felt perfect. He wasn’t just imagining being Silas anymore—his brain was solidifying it as truth. He grinned as he curled the weights, feeling stronger, more alive.
But beneath that thrill, a fear lurked. What if, at the end of all this, they took it away? What if he had to go back to being Rob? The thought unsettled him, gnawed at the edges of his excitement. He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away.
The next contraption was introduced a few weeks later. The contact lenses sat in two small cases, perfectly clear, almost indistinguishable from ordinary prescription lenses. Dr. Hank explained their purpose, though both men already had a feeling of what was coming.
Rob picked up his set first, glancing at Silas one last time before carefully placing the lenses in his eyes.
A quick blink, then another—his breath caught. Silas was gone. In his place stood himself—or rather, how his old body looked like. Chubby and hairy.
Rob looked at the mirror and saw Silas’s toned arms, sharp jawline, and athletic stance. Rob’s eyes widened in astonishment. He turned his head slightly, watching “himself” do the same, but from a different angle. His heart pounded in his chest as he raised a hand, watching his "reflection" move in perfect sync.
He quickly turned his gaze downward to confirm what he feared—and excitement exploded in his chest. His stomach—Silas’s stomach—was flat. No overhang, no soft flesh pressing against his shirt. He reached down and pressed his fingers into his belly and pecs, expecting firmness, expecting definition—
—but all he felt was flab.
The illusion wavered just for a second. He could see abs, but beneath his hands, he could feel the soft rolls of his true form. His breath hitched, but rather than disappointment, an intoxicating thrill ran through him. It was almost perfect. Just one more step.
On the other side of the room, Silas hesitated before slipping in his own lenses. He blinked a few times, forcing himself to look straight at Rob.
Except it wasn’t Rob anymore.
It was him. His own face, his own body. Standing over there. Moving in real time.
A cold wave of nausea hit him.
He swallowed hard and turned his gaze downward. Panic swelled in his chest. The first thing he saw was Rob’s thick arms. His belly bulged under his shirt, round and unfamiliar. His body looked like Rob’s. But—instinctively—he pressed a hand into his gut.
His own firm abs were still there.
For a moment, relief flooded through him. He wasn’t actually trapped. It was all just a trick. His fingers dug in deeper, feeling the muscle underneath. He could feel his real body, even if his eyes told him otherwise. But the sight was suffocating.
“Excellent,” Dr. Hank said, jotting something down. “Now that you both look the part, there's no need for shared workouts. You can train separately and continue your regimen alone.” Rob grinned, unable to stop himself from turning back to the mirror. His hands glided over his "abs" again, despite the deception. His mind was already starting to believe it.
That night, alone in his room, Rob stood before the full-length mirror, peeling off his sweat-dampened shirt. The fabric slid from his skin, revealing the defined lines of his chest and stomach—or rather, Silas’s chest and stomach. He ran his hands over his "chest," brushing over the sculpted pecs he saw. He looked perfect. The only flaw was that he could still feel his real body beneath the surface.
Despite this, his fingers ghosted over his reflection in the mirror, tracing the sharp definition of his jawline, his broad shoulders. He flexed an arm, watching the muscle shift, tightening with strength that—just weeks ago—he could never have imagined.
He tilted his head, drinking in the sight of himself. This was who he was now. The body of a man who belonged in the spotlight, on magazine covers, admired by everyone who laid eyes on him. His fingers dragged slowly down his stomach, stopping just above his waistband. His old body—his real body—had been soft, flabby, weak. But now? Now, he was powerful. Now, he could strut into any room and command attention.
A knock on the door snapped him out of his trance.
Dr. Hank entered, holding a small case of pills. “This should help reinforce the connection between your mind and body,” he explained. “Rob will feel heavier, as he should be, and you, Silas, will finally feel lighter and stronger.”
Rob snatched up the pill eagerly, barely hearing the rest of the explanation before swallowing it down. . Silas, however, hesitated. He looked at the grotesque reflection in the mirror—his reflection, bloated and unfamiliar. A deep pit of unease settled in his gut before he finally shoved the pill in his mouth, swallowing hard.
It didn’t take long for the effects to sink in.
Rob let out a slow breath as warmth spread through his limbs. His fingers pressed into his stomach again—except this time, there was no flab, no resistance. His body felt tight, compact, efficient. He flexed his arms again, his grin widening as he felt the tension in his biceps, the solid weight of strength coursing through him.
He turned back to the mirror, running his hands over his chest, over his stomach, up to his shoulders, reveling in every single inch of his sculpted frame.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured to himself, tilting his head, shifting his stance just slightly to emphasize his best angles. He threw a few casual poses, watching the light dance across the definition of his abs. Every movement felt fluid, natural. He had become Silas in every way that mattered.
Then he turned his gaze across the room.
Silas sat hunched on his bed, staring down at himself with a look of absolute horror.
His fingers gripped the flesh at his waist—except this time, it moved under his touch. It sagged, the weight pulling in ways that felt unbearable. His whole body felt sluggish, heavy, bloated. His stomach sat on his lap, the subtle bounce of soft fat foreign and horrifying. He clenched his fists, resisting the overwhelming urge to scream.
His breath turned shallow.
This wasn’t a trick anymore. The lenses made him see it, but now? Now, he felt it.
His gut clenched as he slowly raised his gaze toward the mirror.
Across from him, Rob smirked, basking in the glory of his—Silas’s—body, flexing without a care in the world. Silas’s stomach twisted as he watched the man move, admire himself, preen like he had earned that body.
Rob turned slightly to the side, taking in his reflection from another angle, running a hand through his hair before meeting Silas’s gaze in the mirror. He caught the flicker of envy in Silas’s expression—raw, unfiltered resentment.
And he loved it.
He let his smirk widen as he stretched his arms above his head, exaggerating the movement, rolling his shoulders just to feel the strength radiating from his muscles.
"Man," he sighed, dragging his hands down his torso again, relishing every inch. "I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this."
Silas gritted his teeth, his hands tightening into fists.
Rob turned to him, eyes gleaming. “How’s it feel?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
Silas didn’t answer. He refused to give Rob the satisfaction.
But that smirk—that knowing, arrogant smirk—never left Rob’s face.
He stretched again, yawned, then gave one last glance at his reflection, dragging his fingers across his stomach one final time before heading to bed.
Silas, however, had trouble sleeping that night. He sat in front of the mirror, trapped in the body he once mocked, his own physique stolen by the very man who didn’t deserve it. Eventually, he got tired and fell asleep.
The facility was silent in the dead of night, save for the occasional hum of machinery and the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Silas and Rob lay unconscious in their separate rooms, their breathing steady, their minds deep in drug-induced sleep. The sedation had been precise—calibrated to ensure that neither man would stir as they were carefully transported to the sterile, steel-lined chamber. The walls of the room were lined with machinery that pulsed with an eerie blue glow, their function known only to those who worked under Dr. Hank’s meticulous guidance.
In the center of the room stood two massive pods, each one large enough to contain a full-grown man. Their curved glass surfaces were clouded with condensation, hiding the intricate network of wires, tubes, and electrodes that snaked along the interior.
Dr. Hank observed as his team worked in practiced efficiency, preparing for the final phase of the experiment. He approached the control panel, his fingers dancing over the buttons before gripping the lever.
“This is it,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He pulled the lever.
The hum of the machines deepened into a low, resonant vibration. The pods lit up from within, a blinding white light flooding the room as energy surged through the complex system. Inside, the bodies of Silas and Rob twitched involuntarily, muscles seizing as the technology did its work.
The process took mere minutes.
When the glow finally dimmed, the pods hissed as they depressurized. The lids slowly lifted, revealing the men inside.
Where Silas had been placed, Rob’s body now lay still.
Where Rob had been placed, Silas’ body now remained.
