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.
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.
(AI Assisted - Finally got around to finishing the next story from the poll, and this one is inspired by the short film "THE BLACK HOLE" from 2008. I recommend watching the short film first to get a sense of its concept!
Also, a fair bit of warning, this story focuses a lot on the humiliation kink and being trapped in someone much bigger, heavier, and hairier. Which I'm sure some of you might really enjoy! /Verus)
The chemistry lab at Westview College felt like a forgotten corner of the world during lunch break. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their cold glow casting long, harsh shadows across the scuffed linoleum floor. The air hung heavy with the acrid bite of sulfur mixed with the sharp sting of ethanol, scents that seeped into my clothes and lingered on my skin. I sat hunched over our cluttered workstation, my fingers tinted a deep blue from the chemical compounds I had been carefully mixing for our science assignment. It was due in Mr. Clarke's class later that afternoon, and the pressure weighed on me like an invisible hand.
Across from me, Dan lounged in his chair with that effortless slouch of his, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. He swirled a beaker with a lazy flick of his wrist, his face scrunched up in clear annoyance.
"Man, Clarke's such an asshole!" Dan muttered, his voice low and edged with frustration. "He piles on these assignments just because we don't kiss his ass in class like the other kids do. Thinks he's some big shot, strutting around with that hairy broad chest straining against his shirt, barely squeezing through the doorways without turning sideways."
He snorted, leaning back and mimicking Mr. Clarke's stiff, wide posture, puffing out his own chest in exaggeration. "You ever hear that poor office chair creak every time he plants his big ass down? It's gonna snap one day, I swear. I can picture it now, him tumbling to the floor in front of the whole class and everyone laughing at his dumb face."
I nodded absently, my gaze locked on the bubbling mixture in my own beaker, watching the colors swirl and shift. But my mind wandered far from the experiment. Dan's rants about our science professor, Bruce Clarke, had become a familiar soundtrack to our lab sessions. It was always the same litany of complaints about his strict rules, his uptight personality, his biting criticism that could cut like a knife. Around town, Mr. Clarke was famously known as "The Cruel Giant," a man who barely let his students scrape by with passing grades and demanded nothing short of perfection from everyone. Stories circulated about how he would chew out cashiers for hours if they shortchanged him by a penny, or chase after elderly folks on the street to lecture them about public decency just for coughing too loudly in his presence.
To Dan, Mr. Clarke was nothing more than an uptight mean old man, a tall, burly middle-aged man whose khaki pants and tight dress shirts always seemed on the verge of bursting over his massive frame. But I stayed quiet, my agreement only half-hearted at best, because admitting the truth to Dan or even to myself felt utterly mortifying. Over the past few months, I had developed a secret crush on Mr. Clarke, a shameful attraction that I buried deep inside, praying it would fade away by the time graduation rolled around and I could escape this small town.
His huge body strangely captivated me in ways I could barely understand myself. And Mr. Clarke wasn't the slob Dan painted him to be. Sure, he carried a slight soft layer around his midsection, a gentle curve that pressed outward against his shirts, and I often imagined he could easily crush a watermelon just by sitting on it with that large, plump ass of his. But there was a commanding solidity to him that made my pulse quicken. He stood at 6'8", one of the tallest and largest men in our small town, with broad, wide shoulders that seemed to fill any room he entered, and thick, powerful arms that bent the space around them. During class, I would steal glances, my eyes tracing the vast expanse of his broad back as he wrote equations on the board, or lingering on the way his khaki pants clung to his rounded, muscular ass when he bent down to collect our tests.
His brown beard, often flecked with crumbs from a hurried lunch or faint stains from his morning coffee, framed a ruggedly handsome face that could make me blush even when he was yelling at the class for being late. I remembered the times his coffee-scented breath had washed over me during those scoldings, warm and authoritative, leaving me flustered. In my private fantasies, I imagined pressing my face into the hairy massive chest that peeked through his open collar, feeling the warmth of his bulk envelop me completely. I envied his genetics, how he was so effortlessly tall, hairy, and thick without ever needing to lift a weight or step foot in a gym. It was as if his body was a natural force, untamed and powerful.
I told myself it was just a phase, a silly teenage crush that would dissolve once college was behind me. I was just a scrawny senior, barely noticeable among the sea of students in Mr. Clarke's classes, and the very idea of confessing my feelings to anyone, especially Dan, made my stomach twist into knots. So I locked those thoughts away, letting them simmer quietly as I stirred my chemicals, my mind drifting into a hazy fantasy of running my hands over Mr. Clarke's broad, hairy chest, feeling the coarse hairs tickle my palms, the heat of his skin seeping into mine.
