Tyler bolted out of bed at the crack of dawn. Muscle memory from the past season hadn’t worn off yet, and he was used to being at practice by 7 am. The first rays of sunlight lit up his bedroom wall, cascading down onto his chiseled body. Ever since he’d started working out in high school, he’d slept shirtless to admire his hard work. Years later as captain of his college lacrosse team he still loved waking up daily to his perfectly sculpted pecs and abs. Today was the first Saturday of his last summer break ever, and he wanted to start the season off right. A mineral spa had recently opened in his college town, advertised as the perfect thing for athletes like him to relax and unwind, to take care of their bodies after pushing them all year long.
After scarfing down some scrambled eggs for breakfast, he grabbed his swim trunks and towel hopped in the car, eager to have a full day of decompression. Luckily, the spa also opened early, knowing their target market well. He walked through the automatic doors and was immediately transported away from the small town atmosphere. A gentle mist filled the room that smelled of lavender, and there were waterfalls lining the walls that created a soothing background of bubbling water sounds.
“Hello! Welcome in,”
A voice broke through the soundscape that Tyler had found himself lost in. He then noticed a man behind the counter at the end of the room. Dressed in a tight black tank top with a name badge, the man was clearly showing off his own built physique as well as his impressive amount of body hair. Thick tufts of hair puffed out from the low neckline and across his shoulders. Tyler was shocked that this spa let its employees dress like this, as well as a little disgusted by the display, but with no other options he approached the counter.
“Hi there, I’m here for, uh-” Tyler paused, looking up at the boards absolutely covered with dozens of different spa treatment options. “The uh, is there one that’s good for athletes?” He asked, giving up on scouring the list.
“For sure!” The man eagerly responded, “For muscle relaxation and care, we recommend the Bruin Bundle, it’s our most potent spa pool, with mineral water from an authentic Hungarian bath house. We guarantee you’ll come out a changed man!” He finished with a laugh.
Tyler looked for that option on the board. It was a bit steep price-wise, but he’d decided to take better care of himself this summer, and that began with putting the money where his mouth was. “Alright, I’ll go with that,” he said assuredly.
“Great, just follow me back to the locker room and you’ll be set,” The man gestured as he walked through a small doorway to the right.
Tyler followed him into the back, passing by several open doorways to different pools and saunas each with a different look and smell to them. Most were empty but a few had other guys in them, all looking like they were lost in relaxation. As they passed by he even swore he heard some moans echoing from behind. I guess if they’re alone in a spa, he thought to himself. They stopped in front of a doorway leading to a large steaming pool reminiscent of an old world bath house, with ornate stone carving and marble.
“This here is your spa, one of my personal favorites,” the man said with a wink before turning around. “And here is your changing room. We recommend bathing fully nude but it’s up to you, many also use swimsuits. Either way, we hope you enjoy your time here!”
The man then left Tyler alone. He’d never been to any kind of spa like this so he was a tad apprehensive about the whole thing, but decided to try and lean into it and have a good time. He sat on a bench and took off his shirt, shorts, and socks, before stuffing them in a locker. Tyler paused as he stood in the doorway.
“Ah, screw it.”
He pulled off his boxer briefs and threw them into the locker as well. Darting quickly across the hall in case others were walking down, he stood at the edge of the large bubbling and steaming pool. Moisture was already starting to bead on his face just from looking at the water. Without another thought he stepped down into the pool, hot water splashing against his legs as he entered. He decided to sit on one of the ledges a few inches below the water, leaving his upper half to steam. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and let the sounds of flowing water and bubbles lull him to rest.
Some time later, Tyler was roused from sleep by an odd sensation. He’d been at ease with the underwater jets blowing against his legs, but now there seemed to be some resistance, as if his legs were covered in algae. The feeling was strange enough to wake him, and before his eyes were fully focused he pushed himself out of the water onto the dry landing behind him. His heart stopped. His legs were fully coated, not with plants, but with hair.
Thick, black hair blanketed both his legs and feet, his hard earned muscle lying beneath a forest of dark strands that stretched from his toes to his thighs. The back of each toe had dozens of hairs popping out, the tops of his feet were nearly hidden under a field of black hairs, glued to his skin by the water dripping off him. The hair only got thicker and denser as it climbed up over his ankles, swirling around his shins and calves, encircling his legs in a solid mat of fur. The hair continued up over his knees to his beefy thighs, which seemed even larger now than they did before. The vast expanse of his quads served as the base for an endless forest of dark, wiry hair that similarly connected around to his hamstrings, entombing his legs completely in a furry prison. They prickled still, as more hairs continued to pop up all over them, sending shivers across Tyler’s body.
Tyler’s jaw hung open, unable to fully process what he was seeing. His thoughts ablaze with horror, yet he couldn’t bring himself to scream or cry. All he could do was slowly move his hand towards his leg, a deep curiosity taking hold, needing to know what it felt like. His fingers brushed through the thick strands, feeling them stick together from the water caught between them. The sensation was electric, involuntarily causing a soft moan to slip out from Tyler’s mouth. His other hand got involved, and quickly his horror shifted to ecstasy. Something about the steam in the room had got him feeling light headed, worries slipping away as he began to appreciate what was transpiring in the pool.
The prickling feeling had begun to migrate from his legs upwards. His groin, still dripping wet, began to darken as small black points dotted the skin. Spreading up from his thighs, the pinpricks coalesced around the base of his cock, from where they quickly began growing from dark points into thick hairs. Each follicle activated pushed out a jet black, thick, curly hair, each of which seemed to keep growing far beyond normal. The nascent bush was taking shape, more and more black hairs poking out from his groin as the area in the center grew darker and denser. Tyler’s cock began to inflate, no longer laying hidden under the growing forest of pubes but stretched proudly outwards. He’d always been proud of the size of his cock, a respectable seven inches with decent girth, but it quickly began to push beyond its old limitations. Tyler moaned again as his cock grew past eight, nine, to ten inches, thickening the entire time. Hairs began poking out of the shaft itself, coating the lower part in matching fur to the skin around.
This was enough to draw Tyler’s attention to his sprouting bush, and while a part of him, deep in the back of his head, wanted to scream, he instead was more turned on than ever before. A large glob of precum leaked from the end of his cock, and he moved one of his hands to grasp the massive member. The other hand migrated from his hairy thighs to his newly hairy groin, feeling the springy, wiry hairs tangling with each other. The forest growing in his crotch continued to spread, hairs sprouting outwards and upwards, a trail beginning to stretch past his navel. The classic triangle filled in, darkening as hairs grew thicker and filled in. Tyler’s breath hitched in a moment of strain. In seconds, his balls swelled to twice their size, stretching his sack to its limit. His scrotum slowly caught up and loosened its grasp, but not before his balls bulged again, forcing a pained groan out of Tyler. He was now left with two baseball sized nuts hanging beneath his cock. Not to be left out, his scrotum began to prickle as the same kinky black hairs erupted across the empty expanse. The hair plunged down, coating his sack before stretching past, his taint sprouting a rug of thick hairs, quickly tangling into an impenetrable mass.
Tyler’s body was awash with pleasure. His newly grown fur felt unreal, and the more he looked at it, played with it, stroked his much larger cock, the more he realized something.
He needed more.
Without hesitation he pushed himself off of the ledge and back into the water, fully up to his neck this time. The hot water swirled around his body, warming him to the core. Bubbles jetted against his hairy legs, drifting up his body. He felt at ease, wading around the pool. Over the sound of the nearby fountains and jets he heard a loud moan from a different spa room, and he couldn’t help but grin. Someone else was having their own transformative moment, and who knows into what.
After a few minutes of soaking, the prickling sensation slowly reared its head again. He could feel it start in his groin, the bush thickening up one last bit underwater. The slight tingle spread upwards, across his abs and up into his pecs. His body shuddered involuntarily as muscle began to grow, his already built body putting on more mass. His chiseled physique, however, started to fade as his body softened slightly, still growing larger but with more fat. Tyler should’ve been horrified at the loss of definition, but in the slight haze caused by the steam he didn’t mind all the much, in fact he saw appeal in this new beefier body.
The grin plastered on Tyler’s face grew larger when he saw dark pinpricks beginning to appear between his pecs. His muscles twitched as dark hairs blossomed from his chest, swirling outwards from his nipples. The waves of hair collided in the center, curling and tangling together between the mounds of muscle that quickly darkened under a growing field of fur. The hairs continued their spread, reaching up over his collarbone and out towards his sides. The budding treasure trail down at his navel had its own explosive growth, with hairs shooting up all across his stomach, connecting up to his chest hair and coating his entire abdomen under a fuzzy rug.
Tyler’s hands started to itch, and he giddily brought them up near the surface of the water to watch closely. Whatever part of him had felt fear and horror at his hirsute changes had been stifled, buried beneath a new laid back, hair loving side of him. His excitement grew as he saw small dark hairs piercing through the backs of his fingers, wiggling as they pushed out longer and longer. The back of his hands began to darker, with hundreds of follicles activating across his hands, shooting out dark hairs that wove together into thick mats. The hairs climbed up over his wrists with no issue, burying the joint beneath a seamless layer of hair. His forearms itched as thousands of hairs began to erupt across them, within seconds the skin was no longer visible at all. Just a solid rug of black hair reaching from hand to elbow, and they weren’t done yet.
His hands cracked slightly as his palms grew and coarsened, his fingers thickened. His forearms enlarged, feeling the effects of years of manual labor rather than gym workouts. His biceps and triceps grew as well but lost definition, softened too like his torso. The upper arms, normally free from hair, were not spared. Dark wiry hairs spread up from his forearm, coating his muscles on all sides before beginning to creep up onto his shoulders.
Tyler felt the prickling sensation climbing up his arms and landing in his pits, growing in intensity as it sat in place. He raised one arm out of curiosity and revealed a quickly growing tuft. Dark hairs were pushing out of his pit at an impressive rate, growing longer and thicker as he watched. The hairs swayed gently in the currents, looking like an undersea ecosystem that was flourishing. Hairs kept popping up, curling and tangling in with the rest, as the armpit tuft spread outwards. The fur connected seamlessly with his arm hair and quickly grew to merge into his chest hair. His pit continued to darken as more and more hairs pushed out, coming up between older hairs and thickening the massive thatch of hair into one that would always poke out. He could imagine the thick curly wiry hairs trapping an incredible amount of sweat, he’d always have a manly musk from now on.
From his pit, the hairs marched upwards onto his shoulder, burying it beneath an inch of hair as vast areas of skin disappeared in mere moments. Like a growing crop field the hairs sprouted evenly and densely across his shoulders, blending into his arm hair and chest hair as it spread towards his neck. His muscles similarly lost definition in exchange for their fur coat, not that any definition would be visible under the thick rug he’d grown. The forest continued its advance, circling his neck entirely before moving down onto his back, the last untouched expanse. Small dark hairs popped up around his shoulder blades, slowly growing into small crescents of thick fuzz. Thick hairs trailed down his spine from the rug growing in across his shoulders, growing down until reaching his ass, where just above sprouted a thick patch of black hair. The rest of his bare skin began to vanish as wiry hairs popped out all over, sprouting quickly and grouping together into tufts, patches, and eventually blending seamlessly into the full back rug.
His ass felt sore as the hair encroached from above. The thick muscular cheeks softened before growing in size. His ass would always be visible now, no matter what pants he wore. Moments later the familiar prickling of hair returned. His plump cheeks grew an even coat of light fuzz, before it slowly darkened and matured into the same thick, wiry hairs that coated the rest of him. Layers of dark hair kept popping up under older ones, until his ass was barely visible under the fur. His crack itched strongly as even thicker hairs burst out, more kinky and wiry than any others. The rug across his back continued spreading around his sides, linking up with his chest and stomach hair as his full body coating only grew thicker and thicker.
As his whole body was covered in thick hair, the currents of the water now pushed and pulled Tyler’s fur coat in waves, the feeling of which was mind blowing to him. The bubble jets in the pool were blowing directly towards his thick bush, now free to sway in the water. Every time he moved the sensation was immaculate, and Tyler couldn’t help but get hard again. He reached both hands down since his cock was long enough to need both, and began to stroke slowly, up and down his shaft. His body shivered. It felt incredible. The warm water coating his dick and his body, the thick girthy shaft needing both hands, the hand under his hands and flowing in the water, it all created an unreal sensational overload. He suddenly remembered, nearly breaking the daze he’d been in the entire time, that he’d missed a spot.
With a quick breath, he dunked his entire head underwater, holding it under as long as he could. About a minute later he broke the surface with a gasp. Even with just a minute of time, the pool water had begun to take effect. A dark shadow coated the lower half of Tyler’s face, stretching down over his neck. His sharp jaw began to round out, cheeks growing heavier. His hair darkened from brown to an inky black, with the hairline receding just an inch or so on the sides. He returned his hands to his cock as a beard began to fill in on his face. He grasped his rock hard member, feeling every inch of his face come alive as follicles worked in overdrive to push out a thick, black hair. His beard crept out slowly, then more quickly as he began stroking it faster. His mustache popped out, hairs erupting from his upper lip as he felt himself getting closer. The hair on his cheeks thickened up, creating a solid strap from side to side that blended into his stache. The stubble crept downwards too, connecting into his thick chest hair, as Tyler’s jacking pace reached a climax. His breathing grew quick, hairs all over standing on end as he felt his massive balls churning.
With one last pump, his hips began to buck as he shot load after load into the pool water. A roaring moan echoed through the room as he emptied both gargantuan balls straight into the spa. He felt his body bloat, softening even more, belly growing more than anything as his fur coat grew just a little bit denser all over. His cock was still emptying into the water, cum pooling around him as his breathing slowed into a pant. The haze from the intense steam began to lift, but Tyler was no longer the man he was upon walking into the spa that morning. He was bigger, heavier, and far, far hairier. He rubbed his hands through his new fur, enthralled with it still.
Suddenly, the man from the entry desk walked into the room.
“It sounds like you’re all finished in here, could I interest you in our sauna next?” he asked Tyler with another wink.
Tyler quipped back, a grin plastered across his face, “Only if you join me.”
Apologies for the long hiatus, I hope y'all enjoy this one! As always please let me know of any suggestions or hopes you have for future hairy stories, or if you're working on becoming big and hairy yourself!
5k follower special. This story is based on your votes on how I would be transformed and what I would transform into.
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I could feel my body relax as I walked out of my last exam. The weight of university had suddenly lifted from shoulders and the burden of corporate life hadn't yet set in. It felt amazing.
Under the refreshing spring sun, I started walking home. I pulled out my phone, planning on listening to some music like I normally did, but something caught my attention. A notification from tumblr.
"Hey man, you should try this podcast, it really changed my life."
It was a message from an anonymous user with a link embedded. Normally I would be a bit more careful, but I was in a good mood so I clicked on it.
It brought me right to a podcast on Spotify, making it easy to start it up and continue my walk.
The podcast began with the buttery smooth voice of a man, maybe around 30. Something about his voice brought me comfort, like there was something hollow in my life that he filled.
I raised my head and puffed out my chest as I walked, now filled with a strange self confidence that had never felt before. But then, my stomach sank as the charming podcaster began to devolve into weird manosphere shit. I clocked out as soon as he began ranting about what makes a real man.
I reached for my phone to turn off the podcast, but I couldn't. I tried again and again, but it was like my body wasn't responding to my brain.
"Now that I've got you." The podcaster said, "let me tell you what makes a real man."
My mind panicked as my body continued walking like nothing was going on.
"Real men are protectors, they build their bodies like fortresses." The man said.
Almost immediately when those words entered my head, I could feel my body change. My shirt tightened as my chest rose into two meaty pecs and my biceps grew until my sleeves were on the verge of ripping. My legs quickly followed suit, making my legs look like any other gym bros.
What do you mean gym bro, I thought. I never go to the gym.
"Do you feel strong now?" The man asked.
"Yes." I heard my voice speak.
No! I mean yes, I do feel strong, but I don't want this!
"Good." The man continued. "But muscle isn't enough to make you big and strong. A real man needs to have his presence be known wherever he goes. A man should take up a lot of space in any room that he's in."