It was seamless—perfect. Every detail, down to the finest fingerprint, had transferred flawlessly. The bodies had been switched completely.
Dr. Hank leaned in, inspecting them closely.
"Turn off the necklace and the lenses," he instructed.
A technician complied, pressing a button on a nearby console. The faint energy signatures that had once manipulated their senses flickered out.
Neither man would notice.
When they woke up, they would feel exactly the same.
And that was the true brilliance of it all.
The morning light filtered through the blinds as the new Silas stirred awake, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. Immediately, something felt different—better. He felt light. He felt strong. Ultimately, it felt right.
He sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, and as he moved, his body responded with a sharpness he had never known before. There was no sluggishness, no resistance, no weight dragging him down. His muscles felt compact, efficient, ready to move. A slow smile spread across his lips as he ran his hands over his stomach, reveling in the tightness of his abs, the firmness of his chest. It felt real now—undeniably real.
Standing up, he took a few steps toward the full-length mirror, his breath hitching as his reflection greeted him. Silas.
He turned slightly, rolling his shoulders, flexing his arms just to feel them move. A rush of warmth spread through his chest. This was his body now. He felt like he was really Silas.
On the other side of the facility, the new Rob groaned as he woke up, the simple act of rolling over suddenly feeling off. His limbs felt heavy, his movements slower, less responsive. He furrowed his brows, shifting onto his back and blinking up at the ceiling. Something wasn't right.
Sitting up took effort—too much effort.
His breath caught as his stomach pooled in his lap, the weight of it unfamiliar, foreign. His fingers dug into the soft flesh at his sides, and a wave of unease rolled through him. The pill must still be working, he told himself. The effects will wear off soon.
Dragging himself out of bed, he made his way to the mirror, bracing himself before glancing at his reflection. His breath hitched. He saw Rob.
No. That’s himself, he told himself.
He frowned, running a hand through his hair. He was still getting used to seeing himself like this, but now, it felt real. The weight on his body, the sluggishness in his movements—it was all too much.
Before either man could dwell on it further, Dr. Hank’s voice crackled through the intercom.
Gentlemen, report to the main room. They arrived at the usual session, sitting across from each other as Dr. Hank regarded them with a pleased expression.
“We’ve made some advancements,” Dr. Hank began. “To further reinforce your new realities, we’ve integrated AI into your devices. From now on, when you look into a camera, the camera will see yourselves—as you should.” Though in reality, there was no AI added. The truth is, they just completely swapped bodies.
Silas—the new Silas—felt a rush of excitement as he grabbed his phone and opened the selfie camera.
There he was.
The sharp jawline. The clear skin. The perfect physique.
He turned his head, testing the angles. His reflection followed flawlessly, every movement natural.
He had no reason to doubt it. He didn’t need Silas to take photos and videos for him anymore.
Rob—the new Rob—hesitated before doing the same. His stomach twisted as he raised his phone and stared at the image on the screen.
His lips pressed into a thin line. The AI was too good. The way it moved, the way the light caught his features—it was as if he were really looking at himself in the mirror.
His grip on the phone tightened.
“Everything you see, everything you feel, is a result of our process working exactly as it should,” Dr. Hank said smoothly. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Neither of them questioned it.
The day continued as usual. Their meals were switched—Silas enjoying his healthy protein-heavy diet while Rob choked down the carb-heavy, high-calorie meals he had once despised.
At the gym, Silas—the old Rob—felt the rush of strength surge through him as he lifted the weights effortlessly. His body responded with power, precision. Each curl, each press, each motion was a testament to the reality he had embraced.
Across from him, Rob—the old Silas—was struggling.
The weights that used to feel light now burned in his arms. His breath came heavier, his movements slower. He watched as the new Silas worked out with ease, flexing in front of the mirror, admiring his own reflection.
The new Rob gritted his teeth. He hated how it felt. How natural it was beginning to seem. Not only that, he can smell his own musk. The old musk of Rob which is now his own.
He wanted to believe this was just a trick—just the pills, the lenses, the AI. But with every movement, every step, every moment… The truth settled deeper into his bones. And neither of them knew.
The final phase had arrived.
Dr. Hank stood before them, his expression unreadable as he clasped his hands behind his back. Silas and Rob sat across from him, the weight of the moment pressing down on them.
“For the next six months,” Dr. Hank said smoothly, “you will be living as each other in the real world. No more controlled environments, no more structured drills. You will be immersed completely.”
The old Silas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “But… we haven’t actually swapped bodies.” His voice, now permanently sounding like Rob’s, was filled with doubt. “How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?”
The old Rob, in contrast, leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah, I mean… I know we’ve got the AI, the lenses, the pills, and all that, but outside, how do we make sure people don’t see the truth?”
Dr. Hank gave a slow, knowing smile. “That’s already been taken care of. All necessary arrangements have been made.”
Silas frowned. “Arrangements?”
Dr. Hank didn’t elaborate. Instead, he motioned to the assistant standing by the door. “Before you go, we have one last exercise.”
The old Silas’s stomach churned as the familiar process began once again. The final drill.
Dr. Hank turned to the new Rob first. “What’s your name?”
The old Silas clenched his fists but forced himself to answer. “Rob Whitmore.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
Dr. Hank’s smirk widened. "And tell me, Rob, between you two, are you the fit man or the overweight man?"
The new Rob exhaled sharply through his nose. His instinct was to scoff, to argue, but he caught himself. That wasn’t what Rob would do. That wasn’t what he was supposed to do anymore. "I… I’m the overweight one," he admitted, his voice quieter than before.
Dr. Hank nodded approvingly before turning to Rob. “And you?”
Rob grinned. “I’m Silas Maddox.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty”
“And are you the overweight man or the muscular one?”
The new Silas smiled. “Muscular.”
Dr. Hank’s gaze flickered between them, and then he continued, pressing deeper into their identities. Childhood memories. Family histories. Personal quirks. Every answer solidified the transformation, reinforcing who they had become.
Silas relished every moment, answering with enthusiasm, loving the power of fully stepping into Silas’s life. He stole glances at the reflection of his body in the glass, flexing slightly when he thought no one was looking.
Rob, on the other hand, responded reluctantly, hating every second of it. Each answer felt like another nail in the coffin of his old self, trapping him further in this deception.
By the end of the session, Rob felt hollow. Silas, however, felt exhilarated.
“Good,” Dr. Hank finally said, pleased. “You’re ready.”
The men were escorted out of the facility and sent on their way.
Silas stepped into the world, meeting his "friends" and "family." They greeted him warmly, embracing him, laughing with him as if he had always been Silas. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—only acceptance.
Rob arrived at his "home." Everything about it felt familiar even though it shouldn't be. Then everyone he met—his coworkers, his neighbors—treated him exactly as they would Rob.
Both men felt a deep, unsettling shock.
How was this possible? The world saw them exactly as they saw themselves. And they had no idea that it wasn’t just perception anymore.
Six months passed.
Silas thrived. He had embraced his new body, his new life, and everything that came with it. Every morning, he woke up feeling strong, powerful, and confident. The gym had become his second home, a place where he sculpted his already perfect physique and basked in the admiration of others. He had even landed a few acting gigs—something the old Silas had always struggled to achieve.
It was as if fate had corrected a mistake.
He wasn’t just living as Silas; he was excelling at it.
Meanwhile, Rob endured each day with growing frustration. He hated the way his body felt—heavy, sluggish, uncooperative. The workouts that had once been second nature were now grueling, humiliating tasks, and soon, he gave up on them entirely. Instead, he found comfort in food and video games, settling into the life he had been given, biding his time until the swap was reversed.
Because it would be reversed.
…Wouldn’t it?
The thought nagged at him more and more as the months passed. He had been counting down the days, waiting for Dr. Hank’s call, waiting for the experiment to end.
Then, one evening, the call finally came.
