Oliver Or Something

Body swaps, transformations, body part swaps, and more. 18+ only.

[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.

[horniestofhoes]

Hey, does anyone in this sub have any experience reverting bodily modification spells? I called some girl at the bar a fugly bitch and said that I was way out of her league, so she cast some spells and now I’m some kind of freaky manslut. I grew to 6’4 and my muscles are now fucking huge, I could probably crush some heads with my biceps and probably some melons with my thighs. My cock is now freakishly large and I’m so so so so FUCKING horny all the time I can’t even think straight, probably because she made me gay too. No guy can take this log without going to the ER so I just have to jerk it hourly. Every piece of clothing I wear now is either super short of super tight, so I just look like an attention whore all the time. Need help ASAP, if not to reverse the changes just to milk my dick. THX in advance

[oliverorsomething]

Only Parasocially

Peter liked his life, and his body. Sure, he wasn’t a multimillionaire with a sculpted six pack, but he was comfortable being the manager of a local restaurant. His dating life was okay, his apartment was okay, and his life was okay.

Recently, a content creator started showing up on Peter’s For You Page. His name was Brandon, he was 6’4, and built like a god. He posted pictures of his gorgeous body relaxing on sandy beaches, and videos of his tight shorts struggling to contain his massive muscles. He often talked about his life, the incredible trips he took, the local food he got to try, and the fans that he stumbled into every once in a while.

After a while, Brandon became Peter’s favorite content creator, and sometimes Peter felt like he truly knew Brandon, even if only parasocially. He knew the sound of his laughter; it was loud, and unapologetic. He knew exactly Brandon’s type; tall, lean men that posed for his videos in tiny, bright-colored trunks. He would often wrap his guns around their shoulders and pull them in while smirking at the camera. He knew the way Brandon talked. He had listened to his voice talk about an endless amount of subjects; the gym, his friends, taking care of plants, traveling, macros, and even his experience as a gay man.

Peter was straight. Totally straight. But he could still admire Brandon through his screen. And, while Peter was straight, he wasn’t blind. He knew Brandon was handsome, rich, and successful. Despite them being total opposites, Peter felt a connection, he felt like they were friends.

The night before his thirtieth birthday, Peter found himself stuck doomscrolling yet again. He was trying to distract himself. His life was good, he kept thinking, as if he needed to convince himself. He swiped a couple of times before he met eye to eye with Brandon. He looked excited and had a wide smile. He was shirtless, as per usual, and spoke a little bit louder too.

Peter stared at his little light box of joy as Brandon announced that the following day, June 22nd, he would celebrate turning thirty. He thanked his fans for their support and ended the video with his signature smile.

Peter put his phone down. What were the chances that both him and Brandon would have the same birthday? He settled into bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt off. Brandon was his age exactly. What was Pete doing with his life? He contemplated his own achievements. He could count them on his right hand. He ran his hand over his beer belly.

Maybe he didn’t like his life as much as he thought.

He had a rough night of sleep. He writhed in his bed and woke up with a cold sweat. He sat up on his bed and put one of his hands to his forehead. It felt strange. Like his hand was bigger, and rougher somehow. He decided he didn’t have a fever, but he should get some water before going back to bed. He threw his feet off the bed and felt them hit a soft rug. Weird, he didn’t have a rug. And he didn’t sleep barefoot either. He tried looking around the room, but the darkness made it impossible. That’s odd too. He didn’t have blackout curtains. He found his phone under his pillow, though it was seemingly smaller than he remembered. The screen lit up when he brought it up to his face, and the wallpaper didn’t match his own. He squinted at the phone and tried to make sense of it. He swiped up to unlock it and realized his skin was not the same color as before.

Peter was confused, and disoriented, and a little optimistic as well. He lumbered around the dark room with an astounding lack of dexterity, until he found what he thought were the curtains, and drew them back.

The room lit up immediately, and he blinked while his eyes adjusted to the light. What he saw made his jaw drop. He looked down at his body in awe. It was muscular and big. So much bigger than what he was used to. He lifted his arms and flexed, admiring the way his veins popped against his muscles. He was Brandon now.

He looked back at the phone which he was still holding in his other hand.

The phone was receiving texts from an unknown number. He recognized it as his old number. They started slow and confused, and then continued with an escalating level of urgency. He opened them. It was “Brandon,” who was asking questions like “who are you?” “How did this happen?” And “how do we go back?”

The texts got more desperate.

please man

you have my life

you have my body

we have to go back

He looked down at his new body. Then, he looked around his luxury apartment. His larger finger hovered over the text box.

You have blocked this number.

