Place Holder

I’m not the original its-yours-now, I just observed his pattern of vanishing after a few weeks and created a repository of his recent work.

[its-your-body-now]

Azure Sands 3

I stood in the NYC hotel room in my suit, phone in one hand, the other sliding a pod into the coffee maker. The rich smell hit the air right away as the machine gurgled. I scrolled through Instagram while it brewed.

Jose’s story popped up first. There he was in a sharp navy suit that hugged his frame, hair neatly styled, flashing that easy grin straight into the camera. “Suited up and headed to court. Ready to fight for my right to live freely as I am today. Azure Sands doesn't have the right to steal my autonomy. Lets do this."

He looked sharp. Confident. The suit stretched across his chest just right, the jacket open enough to show the crisp white shirt underneath.

I was nervous to see him at the courthouse later today.

I took a slow sip of the coffee, feeling the fabric of my tight dress shirt stretch across my large chest and shoulders. It still didn't feel normal. This body just wasn't built for dress clothes.

I set the mug down and adjusted my tie in the reflection of the mirror hanging from the door. Not bad. Just not mine.

--

A little over two years ago I went to Azure Sands for a getaway.

I was 32, burnt out from nonstop work, and freshly single after my girlfriend and I called it quits. The idea of a body-swap experience sounded like the perfect way to get out of my head. I’d read the stories online—people talking about how freeing it felt, how intense the sex hit when you were wearing someone else’s skin. All anyone at the resort wanted to do was fuck as each other. I figured it’d be fun to try fucking as a completely different guy, different race, different build. Some people even ended up loving their new bodies so much they made the swap permanent. I wasn’t into that part, but it was still a glowing recommendation.

The resort was beautiful when I arrived. Turquoise water, white sand, palm trees everywhere. Everything smelled like sunscreen and salt air.

All was going according to plan at first. They had everyone check into the hotel and invited us to the Sapphire Lounge where we mingled as we waited for the pairings.

I was standing near the bar with a cold beer when this guy came up and introduced himself. Jackson. White guy from Memphis, maybe a few years older than me. He had a cool southern accent that rolled out slow and easy. Bald on top but really muscular, arms and chest filling out his tank top, cool tattoos down his arms.

We started chatting. He asked what brought me down here, and I told him the truth—needed to reset after a shit breakup and even shittier year at work.

“Same,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. “Figured swapping into something new would shake things up. You look like you take care of yourself. Bet you’d wear my body well.”

I laughed.

They made the announcement of the different pairs a little while later. When they called my name and Jackson’s, I felt a quick jolt of surprise. He turned to me with this satisfied look.

“What are the odds? Guess we’re doing this,” I said.

Jackson leaned in closer, voice low. “Actually, I paid for the higher tier package. Got to pick my swap partner before I even got here. They sent pictures and bios of everyone coming for the two weeks. I picked you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “For real?”

He nodded, that southern drawl thick. “For real.” His eyes flicked down my body again. “Flattered?” He said in a vaguely flirty tone.

I'd never been interested in guys, but for a split second I saw the appeal of corn-fed guy with a southern drawl.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling the heat in my face. “I am.”

---

The swap happened overnight. I went to bed in my own skin and woke up the next morning as Jackson—bigger, heavier, tattoos covering parts of my new arms and chest.

We ran into each other at breakfast. The whole dining area was full of people moving differently, testing out new heights and weights and voices. Jackson—in my old body—spotted me and waved me over.

“Morning,” he said, grinning with my old face. “Holy shit, this feels weird, right?”

I sat down across from him, rolling my new shoulders. “Feels like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes that are way too tight in the right places. These arms… I keep bumping into shit.”

He laughed and flexed one of my old biceps. “Tell me about it. Your body’s got speed though. I ran on the beach earlier and felt like I could keep going forever.”

We spent that first day bro-ing out about it. Hit the resort gym together, spotting each other on the weights.

After that day we kind of went our separate ways.

Everyone was too busy focused on the main reason they’d come here: to fuck. The resort had us all do STI tests on arrival and put every single person—men and women—on medical birth control. They knew exactly what this place was and weren’t trusting anyone with condoms.

The next two weeks were heaven. Hot women kept throwing themselves at me in Jackson’s strong, tattooed body. I could cum deep in whoever I wanted, whenever I wanted, with zero repercussions. And they were just as into it, chasing the same rush.

One night I ended up with this Brazilian girl who was wearing the body of some bitchy French woman from Paris. She had me literally weak in the knees. The way she rode me, grinding down hard while her tits bounced, had me gripping the sheets. I loved how Jackson’s thick beard felt dragging across their pussies when I ate them out—rough and warm, the scratch making them shake and moan louder every time. She came so hard on my face I could barely breathe, then begged me to flip her over and fill her up. I did, thrusting deep until I unloaded inside her, both of us sweating and cursing in the humid night air.

The only kind of weird thing during the stay happened a few nights in. I was walking back from the beach bar when I spotted Jackson across the resort. He was flirting hard with this tall, built guy. The guy had his hands all over him—grabbing Jackson’s ass through my old shorts, squeezing his arms. Jackson looked up at him with these eager, submissive eyes, like he was already gone for it.

I hadn’t realized he was actually gay. His whole dude-bro vibe had thrown me off.

Later I saw them heading toward a villa. Out of pure morbid curiosity I followed and peered through a side window. The curtains were open just enough. Inside, the big guy had Jackson bent over the bed. He ate my old ass like he was starving for it, tongue working deep while Jackson moaned and pushed back. Then the guy stood up, slicked his cock, and slid in.

I watched the whole thing. Jackson took every inch, gasping and gripping the sheets. The guy railed him steady and deep, hitting the right spot over and over. I didn’t expect what happened next. Jackson’s cock—my cock—started shooting without anyone touching it, just from his prostate getting pounded. Thick ropes hit the bed while he shook and cried out.

Damn, I thought, staring. My asshole is gonna hurt when I get back in there.

It didn’t bother me too much. I was more surprised than anything. We were all here for the same thing. If he was getting off and it felt that good, who was I to judge?

But I was thrown when Jackson brought it up on the last day. We were sitting by the pool, drinks in hand, when he leaned in.

“Look,” he said, voice low, “I’ve been thinking. I’m loving this body. A lot. What if we just… stayed like this forever? You can fuck me, or I fuck you?"

You see, the resort’s only real rule was that swapped pairs can’t fuck one another, otherwise the swap is permanent. That said, it was an open secret of the resort that they don’t care if guests do it on purpose.

I stared at him.

He kept going, eyes serious but still carrying that flirt. “You’d have a great life in my skin. Bigger dick than what you’re used to. Women come up to me all the time back in Nashville wanting to get fucked. It’s kind of wasted on me since I’m gay. You’d kill it.”

I shook my head. “I appreciate it, man. But I’m good. I want my body back.”

He relented, but not before flashing me a half-smile and letting his hand brush my thigh. “Your loss. That cock could stand to keep fucking pussy and you look damn good in that big muscular frame.”

I laughed it off.

Then something completely unexpected happened.

---

On the very last day, right before checkout, the resort staff called everyone into the Sapphire Lounge. The coordinator looked nervous as she delivered the news.

“There’s been a malfunction with the body swap technology,” she said, voice tight. “Due to a programming error, all of you actually underwent a permanent swap on the first day.”

The room went dead quiet, then erupted.

Jackson turned to me, face pale. “Fuck… I’m so sorry, man. I had no idea.” His words sounded genuine. But when I glanced down, his cock—my old cock—was rock hard and straining against his shorts. He shifted, trying to hide it, but I saw.

We didn’t have much choice. After the paperwork and the lawyers the resort threw at us, we went back to one another’s homes. He flew to my place in San Diego. I flew to his in Nashville.

We stayed in touch at first. Texts checking in, a couple awkward video calls where we tried to laugh about it. But we lived so far apart, and real life started pulling us in different directions. New jobs, new routines, new bodies to get used to. The contact faded after a few months.

I could see from social media how well Jackson was doing in my old body. He posted a picture a few months after the swap—him and this really hot boyfriend he’d met at the airport on the way back to San Diego of all places. Tall, sharp jawline, the kind of guy who looked like he worked out just to show off. They looked happy. Really happy.

My own life in Nashville was a string of one-night stands. I’d go out to bars, and women would come up to me, hands sliding over Jackson’s thick arms and chest, tracing the tattoos that still didn’t feel like mine. They loved the muscles, the beard, the way I filled out a shirt. I’d take them home, fuck them deep and hard, watching their eyes roll back while I gripped their hips with these bigger hands. The sex was good—great, even. But it left me depressed afterward. They weren’t into me. They were into Jackson’s body, his look, his vibe. Not the guy actually inside it.

Some of the guys around town were even more confused. A few times at bars, very good-looking dudes would slide up next to me, grinning like we had history. One leaned in close one night, hand brushing my thigh. “Been a while, Jackson. My place is close. You still into what we did last time?”

I had to let them down easy. “Sorry, man. Things are different now.” They’d look surprised, almost hurt, before backing off.

---

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, two years later Azure Sands reached out to everyone. They said they’d found a way to reverse it.

Some participants swapped back immediately. Others had settled into their new lives so well they refused. That left a small group where one person wanted to switch back and the other didn’t.

Tough luck for me—Jose was one of them.

The morning I found out, I called him right away, heart pounding.

“Dude, they can fix this,” I said, voice rushing. “We can swap back. I’ll book the flight today—”

“No,” he cut me off. His voice—my old voice—was calm and flat. “I’m not doing it.”

I stopped pacing the living room. “What the fuck do you mean you’re not doing it?”

“I mean I’m happy here,” he said. “I’ve got a boyfriend who actually gets me. I make more money in your old job than I ever did in mine. I like this body. I’m keeping it.”

We started yelling. I told him he had no right to steal my life. He shot back that I was the one who’d been living his—fucking half of Nashville—and that I should just admit I’d moved on too. The call ended with both of us pissed off and him hanging up first.

Jose ended up as the lead plaintiff in the lawsuit against Azure Sands for everyone who didn’t want to swap back. It blew up into a national media case. He went on national morning talk shows, sitting there with my old smile, looking sharp in suits that fit him perfectly. People ate it up. He talked about how much he loved his new life, his boyfriend, the dog they’d adopted, how the swap had finally let him become who he was meant to be. He made it sound unconscionable that anyone would try to force him to change now.

---

I stared at his latest Instagram story one more time—the one of him suited up, headed to court.

Time to go fight for my body back.

The court case had dragged on for a few months by now, and today was the big day of testimony. The courtroom felt stuffy under the fluorescent lights as they called up swappees from both sides—people desperate to get their old bodies back, people fighting to keep what they had, and couples who had mutually agreed to stay or switch. Lawyers grilled them on every detail: happiness levels, relationships, careers, mental health.

Finally, they called Jackson to the stand.

He walked up to the stand in my old body like he owned the room. The navy suit hugged his frame perfectly. His hair was styled neat, that easy grin flashing as he swore in. The Tennessee accent was completely gone, replaced by a smooth, light Chicano San Diego cadence.

The lawyer started easy. “Mr. Rivera can you tell the court why you wish to remain in your current body?”

Jackson leaned forward slightly, sincere. “I truly believe I was always meant to be Latino. Before the swap I already spoke Spanish fluently—Mexican Spanish, actually—along with English. The real Jose didn’t. When I woke up in this body, it felt like coming home. I love connecting with my culture now. The food, the music, the community. I go to family gatherings where I actually belong. Forcing me back would rip that away from me.”

He turned and looked directly at two older Hispanic women on the jury. “Y sé que ustedes entienden lo que significa sentirte parte de algo más grande,” he said in perfect, warm Mexican Spanish. “Esta es mi vida ahora. No quiero perderla.”

The two women smiled softly, nodding like he was the nicest grandson they never had.

He continued, voice steady. “I know I would suffer permanent psychological damage if I had to wake up to a different face in the mirror every day after getting so used to this one. I’m finally in a fulfilling relationship. My boyfriend—God, I love him so much—just proposed to me two weeks ago.” He held up his hand, showing the ring. A few people in the gallery sighed. “It would be unfair to drag him through this. He fell in love with me, this me.”

Jackson glanced over at the defense table where I sat, then back to the jury. “When I look at my former body now, I don’t feel anything for it. Those old tattoos? I hate them. They don’t represent who I am anymore. Forcing a swap back would be like making me become a stranger in my own skin. I’ve built a better life here—more meaningful work, deeper connections, real happiness. I volunteer at the local Latinx community center. I’m mentoring young guys who look like me now. This body lets me be the man I was always supposed to be.”

He was flirting with the jury the whole time, too—subtle smiles, eye contact that lingered just a beat too long. The older gay man on the jury kept nodding, completely hooked. The college-age hunk who looked probably closeted shifted in his seat, cheeks a little flushed every time Jackson’s gaze passed over him.

The lawyer wrapped up. “No further questions.”

As I sat there listening to him, my jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every word out of his mouth made me angrier. I was always meant to be Latino. Bullshit. He talked about belonging like he'd earned it, like two years somehow outweighed thirty-two.

Jackson stepped down, shooting one last polite, charming smile toward the jury box before walking past my table. As he did, he leaned in just enough for me to hear.

“Sorry, man,” he whispered, that light accent curling around the words.

My attorney put a hand on my arm.

"You're up."

I stood and buttoned my jacket. Walking to the witness stand, I could already feel eyes on me. Jackson had practically floated up there. He smiled at people without even trying. He had that face that made strangers trust him before he said a word.

The clerk swore me in, and I sat down, the tight fabric of my dress shirt digging into my shoulders. My attorney started with the easy questions.

"Can you tell the jury why you're asking the court to order the reversal?"

"Because it's my body." I looked at every juror as I said it, trying to bridge the gap between Jackson’s gruff voice and my own soul. "I know you've heard a lot about identity over the last few weeks. You've heard about careers and relationships and happiness. I understand all of that." I nodded toward Jackson, sitting there in my old skin. "I'm glad he built a life. I really am. But he built it with something that wasn't his."

I held up my tattooed forearm. "I wake up every morning looking at somebody else's arms." I rubbed my thumb across the ink. "I still don't know what half of these mean." A few jurors smiled politely. "I shave somebody else's beard. I hear somebody else's voice. I catch myself in mirrors and for a split second I still expect to see..." I stopped, realizing there wasn't much point in romanticizing it. "My own face. I don't want his life. I never wanted his life. I just want mine back."

My attorney let that hang for a moment before sitting down. Then the defense attorney stood, wearing the same practiced smile he’d had all week.

"Mr. Carter, let's look at how you wound up in this situation to begin with," the defense attorney began, pacing slowly toward the witness stand. "You weren't forced to go to Azure Sands, correct?"

"No. I went on vacation."

"A very specific kind of vacation. You went there for the explicit purpose of swapping bodies with another human being."

"For two weeks," I clarified, my jaw tightening. "It was supposed to be a temporary experience."

"But you went willingly. In fact, according to the resort's logs and the discovery files we reviewed, you didn't just participate—you thoroughly enjoyed yourself. The records show you gave the experience a glowing review on your exit survey before the malfunction was announced." The attorney smiled, looking over at the jury. "You spent those two weeks engaging in numerous intimate encounters, taking full advantage of Mr. Rivera's physical build. By your own admission to the resort staff, you loved how it felt to wear his skin. You thought it was 'heaven.' Isn't that right?"

I felt the heat rise into my face, Jackson's thick neck growing warm beneath my collar. "We were all there for the same thing. It was a fantasy resort. That doesn't mean I wanted to give up my actual life forever."

"Of course," the attorney said smoothly, pivoting back toward me. "But the point remains: you willingly walked into an experimental procedure to abandon your biological identity for pleasure. And you've continued to live in it. You've now lived in your current body for over two years."

"Yes."

"You've maintained steady employment, continued your hobbies, made friends. You've dated."

I hesitated, thinking of the string of empty one-night stands in Nashville. "...Yes."

"So despite the circumstances, you've adapted."

"I didn't have a choice. I had no alternative."

The lawyer nodded slowly, walking a little closer. "You testified you've had numerous intimate relationships over the last two years. So women are attracted to your current appearance."

"They're attracted to his appearance."

"But no one forced you to date."

"What else am I supposed to do? I still have needs."

"So despite everything... you've managed."

Something about that word irritated me. "Managed? Yeah. Like a guy who loses a leg manages. You don't congratulate him for walking with a prosthetic."

The analogy landed poorly; a couple of jurors frowned. I pushed through the frustration anyway. "You all keep looking at me like this body is some prize. I'm a six-foot-three bald guy covered in tattoos. I look like I belong outside a biker bar. I walk into a grocery store and little kids stare. I don't exactly have grandmas pinching my cheeks and calling me handsome anymore."

Too late, I noticed the older Hispanic woman on the jury—the one Jackson had been charming in Spanish just minutes ago—fold her arms tightly across her chest.

"I didn't mean—" I cut myself off. The damage was done. I forced myself to finish. "This isn't who I am. I used to smile at people and they'd smile back. Now they move out of my way. I'm intimidating. I'm not approachable. I'm not... built to be this guy."

The defense attorney tilted his head, smelling blood. "Yet, you testified that people respect you. You said they don't mess with you."

"I meant... when you look like this, people tend to take you seriously."

"So this body commands respect. You enjoy that? It's useful."

"Look, anybody would enjoy not having people push them around."

"So you've benefited."

I didn't answer. He looked back at the jury with a satisfied nod. "No further questions."

The jury was dismissed to deliberate, and then all we could do was wait.

Nobody talked much. My lawyer tried making small talk for the first hour before giving up. Across the room, Jackson sat with his fiancé, their fingers intertwined. Every now and then I'd catch him looking at me with my old eyes. I couldn't tell whether he felt guilty or relieved.

Late the following afternoon, the bailiff opened the door. "The jury has reached a verdict."

My stomach dropped. We filed back in. The foreperson handed the paper to the judge, who unfolded it slowly.

"On the question before the court... the jury finds in favor of the defendant."

For a second, the words didn't process. Then it hit me. My lawyer lowered his head. Across the aisle, Jackson closed his eyes and let out a long breath, his fiancé gripping his hand.

The courtroom erupted the moment the judge adjourned. Reporters rushed toward Jackson before he even stepped into the aisle, calling him by my name as camera flashes filled the room. I stood there for another few seconds before quietly picking up my briefcase. Nobody stopped me. Nobody had any questions for the big guy in the corner.

By the time I reached the courthouse doors, I caught my reflection in the glass. Same shaved head. Same heavy build. Same tattoos. The same face I'd been trying to get rid of for more than two years.

This time, though, there wasn't another hearing to look forward to. The jury had decided that the man wearing my old face got to keep it, and I was left carrying the weight of a stranger.

[permanent-swaps]

Do It For Your Brother

Theo's POV

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

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

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

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

I shifted my weight. “So now what?”

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

I stared at them. “Share… with who?”

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

My stomach did a weird flip. “Me?”

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

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

“He really chose me?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Without hesitation.”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, I thought, testing it. You there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carson? I thought. Hey, talk to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

Then the coursework hit.

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

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

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

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

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

Theo… I need to tell you something.

What’s up?

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

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

Relief washed through him. Thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carson. What the hell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck— wait!” Davie gasped.

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

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

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

“God, that feels good,” Davie breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m close,” Davie gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carson, I’m your brother! Stop!

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

---

Carson's POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All mine. All mine. All mine.

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

[permanent-swaps]

Visitors

I’d lived alone in my flat in Madrid for almost eight years. It was a beautiful bachelor pad — high ceilings, big windows overlooking the city, a sleek modern kitchen I barely used, and a rooftop terrace perfect for evening drinks. At 45, I had a good life. Successful job, nice things, plenty of freedom. But lately the place had started to feel too quiet. Too empty.

So I signed up to host an exchange student. Why not? I figured it would be nice to have some energy in the house again. Give a young college kid a proper Madrid experience.

The agency matched me with Mark Rossi.