Both men were summoned back to the facility. Silas arrived in a crisp, well-fitted shirt that accentuated his muscular build, his presence commanding the room effortlessly.
Rob, in contrast, arrived in loose, comfortable clothes that did little to hide his weight gain, his expression filled with equal parts relief and desperation.
Dr. Hank greeted them with his usual composed demeanor. “Gentlemen, congratulations. The study has concluded.”
Rob exhaled sharply, shoulders relaxing. “Finally. So, we swap back now?”
Dr. Hank smiled, tilting his head. “That was never part of the agreement.”
A silence heavier than anything they had experienced before settled over the room.
Rob’s stomach twisted. “What?”
“The process was designed to be entirely reversible,” Dr. Hank clarified, his voice infuriatingly calm. “But I never promised that it would be reversed.”
Silas said nothing. He simply stared at Dr. Hank, his expression unreadable.
Rob shot Silas a pleading look. “You want to switch back… right?”
Silas met his gaze, and for the first time in six months, Rob saw something in his eyes that made his stomach drop.
“No.”
Silas didn’t want to switch back.
He had won.
Panic surged through Rob. “No. No, no, no. You can’t just—”
Rob removed his contacts and yanked his necklace but everything looked and sounded the same. When he looked at Silas, he still saw a muscular and handsome man there.
“Dr. Hank already told me that the contacts and necklaces were off months ago.” Silas said.
Dr. Hank simply gestured to the door. “You’re free to go.”
Silas left without hesitation, stepping back into his perfect life without a single glance backward.
Rob remained frozen, his world collapsing around him.
And when he finally stumbled out of the facility, no one—not his coworkers, not his friends, not the world—would ever believe that he had once been someone else. Not that he could, given his non-disclosure agreement.
Man, this body really does stink. I swapped bodies with this jock in another state. His name is Travis. We met each other on the Swapper app and connected immediately. He really wanted to try being a sexy bottom twink for a few days and I always wanted to be in a body just like his. I secretly always wanted to be a dominant jock but I did not have the willpower to hit the gym like I would need to in order to achieve a body like his.
When I awoke in his body, I was wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and sleeping in his bed. Fuck, he was messy and kind of gross. I sniffed the sheets a bit and they just smelled like sweat and musk. I'm pretty sure I felt cum stains all over the inside of his sheets too. My new room was minimally decorated and I seemed to be living in a tiny crappy apartment. Guess I wasn't expecting much from a guy like Travis - still this body was so worth it.
I got out of bed and immediately stumbled over as I made my way to the bathroom, not used to my new body yet. After getting my bearings, I flexed a bit in the mirror and got hard at my own reflection. It was hot to see Travis's reflection obey to my whim. I made all sorts of silly poses and faces in the mirror which excited me.
What really sent me over the edge was just how manly and hot I smelled. I dreamed about shoving my face into pits like this and now I could do it anytime I wanted. I also fucking loved the smell of my feet. I never realized I had a stink fetish but being in Travis's body was proving me wrong.
What was even hotter was cumming in his body. I definitely jizzed all over the inside of his boxer briefs and enjoyed the sensation as I kept them on while going about my day. It was fun to impersonate Travis to his family and friends. They had no idea their personable himbo gay jock boy was secretly a bottom twink that fantasized about having his body. It's gonna be hard to go back... I hope Travis is enjoying his time in my body too.
As the sun finally began its descent one Friday afternoon, casting a warm, golden hue over a grand college campus, Nolan Campbell made his exit from the university’s gym. After finishing up a grueling wrestling practice in preparation for his team’s upcoming meet, it was safe to say that the blond-haired jock was eager to get home and relax. But no matter his desires, it seemed as though the universe was doing everything it could to prevent him from achieving that goal. Given the fact that the weekend was now officially beginning, the campus was abuzz as large crowds of students traversed the school quad with excited haste. Luckily though, Nolan was able to overcome the overbearing crowds due to not only his bulky muscular physique but also his tall 6’2” stature.
Then, while waiting for a bus to arrive to take him back to his apartment, Nolan found himself forced to endure the constant staring and flirting from a slew of college cheerleaders. Despite his best attempts to turn them down, the girls refused to give up in their quest to be with him. Although to be completely fair to them, their desire was warranted. Out of all of the men on campus, Nolan was by far the perfect package. On top of that muscular physique of his, the man was blessed with a handsome face and an incredibly charming smile that formed an adorable yet manly set of dimples.
Yet while everyone assumed him to be this absolute beast of a man who easily dominated life like he did on the wrestling mats, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. For some reason, Nolan had always felt extremely unsure of himself and lacked the innate confidence that could have easily been corrupted into an inflated ego. Although there was a general sense of being unsure of himself when it came to his future, the one thing he was absolutely positive about was his happiness that he hadn’t ended up one of those stereotypical jocks who just bullied pathetic nerds or objectified women nonstop.
After finally getting the girls to leave him alone and set their sights on another nearby jock, the wrestler was able to board his bus and take the ten minute ride to his apartment. After checking his mailbox, Nolan then gave himself one final workout as he rushed up the five flights of stairs until he arrived at his doorstep… where he found a peculiar surprise waiting for him.
Rather than the appearance of some package on his doorstep, he found Arthur, his math tutor, just sitting down waiting for him. Looking him up and down, the jock noticed just how disheveled the usually put-together man appeared. Instead of his normally styled mop of hair, Arthur looked incredibly disheveled on top of tired, at least based on the dark circles that Nolan noticed behind the nerd’s gigantic thick-rimmed glasses.
In the two years that the duo had been working together, it was safe to say that Nolan had come to view Arthur as a friend of sorts. Nolan would bring his math assignments and questions every week, and Arthur would patiently guide him through the problems, breaking down complex equations and concepts in the simplest way that Nolan could understand. It was clear that Arthur had a gift for teaching, as Nolan found himself suddenly making progress in his math classes and avoiding the threat of academic probation.
As they spent more time together, an unlikely friendship began to form. Nolan, with his easygoing and friendly personality, found himself opening up to the introverted and slightly awkward Arthur. With the jock opting to be vulnerable with him, it seemed to unlock something within the nerd that encouraged him to finally open up and grow comfortable around him. Over time then, Nolan learned about Arthur's interests and his daily life. Hell, he had even begun to view the nerd as a friend that when he found out that one of his wrestling teammates had been secretly bullying the nerd, the jock immediately put a stop to it!
So although Nolan would easily describe himself as friends with Arthur given their work together over the past two school years, there had never been an instance where the twig of a nerd had just randomly shown up on his doorstep. After checking his watch and verifying that their appointment wasn’t meant for today, the jock flashed a smile as he tried to figure out what’s going on. "Uh, hey there Arthur. Is everything ok? I thought our appointment wasn’t meant until Sunday night?”
In response, Arthur began to stand up onto his feet, which caused him to quickly readjust his glasses as they began to slide down his nose. "Oh, hey there, Nolan. I was just in the area and I thought I'd stop by and say hello,” he said, flashing a soft smile towards his client. Ever perceptive, the nerd quickly picked up on the gym bag slung around his shoulder and noticed Nolan’s damp and sweaty body. “Did you have practice or something today?"
Nolan instantly leaned against the wall, loosening the strap of his gym bag. "Yeah, practice was intense. Coach is being a total hardass about this upcoming meet because it’s one of those rival schools. I legit feel so dead right now,” he responded, offering up a slight chuckle to lighten the mood. “But, how about you? How are your classes and everything going?"
“Eh, it’s alright. This new segment of my math course is pretty difficult, but I’m always down for a challenge,” he replied with a lighthearted laugh. “I was tired of doing nonstop readings so I decided to just take a walk to clear my head. Before I knew it, I was here on your doorstep.”