"Yo, Noah, you even listening to me?" Dan's voice snapped me back to reality, sharp and insistent.
I blinked, realizing I had been staring blankly at the beaker for far too long, the mixture now frothing a bit too vigorously.
"Huh? Yeah, sorry," I mumbled, shaking my head to clear the fog.
But before I could say more, my elbow caught the edge of a glass container filled with unknown chemicals, sending it toppling over into Dan's mixture. The liquids collided with a violent hiss, merging in a chaotic fizz that sent sparks flying. Dan yelped, jumping back from the table, his gloves and shirt miraculously untouched.
"Shit, Noah, watch it!" he shouted, his eyes wide as we both retreated a few meters away.
We stood there frozen, hearts pounding, as acrid smoke billowed upward from the workstation, the table sizzling in a way that sounded almost alive.
"What the hell was that?" Dan hissed, his voice laced with panic, glancing at me accusingly.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," I stammered, my heart racing as the smoke thickened, obscuring the mess we had made.
But as the haze slowly cleared, the sizzling faded, revealing something impossible on the table's surface: a perfectly round black hole, its edges shimmering faintly like heat waves on asphalt. It was wide enough for a small person to fit through, a void that seemed to devour the light around it, pulling at the air with an eerie silence.
We stared at it, speechless, the lab suddenly feeling colder despite the lingering chemical warmth.
"What is that thing?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, stepping closer but not daring to touch it.
Dan shook his head, his bravado completely evaporated. "No clue, man. But we're totally screwed if Clarke sees this. We just destroyed school property, and you know how he gets about that."
With lunch break nearly over, panic surged through us like electricity. We scrambled to clean up the spill, me sweeping up the shattered glass shards from the floor while Dan wiped down the table with frantic swipes. As he brushed near the hole, his hand accidentally nudged its rim, and the anomaly shifted, folding slightly like a piece of flexible fabric.
"Noah, get over here quick!" Dan called, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement.
I hurried over, my jaw dropping as he gripped the edge of the hole and lifted it effortlessly off the table, holding it like a sheet of black paper, weightless and rippling faintly in the air.
"What the fuck?" I breathed, stepping even closer, my eyes wide. Dan, now grinning despite the shock, placed the hole back on the table and tentatively reached into it, his arm vanishing up to the elbow into the void. His face lit up with astonishment as he pulled his hand back, completely unharmed.
"Dude, this is freaky!" he exclaimed, his voice shaking with glee.
He grabbed the hole again, striding over to a locked cabinet across the room, and slapped it against the door. Reaching through, he pulled out a beaker from inside the cabinet, holding it up triumphantly. "Holy shit, Noah! We made a freaking portal! This thing lets you reach into anything!"
We marveled at the anomaly we had accidentally created, a defiance of every law of physics we had learned in class. Dan's eyes gleamed with endless possibilities, his mind already racing ahead.
"We've got something way better than a boring assignment for Clarke now," he said, carefully rolling the hole up like a poster and stuffing it into his backpack. "And I've got an idea to test this thing out later. You in?"
I nodded, unsure but intrigued, my mind still reeling from the impossibility of it all. "Yeah, I guess. But we have to be careful, Dan. This could be dangerous..."
—
Two classes dragged by in a blur, and during the break before chemistry, Dan pulled me aside with a mischievous grin. He led me down the echoing hallways to the gym locker rooms, the distant shouts from jocks in the gymnasium grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
"What are we doing here, Dan?" I asked, glancing around nervously at the rows of metal lockers, the air thick with the smell of sweat and old sneakers.
He smirked, his eyes glinting with that reckless spark I knew all too well. "Just trust me. Keep watch for a second."
He scanned the lockers until he stopped at one labeled "Austin," our school's star athlete and the resident bully who had made our lives hell more than once.
I hissed a protest, my voice low. "Dan, no way. That's Austin's locker. We can't just..."
But he ignored me, pressing the black hole against the locker door with a soft thud. Reaching through the void, he rummaged around inside and pulled out a sweaty jockstrap, its fabric damp and musky from recent use.
"Dude!" I exclaimed, horrified, my cheeks burning as I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming.
Dan laughed, holding it up like a trophy before pressing it to his face and inhaling deeply. "Smells pretty good for a douchebag like Austin," he said, grinning wickedly. "Come on, Noah, lighten up. It's just a prank."