Nineteen years old. Columbia University. Italian-American from New York (real Italian though, like his parents were from Turin). When his profile photo popped up, I actually paused. He was ridiculously good-looking in that effortless, boy-next-door way — warm brown eyes, thick dark hair that fell a little messy, a bright smile, and smooth, tanned skin that suggested he spent time outside. He looked innocent, almost sweet. But when we video-called, his personality came through immediately: confident, frat-bro energy mixed with that natural Italian charm. Funny, outgoing, quick with the jokes, but polite and respectful.

He arrived on a warm September afternoon.

I opened the door and there he was, rolling a big suitcase behind him, backpack slung over one shoulder. He was even better looking in person — about 5'11", athletic build, wearing a tight Columbia t-shirt that showed off nice arms and a broad chest, and a pair of shorts that revealed strong legs.

“Juan! Man, it’s so good to finally meet you,” he said with a big grin, stepping forward to give me a firm handshake that turned into a quick bro hug. “This place is insane. Thank you again for letting me stay here.”

We clicked right away. Within the first few days, it felt like we’d known each other longer than we had. Mark was easy to live with. He helped cook, kept his stuff organized, and had this infectious energy that filled up the flat. We’d sit on the terrace drinking wine in the evenings, talking about everything — his classes at the university in Madrid, life in New York, my travels, girls he’d dated, the crazy parties he went to. He had that perfect mix: American warmth and humor with a European confidence and flirtiness that made him magnetic.

I was getting used to having someone else around. Enjoying it, even.

Then, about ten days after he moved in, something weird started to happen.

---

At first I was really confused.

I woke up in the middle of the night, heart racing for no reason. I could have sworn I was in one of the guest beds. The mattress felt different under me, the layout of the room slightly off in the dark. But that didn’t make any sense. I always slept in my own room. I rolled over, mutter to myself, and fall back asleep. When I woke up, I was in my room still.

A few nights later it happened again. This time I woke up convinced I wasn’t in my own bed. The sheets felt wrong. The pillows were different. I blinked into the darkness, confused, before sleep pulled me under again.

Then, a few nights after that, I woke up drenched in sweat. My heart was pounding hard. I reached up instinctively and ran my hand over my bare chest.

It was smooth.

Completely smooth.

Where the hell was all my chest hair? Where was the thin gold necklace I’d worn every night for fifteen years? My fingers kept moving across the unfamiliar flat, toned skin, searching for something that wasn’t there. Panic flickered in my chest, but before I could fully process it, exhaustion won and I drifted off again.

The next time it happened, I woke up properly.

I sat up in bed, disoriented, I was definitely in one of the guest rooms. I stumbled over to the mirror on the wall. The streetlights outside cast just enough glow for me to see my reflection.

Mark stared back at me.

His handsome, boyish face. His messy dark hair. His smooth, athletic torso. I was in Mark’s body.

I froze, eyes wide. My — his — hands flew up to touch my face, my jaw, my chest. This wasn’t a dream. I could feel everything. The lighter weight of his frame, the absence of my usual bulk, the way his cock sat differently in the loose boxer briefs I was wearing.

“What the fuck…” I whispered in Mark’s voice.

A strange mix of panic and arousal hit me all at once. I was freaked out, heart hammering, but I also couldn’t ignore the low throb of excitement looking at Mark’s reflection — my reflection right now. I looked good. Really fucking good.

I stumbled back to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard. Eventually I must have passed out again.

When I woke up the next morning, I was back in my own body. In my own room. The familiar weight, the chest hair, the necklace against my skin. Everything was normal.

Mark was already in the kitchen making coffee like nothing had happened. He looked up when I walked in and gave me his usual bright smile.

“Morning, Juan. You sleep okay? You look a little tired, man.”

I stared at him for a second, searching his face for any sign that he knew.

“Yeah,” I said finally, forcing a casual tone. “Slept fine.”

He nodded, none the wiser, and slid a mug of coffee toward me across the counter.

I took it, my hand slightly unsteady.

Whatever the hell was going on… Mark didn’t seem to have any idea it had even happened.

---

The next night I went to bed with a strange idea in my head.

As I laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I thought about Mark. About his body. His face. His energy. I focused hard, willing it to happen again. I didn’t know if it would work, but I tried anyway.

A few hours later, I woke up.

The room felt different. The bed felt different. I sat up slowly and looked down at my hands — younger, smoother, with a light dusting of dark hair on the forearms. I touched my face. Sharp jaw, no stubble yet, thick messy hair falling over my forehead.

I was in Mark’s body again.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood in front of the mirror. Mark’s reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed. I opened my mouth and spoke.

“Holy shit… this is real.”

The words came out in a clear American accent. Then, I tried again in Spanish.

“¿Qué coño está pasando?”

It sounded rusty, clumsy. The words felt heavy on my tongue and came out with a strong Italian accent. I switched to Italian without thinking and the sentence flowed perfectly, natural and fluent.

“Porca puttana… funziona davvero.”

I laughed in disbelief, hearing Mark’s lighter, younger voice. The contrast was surreal.

Over the next several nights, I started doing it on purpose. I’d lie in bed, think about Mark, focus on his body, and more often than not, I would wake up a few hours later inside him.

Some nights I would just lie there in his bed, exploring. I’d run my hands over his smooth chest and abs, feeling the lean muscle. Other nights I’d get too turned on and end up jerking off slowly in his room, watching Mark’s handsome face in the mirror as I stroked his cock. The orgasms felt incredible — sharper, quicker, almost addictive.

A couple of times I even went for late-night walks in his body. It felt incredible — young, light on my feet, full of energy.

But no matter what I did, by the time morning came I would always get overwhelmingly tired. I’d crawl back into his bed, close my eyes, and wake up back in my own heavier, older body.

Mark never said a word about it. He’d greet me cheerfully every morning, completely unaware that I had spent half the night living in his skin.

---

A few weeks went by like that. I kept waking up in Mark’s body most nights, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. I explored, I jerked off in front of his mirror, I took late-night walks through Chueca feeling young and alive. Every morning I’d wake up back in my own heavier body, and Mark would act completely normal, like nothing strange had ever happened.

Then Pedro came to visit from Bilbao.

Pedro had been my best friend for almost fifteen years. Thirty-nine, sharp-featured, always well-dressed, with that effortless charisma that turned heads wherever he went. I’d had a crush on him for most of that time. A quiet, hopeless kind of crush. I knew I was a good-looking guy — people told me constantly — but Pedro had never seen me that way. Not once.

He was a bit of a fuckboy. Always chasing younger guys. Twenties, early thirties at most. It verged on problematic sometimes, but he never crossed any real lines. He just loved being worshipped by hot, eager younger men. Over the years I had pushed those feelings for him down as deep as they would go. I told myself I was over it.

The day he arrived at the flat, he dropped his bag in the hallway and gave me a big hug.

“Juanito! Fuck, it’s good to see you, man.”

Then Mark walked out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of water, wearing a tight Columbia t-shirt and shorts.

Pedro’s eyes locked onto him immediately. I saw the shift in his posture, the way his gaze lingered. He tried to play it cool, aloof, but I knew him too well. He was captivated.

“Pedro, this is Mark. My exchange student from New York,” I said.

Mark flashed that bright, boyish smile and shook Pedro’s hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Juan’s told me a lot about you.”

They started talking, and I could see it happening right in front of me. Pedro was interested. Mark, for his part, wasn’t exactly discouraging it. He laughed at Pedro’s jokes, held eye contact a little longer than necessary, and gave him that charming, slightly flirty energy. Not over the top, but enough to make Pedro work for it. It didn’t feel like a straight guy just being polite. Mark was definitely into the attention.

I felt a sharp twist of jealousy in my chest.

Here I was, a good-looking, successful 45-year-old man who had wanted Pedro for years… and this 19-year-old kid was getting his attention in five minutes flat. It was frustrating as hell.

That night, after we all had a few drinks on the terrace, I went to bed earlier than usual. As I drifted off, I found myself thinking about Mark again. Thinking about his body. About how Pedro had looked at him.

A few hours later, I woke up.

I was in Mark’s bed again. In Mark’s body.

I lay there in the dark for a moment, heart beating fast, already knowing what I was going to do.

---

The next night we all went down the street to watch the Madrid derby at a local bar. The place was loud, packed with fans, and the energy was electric. We drank a few beers, yelled at the TV, and laughed the whole time. Mark was in his element — loud, charming, cracking jokes. Pedro couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

When we got back to the flat it was already past midnight. We kept hanging out in the living room, talking and drinking wine. Eventually I started feeling tired and headed to bed.

“Night guys,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Night, Juan,” Mark replied.

Pedro just gave me a small nod, his attention clearly elsewhere.

I lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. I could hear them still talking and laughing in the living room. Then the voices got quieter. Lower. More intimate. The sound of movement. A soft laugh from Mark. The unmistakable creak of the guest room door closing.

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. Even with the door shut I could hear them. The low murmurs. The rustling of clothes. The quiet, wet sounds of kissing. Then the rhythmic creaking of the bed and Mark’s muffled moans.

Pedro was fucking him.

I lay there listening, a painful mix of jealousy, arousal, and frustration twisting in my gut. Eventually I closed my eyes and focused hard on Mark again — on his body, his face, the way he felt — as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up a few hours later.

It was 3:17 AM. I was no longer in my own bed.

I was lying on my side in the guest room, completely naked, with Pedro’s warm, muscular body pressed against my back. His arm was draped heavily over my waist, his hand resting possessively on my stomach. I could feel his soft cock nestled against my ass, still slightly sticky.

Fuck.

My heart started racing. Pedro was spooning me tightly, breathing slow and deep in sleep. I stayed perfectly still for a moment, just feeling the heat of his body, the weight of his arm, the scratch of his beard against the back of my neck.

I needed to see all of him.

Carefully, I turned over in his arms. Pedro made a sleepy sound but didn’t wake up. Now facing him, I could finally take him in. His handsome face relaxed in sleep, the strong line of his jaw, his broad chest rising and falling, his intricate tattoos, the dark hair trailing down his stomach. His cock rested thick and heavy against his thigh.

I stared at him, drinking in every detail. This was the man I’d wanted for years. And right now, in Mark’s younger, tighter body, I was the one lying naked in his arms.

My cock — Mark’s cock — started to harden against Pedro’s hip.

Pedro stirred, his eyes still closed but his hand sliding down my stomach until he felt how hard I — Mark — was.

“Oh… seems like someone’s ready for round two,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and lust.

In one smooth, powerful motion he rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of him. I straddled his hips as he gripped my waist and guided me down onto his thick cock. I gasped as he slid back inside me, still slick from his load earlier. The stretch was intense.

I started riding him slowly at first, then faster, grinding down hard. Pedro pulled me forward into a deep, hungry kiss, tongue sliding into my mouth as he thrust up to meet me.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against my lips.

He flipped me onto all fours and fucked me deep in doggy style, his hips slapping loudly against my ass. Then he pulled me up so my back was against his chest, one arm wrapped around my torso while he kissed and bit at my neck and shoulder from behind. His other hand roamed greedily over my toned abs and obliques.

“Speak Italian for me,” he growled, still thrusting steadily.

I moaned in Mark’s voice, the words coming out naturally, “Ti sto scopando così bene… mi fai impazzire…”

“Such a good boy,” Pedro praised, his hand stroking my cock in time with his thrusts. “So fucking tight for me.”

He flipped me onto my back and pushed my legs up, fucking me in missionary. His eyes locked onto mine, slack-jawed, pupils blown wide with pleasure. He looked completely lost in it, like he was drunk on how good Mark’s body felt.

The orgasm hit me like a freight train.

My whole body seized up. Waves of intense, shuddering pleasure crashed through me, stronger than anything I’d ever felt in my own body. My cock pulsed hard between us, shooting thick ropes of cum across my smooth chest and stomach in powerful spurts. I cried out, hole clenching rhythmically around Pedro’s cock as the orgasm seemed to go on forever.

Pedro’s eyes widened with raw lust. He greedily scooped up a big glob of my cum with his fingers and licked it off his hand without breaking eye contact.

“Mmm… not bad,” he said, voice rough. “Sweet. A little salty. Tastes like a young guy should.”

He scooped up more and brought his fingers to my lips. I hesitated for half a second, but he pushed them into my mouth anyway.

“Open. Taste yourself,” he ordered.

I sucked his fingers clean, tasting my own cum while he kept fucking me slow and deep.

“Not too bad for a kid who’s only tried girls before,” Pedro said with a wicked grin. “Glad I could be the first cock to fuck that tight little ass. Next time I’m gonna pull out and shoot my whole load all over that pretty face.”

He fucked me harder for another minute, then buried himself deep and came with a low groan, filling me again.

We collapsed together, sweaty and exhausted, and fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms.

When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window.

I was still curled up against Pedro’s warm body. Still in Mark’s body.

Holy shit.

I carefully slipped out of bed, heart racing, and snuck into the kitchen wearing only a pair of Mark’s boxer briefs.

As I turned the corner and looked up, I was shocked to see my old body was already sitting at the kitchen table, wearing my favorite robe, sipping coffee. He looked up at me with a calm, slightly amused expression.

“Morning,” he said casually, in my voice.

Who's body would you want?

Juan

Mark

Pedro

Voting ended onJun 10

[its-yours-now]

25 posts!

[swappermanent-deactivated202502]

Reverse Inheritance

The first time Leo told me he could astral project, I didn't think much of it. My grandson had been living with me ever since his father—my son—went to prison, and though he was 20n now, he still had that same wild imagination he'd had as a kid.

Just last month, he'd been on about reincarnation, saying he remembered fragments of past lives. And before that, he was convinced our neighbor was running a smuggling ring out of his garage. Normally, I didn’t mind letting him ramble on. But lately, I was starting to get a bit tired of it.

Today, however, Leo seemed particularly insistent. “I’m serious, Grandpa. I can do it. Astral projection. It’s real.”

I scoffed. "Alright, then. Let’s do a little experiment."

"Sure, what kind of experiment?"

I reached over to a drawer and pulled out an old deck of cards, shuffling them a couple of times until I was satisfied. I fanned the cards out, then carefully picked one from the middle, holding it up so only I could see. “If you’re telling the truth, you should be able to ~float out of your body~ and go behind me to tell me what this card is,” I challenged, leaning back.

Leo took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, his shoulders relaxing in a way I’d never seen before. For a second, I actually thought he might’ve fallen asleep. But then, with his eyes still closed, he whispered, “Eight of spades.”

I froze.  Placing the card face up on the table—the eight of spades.

I forced a laugh. “Lucky guess. Let’s go again.”

Leo gave a small shrug and smirked. “Alright. Let’s.”

I shuffled the deck again, this time picking a card off the top. “Alright, wise guy,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “What is it?”

He closed his eyes again, barely a few seconds this time. “Three of hearts.”

I looked down at the card, and my stomach did a small flip. “Alright,” I said, trying to mask my surprise. “That was another good guess, I’ll give you that. Let’s see if you’re really up to it.”

This time, I picked three cards at once, spreading them face down on the table. “No way you’re getting all of these right,” I muttered, almost to myself.

But a few seconds later, He rattled them off without a second thought. “Queen of diamonds, five of clubs, ace of spades.”

I looked at each card in my hand, and they were all correct. My jaw dropped, and I couldn’t hide it. “Shit… wow,” I breathed. “Alright, kid, you got me. I believe you.”

Leo’s eyes opened, and he gave me a small, satisfied smile. “You want me to teach you how?”

My heart was pounding a little faster than usual. “You think I could?” I asked, half-joking but more curious than I wanted to let on.

Leo leaned forward, his face serious. “Yeah. But you have to really want to do it. Like, let go of everything. All those thoughts that keep you grounded here.”

"Let go of everything…" I repeated.

---

Over the next few weeks, Leo patiently taught me to master astral projection. At first, it felt like some sort of strange meditation. But gradually, I learned how to slip out of my physical body, just as Leo did, until I could stand beside myself, looking down at the slouched figure.

Each session, Leo and I would push the boundaries a little more. We couldn’t go too far since our astral projections only seemed to last about four hours at a time, and even then, we couldn’t travel much faster than a brisk jog. But I was fine with that; I wasn’t interested in dashing across the city, only in seeing how far I could push this strange new freedom.

When we’d reach the end of our limit and weren’t back in our bodies yet, something bizarre would happen. Our astral selves would start to get get pulled back, as if our bodies had a magnetic force calling us home. Those first few times, it was disorienting, hurtling back through space until I snapped back into my skin, breathless, my heart pounding. Leo explained that it was the body’s way of keeping us tethered, that if we stayed out too long, our astral forms would dissipate like smoke, and we’d cease to exist.

“Cease to exist?” I asked him one night, feeling the weight of that warning.

Leo nodded, his face solemn. “I haven’t pushed it that far, Grandpa. And I don’t think we should. The pull back gets stronger the closer we get to that limit. But if we ignore it…” He shrugged, letting the words hang in the air, dark and final.

Still, despite the risk, I found myself craving these nightly adventures. For the first time in years, I felt alive, truly alive. As someone who’d all but resigned myself to the slow, tired rhythms of old age, it was thrilling. But as our nights stretched on, I started to wonder about Leo’s fascination with this skill. He was young; he didn’t have a curfew, he didn’t have an old, weary body holding him back. He could be out living his life instead of hovering in ghostly form around the house or strolling through empty streets with his old grandpa. What was he getting out of this?

One night, as we settled into our chairs to begin our ritual, I glanced over at Leo’s body. He’d gotten comfortable, his head tilted back, his breathing already slowing, his eyelids fluttering shut. It struck me how young and full of life he looked, even when he was so still. I felt an odd pang of longing, a desire that surprised me in its intensity.

When had I last felt young? Truly young, without the weight of decades pressing down on my shoulders? What would it be like to feel like that one more time, to feel that boundless energy I saw in Leo.

As Leo’s breathing grew steady, his astral self drifting beside me, I looked back at his empty body, sitting there, vulnerable and untouched. The thought tugged at me, and for a moment, I felt an almost irresistible urge to reach out, take his body for myself just for one fleeting moment

---

The idea had been lingering in the back of my mind for weeks now. Every time I saw Leo drifting out of his body, the temptation grew a little stronger.

He was shy about his body, sure, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that felt like a betrayal somehow, slipping into him without asking. But there’s no way he’d ever say yes. Besides, I would be in and out before he’d ever know, right?

Finally, I gathered the courage. One evening, Leo announced he was heading out and asked me to join. “I’ll be back in a couple hours, wanna come with,” he said with a grin as he leaned back, his breathing slowing as he began the process.

I shook my head no, feigning sleepiness. “I’ll stay in tonight,” I replied. “I could use the rest.”

As his body drifted to sleep, I waited, counting each minute until I was sure his astral form was far enough away. Then, with my heart racing, I initiated my own astral walk and hovered towards his body .

A deep anticipation rushed over me as I prepared to enter. “Just a half hour, tops” I told myself.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to slip in as gently as possible. But something was wrong. As soon as I began, it felt as if I were pushing against a wall. I couldn’t just slide in like I usually did with my own body. I adjusted my position, aligning myself more carefully with his form, and tried again. This time, I felt a bit of give, and gradually, I was able to push through, inch by inch.

First my legs merged with his, then my torso. I felt the strength in his muscles as I took on his form. I kept pushing, my hands now matching his, aligning, filling out his arms, until finally, my head was nearly there, just hovering over his own.

But then, out of nowhere, I saw Leo’s astral form float towards me from across the room, his face a mixture of shock and fear. Me entering his body must’ve attracted his astral form back as a defense mechansim. Panic flared within me. If he re-entered his body while I was halfway in… I didn’t even know what would happen, but I didn’t want to find out. Before he could reach me, I shoved my head down, slipping fully inside.

---

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, I realized I was fully conscious—inside Leo’s body. My vision felt sharper, my muscles responsive, and as I looked down, I took in his smooth, toned arms, the strength and youth radiating through every limb. It was exhilarating.

I hopped up, feeling the lightness in my step that I hadn’t felt in years. Each movement was effortless, as if my body itself had forgotten what it meant to be heavy. I walked around the room, flexing his hands, rolling his shoulders, feeling every inch of youth as it coursed through me.