I could feel my perspective shifting higher as my height increased significantly, I must have been at least 6"4. My shirt looked more like a crop top, allowing the breeze to brush against my bare stomach.
Then my stomach sank, it felt like the sun was boiling inside me. I wanted to scream but my body didn't react, it just kept walking. But all of the pain was quickly released as my stomach surged outward, swelling with soft fat until it sagged over my waistband. My waist softened into thick love handles that also spilled over my waistband, giving my body a much wider look.
That was only the beginning, though. My strong pecs became buried in soft fat, growing thick enough to finally rip through my shirt. And the muscle definition in my arms and back disappeared under a thin layer of fat. My legs similarly thickened up, and my body seemed to subconsciously adjust by spreading my legs out as I walked, preventing my thighs from rubbing together. And finally, my ass expanded into two juicy globes that threatened to rip through my tight shorts.
The transformation had completely taken my attention, I had almost forgotten that the podcaster was still talking.
"Now we can't forget what truly makes a man, masculinity. Real men are mature testosterone filled machines, they're sweat covered hairy beasts and they're proud of it."
"Fuck yeah!" My voice shouted in a deep, mature voice.
Stop saying that, I don't mean that. You know I don't mean that, right?
My body quickly became engulfed in an intense itchiness as thick hairs began to sprout all over my skin. You'd be hard pressed to find a spot on my body that didn't have hair, though it was especially thick around my belly, chest, and arms. Also, my clean shaven face soon became covered in a thick black beard.
And just when I thought the changes were over, I felt a pain emerge in my knees, then in my back.
Am I, getting older?
I felt my facial features start to weather and age, though I couldn't quite tell how much I had aged. I felt the sun beating down on my head as my hairline receded slightly. At the same time, patches of hair on my chest and my beard began to go gray, leaving it salt and pepper.
My hand moved up to my belly, moving my thick man hands through the sweat drenched hair on my belly. The feeling felt so foreign to me, I didn't have a belly, let alone a hairy one.
"Fuck..." I moaned as I felt up my growing body.
No! No this is too far.
"How do you feel, big guy?" The podcaster asked, as if he was talking specifically to me.
"God, this feels great." I responded in a gruff voice.
It does feel good, but I hate it.
"Good man. Now, we can't have a man with pasty white skin. A solid tan shows you're a strong working man, and some tattoos always make you look tougher."
The sun felt like it was burning my skin as it took on a more golden colour, though my chest and shoulders turned bright red.
Without me thinking, my hand reached into my backpack to grab a baseball cap. I threw it on to protect my balding head from the intense sun.
The burning on my skin progressed past a normal burn as tattoos began to appear on my chest, arms and neck. I could feel a sense of pride in the tattoos despite the fact that I would never get tattoos like these.
"Now you're becoming a real man," the podcaster continued, "but there's something you're missing. Any real man needs a package that suits his imposing manly body. The kind of dick that can make any woman, or man if that's what you're into, see god when you fuck' em."
The bulge in my tight shorts started to grow as my dick snaked down the side of my leg, nearly peaking through the bottom of my shorts. It grew to a massive 9 inches, creating an obvious bulge in my skin tight shorts. I wanted so badly to cover up, to not be seen like this in public, but my body still wouldn't listen to me. I just kept walking along with a cocky smirk, extremely proud that any passerby would have no choice but to notice my package.
"Now to wrap up this episode, let's deal with that mind of yours." He said.
Wait what!?
"A real man shouldn't have to think that hard. Who needs a university degree when you've got big muscles like that."
No, please, just let me go!
"You love being a dumb jock that let himself go after his days on the highschool football team."
I wasn't on the football team, was I? And I didn't let myself go!
"You love being a rich dad who does nothing but fuck and relax around with mansion."
I have a mansion? Right, I do have a mansion. And you're right, I love fucking.
"Good man. Now make sure to share this with someone that needs to be reminded of what a real man is."
The podcast cut off at the perfect time as I arrived home. Something felt off as I stared at the lavish mansion in front of me, but the feeling quickly faded. As soon as I got inside, it took off the tiny shorts I was wearing. Normally I would just go for a swim naked, but my stupid neighbour complained, so now I have to wear swim shorts.
That's when a great idea popped into my head. As I walked to my backyard, I pulled out my phone and sent the podcast over to my neighbour. A real man wouldn't judge another man for wanting to be naked in his own backyard.
With that out of the way, I stepped out into my massive yard and jumped into my in ground pool.
The time flew as I was floating around the pool, I couldn't tell how long it had been before my phone buzzed. It was a text from my neighbour.
"Why don't you show me what a real man looks like."
My plan worked. My cock jumped at the idea of seeing my stuck up neighbour as a big horny man. I took a video of myself as I walked out of the pool, making sure to show off the star of the show, my belly.
I sent it over and impatiently awaited a response.
"Come to the fence."
My heart skipped a beat as I approached the fence that split our yards. Peaking over, I saw an older, fatter, and hairier version of my neighbour lounging on a chair.
He simply lifted his hand and gestured for me to come over.
The reality hit you like a car, fast and quick. Everything started to make sense, you knew exactly what was happening but it was too late to do anything about it.
You had always wondered what your boyfriend saw in you, all his exes were hairy men with big beards, thick pelts, and receding hairlines. They were stronger, tougher, more masculine than you. You were like your boyfriend, hairless, effeminate, a twink.
A few months into your relationship he tired to get you to grow a beard, told you to stop using nair on your arms and back. You said youd only do it if he did the same but he would always respond "I dont want to look like an animal!"
Eventually you gave in, did a no shave november as a birthday gift for him. You looked horrible, with only a light dusting on your upper lip to show for it at the end of the month... your boyfriend was expecting more.
You tried to tune him out, he kept talking about supplements and testosterone treatments. There was something you could add to water, a pill you could take, a cream. You didnt want to hear it. You liked being a twink, you liked being a bottom, you didnt want to be like you boyfriends exes all dilfy and straight passing. They watched sports, treated your boyfriend like a house wife, and worked blue collar jobs. You wanted to stay in your field as a scientist, you wanted to have an equal partnership with your partner. Though there was a part of you, an animal part of you, that wanted to let go and devolve into the kind of man your boyfriend wanted you to be.
Today, on your day off, you decided to take a shower. Your boyfriend had already been up, cleaning the house or something. You stumbled to the shower, half awake and not thinking. You didnt stop to ask why your wet skin felt itchy and why your morning wood didnt get ofter with the water, in fact, it was getting harder and harder.
You were planning on saving your load for your boyfriend but you couldnt help it. You needed it. You wrapped your hand around your cock and began stroking only a moment later realizing that it wasnt your think twinky hand stroking your cock but a thick bearish man's paw, covered in thick black hairs. You screamed in a deep manly voice, its not your own voice or at least it wasnt.
Your boyfriend came in, half scared half excited. He looked at you as you rubbed your hands over your body, as you felt the hair growing in, the beard, the pelt, the growth.
The reality hit you like a car, fast and quick. Everything started to make sense, you knew exactly what was happening but it was too late to do anything about it. You were becoming what he wanted, a bear of a man. Its starting with your body, the hair on your head beginning to fall out, the beard pushing out of your skin, the layer of fur, and then its going to be your mind. Your boyfriend must have snuck those supplements, the oils, into your shampoo or something. You look at him over your shoulder, if its true that he put the oils in your shampoo maybe theres still enough on you.
You grab him, pulling your fully clothed twink boyfriend into the shower with you. Hes panicking, "youre supposed to be the daddy not me!" Its too late, as your body gets bigger, hairier, older, so does his. He's crying as the oils, stuck in your thick pelt of fur, get all over him and begin to work their magic. You probably would have cried too, probably would have fought it, but by the time you realized what was happening your mind had already been changed. The old you was already gone and in its place was a mans man more interested in sports than in his appearance.
In the end there wasnt enough oil left to change your boyfriend completely but you made sure to get his face. He might look a few years younger than you and be less hairy but that beard makes up for it. You can imagine the old him screaming trapped inside his new jock brain. You boyfriend used to only care about makeup and boys, now all he cares about is beard care and gains.
As for you? Youve settled into your new lifestyle as a daddy. Youre a sold man now, with a nice beard and good pelt of hair. Every night you and your boyfriend watch a football game to get you in the mood before you rail him like the good daddy you are.
Hey! Thirty years old, like to work-out but can definitely tell I don't say no to pizza or junk food, average height, pale complexion. Really just pressed the button out of curiosity. Also, enjoy a chance to gamble. Permanent? Might not like the result? Doubt that- I think its worth the risk.
The arcade is full of kids, but he doesn’t feel out of place. Thirty years old, he works out when he can, but pizza and junk food are temptations he can’t say no to. Fair skin, average height, a body some would call “normal” and others “unkempt.” He likes it that way. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s why he presses the button.
Curiosity. Gambling. Risk.
⌛ 🐻❄️ ⌛
The next instant, time runs over him like icy water.
It’s not just years. It’s an era. Thirty years turn into fifty in a matter of seconds. But it’s not normal aging. It’s an evolution. A transformation into something bigger, more solid, more… present.
The first thing he feels is the weight. Not random extra pounds, but mass that distributes itself, that settles, that becomes part of him. His shoulders widen, become powerful, bear-like. His chest swells, expands, but it’s not the sculpted chest of a twenty-year-old. It’s fuller, more solid, warmer. Beneath it, a belly begins to form. Not flabby, not soft. Solid. Full. A belly of a man who has lived, who has eaten, who has enjoyed. A bear’s belly, covered, hidden, yet present.
The hair. Oh, the hair.
It explodes. Not gradually, but in a warm wave that covers every inch of him. On his chest, a thick, dense blanket, white and gray. Not sparse hair, but a true pelt, warm, soft, incredibly full. It covers his pecs, slips into the central groove, goes down toward his belly, wraps around it, hides it and reveals it at the same time.
On his shoulders, the same. A blanket of white and gray hair covering his deltoids, running down his arms. His forearms are covered, his hands themselves hairier. On his legs, beneath the jeans, he imagines the same thick covering.
The beard. Where there had only been smooth skin or a faint shadow, now a thick, full, white-and-gray beard bursts forth. It covers his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his neck. A bear’s beard, a mature man’s beard, a dominant one. Wild yet groomed, incredibly masculine.
His hair. Those light, ordinary strands turn white and gray. A cap—where does it come from? From nowhere, it settles onto his head. A simple, dark baseball cap holding back that now-gray hair.
And then the clothes. The shirt, the pants, everything disappears. In their place, only a pair of jeans. Light, worn jeans, tight over his powerful legs, over his full glutes. And nothing else. His torso is bare, exposed, covered only by that white-and-gray pelt.
The sweat. Even in the air-conditioned arcade, his new body produces heat. A light sweat beads on his forehead under the cap, dampens his beard, moistens the hair on his chest, makes it cling, makes it shine. It runs down, slips into the pelt, reaches his belly, his jeans.
The smell. Strong. Musky. Warm. The scent of a mature man, of a bear, of dominance. A scent that fills the space around him, that clings to clothes, that lingers. A scent that speaks of cold nights and warm bodies, of safety, of protection, of desire.
Under the jeans, something has changed. He feels it. It weighs. It takes up space. It presses against the fabric, outlining a clear, heavy shape, impossible to ignore. Bigger than before. Much bigger. Bear-like.
He looks at himself in the machine’s reflective screen. The man he sees is no longer the thirty-year-old who eats pizza and works out when he can. He’s a bear. A real bear. Fifty years old, powerful, hairy, with that solid belly that speaks of a life lived, with that white-and-gray beard framing a face that has become wider, harder, more dominant.
He runs his hands over his chest. His fingers sink into that thick, white, warm hair. He feels the muscles beneath, still there, still strong, but covered, wrapped, protected by that pelt. He moves down, touches his belly, solid, full. Then lower, where the jeans are tight, and what’s underneath presses, heavy, obvious.
A deep moan escapes his throat. Not of pain. Of discovery. Of pleasure. Of power.
He adjusts the cap with a slow, confident gesture. Then he looks at himself again. That new body, that white pelt, that beard, those tight jeans, that dominant air. He knows that when he walks out, people will look at him. With respect. With fear. With desire.
The boys, the girls, everyone. That bear body, that imposing presence, that musky scent, that belly of a man who has lived, attract. And he knows it.
He runs a hand over his chest once more, through the hair, letting his fingers sink into that warm pelt. Then he turns and walks away, his steps heavy, determined. The jeans outlining shapes. The cap pulled low over his eyes. The white beard standing out. The scent he leaves behind, heavy, musky, unmistakable.
Outside, the world awaits him. And someone, tonight, will discover what it means to be held in the arms of a bear.
"Oh no," you thought, feeling the salty taste of seawater drip over your tongue and down your throat. You'd seen it happen to too many men at bear beach. One drop was all it took.
Bristles of hair began sprouting around your mouth, turning your upper lip into a thick brush. You felt the fuzz melt down your cheeks and spread under your chin, a light dusting appearing on your chest before you felt the next changes begin.
Your flat stomach was the first thing to go. Your middle dropped over the front of your fitted bathing suit, a soft fleshy bulge jiggling right under your nose. Soft round love handles quickly wrapped your sides, attaching to your new overhang almost as if to prevent it from dropping any further. You didn't mind the changes to your arms, soft muscle wrapping their entire length, the slightest bit of tone visible in the smooth jelly like weight they swam in.
Then came the largest change. You felt the drawstring at your waist sinch tighter, your rear forcing itself into the seat of your swimtrunks pulling the waistband into your skin. The bottom couldn't fit on its own anymore, the back lowering itself just an inch unable to fit the new size of your asset. There was little room left to breathe.
You felt like a penguin now, hardly able to walk in the piece of cloth plastered around your lower half without waddling. Your soft white belly lead the way, toting in front of you with its weight pulling you forward. If not for the new strength of your rear, its size certainly would have had you leaning. You raised a hand to your mouth, feeling your new plush face. There was no going back now, leaving you wondering what another drop could do.
Hey, can you help me with a request? My younger brother is a short, fat neckbeard with moobs, but an otherwise kind hearted soul. He gets bullied relentlessly by his class mates and I feel horrible. I was captain of the swim team and to this day maintain a fit, muscular body, but when I try to coach him he just gives up from stress and anxiety.
I wish there was a way I could take the weight off his shoulders so he could focus on being fit and healthy, and most importantly happy, like me.
The chlorine-scented air filled your lungs as you sat poolside. Swimming had been your passion, your obsession, for as long as you could remember. Countless hours spent in the pool, pushing your body to its limits, sculpting every muscle into a chiseled masterpiece.
Your dedication hadn't gone unnoticed. As you lounged, you could feel the admiring eyes roam over your physique. "Look at those abs," "What a stud,". And when people mocked you for being nothing but an obsessed gym rat? That just brought a smile to your face. Yeah, you were an obsessed gym rat, and proud of it. This was the life you'd built, and it was perfect.
Yet there was something, rather someone, who bothered you. Your thoughts would inevitably drift to your brother- your polar opposite. Short, doughy, with a thick beard and man-boobs straining against his too-tight shirts. Kind-hearted, sure, but what good was that when he was mocked endlessly?
You'd tried to help, offering guidance, support, but nothing seemed to come of it. Rather than inspired, he seemed intimidated by you. Fearful he couldn't live up to you.
"I'm not you." He would say, "Please, I'm fine like this." He would insist.
"Bullshit."
Time and time again you'd try. And finally, frustrated and concerned, you sought out help. And I was so happy to provide it. You got a phone call one day, a referral to Coach. A personal trainer of sorts. Someone who may be able to help you help your brother.
So here you sit- Coach stroking his chin thoughtfully and leaning back into his chair as you explained everything to him.
"Sounds like a tough situation, man."
You figured he'd understand. After all, Coach and you seemed to be cut from the same cloth. The man in front of you was burly and tattooed, with a thick beard and a piercing gaze. You figured he'd spent a better portion of his life in the gym and counting his macros.