After eliciting his own chuckle, Nolan made his way past Arthur as he finally slid his key into the apartment door and unlocked it. Upon looking back, the jock felt oddly sorry for the guy. For some reason the frail shaggy-haired man was always taking the hardest possible courses each semester, which meant that he was too busy to go out and be social. As a result, Nolan couldn’t help but feel as though he was the closest thing to a friend that Arthur had.
Given the fact that he was planning on just sitting on his couch and relaxing all night anyway, the man realized what would be the problem in having company then? “Ah, I see. Well, I was thinking of getting some pizza and maybe just chilling and watching some TV for the rest of the night. You wanna come in and hang out for a bit?"
Arthur rapidly blinked in surprise, apparently not expecting an invitation from the jock. "Um, sure, that would be great. I think some time away from the textbooks would probably be good for me. I can’t stop seeing equations whenever I close my eyes,” he chuckled, which caused Nolan to do the same as he finally opened the door and allowed the nerd to walk in first.
Upon shutting the door behind him, Nolan slumped to the side and allowed his gym bag to fall off his shoulders and onto the floor with a heavy thud. With that weight literally lifted off his shoulders, the man looked down at himself and realized just how sweaty he was. “Uh hey, if you don’t mind, I’m going to shower real quick,” he began, leading Arthur further into the apartment until the duo were in his living room. After reaching out towards an end table and grabbing onto the remote, the jock began to hold it out towards the nerd. “You can just go ahead and sit down and watch some TV I guess. I promise it will only take a few minutes and then we’ll order some pizza and just relax for a bit!” But to the jock’s confusion, the nerd refused to take ahold of the remote.
Turning away from the TV and sofa, Arthur looked around the man’s apartment before beginning to speak. “Uh, before you go, can I say something,” he asked, which resulted in Nolan nodding his head in approval. “Ok, well uh, I just wanted to say that I really appreciate you Nolan. I know this probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but I don’t really have any friends here. These tutoring sessions have been genuinely quite rewarding because I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as perfect as you.”
Upon hearing that last sentence, Nolan’s eyebrows raised as he tried to understand what that meant. Was Arthur just being sweet to him or was he trying to be vulnerable and reveal a new piece about himself in terms of his sexuality? Although Nolan was quite comfortable with his sexuality as a straight man, he wasn’t actively homophobic or anything so the concept of his friend being open like that was quite sweet in his eyes.
But before he could even respond, Arthur continued to speak. “So uh yeah, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate your friendship,” he said, punctuating his sentence by extending out an open hand for a handshake.
Finally, Nolan was given the ability to respond and he tried his best to be comforting to the man. “Aw, it’s no problem at all man. You’re a pretty great guy yourself and I appreciate all of your help. You’ve truly saved my ass so many times over the years that I can’t repay you enough,” he exclaimed, softly chuckling as he began to also extend his hand out for the handshake.
“Oh really? Well now that you mention it, I actually do have an idea of how you can make it up to me,” Arthur replied, his grin shifting into a smirk as he suddenly grabbed onto Nolan’s hand and wrapped it in a tight embrace.
Immediately, Nolan’s grin faded and his eyes widened as he felt a sensation similar to electricity rushing through his body. Confused about what’s happening to him, the jock stared into Arthur’s eyes, which remained narrowed and instantly made Nolan feel uneasy. Although he could have continued staring for a while in search of answers, the wrestler was stunned to find a bright flash of light suddenly fill the room up. Worried about blinding the light was becoming, the man clenched his eyes shut and grit his teeth as a sudden pain overcame his body. As he continued to scream, he could have sworn that he felt as though his body was being completely torn apart.
But as quickly as the light and pain had emerged, they faded just as fast and Nolan found himself struggling to catch his breath. With each deep inhale and exhale he took, he couldn’t help but notice how high-pitched and labored his breathing sounded. But as Nolan finally peeled apart his eyelids to look over at Arthur, a sudden gasp escaped from his throat. Rather than staring at his tutor, he instead found himself staring at his own body.
Unnerved and with no other option coming to mind, the man looked down and revealed a terrifying sight. Rather than his thick and muscular body, his glance down revealed Arthur’s lanky arms while his sweat-stained tank top had been replaced with an oversized and more nerdy shirt. As he held out his hands and looked at just how pale and unimpressive they were, the young jock couldn’t help but scream as he realized that he was now in the body of a weak nerd!
Despite the ear-piercing scream he made, Nolan found himself unable to produce any words or move no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was somehow stuck by whatever had caused his body swap with Arthur or if he was so petrified and in shock that his body had no idea what to do. But as he looked back across the room at the nerd now occupying his body, it quickly became clear that the new jock had no problem moving around.
As he observed how Arthur looked around and smirked, Nolan got to watch in horror as the nerd quickly looked down before using his new wide pair of hands to pull off the damp and sweaty tank top to reveal the jock’s ripped and fully shirtless torso. Upon tossing the clothing onto the floor just a few feet away from the discarded gym bag, the former nerd grabbed onto his plump pecs before eliciting a maniacal laugh.
“You fucking idiot, I can’t believe you fell for that fake sympathy shit,” he bellowed, his tone drenched in a cocky and condescending tone. Once finished, the man then lifted up his arm and flexed a bicep, smirking as he gripped the rock hard muscle. “Fuck yeah!”
Upon witnessing the nerd’s behavior, Nolan was understandably quite confused. In those two years of knowing him, he had never witnessed Arthur behave like this. To make matters worse, he was doing it in Nolan’s real body. Like, what the fuck did his so-called friend do to him?!
Refusing to continue looking at the nerd flaunting and flexing those stolen muscles, Nolan forced himself to tilt his head down and observe his new body. After using his hands to rub his upper arms and feel no indication of any muscle, the man wasn’t shocked to lift up his shirt as well and find that there was no hint of muscle whatsoever. Instead, he only found pale skin with patchy chest hair and a slight sliver of fat around his stomach and hip area. Upon letting go of the shirt and allowing it to fall back down to cover his depressing new torso, the man’s new gangly fingers traversed up his neck, which ultimately led to an exploration of his new face. Allowing his fingers to graze along his bulbous new nose and bump into the thick pair of glasses that covered a good 30% of his face, the man was horrified by how peculiar and strange the entire experience was. Hoping that he was somehow having a post-workout nap, Nolan tried his best to wake himself up from this nightmare by pinching or slapping himself. But of course, that worked to no avail and only made it clear to him that this was all real and he had truly been betrayed by his friend.
Speaking of this so-called friend, Nolan’s attention was once again caught by Arthur as the former jock watched the nerd lift up his new muscular arm and shove his angular nose deep into his ripe and sweaty armpit. “Fuck, you smell good,” he purred, allowing one hand to reach down and fondle the massive bulge that was now straining against the pair of athletic shorts Nolan had been wearing. “Well, I guess I should say I smell good now…”
Although watching such an obscene display was quite horrific to witness given the body swap element, Arthur’s behavior finally caused Nolan to break out of his stupor and demand answers. “What the fuck did you do to me dude,” he angrily asked, picking up but not acknowledging the higher-pitched and whiny tone he now spoke with.
In response, Arthur allowed an oddly fitting dopey chuckle to escape from his lips as he turned his palm outwards and revealed a small little device that resembled one of those prank shock rings wrapped around his middle finger. “What do you think I did, dumbass? I stole that precious little body of yours and now there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Immediately, the threat of forever being stuck in this body caused Nolan to jump into action as he reached out with haste to touch the device and cause the duo to swap back to their normal bodies. But unfortunately, the jock inherited the nerd’s poor hand-eye coordination and thus missed his foe’s hand entirely as he attempted to swipe it.
“Damn, you suck ass now dude! I doubt you could even throw a football at this point with those twigs for arms,” Arthur cackled, smirking as he pulled the device off of his finger and held it up in the air. Before Nolan could attempt a second swipe at the device, the new nerd’s eyes widened as he watched the device get tossed down to the ground and a loud crack echo through the room. Just to rub in his defeat though, the new jock smirked before lifting up a foot and bringing it down hard on the device to shatter it into a million pieces. “Looks like those wrestling days of yours are far behind you now, huh?”