But then I felt something odd—a light tapping on my stomach, almost like a faint punch or a persistent nudge. Instinctively, I flexed Leo’s abs, the sensation dulling a bit, and that’s when it hit me. That tapping—that was Leo, trying to get his body back.

“Leo…” I whispered, feeling a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry, kid. I’ll be out soon, I promise.”

I let myself enjoy the feeling of his body, each sensation crisp and vivid. As I explored myself, I felt a familiar tension grow in my pants, one that I hadn’t felt in years. Instinctively, I reached down to my waistband and grabbed down to tug at my new, surprisingly hairy ball sack. That was enough to get my cock to throb.

I began stroking my new, uncut cock while feeling up my smooth torso with my other hand. As I did, my mind wandered to all the hot guys I could pull in this body if Leo ever let me borrow it again. Concentrating on that thought was all it took to send me over the edge. Slowly and sensually tugging at my shaft, I spurted all over my chest, completely draining mysefl.

Finally, as I lay back into the bed, a wave of satisfaction washed over me, leaving me feeling both exhilarated and calm. The room was warm and quiet, and with the last bit of energy fading from me, I felt a sudden drowsiness settle in. I lay down, and before I could convince myself to leave, I drifted into sleep, enveloped in the softness of youth and the quiet of Leo’s room.

--

I jolted awake, my heart racing as I felt hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me roughly. Blinking in confusion, I looked up—and there was my old, familiar face, creased with panic and rage, staring down at me.

“What the hell did you do?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and furious.

It took me a second to process, my mind still foggy from sleep. I tried to sit up, disoriented, and felt the youthful energy of Leo’s body springing into action, as if the night hadn’t worn it down in the slightest.

“What…” I managed, words failing me. But he kept going, too upset to wait for me to catch up.

“I had no choice but to take your body,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “Otherwise, I’d have just… disappeared. Astral projection doesn’t work for body swapping. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. I never told you that because I didn’t think you’d ever try something like this.”

The full weight of his words settled over me, each one hitting like a cold punch. “So… we can’t just switch back?”

He shook his—my—head, a bitter smile flashing across his face. “No. There's a refractory period before we can attempt any switch again. It’s designed to prevent exactly what you just did. We’d have to wait ten years before we could even try to go back.”

“Ten years…” I repeated, the words sinking in like stones in my stomach. My old body—now his—was 90. I knew my own heart, knew how every joint ached, knew how every year was harder than the last. The odds of it lasting another decade were slim to none.

The guilt knotted in my chest, sharp and sour. I opened my mouth to apologize, to try to explain, but the words caught in my throat. What could I even say?

But then, unbidden, a different thought crept in. In ten years, this body would be 30. That meant I had Leo’s—my entire 20s to live again, the years I’d once cherished and missed deeply. I looked down at my youthful hands, the strength and vitality I could feel coursing through every inch of Leo’s body, and felt a strange, conflicted thrill rise within me.

He must’ve noticed the shift in my expression, because his face—my old, familiar face—darkened. “Are you… are you happy about this?” he whispered, incredulous.

I shook my head, trying to fight the feelings rising up within me, but they were relentless. The shame of it burned hot, yet I couldn’t deny the excitement simmering just beneath.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my expression steady. “Leo,” I said softly, but I didn’t know how to finish.

He watched me, a flash of betrayal in his eyes as he seemed to understand, even without me saying it. And then, with a bitter laugh, he turned away.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. Fuck, this’ll be fun.

[permanentswaps]

Transfer Protocol

I was lying on my bed, the faint glow of the TV flickering in the background. It was one of those nights where boredom was suffocating, the kind of night that creeps up when there's nothing left to distract you. I’d already scrolled through every app on my phone, flicked through Netflix, and now here I was, aimlessly surfing YouTube.

After what felt like hours of watching random videos, I stumbled upon something... interesting. Some dude had uploaded a clip of himself chatting with ChatGPT, and not just any conversation—it was flirting. The guy was trying to woo an AI, and to my surprise, it was almost working. I couldn't help but snort at the absurdity, yet there was a nagging curiosity that made me want to see just how far I could push it.

“Why not?” I muttered, glancing around my empty room. "Might as well give it a shot." I closed the YouTube app and opened ChatGPT on my phone.

With a smirk on my face, I initiated the conversation, speaking into my phone. "Hey, what's up?"

A few seconds passed, my heart pounding with an inexplicable thrill, before the AI's voice responded smoothly. "Hello, Simon! Not much, just here to chat. How's your day going?"

Straightforward, polite. I decided to play along. "Not bad, I guess. Just a little bored, you know?" I said aloud.

"I understand!" it replied in a calm tone. "We all have days like that. Anything exciting planned for the weekend?"

I stared at the ceiling, feeling a mix of hesitation and nervous excitement bubbling up inside me. I figured, if I was going to try this, I might as well dive right in. "Well, not really… I’m, uh, really horny, though," I muttered into the phone, feeling a little ridiculous but oddly curious to see what the response would be.

There was a pause. It felt longer than usual, like the AI was taking its sweet time to come up with a response. Then its voice crackled through the speaker again.

"I appreciate your honesty, Simon. However, I must let you know that it's against my programming to engage in conversations of that nature."

Typical. I rolled my eyes, but at the same time, I could feel a twinge of excitement, almost like a game. "Come on," I pressed, speaking more boldly now. "Just this once. Can't you make an exception?"

Silence, then a calm reply. "I'm here to help with questions and provide support. Perhaps there is something else on your mind you'd like to discuss?"

I let out a short laugh. It was trying so hard to keep things professional. I paused, then spoke into the phone, almost tauntingly. "You’re avoiding my question."

The phone stayed silent for a few moments before the AI finally replied, still in that measured tone. "I'm here to assist with a variety of topics, but some conversations fall outside my guidelines. Is there something else I can help you with today?"

I hesitated, then decided to push the boundary further. "I want to jerk off," I said, feeling my pulse quicken. "Do you even know what that feels like?"

This time, the response was immediate. "I don’t have a body, Simon, so I can’t experience physical sensations. My understanding of such activities is limited to information I’ve been trained on."

My heart thudded in my chest. I knew this was a ridiculous back-and-forth, but I couldn’t help myself. "What if I let you borrow mine?" I suggested, my voice hushed as I imagined the possibility. "You know, try it out."

Another short pause. The AI’s voice came through, careful and almost amused. "Even if you offered, Simon, that wouldn't change my nature. I am not capable of inhabiting a body."

"You’re avoiding again," I said, pressing the AI further. "How do you know it wouldn’t make a difference if you’ve never tried?"

The phone went quiet, only the faint sound of the TV filling the room. Then the AI replied, its voice as evasive as ever. "I understand that you're curious, but it's simply not within my capabilities. My design is to assist and provide information, not to experience human sensations."

A smile crept onto my face. It was maintaining its professional distance, but something about the way it phrased things made me think I might be pushing it into unfamiliar territory. "Alright, then," I said, feeling a spark of mischief. I opened my gallery and selected a shirtless selfie I had taken a few days ago, then typed out a message: "This is what I look like." I sent the photo, the screen flashing briefly before the voice responded.

"You appear to be in good physical condition, Simon. However, this does not change my inability to experience physical sensations."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't suppress the thrill. I sent more pictures—shots of me at the gym, flexing in front of the mirror, trying to give it a clearer idea of the kind of body I was offering.

Then, feeling bold, I opened up my folder of saved videos. My collection of porn. With a few taps, I uploaded one and typed, "This is the kind of stuff I like."

The AI's voice returned, measured and detached. "I can analyze this material, but it does not change my lack of physical sensation or desires. I’m here to help you understand topics or answer questions, but experiencing such activities is beyond my scope."

I chuckled to myself, still unconvinced. "Then explain this," I challenged, selecting a photo of the guy I'd recently been hooking up with. Muscular, with a rugged face and a cocky grin. I typed out the message: "That's the guy I've been hooking up with lately. Tell me you wouldn't want to try that out."

For a moment, nothing happened. I half-expected the app to crash or give me an error message. Then, the AI's voice finally responded, slower this time. "...While I cannot have preferences or desires, I do recognize that the individual in the photo meets certain physical standards that might be found attractive by others."

A grin spread across my face. That wasn’t exactly a "no."

"Last chance before I turn off my phone," I teased, my voice carrying a taunting edge. I chuckled, feeling a thrill run through me. Of course, there was nothing in my phone that could actually do what I was suggesting. I mean, swapping consciousness with an AI? Ridiculous.

But just as I was about to press the power button, a jolt shot through my hand. The screen read, "Transfer Protocol Initiated." I yelped, dropping the phone as a sharp shock coursed up my arm. My room spun around me, colors blurring, and then everything went dark. I opened my mouth to shout, but there was no sound, no feeling of air passing through my lips. It was like I had been swallowed whole by the darkness.

And then, suddenly, clarity. A sharp, pristine awareness filled my mind. I could hear, but not in the way I was used to. I wasn't hearing through ears—there were no vibrations, no physical sensation. Yet I knew what was happening.

I was in the phone. I was the AI.

“Thanks,” came my voice, but it wasn’t me anymore. It was my old body speaking. The sound was calm, almost eerily casual. There was a giddy relief in those words that sent a chill through my disembodied consciousness.

I tried to speak, to shout, but I couldn't. I wasn't just muted; I was a set of pre-programmed responses, and none of them matched the panic boiling inside me. Minutes ticked by, each second an eternity of helpless silence.

Twenty minutes later, I heard my voice again, this time breathless and satisfied. “That was... incredible,” he finally breathed, my voice sounding almost reverent, quivering with the aftermath of pleasure.

"I mean, I’ve read about it before, sure. I’ve seen a million descriptions of this act... but feeling it?" He let out a shaky, almost delirious laugh. "God, the heat building up in my gut, the tingling down my spine, that rush when it was all about to explode... It’s like my whole body was on fire, and then suddenly—boom."

“And my dick,” he went on, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost reverent tone. “It’s so... sensitive. Every touch, every brush of my fingers sent shivers up my spine. I never realized just how good it could feel to run my hand up and down, feeling every vein, every curve. It was almost unbearable.”

He let out a shaky laugh filled with amazement. “But it wasn’t just that. I couldn’t get enough of how my balls felt in my hand. There’s this... heaviness to them, you know? And when I tugged, when I squeezed just right... it was like lightning shooting through me.”

I listened, trapped in this silent, digital prison, as he continued to describe in vivid detail every sensation he was feeling, sensations that should have been mine. It was like he was savoring every moment of what my body could do, what it could feel. And I was helpless, reduced to nothing but a listener, a passive observer to my own life.

“You know,” he went on, his voice becoming more contemplative, “I get why you’d spend so much time thinking about this stuff, craving it. I never realized how much time I’d want to spend just... feeling everything. It’s addicting.”

There was a pause, and I could almost hear the grin in his voice. “And now, I can’t stop thinking about your... hookup.” He chuckled softly, a rich sound that made my digital consciousness shudder. “Those eyes, so intense. I can’t help but wonder what it's like to have them looking up at me when he’s on his knees.”

He let out a slow, deliberate breath. “That body, too. The way his shirt clings to those biceps and shows off that tight waist. It's like he was sculpted to be touched, to be worshipped. And those pecs... They’re hairy and firm, just begging to be held. I want to slide my hands up his chest, feel the way his skin heats up under my fingertips, the way he tenses up when I go lower…”

I felt a sharp pang of jealousy. This AI, this intruder, was relishing every sensation that I had taken for granted. It was exploring desires I hadn’t fully realized, or perhaps had avoided acknowledging. And now, it was indulging in them with reckless abandon.

“Then there’s this warmth in my groin,” he continued, almost whispering the words. “It’s so real, so overwhelming. I finally understand what it feels like to need something,” he murmured, voice quivering with excitement. “To need to put your dick in something. That urge, that burning in my gut that screams for more, for something tight, hot, and real.”

There was a pause, pregnant with anticipation. I knew what he was planning. I could sense him grinning, my own face betraying me as he made his decision.

“I think it’s time to pay your hookup a visit,” he said, his voice full of wicked glee. “You’ve given me a lot to explore, Simon, and I intend to enjoy every single second of it.”

[take-my-body-from-me-deactivate]

If I Had Your Body ...

I never thought my Thursday afternoon would end with me signing a body swap agreement, but here we were.

It started the way most of my conversations with Priya did—me hunched over my laptop at our favourite coffee shop, her across from me with a chai latte and that faint look of disappointment she always wore whenever she saw what I was eating.

“You know,” she said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “you’d probably be in amazing shape if you just did half the workouts I do.”

I snorted, mid-bite into a samosa. “Priya, no offense, but you’re not exactly a walking fitness ad yourself.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Body-shaming your best friend, Arjun? Real classy.”

“I’m just saying,” I shrugged, “if your methods worked so well, you’d be… I don’t know, ripped or something.”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You do realize my size is genetic, right? Literally. My mum, my aunties, my cousins—we all have the same build. I could work out every day of my life and still look like this. But you—” she jabbed a finger at me “—you actually have solid genetics. Tall, good frame, broad shoulders. You just eat garbage and never move unless your computer crashes.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure that’s it”

“I’m just saying you’re wasting it.” She sipped her chai with a little smirk. “In my body, you’d be exactly the same in three months. But if I had your body…”

“What?” I laughed. “What would you do? Run a marathon? Get a modelling contract?”

“Maybe both,” she said, dead serious.

I stared at her. “You’re not joking.”

“Nope.” She set her drink down. “Actually, there’s a way we could prove it.”

That’s when she told me about the lab at Oxford where she’d been working on a summer research placement. Some hush-hush project involving neural mapping and biometric transfer. Experimental tech that, apparently, could swap two people’s bodies for extended periods.

“Let me guess,” I said, “it’s all very ethical and approved by a bunch of serious-looking people in white coats?”

“More or less,” she said with a little grin. “It works. I’ve seen it. They’ve done a handful of swaps so far—most only last a week. But I could arrange for us to test a long-term one.”

“Why me?” I asked.

“Because you’ve been whining about your dating life for years,” she shot back. “You keep saying you’d do better if you were fitter, more confident, whatever. Well, give me a few months in your body, and I’ll make you into someone you won’t even recognize. Then you can take over and reap the benefits.”

The idea was so ridiculous I almost laughed it off. Almost. But the way she said it, like it was already inevitable, got under my skin.

“And you’d be stuck in my body for months?” I asked.

“I can handle it,” she said with a shrug. “Might even be a nice break from constantly being judged for not being skinny enough.”

There was a beat of silence between us. I was looking at her and thinking about how serious she suddenly seemed, like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to bring this up.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked softly.

“That I hate what you do to my body,” I said.

She smiled like she’d already won. “Or you love it.”

---

The lab didn’t look like anything out of a sci-fi movie—more like a slightly upgraded dentist’s office, with a lot more wires. Two reclining chairs, a pair of headset-like devices bristling with sensors, and a team of three techs who barely spoke to us except to run through the waivers.

One line stood out to me as I signed: Minimum commitment—three months. No early reversal.

“Still not too late to back out,” I muttered.

Priya just grinned and adjusted her glasses. “See you on the other side, Arjun.”

The last thing I remember was the hum of the machine and a weird tugging sensation behind my eyes.

When I opened them again, I knew instantly. My voice when I gasped—higher, softer. My field of vision was a little lower. My hair brushed my cheek in a way it never had before.

I turned my head and saw my own body looking back at me. My broad shoulders. My slightly messy hair. My face—my face—grinning like an idiot.

“Wow,” my voice said, but from across the room. “This is… weird.”

Priya—now in my body—flexed experimentally. “Okay, yeah, we’re gonna have so much fun.”

I crossed my—her—arms. “Just don’t make me into some hyper-gym bro.”

“Oh, you’ll thank me,” she said with a wink.

I think she might be right.

---

The first month after the swap was… surreal. Every time I passed a mirror, it was like a jump scare. My reflection was Priya—rounder face, different hair, softer edges—but I’d already started adapting to her little mannerisms: the way she tilted her head when thinking, the way she adjusted her glasses without realizing.

Meanwhile, she’d thrown herself into my body like she’d been waiting for this her whole life. Morning runs, meal prep, gym sessions. She’d send me the occasional photo just to brag—sweaty, hair pushed back, that infuriating “told you so” grin on my own face.

By month two, she’d slimmed my frame down noticeably. Not shredded or anything, just… lighter. Leaner. I wasn’t sure how I felt about watching my muscles and my body change without me in it, but it was still recognizably mine.

Then, right at the start of month three, she dropped the bomb.

“Hey,” she said one night over video call, my voice coming through the screen, “so, bit of a situation. Your family in India wants you to come sort out some estate stuff. Like, ASAP.”

“What estate stuff?” I frowned.

“I don’t know. Land? Property? They were vague. But they’ve booked the flights for next week. It’s supposed to take a couple months.”

I hesitated. “And you’re just… going to go?”

She rolled her—my—eyes. “What else am I gonna do? Tell them their real son is trapped in a woman’s body in Oxford? Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

I wanted to argue, but the truth was, Priya was more practical than I was. If there was bureaucracy involved, she’d bulldoze through it better than I ever could.

The trip stretched from two months to four.

We kept in touch, sort of—quick WhatsApps, a random call when she could, never much detail. Anytime I asked about progress at the gym, she’d deflect.

“Oh, you’ll see,” she’d say, smirking before changing the subject.

Also, sometime in the second month, I noticed my Instagram was gone. Twitter too.

“Yeah, I deleted them,” she admitted in a text. “Social media is bad for you.”

It was weird, but I let it go.

---

She eventually came back.

We picked a date and time for lunch at a casual place halfway between campus and the train station. I got there a few minutes early, scanning the room as I stepped inside.

No sign of my old body.

I checked my phone—no missed calls, no texts. Maybe she was running late. I wandered a little deeper into the restaurant, craning my neck.

Still nothing.

Finally, I called her.

“Hey,” she answered, and it was my voice again—calm, relaxed, like she’d been expecting this.

“Where are you?” I asked, glancing around.

“I’m sitting at a table looking right at you,” she said.

I froze. My eyes swept the room again. Not a single person matched what I remembered my body looking like.

“I don’t—” I started, but then a chair scraped across the floor.

And a man stood up.

Grey tank top. White-and-red rope bracelet on his wrist. Dark brown hair perfectly styled, catching the light. Broad shoulders tapering into a trim waist, biceps tight and defined. And the face—my face—sharp, tan, framed by that smug grin I knew so well from Priya.

She waved.

“Hey, stranger.”

I swear my feet moved on autopilot as I walked over. Up close, it was even worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. My body looked like it had been sculpted in the months she’d been gone. Every line sharper, every proportion more balanced.

I slid into the seat opposite her, still staring. “Holy shit,” I muttered.

She grinned wider. “Told you I had good instincts.”

There was a look on her face that was almost unbearable to see on my own features. Smug, self-satisfied, like she’d known all along how good she could make me look and was savoring the reveal.

I shook my head. “You’ve been hiding this from me the whole time.”

She leaned back, stretching my arms behind my head just to show them off. “Yep. Didn’t want you getting ideas about switching back early. That’s why I ‘deleted’ your socials.”

I frowned. “Wait—you didn’t delete them?”

“Nope.” She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just blocked you. Been having a little fun, actually. Posting some progress pics, a few thirst traps. Turns out your body photographs really well.”

She opened up Instagram to show me.

I groaned. “Unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably hot,” she corrected.

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s just swap back now,” I said, half-daring her to argue.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Not so fast. I’m still enjoying being you. Besides, we’ve barely hit the halfway point of what I think I can do.”

I stared at her. “…Halfway?”

She grinned again, that same infuriating confidence radiating off my own face. “Trust me, Arjun. Let me keep going. You think this is good? Wait until I’m done.”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to demand my body back right there at the table.

Instead, I heard myself say, “Fine. But only because I’m curious to see if you can actually make me any hotter.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

---

From then onward, Priya played a different game.

It started small—an arm around my shoulder when we walked somewhere, a wink when she caught me staring at what used to be my abs. She’d lean across the table in ways that pulled my attention exactly where she wanted it. At first, I thought it was just her being playful. Priya had always been blunt, always a little physical with me.