Coach leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and understanding. "So let me get this straight, bro. Your lil' bro is packin' on the pounds, lettin' himself go, yeah?" He nods sympathetically. "And you, you're all ripped and shit, tryin' to be a good big bro and whip him into shape." Coach leans back, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "But he ain't havin' it, huh? Keeps tellin' ya he's 'fine' like that." He shakes his head. "Man, I feel ya. It's gotta suck seein' someone you care about go down that road, ya know?"
"Yeah, it just... I don't know what to do, man."
"Tell me somethin', though. What makes you think you even know what's best for him?"
You blink, taken aback by the question. Of course you knew what was best for your brother. I mean, just look at you! Who better to guide him on his fitness journey?
"Seriously?" You gesture to your chiseled physique. "Isn't this the ideal? Health, fitness, confidence…"
Coach holds up a hand, stopping you mid-rant. "Whoa, whoa, slow your roll there, champ." He leans in closer, "See, I think we need to dig a little deeper here. What if…what if your approach just ain't right?" He sits back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Ever stop to think maybe all this direct pressure on him is just makin' him miserable?"
"I…no. I mean I guess?" You wonder aloud, "I just want him to..." You sigh, "My brother, he deserves better than…"
"Oh I hear you." Coach smirks. He stands up abruptly, circling around behind you, "You respond well to directions and people being direct. I get it. Being told what to do. Right champ?"
"I... I've never thought about it that way." His hands land heavily on your shoulders, squeezing almost painfully.
"But your little bro? I take it not so much."
"Yeah, I guess." You nod slowly, "So what should I do?"
"Try something indirect." Coach pauses, "Like a role model of sorts." Coach's thick, meaty hands feel good as he starts to slowly massage your shoulders.
"A role model?" You scoff, "I'm the best role model he..."
"See you don't get it, dumbass." He chuckles into your ear, "Not all role models are people you want to look up to. Get it?"
"But... I don't..."
"Just listen closely, okay big guy?"
"I don't understand..."
"What did I just say?" He smirks, "Listen closely, bro. I'm starting to realize more and more that its not your brother who has a problem, it's you."
"What are you...?"
"Yeah... You think you know what's best for everyone. Ya think you're the perfect role model. That you're right."
"That's not..."
"But deep down, you hate it. Hate the endless gym sessions, the bland protein shakes, the constant pressure to maintain this…this image." His hands slide down your chest, fingers splayed across your abs.
"No… no fuckin' way." You insist, inadvertently melting into Coach's touch- enjoying the way his rough hands feel against your pecs.
"And every time you look at your brother, you get pissed. Because you're..." He leans in, his hot breath against your ear, "fuckin' jealous, bro."
"No way, I'm not... I… fuck…" You grip your head, "Just shut the fuck up."
"Oh, don't lie, bro. While he's relaxing, you're grunting like an animal in the gym. While he's enjoying a double bacon cheeseburger, you're eating another plain grilled chicken." He walks around to stand in front of you, towering and imposing. "You think you love this body, this life. But really, it's your prison."
"No, I..."
"And sometimes, you think about those guys you see at the pool. With their fat guts and their moobs." He reaches out, gripping your chin firmly and forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "And you wish you could be that chill. Wish you could be that comfortable in your own skin. Wish you could allow yourself to be that. Right, man?"
"Yes I... No, wait... I..." You sputter, images flashing through your mind. Imagining yourself waking up and looking down at your moobs resting on an expansive, hairy gut, "Please... don't..."
"I bet you're fuckin' rock hard right now, aren't you?"
You feel his other hand slides down your stomach, teasing along the waistband of your shorts. And then below it.
"Nghh f-fuck.." Your hips buck involuntarily as Coach's calloused fingers brush against your rapidly stiffening cock through the thin fabric of your shorts.
"See? Told ya." Coach purrs, "You fuckin' love the idea of being everything you claim to hate." His other hand releases your chin, only to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. "You want to help your bro and I want to help you, bro. I want both of you to meet the real you. He needs to see what his big bro truly is and you need to accept it." He forces you to meet his gaze and you melt into it.
"Wh-what am I?"
"You're a pig." Coach smirks, "A desperate, horny, slutty fat pig. Admit it."
"No… no, I won't…" You whimper, even as your hips grind shamelessly against Coach's palm.
"Why?" Coach chuckles as his thumb rubs maddening circles over the tip of your cock. "I mean, its already too late. You're already leaking at the very thought of being a fat sack of shit."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You're so hard it hurts, your cock throbbing almost painfully against the constraints of your shorts. Coach's words, his touches- fuck its all too much.
"P-please…" You choke out, hating yourself even as the word leaves your lips. "Please, I need…"
"There we go. Just give in." Coach growls approvingly, grinding the heel of his hand against your twitching cock. "You're nothing but a closet pig slut, aren't you?"
"Not... me..."
He lets out an exacerbated sigh, "C'mon, bro. There's no shame in that." He leans in close, "You're picturing it now, right bro? Just a cock hungry, bottom pig slut worshipping men like me. Can't you see it?"
The images flashed before your mind's eye. Yeah... you could see it. See some version of you- not the ripped, swim captain- but someone softer, bigger. Someone happily being bent over, forced onto their knees. Someone forced to look up at real men- real men like Coach.
"I give you permission, bro. Let go."
And with a grunt, you register the sudden stretch of your skin as fat builds around your abs and balloons outwards. And as it does, you moan pathetically, arching into Coach's touch, desperate for more.
"There he is. There's my pig slut." He grins, "Just a fat pig trapped in a gym bunny's body."
"Trapped..." You moan, eyes rolling up into the back of your head.
"No discipline at all. Just a greedy little piggy, aren't you?" His hand gropes at your growing paunch, kneading the doughy flesh.
You let out a muffled groan, unsure if it's from the degrading words or the sensation of excess weight accumulating on your frame. Your pecs have started to lose their definition, sagging slightly as new layers of fat take hold.
"Always horny, always hungry, aren't you? Can't even think straight half the time. Just so focused on feeling good."
"Unghh… Coach…" You grunt unintelligibly. Your face flushes with heat as more pudge gathers on your cheeks and chin, softening your once sharp features. Drool begins to leak from the corner of your mouth as your jawline rounds out.
"Fuckin' hell, listen to you pant like a bitch in heat. Can't even form a proper sentence anymore, can you?" He punctuates his words with a harsh slap to your thickening thighs, watching as the impact jiggles the newly formed fat.
"Feels so..."
"You're gonna be my little fucktoy soon, aren't you?" Coach growls, watching as your ass swells underneath you. "Gonna bend over and beg me to fuck this fat ass like the needy cumslut you are."
"Yes…oh god yes."
Your proud cock is swallowed up by the fat pad forming at the base of your shaft. What was once an impressive manhood now appears comically small in proportion to your expanding bulk.
"Look at you, already going soft and stupid. Gettin' turned on by the thought of bein' my personal fuckpig." He grinds his rock hard bulge against your bloated belly.
"Mmmph…hnngh…" You can only respond with garbled moans, your tongue lolling out stupidly as drool dribbles down your multiple chins.
"Open wide, piggy." He looms over you, undoing his pants to reveal his massive, throbbing erection, "Time to put that slack jaw to use." He smears the head of his cock across your puffy lips and your mouth falls open automatically, ready to please.
As Coach hilts himself in your throat, your once smooth skin erupts in a patchwork of coarse hair. It sprouts across your back, chest, and arms, turning you into a veritable furball. The wiry hairs tickle your chin and the backs of your thighs as Coach sets a brutal pace, fucking your face with abandon.
"Take it, you hairy little cocksleeve. Fuck, I knew you'd be a natural at this." He grunts, grabbing your fuzzy cheeks to spread them wider. His heavy balls slap against your spit-soaked chin with each thrust.
You gag and sputter around his thick shaft, tears streaming down your stubbly face. But your cock throbs, leaking steadily.
"God you've turned out well. Just a fat fuckin' pig."
For a brief, terrifying moment, clarity pierces through the haze of lust and submission. The realization of what you've allowed to happen, what you've become hits you like a freight train. Panic rises in your throat as you try to struggle, to push Coach away…
But then he hilts himself fully, painting your insides white with his thick seed. The sensation, the taste- it overwhelms your senses. Your own neglected cock spurts weakly in your shorts as you cum untouched, reduced to a simpering, grateful recipient of Coach's load.
"Th-thank you…" You slur deliriously, nuzzling into his softening member, eyes half-lidded.
------------
Weeks turn into months as you religiously attend your "sessions" with Coach. Each encounter only solidifies your new identity, your purpose. The physical transformations may have slowed, but mentally, you've never felt more at peace. This is who you are meant to be - a hefty, hairy, devoted fucktoy.
Lazily sprawled poolside one sunny afternoon, you bask in your newfound leisure. Swimming, once your greatest passion, now feels like far too much exertion. Why bother with all that tedious exercise when you can simply exist, indulge?
Suddenly, movement catches your eye. There goes your brother, looking suspiciously well-groomed and motivated. Curiosity gets the better of you.
"Heyyy, where ya headed all fired up like that, lil bro?"
Your brother pauses, glancing back at you with an odd mix of pity and discomfort. He clears his throat awkwardly. "Oh, uh, hey. I'm just heading to the gym actually. Thought I'd start taking better care of myself, you know?"
He eyes your sprawled, doughy form critically, taking in your sweaty moobs and the thick neckbeard framing your ruddy face. His expression shifts- a look of barely concealed disgust flashing across his face. He quickly masks it, but the damage is done. It's clear that seeing what you've become has only steeled his resolve to avoid the same fate.
"Huhuhuh nice bro." You scratch at your hairy moob.
With a curt nod, he turns to leave, ready to embark on his own fitness journey while you continue to live out your new life.
So at least your brother learned something from all this. He has you- the perfect role model- an extreme example of what not to be. So enjoy your new life. Enjoy Coach's dick. And as to the part of you trapped and screaming to be free from this prison you call a body, rest easy knowing your brother has your example to thank for setting him on his new path.
Today makes the first year since your retirement from professional soccer - if you call being injured and forced off a team "retirement." You played for the LA Galaxy for a few years before an untimely injury put you on the bench, then off the roster. It was a big bruise to your ego - it had always been your dream to play for the team. As a way to forget your troubles, you decided to treat yourself to a spa day then a stroll through the neighborhood.
After wrapping up at the spa, you pass by a costume shop and see retro 1990s stylized LA Galaxy jersey in the window. You decide to try one on and send a selfie to some of your old teammates, thinking they'd get a kick out of it.
Within a few second of snapping and sending the image you look back up in the mirror and are shocked to see your hair falling out. You notice creases along your expanding forehead, some grey in your beard and more hair on your arms.
The changes accelerate. You briefly look away from the mirror and when you look up you think you see your dad...but quickly realize that you just look the same age as him. You strip off the jersey, wondering if you're having an allergic reaction to the polyester - grasping at any straws to fix this situation. The top of your head is totally bald now, you've gained at least 50 lbs and your beard is more grey than brown. So much for your minoxidil and finasteride treatments. You look like a man in his 40s that hasn't taken the best care of himself.
The changes continue and your hair goes mostly white. A bushy mustache grows on your face and your skin continues to weather and loosen. You are in a mix of shock and panic at the image of a man, now older than your father, staring back at you in the mirror.
The changes begin to slow - you realize that maybe this has something to do with the jersey! Maybe it's magic or maybe it's cursed. You put it back on hoping it will somehow reverse the change but you can't fit it over your now more robust torso. You stare at yourself in the mirror for what feels like an hour - hoping for something to happen - but nothing does...You look closer to 60 now, maybe a bit younger than your grandfather.
After a short time your thoughts began to cloud. You think back across the 60+ years of your life...wait is that right...weren't you in your mid 20s? You briefly space out as your brain is being rewired. That's right! You did play for the LA Galaxy, but in the 1990s. You retired at the peak of your game in the at the age of 30. You've lived off a nest egg and some real estate ventures ever since. You popped by the store because you saw your old jersey in the window. After purchasing it you headed back to your home in the countryside to enjoy your well earned retirement - pipe, porch, rocking chair and all.
Jason had turned thirty-eight with a private sense of triumph. Other men his age complained about softening waists, sore backs, shirts that fit differently. Jason still looked carved out of discipline. After every trip to the gym he checked himself in the mirror: broad shoulders, thick arms, hard chest, the chest hair and mustache that made him feel rugged and solid. He had earned every inch.
Then, one evening after a workout, the mirror shimmered. At first he thought it was the fluorescent light. Then his flexed bicep softened under his own stare. His abs flattened. He looked at his image through his phone in concern. Maybe his pump didn’t hold. Maybe he was having an allergic reaction?
Then his flexed bicep continued to soften under his own stare. His chest flattened, then rounded. The hair across it faded like smoke. His stomach loosened, his shoulders narrowed, and the strength he had trusted for years seemed to drain into the tile beneath him.
As Jason lowered his arm, breathing hard, he remained unaware that two states over another man had stolen his muscles. The man in the mirror was still him, but ordinary now—softer, smoother, frightened. The years of effort - of avoiding eating what he wanted, of meeting protein goals, of spending hours at the gym - all vanished along with his sense of masculinity and pride.
As he stared at his dad bod in disbelief, pinching his side where fat now existed in a space he preserved for muscle, he anxiously sought some sign of who he was - and the only thought that ran through his head was “at least I still have my mustache.”
Note: The discord version of this story has some videos and more photos. If you would like to read that version, you can find it here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS
The Beginning
Walter James Holloway, born in 1959, was a lifelong Kentucky auto mechanic, known for his grit and hard work. Years of heavy eating and little exercise had left him overweight, but he found comfort in his routines—working under car hoods by day, unwinding with a cigar by night. His bond with his son, Daniel, was distant, but with his grandson, Ryan, it was different. Ryan admired his old-school ways, even when they clashed.
Born in 1999 and shaped by Chicago, Ryan David Holloway was athletic, disciplined, and ambitious. A 6'2", 215-pound physical therapist, he dedicated himself to helping others regain mobility. City life was expensive, so when he needed a more affordable place to stay, Walter offered him a room. The arrangement suited them both—Walter enjoyed the company, and Ryan appreciated the short commute to his sports rehab job.
The night of the accident, the chill in the air had been sharper than expected. Walter had shivered, rubbing his thick hands together before eyeing Ryan’s coat. His own was too thin for the dropping temperature, so Ryan handed over his heavier jacket without a second thought. Neither man realized the mistake—their wallets, tucked into their respective coat pockets, had now been switched. As they got into the car, Walter stubbornly insisted on driving. He claimed Ryan had drunk too much at the gathering, even though Ryan had barely touched his glass. The old man wouldn’t listen, convinced that his grandson was unfit to drive. Reluctantly, Ryan let him take the wheel.
The hum of the highway filled the silence between them. Walter’s hands gripped the wheel firmly at first, but then his fingers slackened. A wave of dizziness hit him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. His chest tightened, and for a split second, his mind blanked—his body freezing up as he experienced a transient ischemic attack. The car swerved wildly. Ryan reacted instantly, reaching over to grab the wheel, but the sudden movement only made things worse. Tires screeched, the vehicle spun, and before either of them could fully comprehend what was happening, they crashed headlong into the highway divider. The impact sent the car flipping multiple times before it crumpled into a final, jarring stop.
The collision was so violent that their skulls fractured, and their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.
Emergency responders arrived to find both men unconscious, their skulls fractured from the violent collision. The impact had been so severe that their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.
Paramedics rushed them to the nearest hospital, where chaos and confusion took hold. Due to their exchanged coats, the hospital staff misidentified them. Their last names matched, their faces were too swollen to compare to their IDs, and in the frantic rush to surgery, no one double-checked. Their medical files were also misplaced and mislabeled, further cementing the misidentification.
Relying on mislabeled records, the lead neurosurgeon reviewed their brain scans. One brain, though outwardly resembling that of an elderly individual, exhibited an unusual level of rapid healing—traits typically found in much younger patients. This was, in reality, Walter’s brain, but the accident had triggered a restoration process that made it appear younger. The other brain, while structurally younger, showed significant inflammation and signs of deterioration more commonly associated with advanced age. This was actually Ryan’s brain, which had suffered more damage from the accident, making it seem far older than it truly was.