I rolled my eyes, my face flushing even hotter. "That's gross, man. Put it back."
He chuckled, rolling up the hole and tucking it, along with the jockstrap, into his backpack. "Imagine what else we can do with this thing. Vending machines, locked doors, even ATMs. It's not really stealing if it's just sitting there, right? We could take whatever we want without anyone knowing."
I frowned, unease twisting in my gut. "It's still stealing, Dan. And what if we get caught? This isn't a game."
Before we could argue further, Coach's voice boomed from the gymnasium entrance, demanding to know what we were doing in the locker room. "Hey! You two! What are you up to in there?"
Panic hit us like a wave, and we bolted, our sneakers squeaking against the tile floor as we fled down the hall, hearts pounding.
—
Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the chemistry lab, seated at our workstation as our classmates tricked in, chatting and laughing. Dan bounced in his seat like a kid on Christmas morning, barely containing his excitement about showing off the black hole. My stomach churned with nerves, both from the upcoming presentation and the looming presence of Mr. Clarke himself.
When he finally entered the room, his broad shoulders barely clearing the doorway, I felt my breath catch. His khaki pants hugged his thick calves, and his dress shirt clung to his hairy chest, the top button undone just enough to tease the coarse hairs beneath.
Our eyes met briefly as he scanned the room, and I saw a flicker of disappointment, perhaps even disgust, in his gaze before he turned away.
"Settle down, everyone," he barked, his deep voice rumbling through the lab like thunder. "We've got presentations today, and I expect you all to take this seriously. No excuses, no half-baked efforts."
Class dragged on with Mr. Clarke's usual loud and demeaning criticism, his beard twitching with every sharp word he directed at struggling students.
"That's incorrect, Miss Thompson. Do you even read the textbook, or do you just guess?" he snapped at one girl, making her shrink in her seat.
Finally, it was time for presentations. Dan shot up from his chair, waving his hand eagerly. "Mr. Clarke, can we go first? We've got something amazing."
Mr. Clarke eyed him skeptically, adjusting the square reading glasses that framed his piercing eyes. "Fine, but make it quick. And it better not be another one of your jokes, Daniel."
We stood at the front, explaining how we had mixed the chemicals accidentally, creating a black hole that defied all known physics. Dan's voice was infectious, building up the drama. "It's like a portal, sir. You can reach through anything with it."
But before we could pull out the anomaly to demonstrate, Mr. Clarke cut us off sharply. "That's enough of this nonsense," he snapped, his face reddening with anger. "You're slandering the very foundations of science in my classroom, and I won't tolerate it. Sit down, both of you."
Dan protested, his voice rising. "But sir, we can prove it! Just let us show you!"
"I said sit down!" Mr. Clarke shouted, his voice shaking the room, making the beakers rattle on the shelves.
Humiliated, we slunk back to our seats amid the laughter of the class. The jocks in the back called out, "Losers!" and the girls whispered "freaks" under their breath. I felt Mr. Clarke's glare burning into us, his stoic face flushed with irritation.
Dan muttered spitefully under his breath as we sat. "They don't deserve to see it anyway. I'll show them later, when it matters."
The rest of class passed in a miserable haze, with other students presenting their projects while I replayed Mr. Clarke's words over and over in my mind, my crush twisting into a knot of embarrassment. When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the day, Dan and I joined the rush to leave, eager to escape. But a heavy hand suddenly gripped my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
"You two, stay behind," Mr. Clarke's gruff voice ordered, his fingers like steel.
My heart sank as we sat at the front desks, facing his massive wooden desk. I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering to the chest hair peeking from his shirt, my crush flaring up despite the tension in the air.
Mr. Clarke's eyes narrowed as he caught my gaze lingering. "Noah," he began, his tone icy and measured, "I've noticed you staring at me these past months. It's inappropriate, and I don't appreciate it one bit. You need to focus on your studies, not whatever perverse fantasies you're indulging in during my class."
My face burned with shame, heat flooding my cheeks. I hadn't realized he had noticed, and the accusation left me speechless, my mouth dry. "I... I'm sorry, sir," I managed to whisper, staring at the floor.
Dan spoke up, his voice sharp and defensive. "That's not cool, Mr. Clarke. You can't just accuse him like that."
But the professor ignored him, turning his attention to Dan. "And you, with your ridiculous stunt today. If you keep this up, you'll fail my class and amount to nothing in life. Is that what you want?"