Realizing that his chance of swapping back was now utterly destroyed, the former jock found himself suddenly breaking down in tears and falling to the ground as the gravity of the situation hit him. Rather than being a muscular jock who had the world at the palm of his hands and squandered it, now he’ll just be this average and meek nerd that has no friends and spends all of his free time studying textbooks!
“Why?!” he blubbered in between intense sobs, “What have I ever done to you? I thought I was your friend!”
In response, Arthur led out a loud guffaw as he leaned down to stare directly into Nolan’s eyes. Upon narrowing his eyes and finding himself staring intensely at his old body, a cheerful tone emerged in the new jock’s voice. “All of you muscular buffoons are all the same. Even if you didn’t fuck me like your teammates, you still refused to stand up to them! I’ve spent my entire life being ridiculed and tormented by asshole jocks and I finally had enough. I got one of my friends in the engineering department to help me build that prototype for me and now that it worked, I never have to worry about feeling worthless again!”
Furious about how he had been grouped up with people he could agree were total assholes, Nolan immediately began to lash out in hopes of making sure that even if he was outpowered, he wasn’t outspoken. “You motherfucker,” he screamed, adopting the most aggressive tone he could manifest while rushing towards his friend-turned-enemy. “I’ll tell everyone what the fuck you did to me. You won’t get away with this, Arthur! Maybe you deserved to get your ass beat by those jocks all the time!”
In response, the transformed nerd instantly reached out and grabbed the weakened jock by the throat. Hearing the man’s last sentence caused Arthur to snap as he instantly changed his plans about handling the body-swapped man. “You know that’s not my name anymore, Arthur… I was going to just let you go on and live your life without any interference, but fuck that. You’ve fucked with the right one nerd, and now you’ll be lucky if you don’t spend the next two years of your life getting tormented in the worst ways imaginable.”
After holding onto the nerd and watching as his eyes began to bulge out, the new jock finally let go and pushed the man back until his light weight caused him to fly several feet before stumbling back even further until he slammed against the front door. “Now get the fuck out of my apartment before I beat your pathetic ass,” he warned, watching as the still-sobbing nerd instantly obeyed his order and fled as fast as his weak and frail body would allow.
“Fuck, that felt good,” the new Nolan moaned as he reached down and began to fondle his crotch once more. Although he knew getting revenge would be quite hot, he never realized just how hot it would be to humiliate and torment people in ways similar to what he experienced! Looking down and watching as a pre-cum stain began to emerge in the front of his shorts, the new jock smirked before turning and making his way towards his bathroom. Although he was eager to get started repeating the cycle of torment that he had endured, Nolan was more desperate to get acquainted with every part of his new and bigger body…
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To say I disliked going on these hunting trips with my dad and his friends would be an understatement. The truth was I absolutely hated them. What could possibly be fun about chasing innocent defenseless creatures and killing them? I at least could not see the fun in it.
The only silver lining on these hunting trips was my dad’s best friend Daniel. Though he was absolutely obnoxious, loud and arrogant, always boasting about his latest premium cigars or hook-ups with women, I couldn’t help but feel incredibly attracted to him. There was just something about that rough voice, hairy body and that rugged beard that kept me hooked. It would not be far to say that the only reason I kept coming with them was to see Daniel and perhaps hope he would somehow feel the same way towards me. That however would surely never happen as he made it very clear how incredibly homophobic he was every time he and my dad talked about “those faggots”.
Oh well, at least I got to stare at his wonderful firm butt every time we went out for a hunting session.
This year the hunting trip took place in a new forest we had never been to before. I could only guess my dad and his friends had scared away all the animals in the last forest. After setting up the camp in a secluded spot near the outskirts of the forest, we immediately began preparing the hunting equipment. I could literally feel them oozing out of anticipation for the hunt. God, I already felt bad for any animal crossing their path today.
As we trekked through the woods searching for prey, Daniel was walking in front of me, breaking every branch and stepping on every mushroom along the way. As we got deeper and deeper into the woods, the exertion began to show on everyone. My dad began panting, Daniel started to sweat and took off his shirt, while I slowly fell behind everyone. I did not mind though as I could smell Daniel’s musky odour oozing towards me. That mixed with the smoky scent of his cigar gave me such a hard-on, I could only hope no one would turn around and see it. Anyway, it was through these kinds of experiences that I realized my affinity for nature and... men.
I was suddenly interrupted by my thoughts when Daniel’s big burly hands pulled out in front of me, stopping me before signaling me to lay low. Apparently they had found their first prey. Slowly climbing towards a bush, we positioned ourselves strategically around it. Curiously, I peeked above it to see a herd of deer nibbling on grass. There had to be at least fifteen of them; bucks, does and even a few fawns. Sitting back down slowly, I suddenly heard a crunch under my foot. I had stepped on a branch. Alarmed, the herd immediately sprang into action and ran off into different directions. Almost instinctively, my dad and his friend jumped up and ran after them, leaving just me and Daniel.
“Shit! You’re goddamn worthless!” Daniel said as he stood up and kicked me to the side, before running off in a direction he had seen some does and fawns run to. Picking myself up, I rubbed my bruised rib cage for a second before running after Daniel.
Following the trail of broken branches and that strong musky smell I knew all too well, I found Daniel leaning quietly against a big oak while gripping his rifle. Upon seeing me, he frowned before signaling me to come over. As I stepped towards him, he suddenly grabbed me in a chokehold, pressing his mouth close to my ear.
“You better not ruin this for me, okay? Just be quiet and don’t fucking move. Is that clear, faggot?” he whispered spitefully in my ear before releasing me and turning back to whatever he was watching. Catching my breath, I suddenly realized what he had called me - a faggot. I’m guessing my “appreciation” of his body had not gone unnoticed. Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by the rustling of the bushes.
"Got ya!" He sneered, his eyes now focused and completely disregarding me. Shoving me aside he clenched his rifle and intently searched for the cause of the sound - like a predator just waiting to pounce onto his prey. Curiously I began crawling my way towards him, only to have him give me yet another annoyed glance before telling me to stay low with shushes and hand gestures. I think I did pretty well quietly crawling my way next to him this time without stepping on branches. I peeked over the bush to see the target of Daniel's attention; a wide open glade with a small fawn staring confusingly around itself. Probably having lost its way from the rest of the pack, it was now easy prey for Daniel and his friends.
"Look. This is how a real man does it." He whispered to me as he slowly pulled up his rifle and aimed it towards the fawn. The armpits of his shirt were now drenched with sweat, probably from anticipation and joy. After all, he would be the first one to catch a prey in this new place.
Normally I'd keep my attention towards Daniel’s flexed guns instead of watching the slaughter of an innocent life, anything to keep my mind off all the blood and gore, but when the fawn quietly grunted I just had to turn my attention towards it. It was shaking. It looked so scared and weak, its legs barely holding it up and its eyes anxiously searching for any sign of its parents. My heart broke and I realized I just couldn't let this defenseless, innocent creature lose its life to someone as horrible as Daniel. So... without even thinking it through I grabbed the closest branch I could find and chucked it towards the fawn. Alerted by it, it quickly noticed our presence before scurrying away into the bushes. Just in time too as Daniel's shot completely missed its target.
"Shit!" He screamed as he jumped out of the bush and ran after it. He shot two more times towards it before realizing it was long gone. I ran after him too, and stopped beside him as we stood in the middle of the glade - staring towards the direction where the fawn had run off.
I turned to my side to see Daniel's reaction, and as expected his rugged face showed both disappointment and frustration at the same time. Disappointed for missing his shot, and frustration most likely towards me. Realizing he had lost his only prey for the day, he turned towards me and grabbed me by my arms. His thick bulging biceps held me firmly in place.