The medical team analyzed the locations where the brains had landed, mistakenly believing that the brain near the muscular body belonged to the younger patient and the brain near the older, overweight body belonged to the elderly man. Compounded by misidentification and limited time, the surgeons made a catastrophic assumption—believing Ryan’s brain to belong to Walter and Walter’s brain to belong to Ryan.
The hospital staff proceeded with what they thought was a life-saving operation. They addressed the extensive trauma to their skulls and bodies, miraculously sparing their internal organs. After repairing the fractures, they carefully placed the dislodged brains into what they assumed were their correct bodies. What should have been a clerical correction became a medical catastrophe.
The Awakening
Walter awoke with a start, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened with a clarity he hadn’t experienced in years. He blinked, confused. Wait… he thought, reaching up to rub his eyes. His hand—his hand—caught his attention. It was large, strong, and calloused, but not from decades of wrenching on cars. This was something else entirely. He flexed his biceps, marveling at the ease with which they moved. No stiffness. No ache.
He sat up slowly, the movement effortless, and glanced around the hospital room. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, but his body felt… different. Alive. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He stood, his breath catching in his throat as he realized just how tall he was. He felt… powerful.
Walter took a few tentative steps, each one feeling lighter than the last. His feet carried him with a grace he hadn’t known in decades. He glanced down at his body—Wait, this isn’t my body. His chest was broad, his arms muscular, his waist trim. He ran his hands over his torso, his fingers tracing the contours of hard muscle. This isn’t me. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror stopping him dead in his tracks.
Staring back at him was Ryan.
Walter froze, his breath hitching. No. No, this can’t be real. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as he reached up to touch the mirror. The face—Ryan’s face—mimicked his movements perfectly. He turned his head, examining the sharp jawline, the stubble that shadowed his face, the piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold a life of their own. This… this is Ryan’s body.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Walter—now in Ryan’s body—grabbed Ryan’s smartphone from the nightstand. He tapped the screen, the bright glow illuminating his new, youthful face. His heart pounded with exhilaration as he stared into the selfie camera, tilting his head to admire the sharp jawline, the smooth skin untouched by age. He ran a hand through his thick hair, relishing the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation. The reflection staring back at him was strong, vibrant—everything he had lost over the years, now his to claim.
Bringing the phone back into the bathroom, he placed it on the sink, angling the camera just right before hitting record. Walter flexed, watching his bicep swell with power, then smirked as he reached under his arm, rubbing the thick patch of armpit hair with satisfaction. The sensation sent a wave of pride through him—this body was youthful, masculine, perfect. Grinning, he grabbed the phone, lowering the camera to capture the tight ridges of his abs, tracing a hand over them possessively before finally lifting the phone to his face. His smirk widened as he locked eyes with his reflection, drinking in his own smug satisfaction.
But the curiosity didn’t stop there. His eyes drifted lower, over his flat stomach, toward the waistband of his hospital-issued pants.
His heart pounded as he slid them down, revealing the thick, heavy weight of Ryan’s bulge. Walter’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling as removed his underwear. He touched his new cock and it was warm, heavy, and currently his own. He gave it an experimental stroke, a moan escaping his lips as pleasure shot through him...
Then he observed it even more and began to make his dick and balls swing like a pendulum
He leaned against the wall, his knees weak as he continued to stroke himself, the sensations overwhelming. His other hand wandered, exploring every inch of his new body. He pinched his nipples, gasping as the sparks of pleasure intensified. He ran his fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, down his sides, over his hips. Every touch felt electric.
Walter paused, his nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of something. He lifted his arm, touching his armpit hair and then inhaling deeply. The scent was musky, masculine, and familiar. It was Ryan’s scent—his cologne, his sweat, him. Walter’s cock twitched in his hand, his arousal spiking. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. It was primal, raw, and his.
His strokes grew faster, his body trembling with need. He tilted his head back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. This is… this is too much. But he couldn’t stop. His hips bucked into his hand, his cock throbbing with every stroke. He moaned, the sound low and guttural, filling the small bathroom. His balls tightened, his release building with every passing second.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his grip tightening as he edged closer and closer to the brink. His muscles tensed, his body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him. And then he was there, his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. He came with a shout, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spurted onto the floor. He collapsed against the sink, his legs trembling as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Walter stared at the mess he’d made, a strange mix of guilt and satisfaction swirling in his chest. He had just jacked off in his grandson’s body. What the hell is wrong with me? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t deny the exhilaration coursing through him. This body—Ryan’s body—was incredible. And it was his right now.
He cleaned himself up, his mind racing as he tried to process everything. He needed to figure out what had happened. How he’d ended up in Ryan’s body. But for now, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… excitement. He looked at his reflection one more time, a sly grin spreading across his face. This is going to be interesting.
Ryan’s consciousness drifted back slowly, his mind groggy as if weighed down by something heavy. His whole body felt wrong—bloated, sluggish, stiff. A dull ache radiated through his limbs, his joints protesting even the slightest movement. His chest rose and fell, but his breaths were deeper, heavier, almost labored. Something was off—terribly off. His heart pounded, but instead of its usual strong, steady rhythm, it felt slower, weaker, unfamiliar. He swallowed hard, his throat raw and dry, and when he moved his hands, they felt thicker, rougher. Panic crept in.
His fingers brushed against his face, and his stomach dropped. His skin was loose, not firm and smooth like it should be. He traced over deep wrinkles, then moved up to his head—his hair. His heart clenched. The thick, youthful strands were gone, replaced by thinning hair and a balding scalp. His breath quickened as he looked down, only to see a broad, heavy gut stretching his hospital gown. His arms were thicker, softer, with veins more pronounced and skin slightly sagging. His chest was heavier, fleshier, completely wrong.
This wasn’t his body. His hands fumbled beside him, landing on a pair of glasses on the nightstand. His trembling fingers slid them on, and suddenly, the world snapped into focus. Desperation overtook him as he reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand, his unfamiliar, clumsy hands struggling to grip it properly. He turned on the screen, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he opened the camera app and switched to selfie mode. His entire body froze. Staring back at him was Walter. His grandfather’s face.
The lined, aging skin, the receding hair, the tired, sunken eyes—it was all there. His breath hitched as he slowly touched his cheek, watching Walter’s reflection mimic his every movement. His fingers trailed down to his heavy jaw, the rough stubble, the loose skin of his neck. His horror deepened as he lowered the phone, angling it toward his chest—the bulky stomach, the unfamiliar flesh. His own grandfather’s body. His vision blurred—not from the lack of glasses, but from pure, overwhelming dread. The phone slipped from his hands, clattering onto the sheets as he screamed. This couldn’t be real. But it was.
In the other room, Walter’s exploration was cut short when a sound froze him in place. A voice. A voice he had known all his life. His own voice—but weak, hoarse, and laced with panic. He cleaned himself up immediately and wore his hospital robes once more.
Walter turned abruptly, his heart pounding. He followed the noise, pushing open the door and stepping into the hallway. Another hospital room. He moved quickly, his newfound speed shocking him. As he approached, he heard rustling, then a sharp intake of breath—followed by a scream.
Walter shoved the door open and stopped in his tracks.
Walter froze in the doorway, his breath hitching as he got his first real look at the body he had left behind. His old body. Ryan was sitting on the hospital bed, hunched forward, his face twisted in shock and horror. But it wasn’t just the face—it was everything. The broad, sloping gut, the soft arms, the sagging flesh hanging from his neck. Was this really what he had looked like all this time? The sight sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He had always known he was overweight and old, but seeing it from the outside made it so much worse. How had he lived like this? His breath was heavier, his posture slouched, his very presence sluggish. Walter clenched his jaw, forcing down the wave of disgust and relief threatening to bubble up. Because now, that wasn’t him anymore.
Ryan’s head snapped up at the sound of movement, and his breath caught. A man stood in the doorway—young, muscular, shirtless. His body. His body was standing there, staring at him. His stomach twisted in confusion. How was this possible? His pulse pounded as the world sharpened. The stranger wasn’t a stranger. He knew that face—the sharp jawline, the confident stance, the broad chest. But it was wrong.
Walter took a slow step forward, his powerful legs carrying him effortlessly, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "Ryan," he said cautiously, pretending to hesitate.
Ryan inhaled sharply at the sound of his own voice coming from someone else’s mouth. His hands clutched the hospital sheets, knuckles white. “No… no, no, no… that can’t be…” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his body trembling as he looked up at the man—at himself. “Grandpa?” His voice wasn’t his voice. It was rougher, weaker—Walter’s.
Walter nodded slowly, as if the realization pained him, but inside, he felt a thrill of satisfaction. "I don't know how," he said, carefully keeping his tone neutral, masking the excitement rising in his chest. “But we woke up like this. We woke up as each other.”
Ryan let out a shaky exhale, staring down at himself in disbelief, his hands gripping at the thickened flesh of his stomach. His own grandfather’s body. His breath quickened as he clutched at the loose skin, the soft flesh of his arms, the unfamiliar weight pressing down on him. He had felt strong his entire life, but now? Now he felt heavy, sluggish, weak.
They stepped closer, eyes locked, studying what they had lost and gained.
Ryan’s wrinkled hand trembled as he reached out, pressing against Walter’s hard abs, then his solid pecs. He squeezed—firm, powerful, his pecs. His fingers drifted up, brushing through thick, luscious hair—his hair. A shudder ran through him as he traced his strong jawline, the smooth skin.
Then, he hesitated, looking at his own body. Slowly, he raised a shaking hand to his bald scalp. His breath hitched at the thin, wiry strands left behind. His grip moved to his soft chest, squeezing—nothing but sagging weight.
Walter finally reached out, gripping Ryan’s weak arm, squeezing the loose, aging flesh. His fingers pressed into Ryan’s soft pecs—his old manboobs—and he barely hid his disgust. He lingered only for a moment before stepping back, rolling his strong shoulders.
A knock on the door interrupted them. Both turned as a nurse stepped in. “Oh, good. You’re both awake. The doctors will be in shortly to see you.”
“This can’t be real.” He turned toward Walter, who stood there in Ryan’s youthful body, an almost dazed expression on his face. “
Tell them,” Ryan pleaded, his voice rising. “Tell them we’re not who they think we are!” Walter, shaken but more composed, nodded grimly.
When the doctors finally arrived, their expressions neutral but professional, Ryan wasted no time.
“We—we’ve switched,” he blurted, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed with his trembling hands. “That’s not my grandfather.
That’s me in his body. And—and I’m in his.” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Walter, in Ryan’s body, took a step forward. “It’s true,” he said. “I woke up in his body, and he woke up in mine. Something went wrong.”
The doctors exchanged puzzled glances before one of them cleared his throat. “Mr. Holloway, you’re disoriented from the accident,” he started, but Ryan cut him off.
“I know who I am!” he snapped, the exertion making his new body’s chest heave.
“I don’t care what my name says on your charts. That’s my body standing right there.” He pointed a trembling finger at Walter.
The medical team looked between them, skepticism etched onto their faces—until another doctor, flipping through a tablet, suddenly paled. He exhaled sharply.
“My God,” he muttered, drawing the attention of his colleagues. Looking up, he hesitated before speaking.
“We… we may have made a terrible mistake.”
The air in the room thickened as he explained, voice cautious yet urgent.
“During surgery, we relied on multiple factors to identify the bodies—facial structure, ID tags, personal effects. But their faces were swollen beyond recognition, and their medical files were mislabeled in the chaos. Their coats had been switched, leading to further confusion. We assumed the brain found closest to each body was the correct one.” He paused, gripping the tablet tighter.
“But that assumption… was wrong.” Another doctor, looking equally unsettled, pulled up the brain scans. “We should’ve known,” she admitted, her voice tight with regret.
“Walter’s brain, despite its age, exhibited an accelerated healing response, which is why it looked younger in the initial scans. Meanwhile, Ryan’s brain suffered significant trauma, causing inflammation and deterioration, making it appear older than it really was.
We mistook those neurological differences for evidence of their respective ages and—” she hesitated, exhaling slowly, “—we placed the wrong brains in the wrong bodies.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. Ryan’s knees buckled, and he barely caught himself against the bed.
“Fix it,” he gasped. “Switch us back.” The doctors exchanged grim looks before one of them finally spoke.
“We can’t.”
Walter and Ryan froze. The doctor continued, his voice heavy with finality.
“The reconnection process was incredibly delicate. Your neural pathways have already begun adapting to their new hosts. Any attempt to reverse the procedure would result in severe, irreversible brain damage—possibly death.” He swallowed.
“There’s no way to undo this.” Another doctor stepped forward, regret plain on her face. “We are deeply sorry,” she said, “but the swap is permanent.”
The words sent a wave of cold dread through Ryan. His breath came in short gasps as reality crashed over him. He was trapped. This body—this slow, aching, unfamiliar form—was his for the rest of his life. Forever.
Ryan’s body sagged. Walter, too, felt the weight of those words, though the sting was dulled by the strange exhilaration running through him. Permanent. He would never go back. Walter realized that he would never feel that old body again. His mind warred between horror and an undeniable thrill.
The doctors exchanged uneasy glances before speaking again. “For now, we strongly advise keeping this a secret.”
Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”
“If this gets out,” the doctor continued, “it could lead to medical lawsuits, ethical scandals, media chaos. The hospital would be ruined. Your lives would be turned upside down.” He glanced between them, his voice firm. “It’s best if you assume each other’s lives.”
Walter’s lips parted in shock. Ryan looked utterly stricken.
“As far as the world is concerned,” the doctor said, “you are Ryan Holloway.” He turned to Walter. “And you are Walter Holloway.” His gaze was unyielding. “That is how the hospital will refer to you, and that is how your families will know you.”
Ryan was visibly horrified. His whole life—his identity—had been stripped away in an instant. But Walter… Walter could feel the seed of something dangerous, something exhilarating taking root within him. He had been old, tired, and at the end of his road. But now? Now, he had everything ahead of him again.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Walter James Holloway felt truly alive.
The Initial Adjustment
To help them adjust, they were referred to psychiatry. The psychologist assigned to their case, Dr. Evelyn Carter, was a woman of firm composure and measured words. She wasted no time in establishing the gravity of their situation. "For your mental and emotional well-being," she explained during their first session, "you must fully integrate into your new identities. There can be no doubt, no hesitation. From now on, Walter James Holloway is Ryan David Holloway. And Ryan David Holloway is Walter James Holloway."
Ryan sat stiffly in his chair, hands clenched into fists. His body, now weighed down by age, ached with every movement, and he felt suffocated by the reality that this was now his existence. Across from him, Walter sat in Ryan’s youthful body, leaning back with a relaxed ease that only made Ryan's fury burn hotter. "This is ridiculous," Ryan muttered. "You're asking me to pretend to be someone I’m not."
Dr. Carter’s gaze was steady. "I'm asking you to survive. If you refuse to accept this, your mind will reject your new body, leading to severe dissociation, depression, and possibly worse. The human psyche craves consistency. You must become Walter in every way possible. And you—" she turned to Walter, "—must embrace being Ryan."
Walter gave a slow nod, as if considering her words, but Ryan saw the glimmer of something else in his expression—excitement. He already knew Walter was relishing this, the chance to start over in a body full of strength and vitality. Ryan wanted to scream.
Dr. Carter, however, had no patience for resistance. She was relentless, her approach clinical and unforgiving. "You will commit to this," she said with an icy firmness. "Every hesitation, every denial, every refusal to accept your new identity will only make this harder. You are Walter. Period. If you cannot embrace that, you will never be able to function in the life that is now yours." She leaned forward, her piercing gaze locking onto Ryan’s weary eyes. "From this moment on, you will respond to ‘Walter.’ You will introduce yourself as Walter. If you hesitate, if you falter, we will start again until you get it right."
Ryan seethed with frustration, but there was no room for argument. Every day, Dr. Carter drilled it into him. Morning sessions were brutal. "Say it again," she ordered. Ryan’s voice was hoarse from repetition.
"I am Walter James Holloway. I am sixty-five years old."
"Louder."
Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I am Walter James Holloway," he repeated, each word tasting like poison.
"Again."