He didn’t want to go back. He knew exactly who he was now, and there is no way in hell he would ever return to his old life and his old body if he could help it. He sat down again. He knew who he was, he was Brandon now. And he didn’t need to worry about how to go back.

This would take some getting used to. The power, the body, the job… even his new found attraction for men, which he apparently inherited as well. Brandon didn’t care, though. He liked his new self.

[oliverorsomething]

He Looks Like He's Having Fun

Mason’s roommate Ian was insufferable. He got high on the weekends, slept through the day, and had his football buddies over during the night. He rarely washed a single cup, much less his messy, grown out hair. He left his disgusting dirty laundry all over the room, walked around half naked, and often stole Mason’s clean clothes. He ate like a pig and he would masturbate relentlessly over any surface he could.

Suffice it to say, Mason had had enough. He needed to do something, anything to get him to behave like a functioning adult. He tried talking with him, pleading for Ian to have some sense of civility. He got the RA involved, and then the dorm administrators, but the building was packed, and he couldn’t change rooms until at least a year in the future. So, Mason got desperate. He combed through Reddit for some way to make Ian’s life hell, or at least to get him out of the room, and one Friday late October, he found something that just might work.

It was a link to some sketchy website, the kind buried under piles of mindless AI advertisements. The website, in ugly, highlighter yellow Comic Sans claimed that it could let the user exchange two persons’ bodies for a set amount of time.

This was it. If Mason could have Ian’s body, even for an hour, he could pretend to be him, and voluntarily leave the dorms for good. There was only one minor issue; both of them had to be touching the laptop at the moment of the swap. No big deal, though. He’d just wait until Ian was high off his mind, and the idiot wouldn’t even notice.

He did exactly that. He waited til Saturday, when he knew Ian would be stoned. Ian was lounging on the couch, like usual. His bare chest exposed as he put down the blunt he was holding. He raised is arm to scratch the back of his head, his armpit stinking up the room.

Mason rolled his eyes and tried his best to ignore the foul smell. He brought the laptop over to the couch. "Hey, Ian?" He spoke hesitantly, "I gotta show you something on my laptop." Ian lazily looked up with glassy eyes. Mason awkwardly set the laptop over his chest without any protest from Ian, and then hit enter.

For a brief moment in time, Mason's vision went dark. He blinked a couple of times, trying to ground himself. He had to go down to the office, but he couldn't leave the form shirtless. "Why not?" He asked himself. He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard. Focus. He had to focus. But he couldn't do it for the life of him. He felt giddy. The couch felt nice. So nice. He ran a hand through the fabric of the couch. It was soft. Really, really soft. And his hand was huge now too. He put one foot on the tiled floor and tried to get up, only managing to sit up on the couch. He heard a weird sound. He looked down, and his laptop was on the floor. Why was his laptop on the floor?

He picked it up and struggled to open it, but it wouldn't turn on. Oh, well. He let it fall on the floor again and sat back on the couch. Man, this felt nice. He stretched his arms and opened his legs. He took a big whiff of the air around him. It smelled masculine, and a little musty. What was he so worried about just a second ago?

Someone familiar came into the room. Mason had a shirt just like the one the guy was wearing. The man was excited about some thing or another. He couldn't be bothered to actually listen. He let himself fall back on the couch, and as his head hit the pillow, he couldn't help but notice how hot that little twink was. He absentmindedly fondled his new, much bigger package as he watched the guy run around the room. Oh, right. That was his old body. He looks like he's having fun. And man, is he having fun as well.

[the-masculine-alpha]

Reblog If You Want To Be A Dumb Jock

#Meatheads

[oliverorsomething]

A Truly Magical Place (Part 1)

Camp Valgrave Lake is said to be a truly magical place. But I never thought that it was the place, but rather, the people, who make it a wonderful site. Valgrave is one of the largest lakes in the region and hosts the ultimate summer camp between June and August. Campers from all over Canada, and the world, spend an unforgettable summer there. 

I attended Valgrave when I was a kid. Multiple times, actually. And, so when the opportunity to apply for camp counselor came my way, I didn’t hesitate. I wanted those kids to have just as much fun as I did when I spent the longest days of my awkward teen years there. 

Unfortunately for me, I was only three semesters into college, so I wasn’t the most attractive pick for the recruiters, which is why I didn’t get to be a counselor. However, I did manage to snag a spot as camp counselor assistant. Not the most glamorous, but it was the first step towards becoming a counselor. 