"What did you do that for?!! I knew you were a worthless piece of shit, but this... this takes the cake!" He yelled while he shook me back and forth. "I knew I should've told your dad to never bring you along!"
"I-I-It was just a baby..." I tried to justify myself for him, though deep down I was actually proud of what I had done.
"WHO FUCKING CARES!! It's just a walking piece of meat for us humans to consume anyway!" Daniel yelled, as he was getting even more agitated by me answering. His face grew more and more red and his grip around me became even harder and stronger.
You are a walking piece of meat I'd like to consume, I thought amusingly to myself as he stopped shaking me and stared crazily at me. His hot smoky breath blew against my face and I couldn't help but feel my bulge grow at the situation I was in; a hot and sweaty Daniel was holding me and breathing down my face. I couldn't help but smirk at my predicament.
"WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?!! YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!!!" His eyes burned with fury and madness, so much that even I began to get a little bit scared. That's also when he looked down and noticed my still growing bulge. "You get off on this don't you... you faggot." he said, no longer shouting and sounding furious. His grip also became a little bit looser. However, there was obviously hatred and some hint of madness left in his voice.
"Your dad should've done this to you a long time ago..." he said calmly. I could no longer sense any kind of emotion in his voice. Before I could even react I felt his strong rugged hands wrap around my throat and my back hit the hard yet grassy ground. I was in so much in shock that it took me a few seconds before I realized that Daniel was on top of me, his hands around my neck, and that I could no longer breathe. Knowing that there was no one within these woods that would come to my aid I was sure this is where I would die. Yet, as I was pinned down under him, on the verge of being strangled to death, I couldn’t help but keep thinking about his big bulge pressing against me. To think that I would finally be this close to the object of my desire just moments before I die.
Smiling happily, I tried to take one last breath, breathing in Daniel’s natural body odor, and seeing the madness in his face rising before I felt my consciousness slip away...
.....
It was brief though as I soon jolted awake. Finding myself still on the ground with Daniel on top of me, I looked up to see him no longer staring down at me with his crazed face. Instead he was looking straight forward with a face of wonder and fear. His grip now loose around my throat I began trying to wiggle free. Only managing to feel his bulge rub against my stomach, he effortlessly pushed me down again stopping my attempt.
Letting go of just one hand around my throat, he reached out behind him and fumbled around with the rifle on the ground. Before he had a chance to pull it up though, a gust of wind suddenly came blowing out of nowhere. For me it seemed like a small breeze, but it apparently had a different effect on Daniel as he suddenly lost his grip on me and was flung a few meters away. His huge body literally flew across the sky before he landed on his back with a loud thud, supposedly knocking him unconscious.
Free of the weight I slowly pulled myself up before cautiously turning around to see what Daniel had been staring at. Expecting a bear or something I was instead greeted by the sight of a majestic buck.
With its tall entangling crown that reached up towards the sky, its silky white fur shimmering under the sunlight and its big eyes glowing in a ghostly shade of blue. I could only stand there transfixed at the creature in front of me. It also took me a few seconds to notice the small fawn standing behind one of the buck’s hind legs, the same one that I had managed to let run off earlier. They both stood there still as statues and just stared at me, not even blinking once.
Uncertain of where I would go from here, a voice suddenly echoed among the trees, its words vibrating my very core.
“I am the Guardian Spirit of this Forest and you humans are soiling its ground with your violence and bloodlust. I will not tolerate any more of this. You shall be punished!” Those last words echoing deep and hard. “However, I saw your actions and sensed a strong and compassionate soul within you, one worthy of my blessing. For saving the young one I shall grant you one wish of your desire. Choose now before I change my mind.”
I barely had time to comprehend what had happened or what the voice had told me, but I sure knew what a wish meant. Thinking about it for a short while, I realized I couldn’t decide on anything. There’s just too much to choose from. I was just about to decline the offer when I heard some groaning behind me. Turning around I saw Daniel’s hairy sweaty body still on the ground, looking just as amazing as always, and that’s when I realized exactly what I wanted. Turning back to the majestic buck I pointed a finger towards Daniel’s still somewhat unconscious body and answered with determined look on my face:
“I want that.” Not completely sure myself what I meant with it.
“As you wish. May your life be long and compassion guide your way.” the voice echoed one last time before the gust of wind came back. This time it was so powerful I could barely stand. Bracing myself, I felt my feet give in and I lost my balance. Expecting to get flung away like Daniel, I instead felt my weak body rip itself from my very being (soul, essence, life force), and flying even further away than Daniel.
Looking down I found myself no longer in possession of a body, instead I seemed to have transformed into a glowing sphere. Floating in the air like I was some kind of wisp, I felt light and free, and no longer bound to the physical world.
Barely a second had passed before another gust of wind came, this time blowing towards Daniel’s unconscious body. Watching it all happen, I saw Daniel’s body arching its back before a similar spherical object was forcefully pulled out from his chest. Dragging it along, the wind seemed to know exactly where it was going as it directed the glowing sphere right back into my old body. With a big “oomph” it was pushed into my weak scrawny body, leaving me floating there next to Daniel’s now empty shell.
It wasn’t hard for me to puzzle everything together and I knew exactly what needed to be done. Floating towards the empty vessel, I found my floating form hovering right above his body. Looking down at the body I had admired for so long, my gaze turned towards his broad beefy chest. So big, so strong, so hairy, I knew that it would be the perfect gateway to my new life.
As my wispy form slowly began to sink down into his meaty and furry chest, I could not help but stare up at his rugged and handsome face. To think that that bearded face, strong jawline and piercing deep eyes would soon be mine made me shiver in anticipation as I pushed myself down harder. Within a few seconds I had fully entered Daniel’s body.
Slowly but surely I felt my wisp form spread out within his body, flowing down his toes, up his fingertips, and into his growing erection. I could feel his body beginning to shake vigorously as it adapted to its new owner, and if I didn’t know better I’m pretty sure it was experiencing pure pleasure and even orgasmed as my spirit made its flesh feel complete again.
Lastly, as I filled out his head I felt my non-physical form finally mould and shape itself into an exact replica of Daniel. I figured I was now a clone of Daniel in spirit form, trapped within Daniel’s physical body. Before anything else happened though... I suddenly blacked out.
---
Waking up with the sun shining in my eyes, I felt the soft moss and ground on my back, thinking I had simply fallen asleep. Stretching out a hand to shield my eyes against the sun, I was met with a big burly hand instead of my usual slim one. Staring at the hand for a while, I suddenly recalled everything that had transpired before. How I had saved a fawn from Daniel, met the Guardian Spirit of the Forest, and granted me one wish that allowed me to put my spirit within Daniel’s body.
Pushing myself up, I looked down to see my new body. Sure enough I was greeted with the same dirty hunting clothes Daniel had been wearing. Patting myself down with my new big hands, I could feel my thick biceps and bulky hairy body underneath all the clothes. It felt so euphoric being able to touch the body of my deepest desires with its own mighty hands. Soon enough, one of those hands found themselves inside my pants, fondling my new thick cock. Groping around Daniel’s beefy body, I realized I had forgotten the most important thing, the thing I could never get enough of. Lifting one of my thick arms up I turned my head towards his armpit and gave it a huff.
I was greeted with the strong and sweet musky odour that I fell in love with the first time I met him. Like a drug, I kept taking long deep breaths, savouring more and more of my new musky scent. Prying my other arm away from my now rock hard cock, I brought my big burly hand up to my nose and inhaled.
Woah! I was blown away by the even more intoxicating smell and almost ejaculating right then and there. It probably smelled a hundred times stronger, better and more pungent than his armpit. To think Daniel held such a treasure hidden underneath all his clothes!