Meanwhile, Walter, in his youthful, powerful form, flourished under the same treatment. He practically beamed as he repeated his lines, sitting up straighter with every declaration. "I am Ryan David Holloway. I am twenty-six years old. I am young, strong, and full of life." His voice carried confidence—more than Ryan ever had.
Dr. Carter only reinforced this divide, encouraging Walter’s transition into Ryan’s life while pushing Ryan further into his new role. She arranged daily conversations where Ryan had to describe "his" past experiences as Walter—his first car, the long hours in the repair shop, his favorite cigar brand. "Make it real," she insisted when he hesitated. "Believe it. Because no one else will believe you if you don’t."
Dr. Carter took the exercises a step further, introducing direct role-play into their sessions. One morning, she placed two chairs in the middle of the room and gestured for them to sit. "We’re going to reinforce your identities with introductions," she announced. "Walter, introduce your grandson."
Ryan tensed. His throat tightened as he glanced at Walter, who sat across from him with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. Dr. Carter’s expectant gaze left him no choice. He swallowed hard. "This is my grandson, Ryan," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Louder. More confidence."
Ryan clenched his fists, forcing the words out again. "This is my grandson, Ryan David Holloway." The statement felt wrong, like a betrayal of everything he was.
Walter, meanwhile, sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "And this is my grandpa, Walter James Holloway," he said with a smug ease, gesturing toward Ryan. He even threw in a playful pat on Ryan’s knee. "He’s had a long life, worked hard as a mechanic, and now he’s enjoying retirement."
Ryan’s jaw clenched as he heard the words. Retirement. It was another nail in the coffin.
Dr. Carter nodded approvingly before moving to the next phase. She held up a photo of Ryan’s old body, shirtless at the gym, muscles defined and glistening with sweat. "Who is this?"
Walter smirked. "That’s me," he said proudly. "Ryan Holloway. I work out regularly, and I take pride in my physique." He flexed his arm slightly, as if to emphasize the truth of his statement.
Ryan wanted to throw the chair. Instead, he forced himself to mumble, "That’s my grandson."
Dr. Carter didn’t let him off easy. "Say it properly."
Ryan inhaled sharply through his nose. "That’s my grandson, Ryan David Holloway. He’s twenty-six years old, works as a physical therapist, and is in excellent shape."
Walter chuckled under his breath. "Thanks, Grandpa. Appreciate that."
Dr. Carter then held up another photo, this one of old Walter—his overweight, aging frame sitting on a lounge chair near the pool. "And who is this?"
Ryan felt sick. "That’s... me."
"Full sentence," Dr. Carter pressed.
"That’s me. I’m Walter James Holloway. I’m sixty-five years old, and I used to be a mechanic." The words made his stomach turn, but Dr. Carter simply nodded in approval.
Walter leaned back with a grin. "Yeah, that’s my grandpa," he said casually, glancing at the image. "He’s been through a lot, but he’s still kicking." He turned to Ryan with a smirk. "Ain’t that right, old man?"
Ryan ground his teeth. He didn’t respond.
The exercises continued—more questions designed to hammer their new identities into place. Dr. Carter would ask who was older, who was younger. Who was strong, who was weaker.
"Ryan, stand up and describe your daily fitness routine," she instructed.
Walter eagerly complied, launching into an enthusiastic monologue about "his" morning runs, weightlifting, and strict nutrition. He flexed his arms playfully, smirking at Ryan as if reveling in his newfound youth.
Then she turned to Ryan. "Walter, describe your typical day before the accident."
Ryan was forced to mutter about oil changes, cigar breaks, and back pain. Each time he faltered, Dr. Carter would correct him, forcing him to repeat the statement until it sounded natural. Each time, Walter grinned, enjoying every second of his new role. And every time Ryan looked in the mirror, the reality became harder to deny.
Dr. Carter intensified their conditioning by incorporating physical and sensory exercises. She had them touch and feel their bodies, comparing them to what they remembered before the accident.
"Ryan, describe how your skin feels. The texture, the muscle tone, everything."
Walter ran his hands along his arms, his biceps firm and strong. "My skin is smooth, my muscles are defined. I feel powerful, full of energy. It’s like I have endless stamina."
She turned to Ryan. "And you, Walter?"
Ryan hesitated before placing a hand on his stomach, feeling the softer flesh, the wrinkles on his hands. "My skin is looser, my muscles are weaker. My joints ache. My fingers feel stiff. I’m..." He swallowed hard. "I’m older."
Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. "Good. Acknowledging these changes will help your mind accept them. Now, let’s work on movement."
She made them practice mannerisms. Ryan had to learn the slower, heavier gait of an aging man, the slight stoop, the way old Walter used to rub his lower back absentmindedly. Walter, meanwhile, had to master a youthful stride, the way Ryan used to bounce on the balls of his feet when excited, the casual confidence of a younger man.
Walter took to it with ease, exaggerating Ryan’s old habits at first but gradually settling into a natural flow. He walked with effortless energy, stretched his shoulders confidently, and even practiced grinning at his reflection the way Ryan used to. He was absorbing the role with glee, while Ryan struggled to let go of his former self.
Dr. Carter was relentless. "Again. Walter, you should be moving slower. You’ve had a long life, and your body has the weight of years. Show it."
Ryan sighed, shifting his posture to mimic an elderly man’s careful movements. "Like this?"
"Better. But I want it to be second nature. We’ll keep practicing."
Then came the hypnosis.
Dr. Carter dimmed the lights, her voice a steady, rhythmic pulse in the dimly lit room. "Close your eyes. Take slow, deep breaths. With every exhale, let go of who you were. With every inhale, become who you are meant to be."
The air grew thick with the weight of suggestion, their minds sinking deeper with every word. "You are stepping into a grand hall," Dr. Carter murmured, "a palace of memory, a mind palace where truth is revealed. Look around you. This place is yours. It has always been yours. Walk through its corridors, see the reflections of your life."
Ryan and Walter found themselves standing within the endless mirrored halls, their surroundings shifting like a dream. The polished floors reflected them perfectly, stretching endlessly into the distance. But something was wrong. The reflections weren’t right.
Ryan peered into the glass, and his heart pounded. His old body—his real body—stared back at him. The strong jawline, the youthful vigor, the sharp, defiant eyes. But as he watched, the image flickered, warping ever so slightly.
Dr. Carter’s voice was patient, inescapable. "You were always Walter, weren’t you?" she said, her tone like silk wrapping around his thoughts. "From the moment you were born, you were Walter James Holloway. You grew up fixing cars. You built a life, had a grandson. And that grandson... is Ryan David Holloway."
The new Walter shook his head, but his reflection wavered. The skin grew looser, lines forming where there had been none. His shoulders slumped, the once-defined muscles softening, weakening. His hands, resting at his sides, twitched as the veins became more pronounced, the skin weathered. He could feel it—the slow, inevitable transformation sinking into him, reshaping his very sense of self.
Dr. Carter then turned her attention to the new Ryan. "And you, Ryan. You are young, full of energy, full of potential. You’ve always been Ryan, always twenty-six. You were born into strength and health. That old life you remember? That was someone else’s story. Look at yourself. Accept what you see."
Walter stepped toward his reflection with a reverent gaze. He had expected to see his old, worn face. Instead, Ryan’s youthful form stared back at him, powerful and whole. His chest tightened with something dangerously close to relief.
The new Walter’s breath came in ragged gasps as the transformation continued. His reflection—the one that had been his true self—was fading. The gray hair took root. The skin sagged, wrinkles deepened. His back hunched slightly. The young man he had been was disappearing before his eyes, swallowed by the reality being woven around him.
The new Ryan, standing beside him, beamed at his own reflection. His body—no, Ryan’s body—stood tall and strong, exuding the confidence of youth. He touched his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, running a hand through thick, dark hair. "This is right," he said, the words coming naturally now. "This is how it has always been."
Dr. Carter’s voice wrapped around them both, sealing their fates. "There was no surgery mishap. There was no switch. Walter was, is, and always will be Walter. Ryan was, is, and always will be Ryan. It was meant to be this way. It has always been this way."
The old Ryan tried to speak, to protest, but the words dissolved before they reached his lips. His mind felt like sand slipping through his fingers. The past was distant, blurred, uncertain. And the mirror before him—the mirror that had once reflected the truth—now showed only the inescapable reality. He was Walter. He had always been Walter.
The old Walter, now fully embracing his new existence, straightened, stretching his arms as if testing the strength that belonged to him now. "That felt... good," he admitted, his voice filled with satisfaction.
Ryan blinked groggily, his head aching. He turned toward the mirror one last time, desperate to see something—anything—of his old self. But the face staring back at him was unfamiliar. Not just in appearance, but in identity.
Dr. Carter smiled. "Good. We’ll continue this tomorrow. We’re making progress."
Outside of sessions, Walter made it worse. He had fully embraced his role as the younger man and took every opportunity to taunt Ryan for his struggles. "C’mon, Grandpa," he’d say with a smirk when Ryan groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Takes a while to get used to the ol’ joints, huh?"
Ryan gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge him. But Walter didn’t stop. He took pleasure in watching Ryan fumble with his new limitations, chuckling when Ryan dropped something and struggled to bend down and pick it up. "Want me to get that for you?" he’d ask mockingly, flexing his arms for emphasis.
At mealtimes, Walter would take exaggerated bites of his food, sighing in delight. "Damn, this metabolism is something else," he’d say, patting his flat stomach. "I could eat a whole pizza and not feel a thing." He’d then glance at Ryan, whose plate was filled with doctor-recommended portions for an elderly man. "Better watch your sodium, though. Gotta be careful at your age."
The more Walter thrived, the more Ryan suffered. And worst of all, no one cared. No one believed he was suffering at all.
Beyond the psychological conditioning, they were also referred to rehabilitation medicine to help them adjust physically. Ryan despised it. Every exercise session was a brutal reminder of how weak and sluggish his body had become. He struggled with basic movements, his joints stiff, his muscles sore from even the lightest exertion. He used to love pushing his limits in the gym, but now? Now, simply standing from a chair felt like an ordeal. Worse, the cravings gnawed at him—a deep, incessant yearning for nicotine. Walter’s old habits had latched onto him like a vice. He found himself gritting his teeth, fingers twitching for a cigar he didn’t even want.
Walter, on the other hand, was thriving. He attacked every workout with an eagerness that left Ryan seething. He ran, he lifted, he moved with a joy that Ryan had once taken for granted. The burn of his muscles, the soreness after an intense session—Walter embraced it all. He reveled in the sensation of sweat rolling down his back, the musk of his own body after pushing it to the limit. He even took deep breaths after each session, enjoying the raw, earthy scent of exertion. "Damn, I missed this," he murmured more than once, flexing his arms in the mirror, watching the way his muscles tensed and released with effortless precision.
The divide between them grew wider with each passing day. The more Walter embraced his new identity, the more Ryan felt like he was fading away. And no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the reality was settling in: he was no longer Ryan David Holloway. He was Walter. And there was no way out.
The Request
One evening, Ryan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his wrinkled hands gripping the stiff sheets, his body still aching from the trauma of the accident. The dim hospital lighting cast long shadows across the room, making it feel colder than it was. The door creaked open, and in stepped the new Ryan—his former body—tall, strong, and exuding a presence that made Ryan’s stomach twist. Walter, now a young man, moved with an effortless confidence that Ryan never had, his every step controlled and precise. He grinned, shutting the door behind him with an air of authority.
"Hey, Grandpa," Walter said smoothly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The way he said it—casual, natural—sent a spike of anger through Ryan’s chest.
Ryan clenched his jaw, refusing to respond right away. He had been waiting for this moment, wondering if Walter would slip up—if he would acknowledge the truth, even just for a second. "Grandpa," Ryan said pointedly, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his own ears. "You know who I really am."
Walter smirked, pushing himself off the wall and strolling closer. "I do," he said, his voice teasing. "You're my grandpa, Walter Holloway." He reached out and patted Ryan's knee in a patronizing gesture. "And I’m your grandson, Ryan. Took me a bit, but I think I’m finally getting used to it."
Ryan’s hands curled into fists. "Stop it," he hissed. "You know that’s not true." His chest tightened as he searched Walter’s face for any sign of recognition, of doubt, of something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. But there was nothing. Only that infuriating grin.
Walter pulled up a chair, sitting across from him, his posture relaxed, completely at ease in his new body. "Why fight it, Grandpa?" he said with exaggerated patience. "You heard Dr. Carter. We have to accept who we are now.”
Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry as he stared at the man before him—his body, his youth, his entire life, now inhabited by someone else. The weight of his wrinkled hands resting on his lap only deepened the ache in his chest. He needed something—anything—to hold on to. A compromise. A semblance of his old identity.
"Grandpa," Ryan started, his voice low, hesitant. "What if… just when it’s just us… we still call each other by our real names? I don’t mean in front of the doctors or anyone else, just… in private." His tired eyes searched Ryan’s old handsome face, hoping—begging—for some kind of understanding. "I just—I need something to hold on to. Something real."
Walter tilted his head, considering the plea for a moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. "Nah," he said simply.
Ryan stiffened. "What?"
Walter chuckled, stepping closer, his movements loose, confident, utterly at home in the body that should have been Ryan’s. "No can do, Grandpa. See, that’s the problem—you keep looking back, clinging to something that isn’t yours anymore." He placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make him feel the difference in their strength now. "You heard Dr. Carter. That part of your life is gone. And the sooner you accept it, the easier this will be for you."
Ryan's nails dug into his palms. "I am Ryan," he gritted out.
Walter gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Still not getting it, huh? Alright then, let me help you."
With that, he reached down and grabbed the hem of his hospital gown, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The hospital’s dim lighting cast shadows over his defined abs, his broad chest—the physique Ryan had worked years to maintain, now standing tall before him, stolen. Walter flexed his arms slightly, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the feeling of being young and powerful.
Ryan could only stare, his breath shallow, his insides twisting.
Walter smirked. "Take a good look, Grandpa," he said, running a hand over his chest before giving his bicep a slow, deliberate flex. "This is my body now. Not yours. Not ever again. You see, it doesn’t matter what you remember. What matters is what’s real. And this—" he gestured down at himself, at the sculpted muscles, the youthful skin, "—this is real. You? You’re just an old man now. An old man who needs to stop pretending."
Ryan felt something inside him crack.
Walter grabbed his shirt from where he had tossed it onto the bed but didn’t put it back on. Instead, he took a step closer, towering over Ryan. "You wanted a moment of honesty between us? Fine. Here’s some honesty: It’s over. There’s no going back. This body belongs to me now, and the sooner you let it go, the easier this will be." He patted Ryan’s knee mockingly. "So go ahead, Grandpa. Say goodbye. Otherwise, I’ll make you."
Ryan's vision blurred, his breath shuddering in his chest. Even his own grandfather or rather… grandson—even Walter—refused to give him a sliver of acknowledgment.
Walter stood in front of the full-length mirror, his—no, Ryan’s—body glistening under the soft light of the room. He ran his hands over his chest, feeling the firm ridges of muscles that now belonged to him. His reflection stared back, young, strong, vibrant. It was perfection.
He turned to Ryan, who was slumped in a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking every bit the frail old man he now was. Walter smirked, the corners of his lips curling upward in a cruel, knowing way.
"Strip," Walter commanded, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.
Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What? Why would I—"
"Because I said so," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. He took a step closer, his towering frame looming over Ryan. "You need to face reality, old man. Our reality. So strip. Now."
Ryan hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing the sagging, wrinkled skin of Walter’s old body. His stomach hung slightly, the muscles long gone, replaced by softness that spoke of years of neglect.
Walter’s eyes raked over him, his expression a mix of amusement and disdain. "Good," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Now the pants."
Ryan’s face flushed with humiliation, but he obeyed, awkwardly shimmying out of his pants until he was naked and exposed. His body was a stark contrast to Walter’s—young, powerful, arrogant.
Walter stepped back, his eyes never leaving Ryan as he began to strip as well. His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the chiseled chest and abs that Ryan had spent years building. He kicked off his pants, standing tall and confident, his body on full display.
"Look at us," Walter said, spreading his arms wide as if to emphasize the difference. "Isn’t it perfect?"