The recruiter I spoke with pointed out a couple of reasons why I was passed up for the role I originally applied for. I’m barely average height, and I’m skinny as hell. She said they look for stronger and more physically capable camp counselors. They are responsible for teenagers, after all. Looking like one was not going to earn me any respect. This also means I would struggle to get any injured camper to safety. Hell, some of the other kids might have an easier time carrying them to a med tent. I also didn’t have first aid training. But her most biting piece of feedback was that I “lack presence, charisma, or any sort of redeemable social or interpersonal skill.” She said; “Mike, I’ll say it bluntly, darlin’. You’re a boring, spiritless husk of a man with no drive or motivation.” 

So, I got out of the interview with a bruised ego and an instruction not to call her back. Fortunately. She wasn’t the only recruiter, and the next guy I talked to had way kinder words than she did. Well, they were less biting, but not much better than hers. 

In truth, she was kind of right. I didn’t have any plans after high school, I just wanted to play videogames in my room and stay in bed till the afternoon. I had abandoned most of my interests one by one as I grew up, only spending my free time jerking off or watching old 9-season long tv shows that you can only find on Netflix now. 

So, maybe spending 10 weeks at Camp Valgrave Lake was exactly what I needed to become the man I was meant to be, and stop being the teen everyone else kept overlooking. Or maybe it was my sign to change my name, dye my hair and start over somewhere else. Who knows. 

Camp Valgrave Lake always starts the second week of June, and extends all the way into the second week of August. Though, counselors, aids, cooks, and most other staff had to arrive two weeks earlier to clean and prep the camp. And holy fuck did this camp need a clean. For a fifth of the year it is the place to be for all teens in the area, but for the rest of the year it’s completely abandoned. So, all twenty-five cabins need cleaning, as well as all the common areas, and the outdoor equipment. The boats need gas, all the cables need to be checked, water needs to run, and all equipment, as well as all staff, needs to be ready for when camp starts. 

I had been toiling away for eight days now. It was the Monday of the week before camp started and I was exhausted. I was assigned to clean half the cabins from floor to ceiling, I had only a counselor and another aid for help; Max and Phil. As it turned out, we made a great team, and I quickly became fond of them. Well, I couldn’t tell if I had grown to like them or if I liked the familiarity. The work was repetitive, and dull, but there was never a boring moment. Snakes, bugs, hidden magazines, and dried stains were only some of the things we had to eradicate from the cabins. Inexplicably, we had managed to get twenty-two done by Saturday, and Sunday morning, Phil and I were assigned to clean the boats.

Phil scraped the last of the gunk off the oar of the third boat. “I don’t think we’re gonna get this done by Wednesday,” he confessed Sunday after breakfast. The sun was beating down on us and we were both getting tired and hungry again from the endless scrubbing and scraping. Phil moved onto the next boat. So did I. After a few more hours, I told Phillip to go have dinner and to come back later in the day. At first he refused. He said that he’d help me clean, he’d skip lunch with me if I wanted to, but I didn’t want him to. I told him I’d meet him at the same spot later in the day. And thus, Phil left.

I kept scrubbing and scraping, and the day droned on. I felt an unsettling breeze blow in from the direction opposite to camp. I looked up to be greeted by the sun, and its reflection, distorted on the water. And for the first time in maybe seven years, I allowed myself to fully gaze at Valgrave Lake. It was beautiful. The waves danced and spun calmly against the sandy shore, kissing it briefly before returning to whence they came.

The lake called to me. It was a beautiful siren song. Intoxicating and dangerous and devastating in its beauty at the same time. I knew I shouldn’t go in; I couldn’t. But I did. I heard it. I wanted to go in. To get to swim in the cold water and float. I couldn’t explain it. It was an all-consuming need to go in. So I did.

I took off my work polo, my converse, and my socks, and I stepped in. The water was cool, like the night air against my fairly thin frame. I felt the bottom of the lake with the soles of my feet, and I had this peculiar sensation on my feet. The water made them feel heavier. Guess that thing about weighing more when wet is true. I advanced further, the water reaching my waist, covering up my shorts. I had to go a little further. Guess the water was moving a lot today. It felt almost as if my legs were getting longer and longer the further I went in. I felt the same with my torso as I kept going. As if it stretched out the more I went in. 

I don’t know exactly when, but after the water reached my chest, I lost all sight of myself. I found myself swimming. I swam until I was too tired and then I kept going. I dove in the water and resurfaced for air over and over again. The water was refreshing against my sunburnt face. I kept swimming until I reached the pier on the other side of the lake, deciding it was a good time to get out. I grabbed onto the ladder with strong, calloused hands, and pulled myself up with experienced ease.

And that’s when I realised something was wrong, because I did not come out of the lake the same man that I went in.

I heard Phillip shout my name from the other side of the lake. “Mike? I got you a hot dog! They were out of burgers. Thought you might be hungry.” Oh, God.