Turning my head back and forth between my armpit and my hand, I suddenly realized that I no longer needed to go on these hunting trips anymore just to glance at Daniel or get a whiff of his scent. After all, I could do that whenever I wanted now, as it is MY reflection and MY musky odour! That very thought sent me over the edge as I massively came over and over again, completely soaking the underwear with Daniel’s semen. No, MY semen.
With cum slowly dripping down my hairy legs, I turned around wondering how Daniel was doing in my body, expecting him to wake up and freak out anytime soon. Much to my surprise though, what I saw was instead a small fawn standing in a pile of my old clothes. Its fur seemingly has the same shade of auburn as my old hair. Having laid there watching me for who knows how long, its eyes suddenly met mine and quickly turned into an expression of hatred and disgust.
I took a step towards it with my pants still sticky with residue, when I accidentally stumbled over the rifle laid on the ground. Seeing the rifle beneath my feet, the fawn’s expression suddenly turns into that of fear. Quickly pushing itself up, it clumsily scurried away into the woods, almost like it had never walked with four legs before, before it disappeared among the many bushes and trees.
Not completely sure what had happened I picked up the rifle and Daniel’s cigar box and set off towards the camp. All the way back I kept enjoying the taste of a premium smoke and the feel of my cum-soaked underwear squishing against my crotch. I could definitely get used to it.
---
Back at the camp, we all turned up with nothing to show. Some of the guys even said the forest must be haunted and that they felt watched wherever they went. I knew it wasn’t exactly haunted, but I played along anyways.
My dad started to panic as he realized I was not with me (or Daniel... well, that's technically me now... whatever, you get it). He kept asking me why I hadn’t watched over his son, which I lied to and said that I told him to go back to camp before I ran after the herd.
As my dad and his friends panicked and made several calls everywhere including the cops, I simply stood there staring at them while completely unfazed at what was happening.
After all, I knew exactly where I was - safe within Daniel’s body. I took one last long inhale to drink in the musky smell oozing from my hairy and sweaty body before joining “my” friends in the chaos.
Epilogue
It’s been a few years since that fateful day that changed my life. My old clothes were found a few days later inside a bear’s den - shredded and tattered. How it got there beats me, but the authorities proclaimed me as dead and the case was never brought up again.
Although I now looked, sounded and smelled like Daniel, I had “become” a completely different man. Making improvements to my new life, everyone was greatly surprised when Daniel became a more kind, passionate and caring person. What shocked them even more though was when I came out as gay, explaining how all my homophobic actions had been a way to hide my own true feelings.
As expected, almost all of Daniel’s friends left or stopped talking to me. That included “my” own homophobic dad, which I was kind of happy for since he was the last tie to my old life.
Leaving those hunting days behind me, I began to help animals in need and even helped build a new shelter for them. It was through these actions that I met my husband, a kind and handsome scout leader in his thirties wishing to stop animal hunters from harming any further wildlife. Seeing as we both had the same goal it was only natural we fell in love and started dating. We moved around helping different shelters, got engaged a few months after that, before finally deciding to settle down by the very same forest I lost and gained a life. We built our own cottage, which we made into our home while also providing shelter for any animal in need.
Nowadays I spend my days keeping a watchful eye on the woods by making sure not a single hunter or poacher takes even one step inside this sacred forest.
Sitting there on the porch with one hand down my pants while waiting for my husband to finish his round, I raise one of my arms for a minute and let its smell mix with the cigar in my mouth. Taking a small huff of the aroma I had grown to love so much over these past years, my own body’s musky odour and the deep smell of my favourite brand of smoke, I sat back and relaxed.
My mind began to wander, and with a smile on my face I thought to myself: the small fawn I had seen run off back then must surely have found its way home, just as I had found my forever home - within Daniel’s amazing body.
The End
A remake of one of my own stories! I decided to revisit a favourite story of my own from a few years back, only to realize it never picked up as much steam as I thought. So I thought I'd try it again, with a newer model that I just recently discovered! I really think he fit the story, and I hope you guys enjoyed it as well! /Verus
"Welcome back to heaven, Atreus." The enormous scantily clothed man boomed. Jeremy had just awoken after he thought he had died saving a man by pushing him from the path of a bus hurtling towards him.
"Who... who are you?" Jeremy asked. His voice was not his own, it had a deep and masculine quality to it that was totally alien to him.
"Ah, amnesia - I am Kyrion, King of The Gods. Don't worry my son, it is normal to have temporary memory loss after living as a mortal for so long."
Son? Mortal? Is this man a god? Who is this Atreus person? Jeremy thought as he looked down for the first time, seeing the absolutely perfect adonis body below him covered only by a simple fabric that would not be considered appropriate by even the most risqué individual. Oh my god! I must be this Atreus. The hospital must have me on some crazy drugs for me to be tripping like this.
"Oh my son, my prince, I can see you are distraught. Here, I will bring you to your quarters to recover." The huge man grabbed hold of Jeremy, lifting him effortlessly. Jeremy felt like a child being cradled in Kyrion's arms.
The God King left Jeremy in a room nearby. Overwhelmed, he lay down to sleep, trying to avoid thinking about the odd yet incredible sensations coming from his god-like body. As Jeremy drifted off to sleep, he hoped he would reawaken free from this crazy fever dream.
—
This must be real then. I've tried to find a more sensible explanation but all evidence points to the crazy fact that I am now in possession of this heavenly body. Jeremy had awoken to find himself still in the prince of gods, Atreus's body. He ran his hands all over those perfectly sculpted muscles, every touch leaving his new body feeling invigorated and powerful. As he grabbed his thickened and hardened manhood and thrust into it, he let out a powerful roar while golden semen coated his entire chest. After some more incredibly pleasurable self exploration of his new body he had turned to trying to find out what had happened.
He looked around his bare room for information but could not find any information at all. It was only when he walked to look in the mirror that he realized that it wasn't merely a mirror at all. It seemed to be a magical artefact of some kind, displaying whatever information he wished to see. It was there that he had learned more about this new domain. He found that Gods and Goddesses were in fact real. They had created humanity as an experiment and entertained themselves by interfering with the mortals as they saw fit. All human religion was based on one or many of the Deity's that existed in this heaven. Recently, the last couple thousand years, Kyrion had restricted Gods and Goddesses from interfering with humans directly - only he was allowed to do so and he chose to do so rarely. Punishment for Gods consisted of banishing them to live as mortals temporarily, usually for one to fifteen lifetimes. There were only 138 Gods and Goddesses, reproduction is strictly controlled by the God King.
After the brief history lesson on what seemed to be the origin of all religion Jeremy knew of, he turned to trying to figure out how he even ended up here. He found he was in the body of Prince Atreus, son of God King Kyrion. Atreus would inherit the throne if Kyrion was to die. No God had died since Kyrion had taken control, as only a Godkiller weapon could end a God's life and the new regulations put in place had prevented such weapons from being created.
Jeremy wondered if this magic mirror artefact could recall the accident that had led to this whole situation, when he had pushed that man out of the way of the bus. The mirror immediately responded to his thoughts, displaying the street he had been on that day. Just before the bus barrelled towards the oblivious hunk, who appeared to be a more human version of his current body, time slowed down.
He saw a gold glowing beam extending vertically above the scene of the impending accident, the handsome man had a silvery ethereal trail extending from his body - slowly being pulled up by the golden light. Jeremy saw himself shove the man out of the way, splatting into a bloody mess on the pavement. The man's silvery soul floated back into his muscular body while a similar, albeit much dimmer, blue ethereal mist left Jeremy’s broken body. His own soul was vacuumed up where Atreus's had meant to go.
Jeremy sat down, realizing the gravity of the situation. Should he tell Kyrion that he was not the son he appeared to be? Should he just keep quiet? He wasn't sure how the Gods would react if they knew a mortal was now in possession of one of their immortal bodies.