Ryan couldn’t look away, his eyes darting between Walter’s body and his own. His shame was palpable, but there was something else there too—something darker, more primal. A flicker of arousal that he desperately tried to suppress.
Walter noticed, of course. His smirk widened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You like what you see, don’t you, Grandpa?"
Ryan’s breath hitched, his face turning a deep shade of red. "I—I don’t—"
"Don’t lie to me," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. "I can see it in your eyes. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?"
Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His heart was pounding, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.
Walter laughed, a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down Ryan’s spine. "Admit it," he demanded, his voice firm. "Tell me who’s the grandpa and who’s the grandson now."
Ryan’s jaw tightened, his pride warring with the humiliation coursing through him. "You’re the grandson," he finally muttered, the words barely audible.
"Louder," Walter commanded, his eyes blazing with intensity.
"You’re the grandson," Ryan repeated, his voice trembling. "And I… I’m the grandpa."
Walter’s grin was triumphant, his chest swelling with satisfaction. "That’s right," he said, his tone dripping with superiority. "And this?" He gestured to his body, running a hand over his chest. "This is mine now. Every muscle, every inch of skin. Mine."
Walter stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he loomed over the frail, wrinkled man in front of him. "You’ve always been so jealous of me, haven’t you?" he taunted, his voice slow, deliberate, dripping with cruel amusement. "Even before all this, you wanted what I had. And now…" He trailed off, his hand reaching out with an almost mockingly gentle touch, his fingers brushing over Ryan’s soft, sagging chest, feeling the loose skin beneath his fingertips. "Now you’re stuck with this."
Ryan—no, the new Walter—flinched at the contact, his hands clenching uselessly in his lap, but he didn’t pull away. Ryan—the old Walter—chuckled darkly as he crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side as he took in the pitiful sight before him. The old man sat hunched and small, shoulders curled inward, looking up at him with a mixture of resentment, disbelief, and—most satisfying of all—helplessness.
"You know," Ryan mused, tapping his chin as if lost in thought, "I bet you’ve always been jealous of me."
Walter’s head snapped up, his aged face twisting in defiance.
"What?"
Ryan grinned, white teeth flashing against his youthful skin. "Come on, Grandpa. Don’t play dumb. You wanted this, didn’t you? My body, my strength, my youth." He spread his arms wide, stretching deliberately, rolling his shoulders to feel the strength coursing through his muscles. "Hell, you practically drooled every time I was at the gym. Always making comments—‘Damn, kid, you don’t know how lucky you are.’ Or, ‘If I had your body, I’d—’ Well, now you know. And let’s be honest, you weren’t just admiring it from a distance. You were longing for it, weren’t you? Watching me move, watching me live—all while being trapped in that pathetic old shell of yours."
He took a step closer, deliberately slow, letting his towering presence loom over Walter’s frail form. "I mean, look at me." He turned slightly, giving a mock flex, the defined muscles in his arms and chest shifting beneath his smooth, youthful skin. "Imagine how it must feel—to wake up every morning strong, invincible, without a single ache or pain. To have all the energy in the world, to be the one everyone listens to when you speak, to be the one people want to be around. That was me before, and now? Now, it’s still me. But you?" His smirk deepened as he tilted his head. "You're nothing more than an afterthought now. Just another old man waiting for the world to move on without him."
Walter’s face darkened, his lips twitching as if he wanted to speak, to lash out, but nothing came. The words—the truth—hung in the air between them, undeniable and crushing. Ryan leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re beneath me now. Knowing I own the life that used to be yours. Knowing that, from now on, no one will ever look at you the way they used to look at me."
Walter’s face burned, his wrinkled hands twisting in the sheets beneath him. "That’s not—"
"Oh, don’t even try to deny it." Ryan cut him off, stepping closer, his voice thick with condescension. "You wished for this. I could see it in your eyes every time you groaned about your back, every time you huffed and puffed after going up the stairs. You wanted to be young again. To be me. And now, look at you." He let out a short, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "Karma’s funny, huh?"
Walter’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The heat in his face spread down his neck, shame curling around him like a vice. Ryan smirked, placing his hands on his hips, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "Tell me, Grandpa, if you were in my shoes—if you swapped bodies with your grandson—wouldn’t you love it?" He let the question hang in the air, savoring the tension, his smirk widening as Walter stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.
"I mean, come on. Think about it. Really think about it. You know exactly what I’m talking about now, don’t you? Now that you’re the old man, you get it." Ryan took a slow step forward, his presence looming, his voice like velvet laced with poison. "Be honest with me, Grandpa. Wouldn’t you have enjoyed waking up one day in a body like this? No more aching knees, no more graying hair, no more struggling to even be noticed in a crowd. You spent years watching me, admiring me—hell, envying me. And now you know what it’s like to be on the other side of it. Doesn’t feel so great, does it?"
Walter looked away sharply, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration, but Ryan wasn’t finished. "Tell me, does it burn you up inside when you see me walking around, feeling amazing in this body? Do you hate it when I stretch, when I flex, when I live like I was meant for this?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned down just enough to meet Walter’s weary eyes. "Or worse—do you crave it? Do you secretly wish you could trade back, knowing damn well you never will? Do you miss your body? Or are you finally realizing that it was never yours to begin with?"
Walter looked away, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration.
Ryan leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Feels different when you're the one stuck in the rocking chair, huh? When you're the one struggling just to get up in the morning?" He let out a breath, deliberately warm against Walter’s ear, before straightening back up.
Walter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the sagging skin of his throat. His entire body tensed like a coiled spring, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from the torment.
Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Look, I get it. You’re jealous. And that’s okay. It’s natural. Anyone in your position would be jealous of me." He flexed his arm, rolling his shoulders as if relishing the movement, his eyes flickering toward Walter expectantly. And just as he predicted, Walter’s gaze betrayed him—darting, just for a moment, toward the strong biceps, the smooth skin, the sheer power that had once belonged to him.
Ryan caught it instantly and let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Yeah, I saw that. You can’t help it, can you?" He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied the old man before him. "I mean, look at me. I’m young. Strong. Alive." His voice softened, turning almost patronizing. "And you? Well… you’re just Walter now."
Walter squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to accept it.Ryan let the words settle before placing a firm, almost comforting hand on Walter’s frail shoulder. "But here’s the thing—you need to accept it. This is our reality now. There’s no going back. No second chances. This—" he gestured between them, "—is permanent. I’m Ryan. And you’re Walter. For good."
The Family Visit
Eventually, the day of the family visit arrived, and Walter could feel his stomach twisting with unease. He sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his aged body aching from even the smallest movement. Across from him, Ryan stretched his youthful limbs with ease, barely able to contain his excitement. The roles they had been forced into were about to be cemented, and Walter dreaded every second of it.
When the door swung open, Daniel Holloway entered first—The old Ryan’s dad, and now Walter’s son. Though now Daniel had to see the old Ryan as his father, Walter. Behind him was Margaret, Daniel’s wife and Ryan’s mother. Then came Charles and Peter, Ryan’s younger brothers—though now, they were supposed to be his other grandsons. The sight of them was both familiar and alien, each face filled with relief and happiness.
"Dad!" Daniel greeted warmly, smiling at Walter with all the familiarity of a son addressing his father. Walter swallowed hard, his hands clenching against the hospital sheets. That greeting was meant for what used to be his grandfather—but not anymore. It was for him now.
"Grandpa!" Peter grinned, moving to Walter’s bedside. "It’s great to see you up. You gave us a real scare."
Walter flinched at the word. Grandpa. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. Daniel, his own father, was now looking at him as if HE were his father. It was suffocating.
Meanwhile, Ryan stood with an excited grin, spreading his arms wide. “Dad, Mom, Charles, Peter! Man, you have no idea how good it is to see you all.”
Margaret let out a relieved sigh and pulled Ryan into a tight embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, we were terrified,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you’re okay.”
Ryan leaned into her touch, relishing every second. “Of course I am, Mom. Strong as ever.” He flexed his arm playfully, making Charles and Peter chuckle.
Ryan basked in the attention, his new face lighting up as he embraced his mother—his former daughter-in-law —and patted his father—his former son—on the back. It was exhilarating. Thrilling. They truly believed he had always been their Ryan. They spoke to him as if he had always been their son, their brother. Every word of affection, every familial gesture, sent a pulse of euphoria through him. It was as if fate had always intended for him to be in this body.
Walter’s chest tightened as he watched his former body bask in the warmth of his family’s love. That was his mother embracing him. His brothers laughing with him. But now, they saw him as the grandfather—an old man, a relic of their past.
Walter also felt the crushing weight of despair. Even his own parents—who he was supposed to treat now as his own kids, looking at him with concern—saw him only as their dad, Walter. There was no recognition, no flicker of realization that something was horribly wrong.
Daniel turned back to Walter and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, Dad?”
His breathing grew unsteady. He had to fix this. "Dad, listen to me," Walter rasped, voice shaking. "I’m not—I’m not your dad. It’s me, Ryan! That’s my body! He—he stole it! You have to believe me!"
A tense silence filled the room. The smiles faded. Ryan, standing beside their mother, let out an exasperated sigh and turned toward the nurses. "I told you this might happen. His memory’s been slipping ever since the accident."
“Oh, Grandpa, not this again.” He turned to the others with an exaggerated sigh. “The doctors said he’s been having these memory lapses. He keeps insisting he’s me.”
One of the nurses nodded sympathetically. "It’s common with head trauma at his age. Sometimes, patients get confused about who they are."
Margaret’s expression softened with concern. “Oh, Walter…” She kneeled beside him, taking his wrinkled hands into her own. “The doctors did say there might be confusion after everything you went through. But don’t worry, we’re here for you.”
Walter’s face burned. "No Mom! I’m not confused! I swear to you, I’m Ryan! That’s my body! That’s my life!"
Walter’s pulse pounded in his ears. “No! I’m telling you the truth! I’m your son, Ryan! That is my body!” He pointed a trembling finger at Ryan, who merely shook his head with amusement.
His desperation escalated, his voice cracking as he tried to force them to see the truth. But all they saw was an old man having a breakdown. Daniel frowned, concern deepening in his eyes. "Dad, please, calm down. You’re scaring the boys."
Daniel sighed and squeezed Walter’s shoulder. “Dad, please. I know this must be overwhelming, but you’re Walter Holloway. You’ve always been my father.”
Ryan leaned against the bed, arms crossed, his smirk growing wider. “Come on, Grandpa, you don’t want to confuse the kids, do you?” He turned to Charles and Peter, feigning sympathy. “It’s hard watching Grandpa struggle like this, huh?”
Charles gave an awkward smile. “Yeah… but the doctors said he just needs time, right?”
Walter’s hands trembled as he looked from face to face. No one believed him. Not his dad, not his mom, not his brothers. The truth was slipping through his fingers like sand, and Ryan was enjoying every second of it.
Ryan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Walter’s shoulder, leaning in slightly, his voice gentle but condescending. "Grandpa, you need to rest. You’re just confused. I know it’s hard, but you have to accept the truth."
Walter shook his head furiously. "You did this! You stole my life! You—"
Ryan clicked his tongue and turned to the others. "See what I mean? It’s like he’s stuck in some fantasy. I read about this—sometimes older folks cling to a delusion because reality is too much for them."
Walter gritted his teeth, shaking with humiliation. His own family. His own flesh and blood. They all thought he was a senile old man losing his grip on reality.
Ryan turned back, eyes gleaming with something cruel and victorious. "You’re not Ryan, Grandpa. I am. You’re Walter. Always have been. Always will be. And there’s no changing that."
Walter slumped back against the bed, defeated. His world had been stolen, and no one—not even his own family—would ever believe him.
Ryan took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Walter to hear. “Face it, old man,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “This is your life now. You’re Grandpa. And I’m Ryan.” He patted Walter’s frail knee, just as he had been forced to do in their therapy sessions. “Better get used to it.”
Walter’s vision blurred with frustration and helplessness. Ryan had won. He had taken everything. And there was nothing Walter could do to stop it.
The Final Adjustment
Dr. Carter wasted no time intensifying their therapy sessions after the disastrous family visit. Walter’s outburst had only reinforced the doctor’s belief that he was suffering from a severe delusional episode, and Ryan made sure to milk every second of it.
At the start of their next session, Dr. Carter sat across from them with a patient but firm expression. “Walter, before we continue, I think there’s something you need to say to Ryan.”
Walter tensed, already dreading whatever was about to come next. “What do you mean?”
Dr. Carter tilted his head, as if speaking to a confused child. “You accused Ryan of something very serious in front of your family. You caused a scene, frightened your grandchildren, and distressed your son. Don’t you think you owe Ryan an apology?”
Walter’s stomach turned. His hands clenched against his thighs as he cast a hesitant glance at Ryan, who was lounging in his chair, arms crossed, a smug little smile playing on his lips.
Walter wanted to resist. He wanted to scream the truth again. But what good would it do? No one believed him. No one ever would. And the only way to stop the relentless humiliation was to play along.
“I…” Walter forced the words out, his throat dry. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”
Ryan’s grin widened. “Sorry for what, Grandpa?”
Walter swallowed back his pride. “For accusing you… of stealing my body.”
Ryan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And why do you think you did that, huh?”
Dr. Carter nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Walter. Let’s explore that. What made you feel like Ryan had taken something from you?”
Walter’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded in his temples. Ryan’s eyes were gleaming, waiting for him to break.
“I guess…” Walter exhaled shakily. “I was jealous.”
Ryan clicked his tongue. “Jealous?”
Walter stared at the floor. “Yes.”
“Jealous of what?” Ryan pressed.
Walter’s shoulders sagged. “Of… your body.”
Ryan let out a small, satisfied laugh. “Oh yeah?”
Walter shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear. “Yeah.”
Ryan leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. “And what else? You jealous of my muscles? My youth? The fact that I get to live as Ryan while you’re just old man Walter?”
Walter felt the weight of every word pressing down on him. He forced himself to nod. “Yes.”
“Say it,” Ryan ordered. “Tell me what exactly you’re jealous of.”
Walter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your strength. Your body. Your youth.”
Ryan wasn’t done yet. He leaned in closer, his voice smooth, almost gentle, but dripping with cruel amusement. “Come on, old man. You jealous of the way I wake up every morning, full of energy, no aching joints, no stiff back? The way I can run without gasping for breath, the way I can eat anything I want without worrying about cholesterol or heartburn?” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Bet you miss that, huh?”
Walter clenched his fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight.
Ryan tilted his head, studying him like a predator toying with wounded prey. “Or maybe you’re jealous of how people see me. No one looks at me with pity. No one treats me like some fragile old man who’s past his prime. No one assumes I need help just getting out of a chair.” His smirk widened. “That must suck, huh? Going from being strong, being respected, to being… this.”
Walter bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep quiet, but the words pressed against his lips like poison waiting to spill.
Ryan wasn’t finished. “How about the way people talk to me? The way they listen when I speak, when I walk into a room, when I shake someone’s hand?” He flexed his fingers, letting the movement draw Walter’s gaze. “Bet you miss that, huh? Bet you hate looking in the mirror and seeing Walter Holloway staring back at you. The sagging skin, the graying hair, the belly that won’t go away no matter what you do.” He let out a fake sympathetic sigh. “Damn, that’s gotta sting.”
Walter swallowed thickly, his throat raw. He wanted to shut his eyes, to disappear, but it wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.
And then, for the first time, he spoke without being prompted.
“I’m jealous,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ryan’s smirk deepened. “What’s that, Grandpa?”
Walter’s fingers twitched, his nails pressing deeper into his palms. He exhaled shakily, his voice stronger this time. “I’m jealous… of how strong you are. How you can move so easily, how you can run and jump without thinking about it. I’m jealous of your energy, how you wake up feeling rested, how your body isn’t slowing you down.” The words spilled from his lips like a confession, each one tightening the grip around his chest.
Ryan folded his arms, nodding smugly. “Go on.”
Walter shut his eyes for a moment, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it worse, but the pressure was unbearable. He had to let it out. “I’m jealous of how people look at you. The respect you get. The admiration. I’m jealous that when you talk, people listen. I’m jealous that you don’t get treated like you’re fragile, like you’re in the way.” He inhaled shakily, his voice dropping to a hoarse murmur. “I’m jealous that you have your whole life ahead of you while mine is…” He trailed off, unable to finish.