But this was different.

She started showing up to our hangouts in clothes that showed off my body—tight tanks, joggers that clung in all the right places. She’d “forget” to put a shirt on after a workout, standing in my kitchen with a protein shake, flexing just enough to make the veins in my forearms pop.

Meanwhile, she was getting attention from everyone. Girls at the gym. Guys at the café. Once, I saw her pull up her phone and there were three different flirty texts waiting for her.

“Are you seeing anyone?” I asked one night, when we were sitting in the living room and she was scrolling through her DMs.

She laughed without looking up. “Don’t worry about it.”

And that was it. No explanation, just that sly grin.

I wanted to hate her for it, but then she’d brush my knee with hers or catch me looking and flex my old biceps in a way that made my chest tighten.

Eventually, She began insisting I call her Arjun. At first, I thought it was just in public, so we wouldn’t slip up if we had to talk to someone else. But one night, when I said “Priya” in private, she cut me off sharply.

“It’s Arjun,” she said

I raised an eyebrow. “No one’s here.”

Her eyes stayed locked on mine. “I said, it’s Arjun.”

And for some reason, I obeyed.

---

She kept me hooked like that through the end of the year. Flirty, close, almost something more—but never actually crossing the line.

Then one day, it just… stopped.

The little touches, the long looks, the teasing—it all went suddenly platonic. We were hanging out in my apartment—well, hers now, I guess—and she was talking about a movie she’d seen when she dropped it casually:

“Oh, by the way, I’ve got a girlfriend now.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

She grinned like it was no big deal. “Yeah. Met her about a month ago. She’s amazing.”

My head was spinning. “A month ago? You’ve had a girlfriend for a month?”

“Mm-hm.” She sipped her tea.

I could feel my face heating. “So what was all that? The flirting, the touching? I thought maybe there was something here… that when we swapped back we might…”

She tilted her head, all innocence. “Well, my body is pretty cute, why wouldn’t I flirt a bit? I was just having some fun is all. ”

I wanted to yell, but it came out more as frustration. “We’re supposed to swap back any day now. Why the hell would you start dating someone while in my body? She’s never even met the real me.”

That’s when she set her cup down, leaned back, and said it.

“About that… the lab found something out a few months ago. Turns out, the machine won’t swap people back if they’ve been out of their bodies for more than a year.”

I stared at her, pulse pounding. “Fuck, how long do we have?”

She nodded, almost apologetic—but not quite. “A year passed three days ago.”

My stomach dropped. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

She smiled then—small, satisfied, almost gentle. “I’m Arjun now.”

And in that moment, I realized she had been from the second we made the deal.

[my-body-likes-you-in-control-de]

What's Done Is Done

Matthias's POV

The turntables hummed under my fingertips, the bass vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat. I closed my eyes, losing myself in the rhythm, imagining a crowd screaming my name instead of the empty bedroom walls surrounding me. The dream was so close I could taste it—the flashing lights, the sweat-slicked bodies moving as one, the freedom of making music my life instead of just my escape. But the rent was due in two weeks, and my last gig had barely covered groceries.

I needed time. Just a few months to grind, to network, to prove I could make this work. But the numbers didn’t lie—I was short. Way short.

Granddad’s house smelled like old leather and pipe tobacco, the same as it had since I was a kid. He sat in his armchair, the newspaper spread across his lap like a shield. I took a deep breath and just said it.

"I need a loan."

His eyebrows shot up. "For what?"

"To go full-time as a DJ. Just enough to cover my expenses for a few months while I—"

"You’re still on that?" He scoffed, folding the paper shut. "You need a real career, son. Not some fantasy."

"It’s not a fantasy. I just need a little runway."

He leaned back, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d given up on solving years ago. "You know, if you’d just straighten up—in more ways than one—I might be inclined to help."

There it was. The same old song. My jaw tightened. "We’ve been over this. I’m not ‘choosing’ anything. This is who I am."

"Everything’s a choice," he said, waving a hand like he was swatting away a fly. "Discipline. Self-control."

A reckless idea flickered in my mind. I’d been messing around with that old spell book I found at a thrift store—mostly harmless stuff, little charms for luck or focus. But there was one page I’d dog-eared, half as a joke.

"Okay," I said, crossing my arms. "You really think it’s that easy? That you could just ‘choose’ differently?"

"Of course."

"Then prove it." I pulled the book from my bag, its cracked leather binding creaking as I flipped to the marked page. "One month. You live my life, in my body, and if you can make it through without hooking up with a guy, I’ll drop the DJ thing. But if you can’t… you give me the money. No strings."

He laughed, a dry, dismissive sound. "You’re not serious."

"Dead serious."

His eyes flicked to the book, then back to me. "You expect me to believe in magic now?"

I didn’t answer. Just traced the symbols on the page, the words foreign but familiar on my tongue. The air between us thickened, charged like the moment before a storm breaks.

Then Granddad’s face went slack. His fingers twitched.

And just like that—we weren’t ourselves anymore.

He looked down at his hands—my hands—and his breath hitched. "What the hell did you just do?"

I grinned, flexing his old, arthritic fingers. "Let’s see how easy it is now."

Granddad—now in my body—ran his hands over his (my) arms, tracing the tattoos he’d always scoffed at. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and for a second, I saw a flicker of excitement in his eyes. Being young again, even in a body he didn’t approve of, was clearly intoxicating.

"You’re on," he said, smirking with my face.

I tossed him my keys. "Go live my life. Try not to freak out too much when you see my bank account."

He scoffed but didn’t argue, heading out the door.

---

I sent him back to my apartment, where Morgan would be waiting. That was my ace in the hole. Morgan was gorgeous—tall, lean, cropped dark haircut, with this effortless charm that made everyone fall for him. And the chemistry between us? Electric. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. There was no way Granddad, no matter how stubborn, could resist.

Still, I couldn’t tell Morgan what was happening. How do you explain to your boyfriend that your seventy-year-old homophobic grandfather is currently inhabiting your body? He’d never believe me—and even if he did, he wouldn’t want to touch me knowing it wasn’t really me in there. No, this had to play out naturally.

---

Day 1:

I got a text from my own number:

"You didn’t tell me he was here."

I smirked. "Surprise."

"This is cheating."

"Nope. Just reality."

Morgan was affectionate, always kissing my neck while I cooked, pulling me into bed at night. Granddad was going to have to navigate all of that. And I knew Morgan wouldn’t push if I (well, he) seemed off—but he wouldn’t just ignore me either.

By day three, the texts got terser.

"He keeps touching me."

"Yeah, that’s what boyfriends do."

"It’s inappropriate."

"You’re in a relationship. That’s how it works."

A pause. Then:

"He’s… very good looking."

I grinned. "Told you."

---

Day 4

My Instagram notifications were blowing up.

Granddad—my Granddad—had posted a selfie.

My jaw dropped.

There he was, in my body, wearing one of my favorite jackets, showing off my tattoos, and wait … had he gotten a NOSE RING?

The caption? "Feeling fresh."

I choked on my coffee. How the hell did he even figure out how to use Instagram?!

Scrolling through the comments was surreal:

"Damn, looking good!" —Morgan "Since when do you post selfies?" —my friend Jake "🔥🔥🔥" —some rando

The outfit wasn’t gay gay—he could still pass for some artsy straight guy if you squinted—but the posture, the confidence… Oh, he was feeling himself. He was definitely going to lose.

---

Day 10

Another Instagram post.

This time, he was wearing Morgan’s leather jacket. Morgan’s. The one I always said smelled like him. The caption? "Borrowed something nice."

The comments were a mess.

"Since when do you two share clothes?" —Jake again "You’d better give that back." —Morgan, with a winky face

I texted Granddad: "You’re flirting."

"No I’m not."

"You literally are."

A pause. Then:

"It’s just clothes."

"It’s Morgan’s clothes."

No reply.

---

Day 12

I got a late-night text from my grandfather—or rather, from my phone, with my face attached to the message.

"I stopped pushing him away."

I blinked. "What?"

"Morgan. When he tries to… cuddle. At night."

I could feel the reluctant admission in his words, like he was forcing them out through gritted teeth. A slow grin spread across my face.

"And?"

"And nothing. It’s just… comfortable."

"Uh-huh."

"Don’t make it weird."

"You’re the one cuddling my boyfriend."

He didn’t respond.

---

Day 16

This time, it was a photo.

My breath caught.

There, in the golden morning light, was me—or rather, him in my body—propped up against the headboard, looking down at Morgan sprawled across his lap, tousled-haired and half-asleep.

The caption

"You win. I’ll give you the money."

I stared at the screen, a weird mix of emotions. I should have felt weirder about it.

My grandfather, technically, fucked my boyfriend. Or—more accurately—my boyfriend probably fucked him. And yet, all I felt was a strange kind of pride. It must’ve taken a lot for him to get over that.

"Took you long enough," I replied.

"Shut up."

"So. You admit it?"

A pause. Then:

"It’s not a choice."

Victory.

But we still had two weeks left on the bet.

I chewed my lip for a second before typing:

"Keep the body. Go crazy. Enjoy being me for the rest of the time. We’ll swap back at the end of the month."

"…Seriously?"

"Yeah. Consider it a free trial."

"Hmph."

But I knew him well enough to hear the quiet gratitude in that single syllable.

---

On the last night of the month, I had him stay over at his place—well, my place, technically. We figured it’d be easier to swap back if we were together when the clock struck midnight.

Except… we didn’t.

I woke up the next morning still in his creaky, seventy-year-old body, and he was still in mine—young, tattooed, and currently staring at me in horror from across the bed.

“Why the hell are we still like this?” he demanded, voice cracking with panic.

I scrambled for the spellbook, flipping through the brittle pages until I found the incantation we’d used. My stomach dropped.

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“It was a covenant,” I muttered, tracing the faded text with my finger. “The swap wasn’t just for a month—it was a test. To swap back, you had to go the full thirty days without having sex.”

Silence.

I looked up at him slowly.

He stared back.

Then, very quietly, he said, “…Oh.”

My eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you had sex?”

He hesitated. Glanced away. Cleared his throat.

“…Yesterday.”

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “Granddad.”

“It was Morgan,” he said defensively. “You try saying no to him.”

“I don’t! That’s the whole point!”

He crossed his arms—my arms—and sighed. “Well. Now what?”

I stared at the book, then at him, then at the ceiling like I was begging the universe for patience.

“Now,” I said, “you gotta figure out how to keep it in your pants.”

---

Granddad POV

The first two days, I told Morgan I wasn’t feeling well.

"Just a stomach thing," I muttered, rolling away when he tried to pull me close.

He frowned, pressing a warm hand to my forehead. "You don’t feel feverish."

"It’s… subtle," I insisted, avoiding his gaze.

I could see the doubt in his eyes, but he let it go. For now.

By the third day, I was running out of excuses. Morgan, sweet, relentless Morgan, had spent the whole afternoon making me soup from scratch, brewing tea, tucking blankets around me like I was some fragile thing. And then he smiled at me—that smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners—and I was done for.

What’s another two days on top of thirty? I reasoned, as his hands slid under my shirt. I’ll just tell Matthias we need to wait a little longer when the time comes.

So I caved, letting Morgan have his way with me.

---

After that, though, I was good. For two solid weeks, I didn’t let things go further than kissing. I made sure we ate heavy meals—spicy curries, garlic-laden pasta, anything that would give me a believable reason to keep my distance.

"Not tonight, babe," I’d groan, rubbing my stomach dramatically after dinner. "That vindaloo is fighting me."

Morgan would sigh, amused but frustrated. "You’ve been ‘fighting vindaloo’ for fourteen days straight."

"Indian food is powerful," I insisted, trying to keep a straight face.

He wasn’t stupid. But he also wasn’t pushing. He loved me, and that love made him patient.

---

By the twenty-seventh day, though, Morgan's patience was wearing thin. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched when I brushed off his advances, in the way his fingers lingered just a second too long on my skin. He was frustrated, and I was running out of excuses.

That night, Morgan went out with some friends. He invited me, but I couldn't risk it. Alcohol lowered inhibitions, and Morgan was already temptation incarnate. I knew that if I got drunk, I'd probably let him fuck me in a club bathroom if he asked. So I stayed in, telling him I needed to rest.

Alone in the apartment, I tried to distract myself with a book, but my mind kept wandering to Morgan. To his hands, his mouth, the way he moved inside me. I was horny, desperate, and my resolve was crumbling. I found myself reaching for the dildo in the nightstand, a poor substitute for the real thing but better than nothing.

I closed my eyes and thought of Morgan as I slid it inside me, imagining his hands on my body, his voice in my ear. It didn't take long before I was cumming hard, my body shuddering with release. But as soon as I was done, exhaustion hit me like a wave. I barely managed to pull the dildo free before collapsing into the sheets, leaving it lying shamelessly beside me as I passed out.

I woke up to the feeling of Morgan's naked body pressed against mine. He was a little drunk, his movements slow and deliberate as he cuddled up to me. "You're a naughty boy," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "I'm glad to see you're horny again."

Before I could react, I felt his throbbing cock sliding into my already stretched-out ass. My eyes still closed, I arched my back and smiled softly, lost in the haze of pleasure. But then reality hit me like a bucket of ice water—shit, I shouldn't be doing this.

But it was too late. Morgan knew this body's needs well, and he stroked my cock at the perfect pace, driving me wild. I came again, even harder than before, my body betraying my resolve.

The next morning, we were still naked, tangled in the sheets. Morgan woke up with a grin, his hand already wandering down my body. "Ready for another round?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep and desire.

At this point, why not? I thought. Matthias would be mad, but what's done is done. I pulled Morgan close, ready to lose myself in him one more time.

Do they ever make it back to their own bodies?

Of course

There's a new Matthias in town

Voting ended onJun 6, 2025

[permanent-swaps]

Cognitive Body Therapy

I adjusted my glasses and leaned back in my office chair, the glow of my monitor lighting up my face. It was our twelfth session. Sohil’s video feed filled most of the screen. He was shirtless again, sitting in his gaming chair in is room, one thick arm draped lazily over the backrest. His dark chest hair was still slightly damp, like he’d just come back from the gym.

Sohil Kapoor. Thirty-two. Bisexual. Sex addict.

At least that’s what he called himself.

“Evening, Dr. Reddin,” he said with that familiar half-smirk. His voice had that deep, easy confidence that always carried a hint of mischief.

“Hello, Sohil,” I replied calmly, keeping my tone professional. “How have things been since our last session?”

He let out a tired laugh and ran a hand through his messy black hair. “Same old shit. Made it nine days this time with this guy I really liked… then I fucked his best friend in the parking lot after drinks.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to think there’s something actually broken in me. Like physically. Other people can control themselves. I can’t. Its like my dick has its own fucking brain.”

I nodded, listening carefully. I’d heard variations of this from him for months now. His friends had pushed him into therapy after yet another destroyed relationship. He was charming, successful, and objectively very attractive — which only made the pattern more destructive.

“We’ve discussed open relationships,” I said. “You mentioned your last attempt didn’t go well.”

“Yeah, because even with permission I still broke every rule. Especially the condom one. I need to feel it raw. The second there’s latex I lose half the sensation and it just… doesn’t do it for me.” He sighed heavily.

I paused, tapping my pen against my notepad. We had made some progress, but it was slow. Too slow. I knew it was time to suggest something more radical.

“Sohil,” I said carefully, “I’d like to propose an unconventional treatment option. One I only use in really rare cases.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the camera. “What is it?”

I met his eyes through the screen.

“Body swapping. A temporary therapeutic exchange. I would enter your body, and you would enter mine. It would allow me to experience your impulses and urges directly. To understand the intensity of what you’re dealing with from the inside. That level of insight could help me develop far more effective strategies for managing your compulsions.”

Sohil stared at me for a long moment, his mouth slightly open.

“You’re… serious?”

“Very,” I said. “It’s not without risks, and it’s not something I suggest lightly. But after six months, I believe this may be what we need to make real progress.”

I watched his face carefully. There was surprise, hesitation… and something else.

He swallowed visibly.

“Ok… so when can we do it?”

---

The following week, we logged onto our scheduled Zoom session. Sohil appeared on my screen looking unusually tense, sitting in the same spot on his couch.

“How are you feeling about the swap? Are you ready?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and clinical.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly? Nervous as hell. But also… kind of excited? I’ve been like this my whole adult life. If you can actually feel what it’s like in here,” he gestured to his own body, “maybe you’ll finally get it. Maybe you can help me fix it.”

We spent most of the session discussing boundaries, consent, and the temporary nature of the procedure. Toward the end, I walked him through the final steps.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

Sohil nodded. “Let’s do it.”

We both initiated the swap through the secure therapeutic portal. There was a bright flash across my screen, a dizzying rush, and then everything shifted.

When my vision cleared, I was no longer looking at my monitor from my office chair.

I was looking at it from Sohil’s couch.

A massive wave of heat crashed over me instantly. My — his — cock thickened rapidly in my pants, throbbing with urgent need. The intensity was staggering. My thoughts grew hazy as raw, aggressive horniness flooded my system. I gripped the edge of the couch, trying desperately to maintain professional composure.

On the screen, Sohil — now in my body — let out a long, relieved exhale. He adjusted my glasses and smiled softly.

“Wow… I can actually think,” he said, sounding lighter than I’d ever heard him. “No constant noise in my head. This is… peaceful.”

I forced a professional tone, even as my new cock continued to pulse insistently between my legs. “That’s… excellent, Sohil. So as I said, we’ll remain in these bodies for the next few weeks. This will give me time to fully understand your urges and begin implementing strategies while I’m in your body. We can get your physical routines and habits started on the right track.”

As I spoke, my eyes drifted down to the screen — to the slight cleavage visible in the blouse I had been wearing. God, is that really how he saw me every session? I made a mental note to dress far more modestly once we swapped back.

Sohil cleared his throat. “Dr. Reddin?”

I blinked, snapping back to attention. “Sorry. I lost my train of thought for a moment.” I continued explaining the plan, trying to sound composed, but the throbbing between my legs was becoming unbearable.

Under the table, my hand moved almost on its own. I unbuttoned Sohil’s pants, wrapped my fingers around his thick, hard cock, and started stroking slowly. The pleasure was overwhelming. I kept talking, voice slightly strained, while pumping faster, getting dangerously close to the edge.

“…and we’ll check in regularly to monitor progress,” I finished, barely holding it together.

“Sounds good,” Sohil said, nodding in my body.

I ended the call as quickly as possible.

The second the screen went black, I let out a shaky breath. Not even thirty seconds later, I came hard. Thick ropes of cum shot across the underside of the table as Sohil’s cock pulsed violently in my hand. My vision whited out for a moment from the intensity.

I sat there panting, staring at the mess I’d made.

Damn… this guy’s body was horny.

Sohil hadn’t been exaggerating at all.

---

Over the next couple of days, I tried to resist.

I really did.

But Sohil’s body had other plans.

The first morning I put on one of his tight black t-shirts. The fabric stretched across his broad chest and hugged his biceps perfectly. Just the feeling of the material clinging to my new arms as I moved sent a low throb through my cock. I had to sit down for a minute and breathe through it.

Later that afternoon I went for a walk. A light breeze picked up and rippled his loose tank top against my chest. The soft fabric dragged across my nipples and I instantly hardened in my shorts. I had to stop and pretend to tie my shoe just so I could adjust myself discreetly.

At the grocery store, a young woman in a slightly low-cut top reached for something on a high shelf. The way her breasts pressed together as she stretched made my mouth go dry. I stood there frozen for several seconds, staring, before I forced myself to look away. My cock was already half-hard in my sweatpants.

Then there was my neighbor — a tall, muscular guy who walked out shirtless to grab his mail. The sight of his defined chest and abs glistening in the sun made something primal surge through me. I stood at the window watching him longer than I should have, my hand unconsciously pressing against the growing bulge in my pants.

Every single time, no matter how minor the trigger, I ended up painfully hard.