Distraught, he sat down in the chair beside him. He felt an odd solid object press against his beefy leg. Pulling at the cushion, he found a small glowing dagger hidden beneath the folds. Gripping it he felt an awesome power flowing through it. What does this mean?
Jeremy noticed a blinking emerald crystal in the hilt of the dagger. He rubbed his rugged finger across the gem, a strange gold light emanated from the crystal, producing an ethereal message in the air:
Mortal,
I was able to place your soul in the Prince's body without the detection of the
immortals. Not even your new father, the tyrannical Tyrion, has realized my deception. For one thousand years I have plotted his demise so I can take control as I deserved. He is the bastard son of Khronus, not me! I have one simple task for you, mortal. If you succeed, I will leave you in Atreus's body to rule by my side as my personal guard. You will no longer be a mere mortal, but a god. My task is simple, use the dagger I have left for you and plunge it into Kyrion's heart. I have scheduled a meeting with him this evening. You will join the meeting and murder him while he is distracted. He will never suspect his dim-witted son to betray him. Do this, and you will be rewarded.
Mishara, God of Deception
Jeremy didn't know what to do. The offer was enticing, he could be a god!. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to give up his integrity to be immortal, and he definitely didn't want to be this power-hungry Mishara's personal plaything.
He had only been among the gods for a day and he was already involved in their murderous and aristocratic politics. How could these super beings be so primitive? I guess we are created in their image, but we seemed to have evolved past this archaic style of government, Jeremy thought.
Hours later, Jeremy accompanied God King Kyrion to meet Mishara. Jeremy observed the two arguing about the state of human-god affairs. He could tell that this debate had been had before.
When the debate became more heated, Kyrion arose to his massive height to look down upon the God of Deception. His back was turned to Jeremy, so this was his opportunity to kill the king and keep this god-like body for himself.
He removed the dagger that had been hidden underneath the fabrics and raised it above his head.
Jeremy hesitated for a moment, thinking about what he intended to do, then stepped past Kyrion and plunged the God Killer dagger into Mishara's chest. Mishara's face twisted in shock, shouting, "You traitorous mortal!" The god fell to the ground, life leaving him as golden blood flowed from his chest.
"What have you done, Atreus? What mortal was Mishara talking about?" Kyrion asked with an edge to his voice, he did not know why his dim-witted son had done what he had done. Not trusting himself to speak, Jeremy poked the dagger's emerald; Mishara's message reappeared for Kyrion to read.
"So you are not my son, you are a human? I am surprised a mere human did not give in to their greed to steal an immortal body. You are more just than many gods, as evidenced by Mishara's betrayal. You deserve a reward." The God King rubbed his chin. "You will take my son's place as prince, heir to the throne."
"What! But what about your son? He will die a mortal?" Jeremy asked, as he questioned if immortality really was worth the freedom.
"Was being a mortal so bad that a god should not live as one? Atreus was not suited for the throne, he was as dim and stubborn as he was handsome and strong; he is better suited to be a mortal man. He had voluntarily become mortal as a vacation from the pressure of his position. He abandoned his duty as prince; no, you are humble and just, more fit for the throne than he ever could be."
Jeremy knew he could not argue with the God King, he had to accept what he had been given. He was now Atreus, God and Prince, heir to the throne of gods and goddesses. It would not take long before he came to love the glory of his immaculate body of a literal god. His to enjoy for the foreseeable eternity.
Hey everyone! Hope you've all been well!
As for myself I've been feeling better health-wise, and I'm finally getting more time for writing again! I can assure you that the writing itch never left my body, as I've made a list of stories I'm planning on finishing in the foreseeable future!
Stay tuned, guys! /Verus
It’s saturday, 2 am, you walk down the 5th avenue heading home and you get a message:
- “Good night, babe.” A message from Dustin, the sexy hunk of your office.
15 hours before.
- “God, it seems I’m never going to finish these files! I need to relax a bit from this job!” You said sitting at your desk ordering dozens of folders with court cases that you still haven’t finished reading.
You were at a law firm, lunch break was an hour away so your patience seemed to be under control. If your job was already overwhelming for you, not to mention your coworkers, it seems to be a competition of who is the most useless here.
Luckily there was a new guy, his name was Jack, a simple intern who only needed work experience before finishing his college degree. Jack came from a very prestigious university here in the state so the boss did not hesitate to hire him for 6 months.
It wasn’t long until you realized that Jack was gay, a little low profile but enough to be flirting with the other gay in the office, Dustin.
Only you knew that they had met through Grindr because the intern had told you as a secret, what he did not know is that you also had a crush for Dustin too and you were not willing to let that silly guy get away with it.
The young and inexperienced Jack wanted to surprise Dustin by visiting him to… You know. He just needed to know where his house was, so he innocently asked you if you just knew where Dustin lived.
- “Yes, I know, in fact Dustin lives in the Madison building, his apartment is 305.” You said with a mischievous satisfaction.
- “Really ?, Ohh thanks dude, see you tomorrow.” Said Jack before leaving the office ready to get ready for tonight after Dustin finished his work.
The university student would never imagine that the address you gave him was not Dustin’s house, but yours, your plan was to get Jack to come to your door and then cast the body swap spell and then visiting Dustin for some fun.
It did not take long for Jack to appear ringing the bell, as soon as you open the door you perform the spell and then you make your old body into a deep sleep, tomorrow he will wake up and will not remember anything of his previous life. You send Dustin a provocative message on Grindr, you ask him if he wants to have fun tonight, he hesitates at first, but after sending him a gif showing your sexy body, Dustin gives in and writes.
- “Okay Jack, I can’t resist this, please come asap”.
You grab your new belongings, throw the bouquet of roses and those weird stuff in the trash, and head over to Dustin’s apartment.
He greets you with a strong handshake and an awkward silence runs through the room, you just want to take the action.
Your lust and Dustin’s begin to raise the temperature of the place, the contact between both bodies radiates the room with a pleasant musky smell, both bodies begin to undress and the excitement consumes you to the point where you lose the use of reason, you just want to fuck like an animal would.
You and Dustin spend long hours enjoying the pleasures of their male bodies licking each other’s places and playing with their darkest fetishes.
Dustin never knew that you’re not really the real Jack, but that doesn’t matter anymore, you don’t intend to stop being Jack.
From now on, you and Dustin will continue to meet to satisfy their darkest desires. and who knows, maybe enjoying Dustin’s body, being really inside him.
Long story short, I switched bodies with my worst student last week so he could get out of taking the final. I thought it would be worth it, a chance to be in college again, but I want my body back!
Every morning I have to wake up at 5am to go to hockey practice, plus do the heaps of homework HE’S been assigning me!
I barely woke up in time for practice this morning. I’m horny all the time, too. I came 6 times yesterday! God, Sean’s feet stink! I can’t believe he puts these on before practice every day.
I thought swapping with Professor Anderson would suck, but I’m loving it! Sure, he’s like 40, but he’s in great shape. Plus I get to play with his big beard all day. I could never grow one before!
I didn’t know he was gay when I offered to switch with him, but I don’t really mind. I won’t lie…I spent most of my time in his office stroking his cock. It’s huge! The first day we swapped I thought he had a banana in his pants.
I never thought I’d say this…but I love his dick. I like how hard it gets, the thick bush of hair he never trims, how hard I cum now. I’ve been fucking some of the closeted guys on my team for a few days now. They love worshipping my hairy chest and pits.
I even put my feet up on the desk while I stroke one out. My new ones don’t stink anymore!
I looked from afar not knowing what could happen next. That nerd had become an improved version of myself. I had no doubt that he was going to ace all my exams, but I never expect that he would become so charismatic when he took control of my body. Even worse, he now just won the state wrestling championship… something that I never thought possible. He is better than me in every single way. Now, I am certain that he will never give me my body back.