Dr. Carter, who had been watching intently, leaned forward slightly, his expression warm with approval. “This is good, Walter. Acknowledging these emotions is important for your progress. But there’s something else you need to say.”
Walter’s stomach twisted. “What?”
Dr. Carter’s voice was steady, coaxing. “Despite your jealousy, despite everything you feel… you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you? You would rather be Walter Holloway. That’s who you are, and that’s who you want to be.”
Walter felt a lump lodge itself in his throat. His skin felt hot, prickling with shame, with exhaustion.
Ryan was watching him expectantly, his smirk lingering, waiting for him to break completely.
Walter’s jaw tightened. The weight pressing down on him was suffocating. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of this to stop.
So he did the only thing he could.
He nodded. “Yes.”
Dr. Carter’s smile widened. “Say it, Walter.”
Walter’s lips parted, the words slow, shaky, forced. “I… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Ryan’s smirk deepened.
Dr. Carter beamed. “Good. That’s very good.”
Walter stared at the floor, feeling the last of his resistance crumble. It was done. He had said what they wanted to hear.
Dr. Carter smiled approvingly at Walter’s supposed ‘progress.’ “Good, Walter. Acknowledging these feelings is an important step. Now, let’s reinforce this understanding with sensory exercises.”
Walter’s stomach churned. He knew what was coming. He had endured these exercises before, each one designed to strip him of whatever dignity he had left. A quick glance at Ryan confirmed his fears—his grandson, now towering over him in the body that once belonged to him, was already smirking, barely containing his amusement.
“Stand up,” Dr. Carter instructed, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. Walter pushed himself up slowly, his joints stiff, his movements sluggish, while Ryan rose effortlessly, his youthful body full of strength and energy. Walter barely had time to steady himself before Ryan took a deliberate step forward, his presence overwhelming.
“Face each other,” Dr. Carter continued.
Ryan wasted no time closing the gap between them, his muscular chest nearly brushing against Walter’s frail one. Walter could feel the heat radiating from his former body, his skin tingling with the stark contrast between them.
“Walter, touch Ryan’s face,” Dr. Carter directed. “Feel the difference.”
Walter’s fingers trembled as he reached up, brushing against Ryan’s jawline. The skin was firm, the bone structure sharp and defined—nothing like the sagging, soft flesh that now hung from his own face.
Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And what do you feel?”
Walter swallowed hard. “Strength,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ryan chuckled. “Damn right,” he said, flexing his jaw for emphasis. “Feels solid, doesn’t it? Not like that loose mess you’ve got now.”
Walter’s face burned, but Dr. Carter wasn’t finished. “Now, move to his shoulders.”
Walter obeyed, his hands hesitantly trailing down to Ryan’s broad shoulders. They were powerful, firm with well-developed muscle. His grip tightened slightly as he traced the structure, feeling the undeniable strength beneath his fingertips.
“Compare it to your own,” Dr. Carter ordered.
Walter pulled back slowly and reached for his own shoulders, wincing at the stark contrast. His hands met soft, sagging skin, the once-solid mass now reduced to frailty. Before he could react, Ryan’s hands followed suit, gripping Walter’s shoulders with an exaggerated squeeze.
“Man, this is like grabbing a sack of dough,” Ryan quipped, kneading Walter’s flesh mockingly. “No muscle left, huh? Just… soft.”
Dr. Carter ignored the taunt. “Now, Walter, his arms.”
Walter’s hands hesitantly wrapped around Ryan’s biceps. They were thick, hard, brimming with power. Ryan flexed with a smirk, his muscle bulging beneath Walter’s touch.
“Give it a squeeze,” Ryan encouraged. “Go on, Grandpa. Feel what real strength is like.”
Walter did as instructed, though the action only deepened his humiliation. The sheer power in Ryan’s arms was undeniable. Then, before Walter could react, Ryan reached for his arms, gripping them in return.
“Wow,” Ryan mused, squeezing the loose skin. “There’s just… nothing here. No definition, no strength. Just… flab.” He gave Walter’s arm a light shake, watching as the skin wobbled pathetically. “Man, that’s depressing.”
Walter clenched his teeth, his body stiff with shame, but the session was far from over. Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension. “His chest, Walter.”
Walter’s hands hesitated before settling on Ryan’s chest. It was firm, solid, each muscle defined and sculpted. He swallowed hard, already dreading the next instruction.
“Now your own.”
Walter pulled his hands away and pressed them against his own chest. His fingers sank into soft flesh, the skin loose and yielding beneath his touch. Ryan wasted no time mirroring the action, pressing a hand against Walter’s chest before bursting into laughter.
“Wow. It’s like feeling an old couch cushion,” Ryan taunted, giving a light squeeze. “No muscle. No tone. Just sagging.”
Walter’s humiliation deepened, but Dr. Carter continued. “His abdomen, Walter.”
Walter’s hands trailed down Ryan’s torso, brushing against the ridges of his six-pack, the muscles firm and unyielding. The contrast was unbearable.
“Now your own.”
Walter forced himself to touch his own stomach, feeling the soft, excess flesh pooling beneath his fingertips. Ryan, ever the tormentor, pressed a firm hand against Walter’s belly and gave it a condescending jiggle.
“Damn,” Ryan laughed. “What happened, old man? You used to have abs—now you’ve got this?” He patted Walter’s stomach mockingly. “Guess you don’t need to worry about sit-ups anymore, huh?”
Walter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the shame, but there was no escape.
Dr. Carter continued, “his legs.”
Walter’s hands slid down to Ryan’s thighs, feeling the sheer power in the muscle. His legs were strong, lean, built for movement. Ryan shifted slightly under Walter’s touch, flexing his quadriceps just to emphasize the contrast.
“And your own,” Dr. Carter prompted.
Walter obeyed, his hands falling to his own thighs. They were thin, weak, lacking the firmness they once had. Ryan reached down, gripping Walter’s thigh in return, his fingers pressing into the soft, aging flesh.
“These legs are useless,” Ryan scoffed, shaking his head. “No wonder you walk like you’re about to fall over.”
Walter’s head hung low. The session had stripped him down piece by piece, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly powerless. Ryan, meanwhile, stood tall, his smirk one of pure, unfiltered satisfaction.
Dr. Carter nodded, seemingly satisfied with the exercise so far. “Now, we’re going to take this a step further. I want both of you to smell each other. Start with the armpits.”
Walter’s eyes widened in horror. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Dr. Carter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Smell is a powerful sense—it can help ground you in reality. Ryan, go first.”
Ryan smirked, raising his arm and flexing slightly to expose his armpit. “Go ahead, Grandpa. Take a whiff.”
Walter hesitated, his stomach churning at the thought. But under Dr. Carter’s watchful gaze, he leaned in, his nose brushing against Ryan’s armpit. The scent hit him immediately—musky, masculine, and undeniably Ryan. It was intoxicating, and Walter couldn’t help but feel a pang of arousal.
“Who’s musk does that belong to, Walter?” Dr. Carter asked.
“Ryan’s,” Walter admitted, his face burning with shame.
“Good. Now, Ryan, smell Walter.”
Ryan grinned, raising Walter’s arm and pressing his nose against the older man’s armpit. He took a deep breath, the scent filling his nostrils. It was musty, the smell of age and neglect, and Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Man, that’s just… gross,” Ryan said, pulling away with a grimace. “Smells like old sweat and decay.”
Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the heavy silence, calm and clinical as ever. “Now, Walter, Ryan, I want you to take this exercise one step further than before. I want you to explore the differences between your bodies in their most… intimate form.”
Walter’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. “What?” he choked out, his voice barely audible. He could feel Ryan’s gaze burning into him, smug and expectant.
“You heard the doctor, Grandpa,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Time to get up close and personal.”
Dr. Carter nodded, her expression unchanged. “You will touch each other’s genitals. This is an essential part of understanding the physical disparities between you and accepting them.”
Walter’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what was coming, and the dread coiled tightly in his gut. He glanced up at Ryan, who was already smirking, his youthful arrogance shining through. Ryan’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and Walter could see the faint bulge in his pants—a cruel reminder of the vitality that now belonged to his grandson.
“Stand closer,” Dr. Carter instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Walter took a shaky step forward, his frail body trembling as Ryan closed the gap between them with ease. The warmth of Ryan’s body radiated against Walter’s, the contrast between their physical states almost unbearable.
“Walter,” Dr. Carter began, “reach out and touch Ryan’s waistband. Feel the difference in your bodies’ structure.”
“Go on, Grandpa,” Ryan taunted, his voice laced with mockery. “Touch it. Feel what a real man has.”
Walter’s hands trembled as he hesitantly reached for Ryan’s hips. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his grandson’s pants, feeling the firmness of the muscles beneath. Ryan shifted slightly, intentionally pressing his hips forward, and Walter’s fingers accidentally grazed the bulge that was unmistakably there. Walter jerked his hand back as if burned, his face flushing with humiliation.
“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Ryan teased, his voice dripping with mockery. “Scared of a little contact? Or maybe you’re just jealous?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Walter’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this easy for you.”
Before Walter could react, Ryan grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on his own crotch. Walter’s fingers instinctively curled around the hard, throbbing length beneath the fabric. He tried to pull away, but Ryan held him in place, his grip strong and unrelenting.
“Feel that?” Ryan whispered, his voice low and taunting. “That’s what strength feels like. That’s what youth feels like. Bet you haven’t felt anything like that in years, huh?”
Walter’s face burned, his humiliation intensifying with every passing second. He could feel the heat of Ryan’s arousal through the fabric, the undeniable proof of his grandson’s virility. It was a cruel reminder of everything he had lost—the firmness, the energy, the life that had once been his.
“That’s it,” Ryan encouraged, his voice low and taunting. “Feel how big it is.”
Walter’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Ryan’s shaft, the girth filling his hand in a way that made his own seem laughable in comparison. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the pulse of life that seemed to throb with every beat of Ryan’s heart.
Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension, steady and unyielding. “Now, Walter, it’s your turn. Let Ryan touch you.”
Walter’s stomach churned, his mind screaming in protest. But he knew there was no escape. Walter’s breath hitched again as Ryan’s hand closed around him, the difference between them painfully obvious. Ryan’s grip was firm, confident, his fingers easily wrapping around Walter’s small, soft member.
“Wow,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with mockery. “It’s like… nothing. Just a little nub.” He gave a light squeeze, watching as Walter’s face flushed deeper with shame. “Guess you really have lost everything, huh?”
Walter’s face burned with shame, his body stiff under Ryan’s touch. He could feel the warmth of his grandson’s hand, the contrast between their bodies even more pronounced now. Ryan gave a light squeeze, his fingers exploring with a mocking curiosity.
“Nothing to work with here,” Ryan continued, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction. “Just… flaccid and lifeless. Like the rest of you.”
Ryan’s hand began to move, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s cock with a deliberate, mocking slowness. “Feels like I’m touching a little worm,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “No muscle, no hardness. Just… limp.”
Walter’s breath came in shallow gasps, his humiliation and jealousy intertwining in a way that made his head spin. He tightened his grip on Ryan’s cock, his fingers sliding up and down the thick, hard shaft. He could feel the power in it, the way it seemed to pulse with life, mocking his own inadequacy.
“That’s right,” Ryan said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Feel it. Feel how much better I am than you.”
Walter’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he tried to block out the taunts. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, he couldn’t escape the stark contrast between them. Ryan’s cock was everything his wasn’t—big, strong, alive.
Ryan’s own hand moved with a deliberate slowness, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s small, soft cock with a mocking precision. “It’s almost cute,” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “How pathetic it is.”
Ryan’s breathing grew heavier, his smirk widening as he watched Walter struggle. “That’s it, Grandpa,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Keep going. Let’s see who finishes first.”
But then, without warning, Ryan’s body tensed, his smirk widening into a grin of pure triumph. “Here it comes,” he said, his voice low and filled with a mix of arrogance and excitement.
Walter’s eyes flew open just in time to see Ryan’s cock pulse, a thick stream of cum shooting out and hitting him square in the face. The warmth of it was almost suffocating, the sheer volume of it a stark reminder of Ryan’s virility. Walter froze, his hand still gripping Ryan’s cock as the younger man’s cum continued to spurt out, coating his face and dripping down onto his chest.
Walter’s own cock twitched in Ryan’s hand, a small, pitiful spurt of cum barely managing to escape. Ryan glanced down, his smirk widening as he took in the stark contrast between them. “That’s it?” he taunted, his voice filled with amusement. “That’s all you’ve got? Man, you really are pathetic.”
Walter’s face burned with humiliation, his body trembling as he tried to process the sheer difference between them. Ryan’s cum was still warm on his face, a bitter reminder of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think as the weight of Ryan’s dominance pressed down on him.
Dr. Carter nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, let’s proceed with hypnosis while you’re still euphoric. I want you both to sit down and listen to my voice.” They weren’t even allowed to clean themselves.
Walter obeyed, already feeling lightheaded from the session. He barely reacted as Dr. Carter began speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, guiding him deeper into relaxation.
Dr. Carter’s voice deepened, slow and steady, like a distant pulse guiding them into the depths of their minds. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Let go of everything else. Picture yourselves stepping into a vast space, one that belongs to both of you.”
Walter felt himself sinking, drifting into the doctor’s words, his senses blurring as the weight of the session pressed against him.
Dr. Carter’s voice became a thread weaving through his mind. “You are in a grand hall,” he continued. “A palace of mirrors, stretching endlessly in all directions. There is no ceiling, no walls—only reflections, endless and pure.”
The vision took shape.
Walter found himself standing in an enormous, empty chamber. The floor was smooth and black, almost liquid in appearance, reflecting light that had no source. Tall, ornate mirrors lined the space in every direction, their silvered surfaces pristine, infinite, inescapable.
He wasn’t alone.
Ryan stood beside him, just as Dr. Carter had described, both of them facing the mirrors that surrounded them.
Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Tell me, Walter… what do you see?”
Walter turned toward the nearest mirror, his breath catching in his throat.
Staring back at him wasn’t his wrinkled, aging face.
It was Ryan.
His reflection was young. Strong. The way he had once been.
A jolt of longing struck him like a knife between the ribs.
Ryan exhaled sharply beside him, amusement laced in his voice. “Hah. Would you look at that.”
Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And if you look down at yourself, Walter… what do you see?”
Walter hesitated.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze.
His heart lurched.
He wasn’t looking at withered hands, spotted with age. His body—his mental body—wasn’t frail or weak.
It was Ryan’s.
The hands were young, strong, his shoulders broad, his posture straight. His chest solid, his legs full of power.
For a single, intoxicating moment, hope flared within him. Maybe this was the proof he needed. Maybe, if even his mind rejected this body, there was still a chance—
Dr. Carter turned his attention to Ryan. “And you, Ryan? What do you see?”
Ryan smirked. “Same thing. My reflection looks like Walter. And when I look down?” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “Old. Obese. Weak.”
Walter’s stomach twisted.
Dr. Carter nodded. “Good. That is your self-perception. The mind’s final grasp on the confusion. But that confusion will fade. The mind cannot fight the truth.”
The words slithered into Walter’s thoughts, sinking deeper.
“The reflections are truth,” Dr. Carter murmured. “The mind knows which body it belongs to.”
Walter turned his gaze back to the mirror.
His breath caught.
The image was… shifting.
The firm jawline softened. Wrinkles bled into the smooth skin. His chest lost its shape, sagging under the weight of years. His shoulders hunched, his legs losing definition. The reflection aged before his eyes.
His pulse pounded.
“No,” he whispered.
But the mirrors did not lie.
Across from him, Ryan’s reflection changed, too—but in the opposite way. The tired, aging body in his mirror straightened. Muscles formed beneath once-loose skin. His shoulders broadened. His stance grew confident, filled with youth.
Ryan chuckled softly, watching the change unfold.
Dr. Carter’s voice remained unwavering. “The reflections have settled. But now, the mind must align.”
Walter looked down, desperate—
His body still looked young. His hands were still Ryan’s hands. His chest still solid, his legs still strong.