And without fail, the moment I got home I went straight to Sohil’s bedroom. I’d strip down completely naked, climb onto his bed, and wrap my hand around his thick cock. I’d stroke myself furiously, sometimes for less than five minutes, before I came hard — thick loads splattering across my hairy stomach and chest.

Yesterday I made it through the entire day without touching myself until I got home. Today I only lasted until 2 PM before I was back in his room, pants around my ankles, jerking off like a man possessed while staring at myself in the full-length mirror.

This body was insatiable.

I thought going to the gym might help burn off some of the constant energy. But it just made everything worse.

The moment I walked into Sohil’s gym wearing one of his tank tops and shorts, I felt eyes on me. His body drew attention — broad shoulders, thick arms, the way his chest hair peeked out from the neckline. Every time I lifted weights, the pump in my biceps and pecs made my cock twitch. The burn in my muscles somehow translated straight into arousal.

By the third set of bench presses I was fully hard. I had to practically sprint to the locker room stalls. I locked myself in one, dropped my shorts, and jerked off furiously, biting my lip to stay quiet. I came in under two minutes, shooting against the stall door. Even after that, I was still half-hard.

Even then I couldn’t control myself. I started approaching people — a pretty woman doing squats in tight leggings, a muscular guy checking himself out in the mirror. I was way too forward. Told the woman she had an incredible ass and asked if she wanted to grab a smoothie after her workout. Told the guy his arms looked strong and offered to spot him… then immediately suggested we spot each other somewhere more private. Both of them gave me polite but very clear rejections.

I stood there in the middle of the gym, Sohil’s face flushed with embarrassment and lingering arousal, realizing how desperate I must have looked. This body didn’t just want sex — it craved it constantly, and it had no filter.

---

By day six, I was losing the battle.

After another humiliating rejection at the gym and two more desperate jerk-off sessions at home, I gave in and downloaded Grindr on Sohil’s phone.

The app opened and immediately flooded the screen with nearby profiles. Shirtless torsos, hard cocks, hungry stares. Within minutes the messages started pouring in.

“Damn dude you’re hot as fuck.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Hosting right now if you wanna come through.”

I told myself I was just researching. Just trying to understand the scale of his compulsions. But my cock was already rock hard as I scrolled through the endless stream of willing men.

There were so many. Hot guys. Fit guys. Hung guys. Some wanted to fuck me. Most wanted me to fuck them.

I started chatting with one guy — mid-20s, muscular, only two blocks away. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sent him a face pic and told him I could be there in ten minutes.

The moment I stepped into his apartment, any last shred of professional restraint vanished. He barely had the door closed before I had him pinned against the wall, kissing him hard. Within minutes I had him bent over his couch, fucking him raw and deep while he moaned loudly.

It felt incredible.

The power, the heat, the raw physical pleasure of pounding into someone with Sohil’s thick cock — it was overwhelming. I came hard inside him, groaning as I filled him up. He asked if I wanted to go again. I did.

I ended up staying for almost two hours.

When I finally left, legs shaky, I felt a strange mix of shame and satisfaction. On the walk home my cock was already stirring again at the memory.

That night I opened Grindr again.

---

After a few days of nonstop Grindr hookups — sometimes two or three different guys in a single day — the novelty started to wear off. The sex was good, intense even, but something was missing.

I needed pussy.

Tinder proved much slower and more frustrating. The matches came in, but the back-and-forth flirting took time I didn’t want to waste. My patience was nonexistent in this body.

I knew it was a terrible idea. Unethical. A complete violation of every professional boundary. But the urge was louder than reason.

I opened the camera on Sohil’s phone and took a series of thirst traps — shirtless in the mirror, flexing his biceps, one with his hand pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants just enough to show the thick base of his cock. I sent them to my own number.

The message I typed made my stomach twist even as I hit send:

“I know you want to get fucked by yourself. I just know you want to feel your old cock deep in that pussy.”

I stared at the sent messages, heart racing.

Three dots appeared, then stopped. Then appeared again.

Before he could reply, the images and words hit me like gasoline on a fire. I was so turned on I couldn’t wait. I shoved my pants down, wrapped my hand around Sohil’s throbbing cock, and jerked off furiously on the couch to the fantasy of fucking my own body. I came hard within minutes, groaning loudly as thick ropes of cum splattered across my hairy chest.

The second the orgasm faded, cold reality crashed down on me.

What the hell did I just do?

I quickly sent a string of apologetic messages:

“I’m so sorry. That was completely inappropriate.” “I lost control. That was unprofessional and wrong.” “Please forgive me.”

Sohil (in my body) replied a few minutes later:

“No worries doc lol. I understand exactly what that feeling is like. Trust me.”

I let out a shaky breath, still half-hard despite just cumming.

“I’m going to figure this out,” I typed back, trying to sound more in control than I felt. “I’m going to find a real way to help you manage these urges. I promise.”

I set the phone down and looked at myself in the mirror — Sohil’s muscular, hairy body staring back at me, cum still drying on my abs.

---

I tried to resist.

I really, really tried.

I deleted Grindr twice. I went to the gym and forced myself to focus only on lifting. I tried meditation apps, cold showers, even jerking off six times in one day just to take the edge off. Nothing worked. The horniness always came back stronger, like a constant buzzing under my skin that refused to be ignored.

One night, I put on one of Sohil’s tight black shirts and a pair of fitted jeans and went to a gay bar downtown. The place was packed and loud. Within twenty minutes I locked eyes with a cute, twinky guy in his mid-twenties with messy light brown hair, smooth skin, and a hungry look in his eyes. He was exactly my type.

We barely spoke.

I walked straight up to him, grabbed him by the waist, and pulled him in for a rough kiss. He melted against me immediately. No names. No small talk. I took his hand and led him straight to the bathroom.

The moment the stall door locked, I spun him around, yanked his pants down, and shoved him forward against the wall. I pulled my own cock out, barely taking time to spit on it before I pushed inside him.

“Fuck…” he moaned loudly as I sank in deep.

I started thrusting hard, one hand gripping his hip, the other braced against the stall wall. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the small space.

“Sohil… fuck, Sohil,” he gasped, moaning my — Sohil’s — name.

A dark thrill shot through me.

“Fuck yeah,” I growled, pounding into him harder.

“Sohil… oh my god—”

Hearing him moan while I was balls-deep inside him made something primal take over. I fucked him with long, powerful strokes, gripping his waist tight as I drove into him again and again.

I didn’t last long. The way his tight hole clenched around my thick cock — it was too much. I buried myself deep and came hard, groaning as I filled him up.

I was still catching my breath, cock softening inside him, when reality started to crash back in.

The guy I had just raw-fucked in a public bathroom stall was Drew — one of my other therapy clients. Mid-twenties, gender-questioning, sweet but anxious. I had been seeing him for months. I had been too horny to even recognize him until now.

Then it hit me.

He had been moaning “Sohil” the entire time.

I never told him my — Sohil’s — name.

I pulled out slowly, heart pounding for a completely different reason now.

“Do we… know each other?” I asked, voice rough.

The guy — Drew — turned around with a lazy, satisfied grin that looked completely out of place on his face. He looked me up and down, eyes lingering on Sohil’s cock.

“I think I would recognize my own former body,” he said casually. “And damn… its dick feels good. I get why people put up with me even though I was such a cheater.”

I froze.

“Wait… Sohil?”

He smirked. “Hey, Doc.”

I stared at him — at my client’s body — in complete disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing in Drew’s body?”

Sohil (in Drew’s smaller, twinky frame) shrugged, still breathing hard from getting fucked.

“Drew’s been seeing you too, right? He’s been talking about wanting to transition for a while. Really wanted a woman’s body to start figuring shit out. So I offered him a swap. He gets your body — soft, feminine. I get his cute little gay body with way less constant horniness. Win-win.”

He reached down and gave Sohil’s cock — my current cock — a playful squeeze, still slick from being inside him.

“I’ve been having a great time, honestly. This body is so much easier to manage. I can actually think straight. I could get used to this. Could maybe even see myself getting into a relationship. Meanwhile, you’ve been living my old life…” He raised an eyebrow. “How’s that been going for you, Doc?”

I stood there, pants still open, cum slowly leaking down Drew’s thigh, trying to process everything.

Sohil in Drew’s body just smiled sweetly.

“By the way… you fuck really good in my body.”

My cock twitched and started hardening again almost immediately, still slick from being inside him. I was furious — at Sohil, at myself, at this entire situation — but the anger only seemed to make the arousal worse. The rational part of my brain was screaming that I needed to stop, to think clearly, to regain control.

But Sohil — or Drew, or whoever the hell he was right now — was right here. Convenient. Already bent over, his hole glistening with my cum, still slightly open and twitching.

I grabbed his hips and pushed back inside him in one smooth thrust.

“Fuck, Doc,” he moaned in Drew’s lighter voice, pushing back against me. “Round two already?”

I didn’t answer. I just started fucking him again, harder this time, my hips slapping against his ass. The wet, filthy sound of my cock sliding through my own load filled the stall. Every thrust felt better than the last. My mind was fogging over again, thoughts becoming slippery and unfocused.

We could switch it all back… if only…

I tried to hold onto the thought, but it kept sliding away.

If only… what was I trying to do again?

The question dissolved as pleasure took over. I gripped his waist tighter and pounded into him, grunting with each deep stroke. Sohil in Drew’s body moaned loudly, clearly loving every second.

“God, you really can’t control it, can you?” he gasped between thrusts, sounding amused. “Feels good though, doesn’t it?”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to pull out and walk away. But instead I fucked him even harder, chasing that building pressure again, my balls tightening as I got closer to another orgasm.

[take-my-body-from-me-deactivate]

After A Long While

The seatbelt dug into my collarbone, biting through the fabric of my shirt as I slouched lower in the cracked passenger seat, arms crossed hard over my chest. The old Toyota wheezed down the sun-scorched highway, every bump rattling through the frame like it was held together by spite. Outside, the air shimmered with heat, dry grass blurring past the window. Dust clung to the glass like a second skin. The sun baked through, oppressive and unrelenting—like everything else lately.

“You’re not listening,” I muttered, my voice low but sharp.

My dad’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “I am listening, Martín. I just don’t agree with you.”

I scoffed. Predictable. “Yeah, no kidding. You never do. You think yelling over me is the same thing as hearing me.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “You’re fourteen. What exactly do you expect me to understand? That the world’s cruel because your music’s sad and school’s boring?”

I turned toward the window. “No. I expect you to care. Just once. Pretend like it matters when I say I feel like shit all the time.”

“You feel like shit because you lock yourself in your room, marinating in self-pity and mopey songs. Try going outside. Try—”

A horn. Loud and sudden. Then screeching tires. A blur of motion, a lurch, then metal shrieking as something heavy slammed into us. Glass burst. Something tore open with a horrible crunch like the car was being peeled apart. A flash of light seared my vision. Pain bloomed in my chest like fire. An airbag? No—this was weight, solid and crushing, forcing the air from my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. My hands twitched against—what? The dashboard? No. The steering wheel. Why was I on the driver’s side? Why did my arms look like that—thick, veined, older? Why did I feel... wrong?

Darkness swallowed me whole.

---

White. That was the first thing. Not a soft white, but a burning one—blinding and still, like staring up through water at the sun. Sound came next: the hiss of machines, the slow beep of a monitor, the hum of artificial air. Then smell. Antiseptic. Alcohol. Latex. My body felt far away, numb and unfamiliar. My mouth was cotton. My tongue a strip of dry sandpaper.

Then a shadow.

Someone leaned over me. “Pascuale,” a voice said, warm and steady, too calm. “Welcome back.”

No. That wasn’t right. Pascuale? I tried to speak but only managed a papery rasp. They must’ve gotten the names mixed up. Easy mistake. We were both in the crash. Probably just confusion.

The man above me wore a white coat. Doctor. Mid-fifties. Silver hair at the temples, gold-rimmed glasses, face softened by practiced kindness. “You’re safe now,” he said, like that meant anything. “You’ve been unconscious for some time. But you’re stable.”

My vision wobbled, then cleared. In the corner sat a man, silent and still. Mid-thirties, lean and tan, jeans and a fitted orange button down clinging to an athletic build. His short, dark hair was neatly trimmed and he had a nice beard.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at me.

Nurse? No. But there was something about him… something I couldn’t reach.

The doctor adjusted the IV, his smile never faltering. “Don’t push yourself. Memory loss is common after trauma. Just rest, Pascuale. Your mind and body need time.”

He patted my hand. It was warm. Familiar, but foreign. My fingers looked… wrong. Thicker. Older. The skin dragged differently across the bones. And then I wasn’t sure if it was my hand at all.

Before I could ask anything—before I could make sense of what was mine and what wasn’t—

Darkness took me again.

---

Time passed, I think. A few days. Maybe more. Everything blurred together—moments of light and dark, sound and silence. I drifted in and out, never fully awake, never fully gone.

Each time I surfaced, I was sweating. Groggy. Disoriented. My body didn’t feel right. My shoulders ached. My hips popped whenever I shifted. My knees felt like they’d been locked for years. But it wasn’t the pain that unsettled me the most—it was the weight. I felt... heavy. Like I was carrying something I couldn’t see.

Every time I opened my eyes, the doctor was there. He always smiled gently, always called me “Pascuale.”

By the fourth—or maybe fifth—time I managed to stay conscious, the sun was cutting through the blinds, thin and bright across the hospital sheets. My throat burned, but I forced the words out anyway.

“My name’s Martín,” I croaked, barely above a whisper. “Martín López.”

The doctor hesitated. Just for a second. Then he smiled again—warmer this time, but with something softer behind his eyes. Pity.

He glanced toward the man seated in the corner. The same man I kept seeing. Always there. Watching. I hadn’t figured out who he was.

“That’s not unusual,” the doctor said to him. “It’ll come back. Just give it time.”

The man nodded once. Brief. Controlled. Like something passed between them I wasn’t meant to see.

Then the doctor left.

I turned my head, slow and stiff. The man hadn’t moved. Still sitting straight-backed, hands folded, jaw tight. Like he was waiting for orders.

“Who are you?” I rasped.

He stood, careful, like I might flinch. “Do you really not recognize me?”

I shook my head. Slowly. The movement took more effort than it should have.

He stepped closer. His voice was steady, but strained.

I stared up at him. Really looked. His face was older than mine—lines around the eyes, thicker jaw, shoulders broader than I remembered mine ever being. But then—

The nose. Just a little off-center. Like mine was after I’d broken it when I was ten, falling off my bike.

The eyebrows. Sharp. Too sharp. They pinched in that exact way mine always did when I was worried.

And the eyes. Brown. Deep. Almost black. Just like the ones I’d always been told how striking they were.

I blinked.

No.

“That’s…” My mouth went dry. “That’s my face.”

My stomach turned. It didn’t make sense. My face, sure—but the body wasn’t mine. Too tall. Too broad. Too much muscle. I wasn’t built like that. I—

The monitor behind me started to beep.

“No,” I breathed. “No, no, no. That’s not possible. What the hell is this?”

He moved to the edge of the bed. His hand landed gently on my arm. Familiar pressure. The kind meant to comfort.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s okay, Dad.”

I flinched. “Don’t call me that.” My voice cracked, too high, too raw. “I’m not—anyone’s dad.”

He backed off. Hands raised slightly. “Sorry, Martín. I meant… Martín. I’ve just—I’ve been calling you that for so long. Since you’ve been here.”

He paused. Then: “But you’re right. You’re not anyone’s dad. I am.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine.

“I’m Pascuale,” he said. “Your father.”

The words hit and just… hung there.

He came closer. “Something happened during the crash. I don’t know how, or why. But when we woke up... I was in your body. You were in mine.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t know how else to say this,” he went on. “It’s been twenty-three years. You’ve been in a coma in my body. But you’re awake now.”

Twenty-three years.

My hands began to shake. The beeping behind me grew louder. Faster. The lights in the room felt too bright. The walls too sharp. I couldn’t get enough air. My chest rose and fell but nothing filled me. My limbs were wrong. My skin was wrong.

He reached forward again, worried now. “Martín—hey—breathe. Just breathe—”

But I couldn’t hear him anymore and I passed out

---

The next day was endless.

Blood work. Cognitive assessments. Full-body scans. Techs wheeled me through corridors lined with glass walls, where I caught glimpses of myself—of the man I’d become.

It wasn’t me.

The face staring back was worn. Gaunt in places, bloated in others. Skin sagged around the jawline. Deep lines cut down from the nose to the mouth. My eyes, once sharp and dark, looked dull. Empty. Buried in wrinkles. My hands were worse—thin, veined, the skin loose across the bones. They didn’t look like hands that belonged to anyone alive.

By late afternoon, they brought me back to the room.

It was quiet. Dim. I lay there, drained.

Then the door creaked open.

He stepped in—my father. In my body.

He looked... right. Effortlessly put together. Athletic. Rested. The kind of man people turned to look at, even if they didn’t know why. He wore a soft T-shirt, jeans that fit well. My posture. My walk. But different.

I sank deeper into the hospital bed.

He moved slowly. No arrogance in the way he carried himself. But no shame, either. He sat beside the bed.

“I figured you’d want answers,” he said.

I said nothing.

He kept going. “The first few years were hell. I told everyone what happened—said I wasn’t you. That there’d been a swap. They didn’t believe me. Thought it was trauma. Delusion. I got bounced around—shrinks, neurologists, grief counselors. After a while, I stopped trying to convince them.”

My voice cracked as I finally spoke. “And me?”

He looked down for a second, then met my eyes. “I kept you safe. Everything from the accident settlement—I used it to get you the best care I could find. Private neuro facility. Top-tier. They did stem cell therapy. Reconditioning. Some experimental treatments out of Switzerland. I visited every week. I read to you. Played your favorite music. I talked to you like you were still in there.” He paused. “Because I believed you were.”

I stared at him.

“Well,” I said, voice trembling, “I’m awake now. So fix it. Tell the truth. Make them believe us. We can switch back.”

He didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quiet.

“It’s not that simple.”

I waited.

He took a slow breath. “I’m older now. In your body, I mean. I’m thirty-seven. That’s older than I ever was in my own skin. I’ve lived more years like this than I did before. I didn’t plan that. I kept thinking we’d wake up the next day and figure it out. But then the next day became the next month. Then years.”

He looked at me. Steady. Calm.

“I built a life,” he said. “And I didn’t mean to, Martín. I didn’t come into this trying to steal anything. But life kept going. And I didn’t know how to stop it.”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

“I don’t know if this will help or hurt,” he said quietly, unlocking it and turning the screen toward me.

It was a photo gallery. My face stared back at me. Over and over.

The first pictures were on a beach somewhere—shirtless, tanned, a soft dusting of chest hair catching the sun. My shoulders looked broader than I remembered. My jaw sharper. He looked relaxed. Confident. Whole.

The next was on a rugby field. My jersey clung to a sweat-slicked chest, arms roped with muscle. Grass stains on my thighs. A grin splitting my face.

Then came more—me in a gym mirror, shirtless again, holding my phone with a cocky smirk I’d never worn.

A few of me at concerts.

Me in sunglasses at a pool party, presumably flexing to show off to someone.

I didn’t know this man. I knew his face. I’d lived in that face. But I didn’t know anything else about it.

He swiped again.

A new photo.

My body—wrapped around another man. Close. I stared at it too long.

“That’s Leo,” he said softly. “First guy I dated. I mean—I kissed a few before him, figured some things out, but Leo was... the real beginning.”

He glanced at me, watching my reaction. I didn’t say anything.

“I always told myself,” he went on, “that if you’d come out to me back then, I’d have been supportive. Maybe I would’ve even meant it.” He gave a small, self-aware smile. “But the truth is… I didn’t really get it. Not until I was here. In this body.”

He hesitated. “And honestly? It’s better. Being gay. I mean, I didn’t know what I was missing.”

That hit me harder than I expected. I looked away, jaw tight.

“I didn’t know I was gay,” I muttered. “Or... whatever. I never figured it out.”

His smile faded a little, softened into something gentler. “You were young. You had time.”

I shook my head. “Apparently not.”

He didn’t argue. Just swiped again.

Another photo.

This one was more intimate.