Dan's jaw tightened, anger flashing in his eyes. "We weren't lying, sir. We really created something incredible."
Mr. Clarke's scowl deepened. "Enough. I don't have time for your games."
Fed up, Dan reached into his backpack and pulled out the rolled-up black hole. "See for yourself then."
Mr. Clarke dismissed it with a wave. "That's just a piece of black paper. Put it away."
Dan, his patience snapping, strode to the locked cabinet in the corner. "Watch this," he said, slapping the hole onto the door. He reached through and pulled out beakers, tools, and supplies, dumping them onto Mr. Clarke's desk with a clatter.
The professor's expression shifted from annoyance to shock, his eyes widening. "What are you doing? How did you...?"
Dan grinned, placing the hole flat on the desk. "Try it yourself, sir. Reach in and grab something from under your desk."
Hesitantly, Mr. Clarke reached into the void, his thick fingers disappearing. He pulled out pens, paperclips, and notebooks from beneath his desk, his shock turning to fascination as his fingers trembled.
"This... this is impossible," he murmured, his voice softening for the first time.
But Dan snatched the hole away, rolling it up quickly. "Told you we weren't lying," he said, smirking as he stood to leave. "Come on, Noah."
As Dan headed for the door, I fumbled with my bag, noticing a dark glint in Mr. Clarke's eyes, something like greed or ambition flickering there. The air in the room grew thick with tension, and suddenly, he lunged forward with surprising speed for a man of his size. His meaty hand closed around Dan's wrist, fingers like iron clamps, pinning Dan's arm in place.
Dan yelped, his voice sharp with panic. "What the hell, man? Let go!"
"You boys have no idea what you're holding," Mr. Clarke growled, his voice low and laced with a hunger that made my skin crawl. His massive frame loomed over Dan, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that swallowed my friend whole. Sweat beaded on Mr. Clarke's forehead, glistening under the lights, his dress shirt growing damp under the armpits, clinging to the curve of his massive chest and broad back. "Leave such things to responsible adults like me."
Dan struggled, his face turning red, both hands clutching the rolled-up black hole, his knuckles white. "Get off me! This isn't yours!"
Mr. Clarke's other hand reached for it, his thick fingers brushing the anomaly, his breath coming in heavy pants from the exertion. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of his sweat, a musky blend of coffee and raw masculinity that hit me like a wave, stirring my shameful crush even as fear gripped my chest.
Dan's eyes met mine, wide with desperation. "Noah, help! Do something!"
I dropped my bag and rushed over, my heart pounding wildly. "Let him go, sir!" I shouted, grabbing at the black hole, my fingers brushing against Dan's and Mr. Clarke's in the chaos. The three of us were locked in a frantic tug-of-war, pulling and yanking.
Mr. Clarke's strength was staggering, his arm like a steel cable, pulling with a force that made my muscles burn. "Let go, you fools!" he roared, his voice booming through the room, his face flushed red, small beads of sweat dripping down his temples.
Dan and I pulled together, our combined effort barely budging the anomaly from his grasp. "We can't let him have it!" Dan gasped, his face contorted with effort.
My hands slipped on the smooth, otherworldly surface, my palms slick with nervous sweat. "He's too strong," I panted, feeling insignificant next to his towering bulk, my slim arms trembling against his power. His dress shirt strained further, the seams creaking, his neck muscles shifting with each heave, his khaki pants tight around his thick thighs.
We tugged one last time, a desperate heave that sent us all stumbling. The black hole slipped from our fingers, but Mr. Clarke's sweaty palm fumbled it, the slick roll escaping his grip. It unfolded mid-air, a dark, rippling sheet, and sailed toward his chest. Time seemed to slow as it adhered with a soft, wet slap, the void pulsing against his shirt, centered over his broad chest.
His eyes widened in horror, a gasp escaping his lips.
"What... no!" he stammered, his hands clawing at the hole, trying to rip it free. Then his massive body suddenly shuddered, his pupils rolling back, and he collapsed, his heavy frame crashing to the hardwood floor with a thunderous thud that shook the entire room.
Dan and I stood panting, staring at the black hole pulsing on Mr. Clarke's chest, his unconscious body still, his bearded face slack.
"Oh god, we killed him," I whispered, my voice trembling, my legs feeling like jelly.
Dan knelt beside him, pressing fingers to his neck. "No, he's alive… just out cold," he said, his voice unsteady. He poked at the hole, his fingers disappearing inside. "Woah... he's hollow now. Like he's completely empty inside."