The reflection was wrong.
It had to be wrong.
Ryan hummed thoughtfully, inspecting himself in the mirror. “Yeah… this is looking a lot better, huh?” He turned his head slightly, watching the light catch his sharp jawline. “Starting to feel natural.”
Walter’s breath grew shallow. “No…”
Dr. Carter’s tone became more commanding. “The mind must not fight the truth.”
The walls of mirrors shimmered.
A pull deep within Walter’s chest made his skin crawl. A sinking sensation washed over him, like he was being submerged, like something was being taken—
And then—
His hands.
His chest.
His legs.
They weren’t young anymore.
His own body—his mental body—had changed. The frail arms, the wrinkled skin, the weakened muscles—
It was all his again.
Walter gasped sharply, stumbling back.
“No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, no, no—”
Ryan’s laughter was quiet, smug.
Walter turned, wide-eyed, to see Ryan inspecting his own reflection. And this time, when Ryan looked down at himself—
He saw youth. Strength. Power.
And when he smirked, it wasn’t an illusion. It was real.
His body.
His mind.
It was over.
“You are Walter Holloway,” Dr. Carter’s voice droned. “You have always been Walter Holloway. You are an aging man, a father, a grandfather. And Ryan is your grandson. That is the truth. That is reality.”
Walter’s head swam. His body felt heavy. The words seeped into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.
Dr. Carter’s voice softened. “Tell me, Walter. Who are you?”
Walter’s heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to scream. To resist.
But as he looked back at the reflection—at the undeniable image staring back at him—his throat closed.
“I…”
Ryan exhaled, dragging out the moment, savoring it.
Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but firm. “Say it.”
Walter swallowed hard, every ounce of fight draining from his limbs.
His lips trembled.
His voice barely above a whisper.
“I am Walter Holloway.”
Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. “And who is Ryan?”
Walter clenched his fists, but his reflection only showed old, frail hands curling in on themselves.
He looked at Ryan.
Ryan—young, smirking, victorious.
Walter’s head lowered in submission.
“My grandson.”
Ryan let out a slow breath, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That’s right.”
Dr. Carter smiled. “Very good. And tell me, Walter—despite everything, despite the jealousy, despite the past… would you have it any other way?”
Walter hesitated.
The mirrors had spoken.
The body.
The mind.
The truth.
He exhaled shakily.
“…No.”
Dr. Carter’s voice was a final, steady command. “Then accept it.”
Walter’s shoulders sagged.
His body.
His reflection.
His fate.
“…I accept it. I wouldn't have it any other way ”
Ryan grinned.
And Walter Holloway knew, with bone-deep certainty, that there was no going back.
The Conclusion
After weeks of relentless therapy, psychological conditioning, and medical evaluations, the doctors finally deemed Ryan and Walter fully adjusted to their "true" identities. There were no more arguments, no more desperate pleas, no more resistance—at least, not outwardly. Walter had long since realized that fighting was useless. He had been backed into a corner, stripped of everything, and molded into what they wanted him to be. The final signatures were scrawled onto discharge papers, the last stamp of approval sealing their fates. With that, the hospital doors were thrown open, allowing them to step back into the world—not as themselves, but as the people the system had forced them to become.
As they prepared to leave, the contrast between them was stark. Walter—now in Ryan’s youthful, athletic body—was practically glowing with excitement, while Ryan—trapped in Walter’s aging, weakened frame—moved stiffly, weighed down by both the ill-fitting clothes and the unbearable reality of his situation.
Dressing that morning had been its own form of torture for Walter. The thick fabric of the slacks chafed against his legs, and the button-up shirt felt foreign, like a costume draped over someone he no longer recognized. The cardigan smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale detergent, a scent that clung to him like an accusation. The orthopedic shoes were stiff and heavy, dragging his steps down even further. Each layer of clothing was a reminder of what had been taken from him.
Ryan, on the other hand, had never felt better. He relished the way Ryan’s well-fitted tank top hugged his torso, how the jeans sat comfortably on his hips like they had always belonged to him. But the best part—the part that made it all feel real—was the scent. With a satisfied smirk, he rolled on Walter’s deodorant, letting the crisp, masculine smell envelop him. Then, with slow deliberation, he reached for Walter’s cologne, giving himself a generous spritz before inhaling deeply.
“Ahh,” Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms in satisfaction. “Now this smells like me.”
When it was finally time to leave, Ryan snatched the car keys and twirled them between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll drive,” he said, shooting Walter a knowing glance. “Considering the last time you were behind the wheel, we both ended up in the hospital, I’d say it’s for the best.” The words were lighthearted, but the smugness in his tone made Walter’s jaw tighten.
Walter said nothing. What could he say? He simply followed Ryan out of the hospital, his slow, weary steps a bitter contrast to Ryan’s confident, youthful stride. Ryan moved like he owned the world—because, in a way, he did. Walter, burdened by age, weight, and the cruel truth of his new reality, shuffled behind him, feeling smaller with every step.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ryan adjusted the mirrors, the seat, the steering wheel—everything to fit his new, larger frame.
Walter sank into the passenger seat, feeling uncomfortably out of place in a car that had once been his. The interior, the familiar scent, the worn leather—all reminders of a life that no longer belonged to him.
The sun bore down through the windshield, and Ryan exhaled dramatically. “Damn, it’s hot.” With a smirk, he grabbed his tank top and pulled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the dashboard before buckling his seatbelt. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, the ridges of his abs shifting as he settled in. Walter forced his gaze forward, his gut twisting at the sight of his former body, now so casually on display.
Ryan drummed his fingers on the wheel, then shot Walter another grin. “Ready to go, Gramps?”
Walter swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had no choice but to nod. The drive home felt longer than ever.
When they arrived home, Ryan stepped through the door with effortless ease, his posture relaxed, his smile easy—exactly how the old Ryan used to be. He greeted his family with a familiar charm, embracing them with warmth and speaking with the natural confidence of a young man who had his entire life ahead of him. They welcomed him with open arms, laughing at his jokes, asking about his recovery, completely unaware of the horrifying truth behind his stolen identity.
Meanwhile, Walter stood awkwardly at the threshold, his movements slower, his presence smaller. The moment their eyes landed on him, everything changed. His family’s smiles faltered just slightly, their expressions shifting into something softer—gentle, but laced with a quiet pity. They spoke to him in lowered tones, carefully enunciating their words as if he might not understand. A hesitant pat on the shoulder, a brief exchange of pleasantries—it was clear they saw him as an old man who needed patience, not as the person he truly was. Every glance that lingered too long, every concerned look exchanged behind his back only deepened the pit in his stomach. He had come home, and yet, for the first time in his life, he had never felt more out of place.
The transition was swift and brutal. The old Walter stepped seamlessly into Ryan’s life, assuming every aspect of his former grandson’s existence as if he had always belonged there. He moved into Ryan’s bedroom, effortlessly adjusting to the space—the unmade bed, the posters on the walls, the faint scent of cologne still lingering in the air. It took him no time at all to settle into the familiar routine: early morning workouts at the gym, cracking jokes with Ryan’s friends, slipping into easy, flirtatious conversations with women who had once been off-limits. He thrived in this body, this life, indulging in every sensation and pleasure that came with youth.
Meanwhile, Walter was forced into a role he had never imagined for himself—that of an aging, powerless retiree. His world shrank overnight, confined to the quiet, unremarkable existence of an old man whose presence barely registered to those around him. He was no longer included in conversations the way he once had been; his opinions carried less weight, his presence went unnoticed. His body, once strong and agile, now ached with every movement, reminding him constantly of what he had lost.
But the most painful losses weren’t physical. They were the pieces of his identity that were stripped away, one by one, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been. His phone—his direct connection to the world he knew—was surrendered, replaced with a simple device meant for seniors, its contents erased. His bank accounts, his credit cards, the very name attached to them. His clothes were replaced with drab, practical attire suited for an elderly man, his favorite belongings distributed without a second thought. With every item he relinquished, the reality of his new existence settled in deeper, suffocating him.
The nights were the worst. Lying alone in his unfamiliar bed, Walter would hear the sounds coming from his old bedroom—the laughter, the music, the muffled voices. And then, sometimes, the unmistakable sounds of passion, of intimacy, of a body that had once been his, now used for pleasures he could no longer experience. A sharp, ugly jealousy burned within him, twisting his stomach into knots, but he swallowed it down. This was reality. This was how things were meant to be. Walter was Ryan now, and he, the old Ryan, was nothing more than an old man. And so, he forced himself to close his eyes, to let go of the bitterness, to accept the life that had been decided for him.
Now, back in the privacy of Ryan’s—his—room, Ryan stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the body that was now his. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over his skin. He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his fingers. He was perfect. Every inch of him.
He turned to the side, flexing his biceps, watching as the muscle tensed and bulged. He reached down, cupping the firmness of his ass, squeezing it experimentally. A shiver of pleasure ran through him. This body… it was electric. Every touch felt amplified, every sensation more intense than he remembered.
His hands drifted lower, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen, until his fingers dipped below the waistband of his sweatpants. He let out a low groan as he took himself in hand, feeling the heat and hardness of his new body. It had been years—decades, really—since he’d felt like this. Young. Hungry. Alive.
He began to stroke himself slowly, his eyes locked on his reflection. His breath quickened as he watched his face flush, his lips part in pleasure. He couldn’t look away. The sight of himself—his youthful self—was intoxicating. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every bead of sweat rolling down his skin was a reminder of what he’d gained.
His hand moved faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. He let his free hand roam over his chest, tweaking a nipple, feeling the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through him. He was close—so close. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as he reached the edge.
And then he was there, his body shuddering with release, his hand still moving as he spilled onto his stomach. He stood there for a moment, panting, his heart racing, his mind buzzing with satisfaction.
When he finally opened his eyes and opened his selfie camera, he couldn’t help but grin. This was his body now. His new life. And he was going to enjoy every damn second of it.
Ryan flourished in his stolen youth, embracing every ounce of vitality and strength that came with it. At home, he rarely bothered with a shirt, his toned physique constantly on display as he stretched, flexed, and moved with the effortless confidence of a man in his prime. Every movement seemed designed to remind Walter of what he had lost, of the body that once belonged to him but now obeyed another. Ryan's reflection had become a source of pride, and he ensured that his new grandfather—his former self—saw exactly what he had become.
He took to Ryan’s life as if it had always been his own, stepping seamlessly into friendships, relationships, and professional pursuits. His charm made the transition effortless. No one questioned the shift in demeanor, the newfound confidence and ease with which he navigated the world. Even in love, he thrived. The woman the old Ryan had once longed for but could never quite win over was now his. He had everything the old Ryan had struggled for, and he had taken it without consequence. Every success, every moment of pleasure, was a reminder that this was his life now, and no one—not even the man who had once lived it—could change that.
Meanwhile, Walter withered under the weight of his new reality. He was no longer seen as the strong, capable man he had once been. Now, he was an afterthought—an aging, pitiful figure trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn. His protests were dismissed as the confused ramblings of a senile old man, his desperation met with sympathetic nods and condescending reassurances. He was humored, not heard. The fight drained out of him with each passing day, his words fading into silence as he realized the futility of it all. He was powerless, forced to watch his old body, his old life, thrive without him.
Eventually, Walter stopped fighting. There was no point anymore. The world had already moved on, and he had been left behind. He no longer corrected people when they called him Walter. He no longer tried to reclaim what had been stolen. He simply accepted it. And with that acceptance, the last remnants of his old self faded away. For all intents and purposes, he was Walter Holloway.
A full year passed since the accident, since their minds had been wrenched from their rightful places and forced into new vessels. The family gathered once again, a mirror image of the last time—except everything had changed. Ryan played the role of grandson with ease, laughing, joking, exuding the boundless energy of youth. Walter sat in the background, the quiet, aging patriarch. Something inside him had shifted as well. The resistance had vanished, replaced by something resembling contentment—or at least resignation.
For a fleeting moment, a thought crept into his mind. It had been a year since we were out of our minds. A year since fate—or something else—had rewritten their lives. But he pushed the thought away, willing himself to believe what he needed to believe. He was, is, and always would be Walter Holloway. And the man across the room, the one who had once been his grandfather, was, is, and always would be Ryan.
You flex as you wake up in your bed. Its a morning ritual to remind you just how big you are. The best part. Its not that much work. You cant help it your just too muscular. Your body fat is high enough that you dont have a gut but still big enough to not have abs.
After your ritual you head ti the gym like always. A place for you to gloat and pose for anyone to see. You hope the girls notice you but they dont seem to care. As you walk about the halls of the leisure centre you aim to head to the sauna but something catches your eye. Two big men one made of muscle with abs and a tonne of body hair stands shirtless next to a big bear of a man. Their stood offering protein shakes to customers for free. Now they’ve got your attention.
“Yo this shit free?”
“You bet it is lad. I’m David and this is my hubby Colton. We run the milk master business. One drink to solve all your body needs. Wanna try?”
You double back. Ain’t no way these guys run a shake business. This stuff is for real men and you know it. You forget that most men in the gym are probably gay though but you don’t care. You take the bottle from David’s hand and down the entire thing, puffing your muscles to look more masculine.
“Oh we have a downer Col.”
David chuckles as he watches you stand there downing another shake. Then another. Then another. You got o a point where you couldn’t stop drinking them. Then there was none left.
“Colton this guy drank em all. You think you can make some more papa.”
“Of course i can.”
Colton stands there and pours out a full glass of the milk from his bare chrst and watches as you squirm at the sight. The two men have clearly clocked your arrogance and are messing with you. But your suddenly more worried about the feeling in your gut. A loud gurgle sounds as you stomach bloats.
“Best get to the locker room lad. Your about to have a good time. Let us know if you need alt… Pops
You rush off to the locker room and stumble as David calls you pops. Your name isn’t pops it was… You struggle to remember as your entire body bloats. Feeling an urge from your butt you rush to the toilet but as you try to sit on the loo you find nothing coming out. You struggle as your constipation worsens but you body is still changing. A surge of growth in your but makes you yelp as you drop to the floor, you new belly stopping you as you fall.
Then your dick hardens. A wave of horniness rushes through you growing system as you feel yourself losing your mind. Images of cheerleaders in tight clothes replace with men in leathers. Your own memories of playing on the football team are replaced with nights searching for a submissive at the gay bar or online.
You force yourself to take a dump finally but your body isn’t done changing. Your pecs swell with a sloshing sound as the same milk you just drank drips from your nipples. Th pre-cum foaming from your dick turns to the same milk and drips from your tip until its free flowing like pee.
“What is this i’m turning out like that Colton bloke.”
You moan as you cock throbs and more milk flows from it onto the toilet floor. Unable to control it you find yourself filling up the toilet with the stuff and licking the extra from your pecs. But the more you drink the bigger you get. Muscles bulging and pressing against the toilet walls as you get stuck in place. Your body hair turns white as snow as does the growing beard on your face. Your height practically doubles as more milk leaks from you.
“Pops you in here bud. Sorry about earlier and… oh my.”
“David help me. What’s that milk doing to me s… son.”
“You drank far too much of it and… your calling me son?”
“I don’t know son my minds a mess. Wheres Colton?”
“He’s waiting outside pops let’s get you outta that toilet and hooked up to a pump yeah.”
“Son im milking all over the floor. Get in here and drink it ao it doesn’t go to waste.”
“Ok pops.”
David climbs under your legs and begins drinking the milk spewing from you. It doesn’t look to effective him but you feel less full the more he drinks. Eventually stopping your flow the two of you manage to get out the toilet and David finds you a nice flannel to wear. Your beard settles in comfortably now and you feel an odd connection to David a will to protect so to speak.
“Wheres my son in law Colton then.”
You yell as you exit the locker room with David. Colton stands there, his eyes fixated on your massive new body.
“Hello sir.”
“Oh don’t give me formalities son. I’m glad to have another bear in the family. And a milk maker as well. Careful when you get to my age it can sometimes just spill out. Call me pops won’t ya.”
“Ok pops.”
Looks like our Davids got a papa, a pops and a lot of milk on demand. Guess business is booming. I made this one extra horny for you horn dogs to enjoy. Master out.