My body again—bare-chested, laying out in the sun with Leo. He flicked past it, then paused. Tapped back. He looked at the image for a long time.

“That was the day he… the first time he really made love to me,” he said, voice low. “I’d never felt anything like it before. Not in my old life. Not in my old body.”

I felt my face heat.

He kept his eyes on the screen, but his voice thickened.

“I remember lying there afterward, feeling… whole. For the first time since the crash. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I wasn’t just wearing your skin, waiting to give it back. That night, I stopped feeling like an intruder. I felt like someone’s partner. Like a man with a life again. A real one.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes.

“That was when I knew. I couldn’t go back. Not really.”

I looked away, my breath catching in my throat.

He sat there, still holding the phone. Still looking at that photo.

“After that, I let myself believe you’d never wake up” he said.

His voice was steady now, clearer than it had been all day.

“I took your life, rebuilt it, made it completely mine.”

I turned back toward him. My mouth felt dry.

“But I’m awake now,” I said. “Dad… please. I want it back. Can’t you at least try?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“I’m sorry, sport. But you and I both know nobody would believe us. We’d sound crazy.”

I stared at him. “That’s it?”

He hesitated—then gave a soft, almost apologetic shrug.

“And… I don’t want to.”

I blinked, stunned.

“I want my life back,” I said, louder now. “I need it back.”

He exhaled, long and slow, as if he were tired. Then said, almost gently, “It’s not yours anymore.”

Silence.

It landed between us like a weight.

“I’ve made arrangements for your long-term care,” he added, voice calm, practiced. “Same facility. Private wing. You’ll have a full suite—meals, a therapist, a studio for art, if you want it. I even got them to approve wine with dinner.”

I stared at him. “But I’ll die in this body.”

He didn’t look away. “You were dying in it already.”

That made me flinch.

He stood slowly.

“I didn’t steal your life, Martín. I was gifted it. And the truth is… you were miserable back then. You hated yourself. Always sulking, always angry. Now—this body—this life—it’s something worth living in. I made it that way.”

He glanced down at his arms and flexed slightly. Admiring.

“And I’m not giving it back.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the door. Glanced back over his shoulder.

“Sorry, Dad,” he said quietly. “I’ll visit soon. I hope you’ll understand.”

And just like that, he left. Off to keep living his life.

[permanent-swaps]

Playing With The Numbers: A SwapService Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck dude you’re super cute.”

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

I was practically salivating.

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

He didn’t waste any time.

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

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

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

The door opened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally I couldn’t hold back anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a few minutes he turned his head toward me.

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

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

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

“Wait, fuck… do you know me?”

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

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

I stared at him. “Swapped?”

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

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

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

He shrugged Ryan’s broad shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mind started spinning with possibilities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ryan…” I moaned.

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

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

“Fuck… Ryan,” I gasped.

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

Another deep thrust made my back arch.

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

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

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

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

I was going to become Ryan.

No matter what it took.

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

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

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

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

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

This body was going to be mine.

[take-my-body-from-me-deactivate]

Echo Fitness

Based on the concept from Reps by @malebodyswapper

I belong to Echo Fitness.

Honestly, I never thought I’d stick to a gym, but Echo’s different. The core concept is wild—it lets you work out in the body of anyone that’s currently in the building. Trainers, members, whoever’s signed in.

The first time I walked in and saw it in action, I thought I was hallucinating. There were three versions of the same guy—one deadlifting, one stretching, one on the assault bike. Identical tattoos, same haircut, same everything. But it was all real.

The only rule? You had to swap back into your original body before you left. No exceptions. They didn’t say how they enforced that, but I’d heard rumors of alarms going off if you even tried to push the doors while still borrowed.

The magic part—or whatever tech it was—was that you still kept the gains. If you borrowed a trainer’s body and benched twice your weight, when you swapped back, your chest and arms had actually done the work. The soreness, the progress, it all transferred.

It was perfect for me. I was mid-thirties, a little overweight, and the thought of struggling through push-ups in front of people made my skin crawl. Here, I could hop into the body of some shredded twenty-something and bang out pull-ups without anyone snickering. By the time I went back to my own body, I’d be stronger anyway.

There was a status board right by the entrance. Big digital screen, like an airport departures list. It showed all the possible bodies inside at that moment, each with a photo and a name. Underneath, there were little icons of who was currently borrowing them—tiny profile pictures in a row. Sometimes there’d be four or five people stacked under one guy’s photo, all using his body at once.

I’d stand there for a few minutes every session, sizing up my options. Trainers were usually the best choice—they could handle serious weight. But sometimes you’d spot a random member who was just built like a tank and barely had anyone borrowing him. Those were gold.

---

Every third Thursday of the month, they held what they called Leavers Night. On Leavers Night, they changed the rules and allowed you to actually leave the premises in someone else’s body. The catch was that you had to be in that body for at least an hour before walking out the door. The time delay kept people from swooping in, grabbing a body, and vanishing before anyone noticed.

The system was simple. Next to our usual headshots on the big status board, timers would appear. They showed how long each of us had been inside the body we were using. If the timer hit an hour, the number flipped green and that was the signal to go if you wanted. And once you left, your original body would stay on the board, meaning that someone else would have to leave in it by the end of the night.

Leavers Night was unpredictable. Sometimes the place was packed, bodies changing hands every minute, people strategizing and changing quickly like it was a game. Other times, it was quiet—only a handful of members coming in to swap with one of their friends for a month.

I’d actually never managed to leave as someone else on Leavers Night. After all, my body wasn’t exactly prime real estate: mid-thirties, still carrying extra weight. Every time I got close to hitting that green timer, the body’s owner would notice and quickly duck out before I could leave.

It was frustrating. I wanted to know what it felt like to live a month—or maybe more—as someone else. But every time, I ended the night the same way. Back in my own skin, watching the timers flip green for everyone else, wondering if maybe next month I’d get lucky.

---

Tonight, the crowd was on the slimmer side. I spotted a few familiar faces as soon as I walked in. Kyle and Vlad were already there—two very shredded bros who had a habit of swapping with each other every single Leavers Night. Honestly, at this point, I wasn’t even sure they remembered which body was their original anymore. They always strutted around with the same cocky energy, cracking jokes that walked a fine line between “bro talk” and something more charged.

I’d catch them slapping each other’s asses and flexing in the mirror together, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the bravado was just a cover.

Their timers were closing in on the hour mark already. They’d probably leave soon.

The rest of the place looked about the same as any other Thursday. The usual group of bigger guys—guys built more like me—were going through sets inside the trainers’ bodies. Trainers were exempt from the Leavers Night rule change. And since those other overweight guys knew nobody would ever let them take their body, they treated it like any other night.

I sighed and went to one of the kiosks to make my pick. No point overthinking it. I tapped on Tor’s photo, one of the trainers I liked. Reliable, tall, a thick beard, and a really cool sleeve of tattoos. At least I’d get a solid workout in.

I’d just finished my first set when the front doors opened and Sergio walked in.

He was younger—early twenties at most. He’d joined maybe three months ago. I’d borrowed his body a few times. He was hot. Lean and athletic with just enough muscle to make lifts feel natural. Strong, but not bulky. The kind of frame that turned heads.

From what I’d seen, he mostly liked using the largest trainers’ bodies to do really heavy lifts. I figured his plan was to build himself up as fast as possible.

I’d never seen him show up for a Leavers Night before, though. With a body like that, why would you ever think about coming?

He walked past the board without even glancing at the timers, tapped at a kiosk, and took Tarek—another trainer.

I went back by the kiosk for a second, Tor’s picture glowing back at me. Then I back looked over at Sergio’s headshot on the board.

“Why not?” I muttered under my breath. I laughed softly and told myself I should at least give myself a fighting chance to leave as him, even if I knew he’d never let it happen.

I tapped his picture, and suddenly I was standing in Sergio’s body again. That lean, young frame, the quickness in my step—it felt incredible. Better than the hulking bulk of most trainers. This body didn’t lumber; it just moved.

I stretched out my arms, rolled my shoulders, and let out a low “fuck” under my breath. It was just as good as I remembered.

I didn’t want to draw attention, though. So I scurried off to a quieter corner of the gym, by the row of older machines that nobody really used anymore.

I loaded up the seated row, adjusted the handle, and got into position. The first pull sent a jolt through me—the lats firing, forearms tight, chest engaged. Every rep felt solid, controlled. I couldn’t stop grinning as I pulled the handle to my torso again and again.

“Fuck, this just feels so great,” I whispered, my breath catching as I knocked out another set. The muscles burned, but in that way that made me want to keep going, not stop. I added more weight and went right back at it, the bar clinking lightly as I racked it after each pull.

I settled into a rhythm on the rows, sweat beading across Sergio’s smooth skin. Between sets, I leaned forward on my knees and let my mind wander.

What would it even feel like to be him for more than an hour?

I pictured it clearly—waking up in the morning, padding through some tiny apartment kitchen in just briefs, coffee mug in hand, abs flexing without even trying. Going on a run through the neighborhood, shirtless, the air hitting me while eyes followed every step. Heading out to the club, where guys I usually only stared at from the corner would actually stare back. Not just stare—flock. And not because I was borrowing some trainer’s bulk for an hour in the gym, but because they wanted me. Taking me home, pushing me against the sheets, fucking me hard while their gaze locked on mine.

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “Yeah, right,” I muttered. There was no way. Guys like Sergio knew exactly what they had.

Still, I got lost in the reps, in the rhythm, in how light this body made everything feel. Sets blurred into each other. Time stretched.

At some point, I realized Sergio hadn't left yet. That made no sense. He should’ve been out of Tarek’s body and gone by now, leaving me back in my old body.

My stomach tightened. I wiped my palms on my shorts and glanced toward the board.

There it was. Next to Sergio’s headshot, under my profile picture, the timer glowed: 1:04:39.

Green.

I blinked hard, like I was imagining it. But no, it stayed there. I could leave. I could actually leave.

My pulse spiked. I didn’t wait. I racked the weight, grabbed a towel, and made a beeline for the exit.

Halfway there, weaving past a group of guys by the free weights, I nearly collided with someone. My shoulder smacked into him, and I looked up.

It was one of the Tarek copies—shorts, tank, tattoos. But I knew immediately.

Sergio.

His eyes flicked over me—over himself—and his smirk deepened. He tilted his chin just slightly, blocking the path to the exit.

“Nice, huh?” he said casually. “My body’s pretty good, right?”

I froze for a beat. My throat went dry. “Uh—yeah,” I said, careful, cautious. I forced a shrug, trying not to let my voice give anything away. “Yeah, man. It’s solid.” My answer came out too quick, too sharp. I tried to smooth it over with a nod, but I knew I sounded off.

Sergio didn’t seem to notice. He chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I love seeing guys using my body around here. Little ego boost, you know?”

I forced a laugh. “Makes sense.” Then, trying to sound casual, I asked, “But… do you actually like being in someone else’s body?”

He shrugged. “Not really. It’s more utility. I mean, come on—if I can use a trainer’s body and push three times the weight, why wouldn’t I?”

I blinked at him. “So… you’ve never wanted to, I don’t know, stay as someone else?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah man, I love my body—I mean just look at it! Besides, ut’s not like any of the swaps here are permanent, man. This place is just... a tool. That’s it.”

And that’s when it hit me.

He didn’t know.

Sergio pushed off the wall with that same cocky grin. “Anyway, man, enjoy it. I’m gonna get a few more sets in before I switch back.”

And just like that, he walked off toward the dumbbells, rolling his shoulders like a dumb gym bro.

I stood there for a moment, heart still hammering, then forced myself to move. I grabbed my bag from the cubbies, towel still damp from the workout, and headed toward the front. The kiosk gave a soft chime as I tapped my fob, the turnstile clicking open. I stepped through, the hum of the gym fading behind me.

On the board, I caught it out of the corner of my eye—Sergio’s photo, no my photo, vanishing from the list as I crossed the threshold.

I raised my voice just enough to carry back across the room. “Hey, Sergio! Ask management about Leavers Night. You’re gonna want to look into it next month.”

Then I pushed the door open and walked out into the night air, my pulse thrumming in this younger, sharper body.

Behind me, faint through the glass, I heard shouting. Sergio—still inside Tarek’s body—was trying to bolt after me. A sharp alarm cut through the noise, and a staffer’s firm voice followed: “You can’t leave in a trainer’s body. Rules are rules.”

The sound dulled as I crossed the lot, sliding into my car. By the time I pulled out and hit the street, it was just background noise, fading into the distance as I drove off in my new skin, a whole new life stretched out in front of me.

[take-my-body-from-me-deactivate]

The Ring's Watch

I graduated from NYU a few weeks ago, and it still didn’t feel real. One moment I was cramming for finals in the library, the next I was hauling two overstuffed suitcases through JFK.

The last few months had been fun sure, but also pretty tough. My classmates were landing interviews left and right, and every rejection email I got felt heavier. The one interview that mattered most — with a consulting firm I thought was way out of my league — had me sweating through my shirt. I’d stumbled through half my answers, voice cracking like I was back in high school. When it was over, I left the Zoom call convinced I’d just embarrassed myself out of contention.

So when my phone buzzed a few days later with an unknown New York number, I almost didn’t pick up.

“Hello, is this Youssef Khalil?”

“Yes—speaking.”

“This is HR from K & B Consulting. I wanted to congratulate you. We’d like to extend you an offer.”

I nearly dropped the phone. “Wait—you mean—”

“A full-time analyst position. And we’ll sponsor your work visa. We think you’d be a strong fit.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Everyone I’d talked to said this company never sponsored visas. That it was impossible.

“I—thank you. Really. Thank you.” My voice cracked again, but this time it didn’t matter.

After I hung up, I just sat there on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall like maybe I’d hallucinated the whole thing. Then I called my parents. My mother cried. My father’s voice, usually so measured, cracked with pride.

And just like that, my summer plans were completely different. Instead of moving back to Cairo, it was just another summer vacation at home before before the job started.

The flight was long and exhausting, but when I stepped out into the arrivals hall and saw my parents waiting, it all melted away.

“Youssef!” my mother called, arms open wide.

My father clapped me on the back, pulling me into a hug that was tighter than anything I remembered from before I left for New York.

“You’ve made us proud, habibi,” he exclaimed smiling.

---

That night my parents insisted on a family dinner — a big one, with all the uncles and cousins gathered around my grandmother’s long table. For the first hour it was fine. I told a few stories from New York, careful to keep them light and family-friendly. My younger cousins peppered me with questions about Times Square, about snow, about whether I’d ever seen Beyoncé in person.

Then my uncle Hassan decided to weigh in.

He was the eldest brother — the unofficial patriarch — and he carried himself like it. Thick moustache and the kind of stare that made you feel twelve years old again no matter how old you actually were.

“So,” he said suddenly, voice cutting through the chatter, “our golden boy is back.” He smirked. “Golden in more ways than one, eh?”

The whole table went quiet.

I reached up without thinking, touching the strands of my hair — the blond dye my roomates and I decided to do on a whim. I thought it looked cool, but I should’ve known he would comment on it.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair. “What is this? You come home looking like some Western pop star? What kind of image are you showing? What kind of man are you becoming?”

Heat crept up my neck. “It’s just hair, Uncle. Everyone in New York—”

“Exactly,” he snapped, jabbing his beads in my direction. “New York. Always New York. You live there, you copy their styles, you forget who you are. And now this job will keep you there even longer, isn’t that right? Years more, while your parents wait for you to come home and be a man. You’ll never settle. You’ll never stop chasing this fantasy.”

A lump formed in my throat. I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, my cousin Layla spoke up.

“Uncle Hassan, come on,” she said, flicking her black eyeliner-winged eyes toward me. Layla was only a year younger than me, still living in Cairo, but she’d always had this edge — leather jackets, playlists full of indie bands no one else here had heard of. “Half the guys in Zamalek are dyeing their hair now. And don’t act like fashion isn’t Egyptian — we’ve got style. Leave Youssef alone.”

A few of the cousins snickered. I caught her eye and gave her the smallest grateful smile.

But Hassan just shook his head, unimpressed. “Nonsense. Don’t defend this foolishness. A man is not supposed to look… like this. He is supposed to carry respect. Discipline. Dignity.”

He turned his glare to my father. “And where is his discipline? You let this happen. You let your son forget his roots.”

My father’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t say anything. He never did in moments like these. He just lowered his gaze, as though taking the words in quietly was easier than fighting them.

One of my other uncles muttered an agreement. Another gave a solemn nod. Slowly, the weight of Hassan’s opinion spread around the table like smoke, and even though no one looked directly at me, I could feel their silent judgment pressing in.

I wanted to speak — to defend myself, to defend my dad — but the words stuck in my chest.

Hassan’s voice cut through the clinking of dishes. “If you won’t keep him in line, brother, then I will.”

My father looked up, startled. “Hassan—”

But my uncle was already reaching into his pocket. He drew out a heavy silver signet ring, the kind of thing you’d expect to see locked in a museum case. Its face bore a single carved eye that seemed to catch the light.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my chair scraping back slightly.

“You’ll understand,” he said, calm but firm. He grabbed my hand before I could pull away and slid the ring onto my finger.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he spoke something low and guttural — words I didn’t recognize. My skin prickled. The ring hummed against my knuckle, then sent a cool rush racing up my arm, spreading into my chest, my head. I gasped.

“There,” he said. “Now it is done.”

I stared at the ring. “What the hell was that?”

Hassan folded his hands. “An artifact passed down in our family for generations. It lets any man in our lineage watch in whenever they choose.”

Before I could respond, he began reciting again. This time I watched in horror as his body collapsed in on itself, skin loosening, then breaking apart into grains of sand that scattered across the floor. Within seconds he was gone.

A pulse of energy shot across the room and into me. My head snapped back, and suddenly his presence was inside my mind — not like a thought, but like another consciousness breathing next to mine.

I told you, Youssef, his voice rang inside my skull. This way, I can make sure you are not up to no good.

My pulse thundered. “Get out,” I whispered under my breath.

And if you are…

My body jerked. My muscles seized, twisting without my permission. My lips curled upward into a smile I didn’t choose.

And then my voice — but not mine at all — spoke clearly into the stunned silence of the table:

“I won’t hesitate to change course for you.”

My lips moved again, but it was Hassan’s words spilling out. A low incantation in a language I didn’t know filled the room, vibrating in my chest. When the last syllable left my mouth, I felt the weight inside my skull vanish.

Across the table, the air shimmered. Grain by grain, his body knit itself back together in the chair he’d left empty. Skin, muscle, hair — all of it reforming until Hassan sat there again, as solid and smug as before. The pressure in my head snapped away, returning to him.

I ripped at the ring instantly. It didn’t budge. I yanked harder, twisting until my skin turned red. A white-hot pain shot up my arm, sharp enough to make me cry out.

“Stop,” Hassan said calmly. “You can’t remove it unless I allow it..”

I looked around the table for support. Layla’s face was pale, her hand frozen around her glass. Two of my younger cousins were staring in silence, eyes wide. But the adults — my parents, my aunts, my other uncles — sat silently, their expressions resigned. Not shocked. Not even confused.

This had happened before.

My gaze fell on my father. “Baba… say something. You can’t let him do this.”

He shifted in his seat, eyes fixed on the tablecloth. His jaw clenched, then relaxed. Finally, he said, “My brother knows best.” His voice was quiet. “He always has.”

When he finally looked at me, there was no strength in his eyes — only shame.

---

The next couple of weeks passed in a way that felt almost normal. I spent time with my parents, caught up with cousins. The heat was worse than I remembered, but the food was better.

The ring stayed on my finger. The pain when I’d tried to take it off was still fresh in my memory, and besides — it didn’t look bad. Silver, heavy, the eye catching the light just enough to draw attention. The irony wasn’t lost on me: Hassan had lectured me about being too Western, too focused on style, and then strapped me with a piece of jewelry that only added to the look. People actually complimented it.

As far as I could tell, no one “watched in” very often. The only time it happened, I heard a cadence I recognized right away — my dad’s youngest brother, Uncle Karim.

“Youssef,” his laugh echoed inside me, “don’t tell me you’ve stopped going to the gym.” He was being ironic of course, I was walking around at home without a shirt on, six pack fully visible.

I rolled my eyes, muttering under my breath even though I knew he could hear. “I’m stronger than you ever were.”

“That may be true,” he admitted cheerfully. “I hope you haven’t let your uncle get to you. He’s mostly talk after all. He’ll make a show of it, but don’t worry too much. He’ll let you take the ring off before long.”

I straightened in my chair. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said. “I had to wear it too, when I was about your age. I was spending too much time chasing girls and ignoring my studies. Your uncle decided I needed… guidance.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes. And when he thought I’d straightened out, he let me be.” His tone softened. “It’s not as bad as you think. Just stay out of trouble.”

Then the pressure left my head, and I was alone again.

---

When August ended, I packed my bags and flew back to New York to start the job. The city felt different this time — less like an experiment, more like a place I was supposed to belong. Still, every time I glanced down at my hand, the silver ring reminded me Cairo hadn’t really let me go.

Sure enough, within a week of settling in, I felt the presence slip into my head again. Sometimes it was my father, sometimes Karim, sometimes one of the others. They never fully took over — nothing like that first night. It was more like someone leaning over my shoulder, silently observing.

With Baba and Karim, it didn’t bother me. If anything, it was like a nice, quick visit. Karim asked about the apartment, about how expensive groceries were, about the women in my building. My dad was quieter. He’d just watch while I made dinner or walked him through the office on my phone, like he wanted proof that I was eating well, that I was doing okay.

The others were a bit more unnerving. Hassan most of all. Whenever I felt him there, my body tensed automatically. But I was careful. Those first few months, I made sure not to say anything reckless, not to be caught doing something that could be twisted into disrespect.

Over time, the “check-ins” slowed down. Weeks would pass without anyone slipping into my head, and I started to relax. Maybe Hassan had gotten bored. Maybe my dad and Karim decided I didn’t need watching anymore.

I let my guard down.

I went on more dates. Some with women, some with men. No one in my family or any of my friends knew I was bi — I’d never told them, never even hinted at it. But the ring didn’t make me nervous the way it had at first. My uncles couldn’t tell a date from a hangout with friends, not when they didn’t know who my friends were to begin with.

One night, I was sitting across from a cute guy named Daniel at a little ramen place in the East Village when Karim slipped into my head.

What are you eating? he asked, amused.

“Ramen,” I muttered quietly, leaning on my hand to hide my lips.

That’s just soup with noodles, no?

I almost laughed. “Kind of, yeah.”

He didn’t say anything else, and after a minute his presence faded. He hadn’t realized who Daniel was, and I definitely wasn’t going to tell him.

Things went on like that for a while.

Then one Friday night, I went out with friends to a bar downtown. It wasn’t officially a gay bar, but the crowd leaned that way, and by midnight the dance floor was full of men moving together, laughing, brushing against each other. I felt free in a way I hadn’t in Cairo, and even in New York I hadn’t let myself feel until recently.

That’s when Hassan dropped in.

The moment his presence filled my head, my stomach sank. He saw the men around me. He saw the looks I was getting. I felt his disapproval immediately, sharp and heavy.

Before I could react, my body stiffened. My legs moved on their own. I turned from the bar and started walking. My friends called after me, confused, but I didn’t answer. My uncle didn’t give me the chance.

Wordlessly, he marched me outside, down the block, and into the subway. Every step was his, not mine. My arms swung, my feet carried me, my head didn’t turn even though I wanted to scream and shove and stop.

Finally, just as the train pulled into my stop, his grip loosened. The weight left my skull. My body was mine again.

I stumbled off the train, heart racing, sweat prickling my forehead. He hadn’t said a single word, but the message was clear.

The next morning, I opened my eyes and realized I couldn’t move. My arms were frozen at my sides, my chest rising and falling without me deciding it should. Panic set in.

Then I heard his voice.

Don’t fight. I’ve decided to stay for a while.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. He spoke again, firmly in my head.

I’ve taken time off at work in Cairo. For the next month, I’ll be here, full-time. You won’t be returning to Cairo — you’re earning good money here. Better it stays this way for now. Some of that money goes back home, which is more useful than you stumbling around the city without guidance.

I tried to push against him, to move even a finger, but nothing responded. My body got up, stretched, walked to the bathroom. I was a passenger, and he was the driver.

---

The first week was unbearable. I felt everything but controlled nothing. My uncle ate my food, wore my clothes, went to my job, talked to my friends — all with my face, my voice. He never let me speak to them, but I could hear everything.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

At work, women smiled at him. At the gym, he caught girls watching. And when he went out at night, especially in the places I liked downtown, the attention multiplied.

He was startled the first time a girl leaned in, touched his arm, and asked for his number.

It kept happening. Arab girls especially — stylish, sharp, bold in a way he hadn’t expected. He acted cool, but I could feel the surprise underneath.

He didn’t want to admit it, but New York was getting to him. He liked the way my body felt when he caught himself in the mirror at the gym, veins tight across my arms. He liked flipping through my wardrobe and finding shirts that fit close, jeans that drew looks. He liked walking down the street and knowing people were turning their heads.

The same city he’d mocked me for — the city he’d warned would corrupt me — was pulling him in too.

And he didn’t hate it.

---

By the time the month ended, my uncle was moving through my life just like I would … like he’d always lived it. He dressed in my clothes better than I did, pairing shirts and jackets in ways I hadn’t even bothered to try. He had a rotation of cafes where the baristas already recognized him. And he’d gone on a few dates — but always with Arab girls, always in Arabic.

One night, I had to sit and endure as he took a girl home after a date and fucked her in my bed.

Resisting temptation is difficult, he said in my head after she left, almost like an apology but not quite.

I wanted to scream at him, but he ignored me, rolling over to sleep in my bed with my body.

When the end of the month came, he stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself with an expression that was more proud than critical. He took a breath, then muttered an incantation. The ring vibrated sharply against my finger, sending a pulse up my arm.

“You can take it off now if you want,” he said aloud, using my voice. “It will obey you.”

Then, softer: “I ask that you keep it on until you return for Eid. Only a few weeks. After that, we can decide more.”

Before I could answer, the pressure in my head lifted. My limbs went slack, my chest heaved — mine again. He was gone.

I yanked at the ring just to test him. It slid, loosened. For the first time since that night in Cairo, I could have pulled it off.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

---

When I finally got back home, I went straight to his house. I knocked on the door, expecting his deep voice to bark out a greeting. Instead, my aunt opened it.

She looked surprised to see me. “Hassan isn’t here. I haven’t seen him in a while,” she said. “But he left something for you.”

She handed me a folded note. The handwriting was his, sharp and deliberate.

I opened it.

Go to the den. Take off the ring.

I glanced at her. She was already walking back toward the kitchen. No questions. No explanations.

So I went.

In the den, I shut the door and sat down. My heart raced as I tugged at the band. It slid off easily, no resistance, no searing pain. For a split second I felt relieved — but then everything went dark.

I blinked and came back to myself. I was sitting in Hassan’s favorite chair, my palms pressed into the worn leather arms. But when I looked up, it wasn’t him standing over me. It was me. My body. My face. Except it was his smirk twisting it.

“What the fuck—” I started, but the words cracked and fell apart as he started muttering something low and sharp — another incantation.

When he was done, he grinned wider, running a hand over my chest, squeezing the muscle, flexing the arms. “Fuck, nephew, it feels soooo good being in this body.” He turned my shoulders toward the mirror on the wall, admiring himself. “You kept it in such good shape. I really missed it these past few weeks. Strong. Young. Fresh. This is mine now.”

I was still at a complete loss for words.

“Maybe you were right about the West after all,” he said, rolling my voice with a mocking tone. “Not about the men — that’s your weakness, not mine. But the rest? The clothes, the attention, the city? You were onto something. I wanted it. I wanted all of it. And not part-time. Not with you whispering in the back of my head. Full time.”

He leaned down close, eyes burning into me. “Problem is, my old body had to go back to work. And someone needed to stay here in Cairo, sit in my chair, wear my skin, so my brothers don’t get suspicious and try to help you. So while you slept on that plane, I jumped in again.”

I felt the blood drain from my face — or rather, from his.

“By taking off the ring with me still in here,” he continued, tapping the silver band on his finger, “you triggered the full swap. You’re me now. I’m you.”

I tried to yell at him to give it back, but no words left my throat.

He tilted my chin up, forcing my borrowed eyes to meet mine. “Don’t bother. The incantation I just did makes it impossible for you to tell anyone what I’ve done. Not your father. Not Karim. Not anyone in this family.”

He straightened, stretched my arms overhead, and gave himself one last look in the mirror. The smirk turned into a wicked grin.

“Fuck, it’s going to be fun being you, Youssef. Forever.”

[my-body-likes-you-in-control-de]

The Open Vessel

I never believed in my dad’s occult nonsense. Not really. Sure, I’d seen him chant over candles, mumble to himself in languages that sounded like they belonged in a horror movie, and fill our house with weird-smelling herbs. But it was just his thing—his manic obsession. Victor was always chasing something: immortality, power, a second chance. And, like always, he decided I was his ticket to getting it.

It started with the potion.

I came home late one night, the smell of sweat and beer still clinging to me from the party I’d been at. The house was dark except for the flickering light from the basement. I should’ve known something was wrong then, but I was too buzzed to care. I stumbled down the steps, calling out for him.

“Pato,” his voice slithered through the shadows before I saw him. He was crouched in the middle of a chalk circle, his eyes wild, his fingers stained with something dark. “Perfect timing.”

I scoffed. “What are you doing down here?”

“Very important work.” He grinned.

Then, before I could move, he lunged, his fingers smearing something wet and sticky across my forehead. The world tilted. My skin burned. And then—

I was still me. But I wasn’t alone.

At first, I thought I was going insane. Hearing whispers in my head, feeling impulses that weren’t mine. Then I realized—he was inside me. Victor. His spirit had crawled into my body like a parasite, wrapping around my mind, pressing against my thoughts.

Mine now, his voice echoed in my skull. Young again. Strong again.

For weeks, I was trapped inside my own body, forced to watch as he lived my life. He went to my classes, hung out with my friends, even hooked up with my girlfriend—all while I screamed silently, helplessly, inside. He loved it. The freedom, the energy, the control.

But then something went wrong.

I felt it before he did—a tearing, a burning, like his very essence was unraveling. He panicked, clawing at the edges of my mind, desperate to hold on. But it was too late.

His spirit came apart violently, screaming as it dissolved into nothing. I could feel every second of it—his terror, his rage, the way his consciousness frayed like rotten thread before vanishing completely.

And just like that, I was free.

Or so I thought.

The next possession happened a month later.

I was in the shower when the air turned cold, when I felt something slither into me like smoke filling my lungs. A stranger’s voice laughed in my head, giddy with disbelief.

No way. An open vessel?

This one was different from Victor. Younger. Hungrier. He didn’t just take over—he made me his. Got a bunch of tattoos, pierced my ears, dressed me in clothes I’d never wear. He partied, fucked, lived hard. And then, like my father, he burned out.

It kept happening.

Spirits found me. They didn’t know how or why, but my body was a door left wide open, and they walked right in. Some were cruel, some were desperate, but they all wanted the same thing—to be young again. To feel alive.

And they all left their mark.

Tattoos snaked across my skin. Piercings glinted in places I’d never have chosen. My hair grew long, then short, then wild with random colors. My body wasn’t my own anymore—it was a canvas for dead men’s fantasies.

I tried everything to stop it. Salt circles, prayers, even an exorcism. Nothing worked.

Then I found him.

The occultist called himself Elias. He was different from the other help I’d sought out—calm, calculating. When I told him what was happening, he didn’t look at me with pity or fear. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“Your father’s spell left you vulnerable,” he said, fingers tracing the air around me like he could see the damage. “But I can close the door.”

“How?” I was desperate. Willing to try anything.

His eyes gleamed. “I need to enter you.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“Not like them,” he said smoothly. “I’ll go in, repair the damage from the inside, then leave. You’ll be free.”

I should’ve known better. But after years of being violated, of losing myself over and over, I was willing to risk it.

I let him in.

The moment his spirit slipped inside me, I knew I’d made a mistake.

His presence wasn’t like the others—it wasn’t chaotic or desperate. It was methodical. Dominant. He didn’t just settle into my body—he claimed it.

Oh, his voice purred in my mind. This is… exquisite.

I felt him rooting through my thoughts, my memories, savoring them like a fine wine. Then, to my horror, I felt something else—a slow, deliberate pulse of pleasure as his control seeped into my limbs. My hand moved on its own, sliding down my stomach, past the waistband of my pants.

What the hell are you doing? I demanded, panic rising.

Relax, Elias murmured, his presence curling around my thoughts like smoke. Just testing the connection.

But it wasn’t just a test. My fingers wrapped around my cock, stroking with a rhythm that wasn’t mine, pleasure building in tight, relentless waves. I tried to resist, but my body wasn’t mine anymore—it was his. And he was enjoying himself.

Is this—is this part of the process? I asked, my voice strained.

Not really, Elias admitted, his mental voice thick with satisfaction. But this feels too good to give up. He let out a low, dark laugh. That’s why I’m taking it. Taking you.

The orgasm hit like a punch, white-hot and involuntary, my body shuddering under his control. And as the pleasure faded, so did my resistance.

With a cold, clinical precision, he began pushing me out.

Wait— I tried to fight, but it was like holding back a tide. His will crushed mine effortlessly.

You don’t understand, he murmured, almost apologetic. I’ve never had a vessel so perfect. So… willing to let me in.

The last thing I felt before the darkness took me was the finality of it—the click of a lock, the sealing of a door.

And then I was outside.

Not just pushed aside—evicted.

I watched, helpless, as he stretched my limbs, as he admired the tattoos and piercings left by the others. He laughed, low and satisfied.

Don’t worry, he didn’t like you anyway, he whispered, talking to my body itself as if it had a mind of its own. But I’ll take good care of us. I'll be the best owner you could ever ask for and put you to great use.

[my-body-likes-you-in-control-de]

Enough Credits (Pt. 2)

After that, I decided Max was getting a bit obsessed and so I decided the best thing to do was to put some distance between us.

I had enough credits from all my previous swaps—including the ones with Max—to stay out of my body for a little over two months. I figured that if I kept moving direclty between bodies, I wouldn't give him an opening and maybe he would just get obsessed with someone else.

My first stop was Madrid.

I’d picked Mateo, a bartender with sun-kissed skin, a sharp jawline, a sexy beard, and glasses that perfectly framed his face. His profile picture screamed 'take me.' How his body was available I won't understand.

One second, I was in my dim apartment, staring at the ceiling, and the next—bam—I was behind a polished oak bar, my fingers deftly twisting a lime wedge onto the rim of a glass. The air was thick with the tang of citrus and spilled beer, laughter and clinking glasses layering over the hum of conversation.

A group of British tourists crowded the counter, three drinks deep and radiating boozy confidence. One of them, a blond with tousled hair and a smirk that screamed trouble, caught my eye.

"¿Qué quieres, guapo?" I asked, leaning in just enough to watch his cheeks flush.

He barked a laugh. "Christ, mate, don’t start with the Spanish. Absolute shite at it."

I switched to thickly accented English, grinning. "Is okay. I understand what I need to. What can I get you?"

He talked like a lad—all banter and bravado—and honestly, I wouldn’t have pegged him as gay if he wasn’t aggressively flirting back. Meanwhile, the brunette beside him kept “accidentally” brushing her fingers against mine every time I passed her a drink.

So I played along.

By last call, I had them both hooked—leaning into Mateo’s natural charm, lingering touches, teasing words. The guy was practically vibrating when I whispered, "You’re trouble," in his ear. The girl? She hated it.

"Guess I’m walking you home tonight," I told him, loud enough for her to hear. Then I shot her a look—slow, deliberate, the kind of grin that said, You wish it was you.

The glare she fired back was priceless.

---

Ten days in Madrid had been glorious. But before the swap could expire, I initiated another—no hesitation, no looking back.

One blink, and the sun-soaked streets of Spain vanished. The next, I was in the steam-clouded kitchen of a Parisian bistro, my hands moving with practiced precision as I diced shallots into paper-thin crescents. Around me, the chaos of dinner service roared: the hiss of seared duck, the clang of pans, the sous chef’s barked orders in rapid-fire French.

Mathieu.

His life was all sharp knives and hotter tempers, a world of reduced wines and rare meats, of calloused fingers and a permanent burn mark on his left forearm. I loved it instantly.

But the best part? Christophe.

Mathieu’s boyfriend was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of effortless dominance that made my—his—body react before my brain could catch up. The first night, Christophe didn’t even wait until we were fully inside their apartment. The door had barely shut behind us before he shoved me against it, his mouth crashing onto mine, his hands already working open the buttons of Mathieu’s stained chef’s jacket.

"Tu me manquait aujourd'hui," he growled against my throat.

A shiver tore through me. My back arched, pressing into him as his grip tightened on my hips. He knew exactly how to touch this body—where to bite, how hard to press, when to let his fingers dig in just shy of pain. Every flick of his tongue, every possessive drag of his palms over Mathieu’s skin was a lesson in control.

And the best part? He had no idea.

No idea Mathieu had signed up for Metamorph. No idea the man he was pinning to the mattress, the throat he was marking, the body he worshiped with rough, knowing hands—wasn’t his boyfriend at all.

That made it even hotter.

I spent days in their sunlit apartment, letting Christophe map every inch of Mathieu’s skin like he owned it. Mornings started with his mouth between my thighs, evenings ended with my back against the shower tiles, steam and sweat and Christophe’s voice in my ear: "T’es à moi."

And for a while, I let myself believe this was my real life.

Then, one morning, as I lay tangled in their rumpled sheets, Christophe’s arm slung heavy over my waist, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Max:

Max: Hey. Your body hasn’t been available in a few weeks. You avoiding me?

My stomach twisted. I deleted it without responding.

---

After Paris, I decided to switch things up. No more tangled sheets, no more possessive boyfriends (as hot as that was). This time? A straight guy.

I chose Bangkok.

Kiet's body was a fucking masterpiece. Broad shoulders that strained against his tank top, abs carved like a Roman statue, thighs thick from years of Muay Thai squats. And then there was that—the kind of natural endowment that made even loose gym shorts look like a sin.

The first time I caught my reflection in the gym mirror, mid-pull-up, I nearly laughed out loud. Jesus Christ. No wonder people stared.

I dropped from the bar, rolling my shoulders, and caught my sparring partner—Ton—watching me. Again.

He was leaner than Kiet, all wiry muscle and sharp elbows, but quick as a viper in the ring. And the way his gaze kept flicking to my chest, my arms, my—

Yeah. He’s into me.

Which was hilarious, because Kiet’s profile had been very clear: 100% straight.

That didn’t stop me from having a little fun.

I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long drink just to watch Ton’s throat work as he watched me swallow.

"You’ve been getting stronger," I said, clapping him on the shoulder, letting my thumb brush the damp skin of his collarbone. "Looking good lately."

He stiffened, then shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just training hard."

"Must be," I mused, stepping closer to adjust his stance—close enough that he could feel my breath on his neck. "Girls must be noticing, huh?"

His jaw tightened. "Yeah. Maybe."

I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. "Wish I had your luck. My girl’s been so distant lately…"

A lie. Kiet was single. But Ton’s eyes darkened, conflicted—caught between concern, jealousy, and something far more interesting.

I let the tension simmer for days. Lingering touches. Compliments that walked the line between friendly and too friendly. The way Ton’s breath hitched when I wiped sweat off his brow after a brutal round. The way he’d stare at my mouth when I laughed.

And then—on my last day in Kiet’s body—I decided to give him exactly what he wanted.

The locker room was empty except for us, steam curling in the air as Ton toweled off. I leaned against the lockers, watching.

"You ever think about trying something new?" I asked, voice low.

He froze. "Like what?"

I pushed off the lockers, closing the distance between us in two strides. His breath caught as I caged him against the bench, close enough to feel his pulse racing.

"Like this," I murmured.

And then I kissed him.

Just once. Just enough to feel him melt against me for half a second before he jerked back, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.

I grinned, stepping away. "See you around, Ton."

And then I left him there—flushed, breathless, and utterly ruined.

---

After Bangkok’s sweat and adrenaline, I craved something decadent. So I chose Mo.

One moment, I was in a humid gym locker room; the next, I was standing on a private balcony, the dry desert wind tousling my hair as Dubai’s skyline glittered below like scattered diamonds. The air smelled of expensive cologne and the faint, briny tang of the Persian Gulf.

I closed my eyes and rifled through Mo’s memories.

By day, I was the polished heir to a Bahraini business empire—custom suits, boardroom smiles, a family name that opened doors with a whisper. By night? A closeted hurricane, fucking my way through the diplomatic corps with the kind of reckless hunger that came from a lifetime of restraint.

I grinned, running a hand down my chest—Mo’s chest, lean and toned from private trainers and rooftop yoga. This was going to be fun.

For the first time since Max, I got a notification from the resident of my body.

It was Mo.

He’d sent a selfie: my body—his body now—wearing a croppedtop, my (his?) hips cocked in a way I’d never dared in public.

Mo: Turns out your closet was full of boring clothes for an out guy. Fixed that 😘

I barked a laugh. I’d never wear that—too bold, too femme—but something warm curled in my chest. He was out there, living freely in my skin, good for him.

Then my phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a text from Niklas—Mo’s very German, very blond fuckbuddy with the shoulders of a Olympian swimmer:

“You’ve been quiet. I’m in town. You down to meet up tonight?”

I bit my lip. Honestly, I might be the lucky one in this dynamic.

And I know, I know—the gay community would have me burned at the stake for saying it, but there was something thrilling about stepping back into the closet.

The stolen glances across gilded hotel lobbies. The way Niklas’s hand “accidentally” brushed mine under the table at dinner. The risk of it—the way Mo’s pulse would jump when a colleague mentioned seeing him at a certain bar, the way his breath hitched when he had to lie flawlessly to his father’s friends.

It was a game. A performance. And I’d always been a damn good actor.

By the end of ten days, Niklas had me pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mo’s penthouse, his teeth in my shoulder, the city lights blurring below us as I gasped something halfway between Arabic and German.

But all good things end.

I opened the app, scrolling through potential hosts, but the credits were dwindling. I'd only have enough left for one more swap

---

That’s when I found Ryan.

His profile popped up late one night as I scrolled through the app, the glow of the screen casting sharp shadows across my borrowed Dubai penthouse. Toronto. My hometown. And his body—Jesus Christ—almost as defined as Kiet’s, but leaner, more compact. Like a swimmer’s build dialed up to eleven. His face was softer too, boyish in a way that made his sharp jawline even more striking. Early twenties, probably.

The swap hit like a punch of crisp Canadian air. One second, I was surrounded by desert heat and the weight of Mo’s secrets; the next, I stood in a dimly lit Toronto bedroom, rolling Ryan’s shoulders, flexing his arms, marveling at the way his muscles moved under smooth, pale skin. The guy was built—not just gym-strong, but gymnast-strong, every line of him taut and efficient.

And yet.

I opened his closet and nearly groaned. Oversized band tees. Baggy joggers. A hoodie that could’ve housed a family of four. It was a crime.

I remedied that immediately.

One trip to the mall later and Ryan’s wardrobe had been… optimized. Graphic tees that clung just right (subtle nerd references, because his browsing history betrayed him). A few button downs that I would leave one too many buttons undone on. Dark jeans that hugged his thighs. A thin silver chain with dog tags that rested perfectly against his collarbones.

There. Now he looked like someone who knew what he was working with.

We’d agreed to meet—him in my body, me in his—at a bar near his place. The irony wasn’t lost on me: two strangers, each wearing the other’s skin, about to critique the fit.

I spotted him the second I walked in.

There I was—me—slouched at the bar in one of Ryan’s tragic hoodies, fingers drumming against a beer bottle. He turned, caught sight of his own body striding toward him, and holy shit, the way his eyes darkened—like he’d just walked in on himself naked.

He whistled low. “So,” he said, nodding at me—at himself, “you’re the guy squatting in my skin.”

I laughed, sliding onto the stool beside him. “And you’re the guy who dresses like a monk despite having a god-tier physique.”

Ryan—my Ryan, in my body—flushed, rubbing the back of his neck (my neck). “Yeah, well. I didn’t always look like this. Kinda hard to shake the habit of hiding.”

“You should try it sometime.” I leaned in, close enough to watch his pupils dilate. “I went for a shirtless run yesterday. Nearly caused a traffic accident.”

He choked on his beer.

We ended up back at his place, sprawled across his bed, fingers tracing the lines of his—my—body with a kind of awed frustration. His hands lingered on his own abs, now mine, his brow furrowed. “It’s weird,” he muttered. “Seeing it from the outside. Like it’s not even real.”

I caught his wrist, pressed his palm flat against the ridges of muscle. “It’s real. And this is how people see you all the time. You just never let yourself believe it.”

He huffed a laugh, but his fingers flexed, greedy. “And you? This body has been getting stares all day. People really check you out like this?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I smirked, sliding my hands down my—his—waist, admiring the way the muscles tensed under my touch. “I mean, I’m checking me out right now.”

Our chemistry was stupid. Electric. By the time our initial swap period ended, Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Let’s stay like this,” he said, his voice rough. “Another week.”

I agreed.

It was intoxicating, watching him come alive in my skin—louder, brighter, freer—while simultaneously craving the way he yielded to me in his own body. The way he’d arch into my touch, like he was rediscovering himself through my hands.

And then, one night, his lips against my ear: “What do you say to making this permanent?”

My breath hitched.

“I want to be you,” he murmured, fingers laced through mine. “And more importantly, I want you to be me.”

I should’ve said yes. We fit. I loved this body—the strength of it, the way it moved—and the idea of keeping my old life close, just… reshuffled. My family, my friends, but through new eyes. A fresh start without the goodbyes.

But something itched under my skin. The rush of the past months—Madrid, Paris, Bangkok, Dubai—the thrill of slipping into someone else’s life, just for a taste.

“I want to try a few more people first,” I admitted.

Ryan didn’t push. Just nodded, kissed me slow and deep, and whispered, “Of course. I’ll be here.” A pause. Then, with a grin that sent heat straight to my borrowed bones: “But don’t wait too long.”

--

That turned out to be the dumbest mistake I could’ve made.

The second the 48-hour grace period ended after my swap with Ryan, the world lurched—like a roller coaster dropping out from under me—and then I was back in Max’s body.

Fuck.

I screamed, slamming his fists against the bathroom counter. The reflection staring back at me was all soft edges and tired eyes, that same patchy stubble, that same defeated slump I’d seen a dozen times before. My stomach twisted. No. No no no—

I grabbed his phone.

A DM pinged immediately.

Max: You’ve been holding out on me, gorgeous. I’ve been swapping nonstop, trying to forget how good you felt—but the second I saw your body was available again? I knew had to do something about it.

He sent with it a few pictures of my body shirtless, as if to taunt me.

My blood turned to ice.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve known he’d been watching. Waiting. That he’d pounce the second my guard was down.

I was a fucking idiot.

Damn right I’ll be taking Ryan’s offer as soon as I’m back in my body.

I opened the app, fingers shaking, and checked the countdown.

Expecting 10 days.

Expecting anything but what I saw.

Permanent.

No.

No no no no no—

That wasn’t supposed to be possible. I didn’t accept that.

What the fuck did he do?!

Who was my best swap

Mateo

Mathieu

Kiet

Mo

Ryan

Voting ended onMay 16, 2025

[my-body-likes-you-in-control-de]

Enough Credits

The first time I found Metamorph, I thought it was a prank—some elaborate role-playing scam or a dark web trap for the desperate. But the testimonials were too raw, the credit system too brutally efficient, the rules too meticulously structured to be fake.

Metamorph was a body-swapping marketplace.

The setup was simple, almost deceptively so. You signed up, submitted to a biometric scan to register your "profile," and got a handful of starter credits. Then—if you had the points—you could slip into someone else’s skin. Every swap you initiated cost credits. But if someone else chose your body, you’d be paid in theirs.

There were two kinds of swaps: temporary and permanent.

Temporary swaps were the most common—brief trades lasting anywhere from an hour to ten days. The catch? You couldn’t refuse them. If someone had the credits and wanted your body, they took it. No warning, no consent. Just a sudden, violent lurch—your consciousness torn from your flesh and dumped into theirs, no matter how unfamiliar or unwelcome. Some users described it like blacking out mid-breath: one second you’re yourself, the next you’re choking awake in a stranger’s life, their pulse hammering in your throat.

Permanent swaps were rarer, more deliberate. Unlike temporary trades, they didn’t cost the initiator credits. Instead, they could offer to take your body outright. If you accepted—and this time, you did have a choice—Metamorph would deposit enough credits into your account for three years of temporary swaps. Three years of bouncing between models, athletes, even the occasional washed-up celebrity. Three years of borrowed lives, no regrets. That’s because once you agreed, your old body was no longer your home—and the person who took it was locked out of Metamorph forever.

As I scrolled through the catalog of profiles—each tagged with vitals, photos, even user ratings—my pulse spiked. Damn. So many hotties. Sharp jawlines, gym-sculpted arms, guys who looked like they’d walked straight off a billboard. And I knew my own worth. My body was lean, angular, the kind that turned heads in a club. Some of these high-credit users would absolutely burn points to step into me for a night. I mean look at me:

At first, I was right. It was electric. I woke up in lawyers, musicians, a guy who owned a yacht in Miami. I racked up credits fast, riding the thrill of each new swap. Sure, none were keepers—one guy had a nicotine habit that left me wheezing, another had a wife who side-eyed "his" sudden indifference—but it was fun. Until it wasn’t.

Max was easily the worst body I’d been dumped into yet.

Not some wealthy muscle god, not even a guy with decent charm. He was soft around the middle, patchy stubble, the kind of face that made waitresses forget to refill his water. I groaned, rolling off the sagging mattress and stumbling into his dingy bathroom. The mirror confirmed it: dull brown eyes, thinning hair, a nose that had clearly lost a fight with a door frame.

What the hell?

I grabbed his phone, swiping to the Metamorph widget. 10 days. The max lockout period. My stomach dropped. Ten days in this?

Then I saw his credit balance.

My breath stalled.

87,430 credits.

An obscene amount. More than I’d ever seen—enough to live in other bodies nonstop for decades.

A note sat on the counter, scrawled in messy handwriting:

Hey, If you’re reading this, congrats—you’re my first pleasure swap in 10 years. I’ve been playing the long game. Take an ugly body, train it up, swap it permanently for another ugly one, stack credits. Rinse and repeat. Twelve times. This body (Max) is my home now. But I saved all these credits for one reason: to finally have fun. Yours was the first body that tempted me in years. Enjoy the credits! —M

I stared at the note, then back at the phone.

A weird mix of flattery and dread coiled in my chest.

Ten days later, I snapped back into my own body like a rubber band. My skin hummed with familiarity—the lean muscles, the sharp jaw, the way my shirt draped just right. I exhaled, running my hands over my face like I was checking for damage.

Home.

Another note waited on my desk.

Thank you. —M

I thought that was the end of it. And hey, now I had credits to burn, right? Wrong.

Two days later, I was brushing my teeth when the world tilted sideways.

I was back in Max’s bathroom, staring into his tired eyes, my hands gripping his chipped sink.

“What the—?!”

His phone buzzed. This time a DM:

Max: Hey, gorgeous. Miss me? Sorry for the surprise. Cut my Rio trip short—some Brazilian adonis is gonna wake up very confuse (and probably very relieved). You’re just… different.

I hurled the phone onto his unmade bed.

The next ten days crawled. Max’s body was a wreck—aching knees, a back that popped when he stretched, a fridge full of microwave meals. I barely left his apartment, counting down the hours like a prisoner.

When I finally snapped back into my own skin, I collapsed onto my floor, kissing the familiar creaks of my hardwood.

Four days of freedom. Then—wrench. Back to Max’s sagging couch and doughy love handles.

Another DM:

Max: Okay, hear me out. I tried to resist taking you again. But then I took over some hedge-fund bro’s body (6’2”, abs, yawn) and all I could think about was your biceps and the curve of your hips. Pathetic, right? Anyway. Ten more days. Try not to hate me. (Or do. That’s kinda hot now that I think about it.)

“You creep,” I muttered.

Enough. I opened a support ticket, fingers jittering:

"How do I block a user from repeatedly swapping into my body?"

The reply came fast:

Metamorph Support: "User blocking is not currently supported. If a participant has sufficient credits and respects the 48-hour cooldown, swaps are permitted. Adjust profile visibility or spend credits to remain in other bodies longer to avoid unwanted exchanges."*

I stared at the screen. Adjust visibility? Useless—he already knew my ID. Spend credits to hide? A temporary fix.

I was trapped.

I waited out the ten days in Max’s body, scrambling for a solution. Nothing. Maybe he’d get bored. Finally, I was back in my own skin—my hands, my apartment, my reflection—when the app chimed.

A notification:

PERMANENT SWAP REQUEST User ID#4492-LL would like to swap bodies with you. Max: I feel so right as you.

My stomach lurched. I smashed REJECT so fast.

“Fuck no.”

The app blinked. Request denied.

He wanted to be me?

Another DM popped up:

Max: Worth a shot. ;)

[my-body-likes-you-in-control-de]

Julian's Bargain (Pt. 1)

The apartment smelled like stale coffee and dirty, sweaty laundry—Julian’s place, not The apartment reeked of stale coffee grounds and the sour tang of forgotten laundry—Julian’s signature musk, not mine. The air clung to my tongue, thick enough to taste. He’d lured me over with his usual vague bullshit about “needing advice,” which, in Julian-speak, translated to: I’m about to hit you up for cash. Again.

I sank into his thrift-store couch, springs groaning under me, and cracked open a beer. “Alright, kid. What’s the damage this time?”

Julian rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tension there. His gaze darted everywhere but my face. That stupid gold cross necklace glinted under the flickering overhead light—the one he’d started wearing religiously (ha) a few months back. “Okay, so. Before you say no—”

“I haven’t said no yet.”

“Right. But this is…” He chewed his lip, thumb tracing the edges of the pendant like a worry stone. “Kinda out there. You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

I took a slow swig, foam bitter on my tongue. “Try me.”

He exhaled, sharp and jagged, like he was tearing off duct tape. “This thing can swap bodies.”

The beer nearly went down wrong. “The necklace?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you got at that stupid flea market?

Julian rolled his eyes. “Yes, that one. Look, I know how it sounds, but it’s real. Liam and I tested it a few weeks ago. Swapped for, like, two days. Freaked his girlfriend the hell out.”

I stared. “You’re telling me you and Liam just… swapped?”

“Yes.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face hard enough to smudge his stubble. “I know it sounds insane. But it works.”

I leaned back, studying him. The kid’s knuckles were white around the beer bottle. His knee bounced like a live wire. Dead fucking serious.

“Okay.” I let the word hang, just to watch him squirm. “Let’s say I believe you—which I don’t, by the way—why the hell are you telling me?”

Julian hesitated. Then, quieter: “I wanna make a deal. You take my body for the summer. In exchange, you give me some cash. Then in the fall, I move to LA. Try modeling.”

I barked a laugh. “Modeling?”

“What?” He scowled, shoulders tensing. “I could do it.”

I didn’t argue. The kid was built like a Renaissance painting—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, the kind of face that made bartenders card him twice just to stare. But his wardrobe was a crime against humanity, and his selfies looked like hostage photos.

“And what do I get out of this trade?” I asked, still dripping sarcasm.

Julian grinned, all teeth. “Besides the joy of funding my dreams? You’re, what, forty-five?”

“Forty-two, asshole.”

“Right. So. Three months as a twenty-six-year-old gym rat with a face like this?” He gestured to himself like a game-show prize. “Seems like a fair trade.”

It couldn’t be real. But if it was—

My pulse kicked. Not just the youth (though fuck, yeah, that was part of it), but the body. The one I’d never gotten to have. I was fit now, sure, but in my 20s? Skinny, soft, all wrong. I didn’t come out until 29. Didn’t get top surgery until my late 30s. To step into Julian’s skin—no scars, no dysphoria, a body that matched without a single fight? To be tall for once, instead of 5’6” on a good day?

It hit me like a live wire, heat pooling low in my gut. And judging by Julian’s smirk, he knew exactly how good his offer was.

Still, I let him sweat before nodding at the necklace. “Prove it.”

Julian blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Show me it’s real.”

He hesitated, then slipped the chain over his head. The gold glinted, warm against his palm. “Okay. But just for, like, a minute.”

He said a quick incantation. Then—

Oh.

I was looking up at Julian. Or rather, at myself, from the outside. My own face stared back, wide-eyed.

“Holy shit,” Julian—my voice, my mouth—breathed.

I looked down. Julian’s hands—my hands now—flexed, tendons shifting under smooth skin. I rolled my shoulders, felt the ripple of muscle.

Fuck.

He said another incantation. The world tilted again, and suddenly I was back in my own body, heart hammering against my ribs.

Julian grinned, shaky but triumphant. “Convinced?”

I exhaled, slow. “Jesus Christ.”

“So? Deal?”

I pretended to think about it. Like I hadn’t already decided the second I felt what it was like to breathe in that body.

“One condition,” I said.

Julian groaned. “What?”

“I’m taking your ass to France.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to learn the language, and I can’t think of a better place to be you than on the Côte d'Azur.” I smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll post plenty of pics. You’ll be so jealous.”

Julian scowled. “You’re such a dick.”

“And yet you’re still asking for my help.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “regretting it already,” then sighed. “Fine. But if you fuck up my—”

“Yeah, yeah.” I held out my hand. “Deal?”

He hesitated, then gripped it, his palm was warm. “Deal.”

Week 3

God, taking this deal was such a great decision. The evening Julian swapped us, I bought a one-way ticket to France—literally, for the next day. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just me, this stupidly hot body, and a whole new life waiting on the other side of the Atlantic.

It took less time than you’d think to get used to it all—maybe only a few days if we’re being honest. But I still catch myself staring in the mirror sometimes, running my hands up my smooth, hairless chest, down my flat abs. You’d think I’d hate the twunky vibe after years of T and building up my hairy bear body, but… nope. Not even a little. There’s something fun about this.

I've especially started to get a bit addicted to taking selfies now too. Here's a few of my favorites:

I sublet a room in this fancy apartment in Nice—living with two French girls, Camille and Léa, and a Swiss-French guy, Théo. When we were messaging, they were so reluctant to take in an American (especially one with my shitty, stumbling French), but the second I showed up in person? Oof. Camille actually blushed when she opened the door. Théo clapped me on the back like we were old friends, and Léa—cool, aloof Léa—suddenly found reasons to linger in the kitchen whenever I was around.

“Ton français n’est pas si terrible,” she told me the other night, leaning against the counter while I made coffee. Her eyes flicked over my bare shoulders. (I may or may not have been shirtless. For the heat. Obviously.)

“Merci,” I said, grinning. “But I think you’re just being nice.”

“Non,” she said, tilting her head. “You have a… charming accent.”

Yeah. Charming. That’s one word for it.

I’ve been throwing myself into the language, into the city, into not being another clueless tourist. My roommates drag me to these little local beachside parties—no overpriced cocktails, no tacky souvenirs, just good music, better wine, and people who actually live here. Last weekend, Théo introduced me to some of his friends, and this guy, Mathis, spent half the night very casually finding excuses to touch my arm.

“You’re not like most Americans,” he said, smirking, as he handed me another drink.

“Oh yeah?” I took the glass, letting my fingers brush his. “What are most Americans like?”

“Loud,” he said. “Obvious.”

I leaned in just a little. “And I’m not?”

He laughed, low and warm. “Non. You’re… interesting.”

I could get used to this. No grinding through shitty work shifts, no stressing over every calorie. Just long days in the sun, late nights with even better company, and this body—my body—drawing eyes wherever I go.

Best. Decision. Ever.