He reached deeper, his expression shifting to confusion. "Weird, I feel crevices inside, it’s like paths leading to his arms or neck. He's like a big hollow tree stump..."
I paced the room, panic clawing at my chest, my mind racing with the implications. "We never thought about using it on a person... What have we done?"
A few minutes passed of me restlessly pacing around while Dan stared curiously at the hole on Clarke's chest, his mind seemingly thinking hard about how to get us out of this mess. Then suddenly Dan's eyes lit up with a reckless idea. "What if one of us climbs inside? Maybe we can move him, sort of like a big meatsuit. We could access his office, fix our grades and make him give us A's, then get out before he wakes up."
"That's insane, Dan," I said, but the idea took hold, fueled by fear of failing yet another course and a bizarre curiosity about climbing inside Mr. Clarke's big body, the man I had secretly admired for so long. "You really think that would work?"
He nodded eagerly. "Think about it, Noah. You're smaller than me, scrawny frame and all. You'd fit easily through the hole. Come on, it's our only shot right now."
After a heated debate, with me protesting, "This could go so wrong," and Dan countering, "But what if it goes right? We could turn this around," I swallowed hard, gazing at Mr. Clarke's unconscious giant form. His bearded face looked almost serene, his massive hairy chest rising and falling despite the gaping hole. My crush twisted into something darker, a fascination with the impossible intimacy of it all.
Dan locked the classroom door with a click. "Okay, let's do this. I'll keep watch."
I stood over Mr. Clarke, my pulse racing like a drum. His body was a mountain compared to mine, his shoulders twice as wide as my own, his chest a broad expanse of power, his gut a soft curve that spoke of both strength and years of indulgence. I kicked off my shoes, a strange gesture of respect, and hesitated, my breath shallow. The black hole pulsed invitingly, its edges shimmering, beckoning me forward.
"Be careful," Dan whispered, his voice tense.
I nodded, stepping forward, one foot hovering over the void. "Here goes nothing."
I lowered myself in slowly, the sensation immediate and overwhelming, a warm, squishy embrace that enveloped my foot like sinking into a heated waterbed, but alive, pulsating gently. The inside of Mr. Clarke's body was soft and yielding, yet unnervingly organic, the walls slick and warm against my skin, almost caressing me as I descended.
My foot sank into a crevice, what I assumed was the path to his thick leg, and I felt a gentle resistance, as if the space was molding itself to me, adapting to my shape. I was scrawny, barely 5'6" and 130 pounds, but Mr. Clarke was a giant, well over 6'8" and easily 250 pounds, his bulk dwarfing me entirely. Yet the hole seemed to adjust seamlessly, my leg sliding into his thigh, stopping abruptly as if fitted perfectly, despite the vast size difference.
"How does it feel?" Dan asked, his voice hushed, watching intently.
"It's... warm," I replied, my voice shaky. "Like it's hugging me, tightly yet firmly."
I lowered myself further, my other leg finding its place, the sensation of his massive thighs enveloping my own, heavy and warm, like pulling on a suit far too large yet impossibly snug. My hips settled into his, my slim frame sinking into the broad expanse of his pelvis, the weight of his ass pressing down beneath me, a dense, plump mass that felt alien and grounding all at once.
I pushed my arms through next, feeling the crevices widen for his thick biceps and forearms, my hands slipping into his, the fingers blunt and calloused, so unlike my own slender ones.
"My arms... they're in his now," I murmured, flexing experimentally, yet straining under the heavy weight of them.
The inside of his chest stretched tight as I pushed myself further down, the flesh straining with a soft creak, and I felt the dampness of his simmering sweat enveloping me, a musky scent that filled my senses, both repellent and intoxicating in its rawness.
"Keep going," Dan encouraged, his eyes wide. "You're almost there."
I pulled myself deeper, my chest sinking into his, the soft flesh brushing against my skin inside, a sensation so intimate it made my face burn with heat. The black hole's warmth enveloped my torso completely, and I bent my neck forward, sliding my head down into the darkness and then through a tight, slick passage that must have been his throat.
"It's so tight here," I gasped, darkness closing in, warm and suffocating, as I aligned my body with his.
For a moment, I panicked, blind and breathless, but then vision flickered to life, and I saw through Mr. Clarke's eye sockets, the world sharper, larger, as if my eyes now perceived everything as he did. Air rushed through his nostrils and into my lungs, filling me with a strange vitality. I pushed myself up slowly, his bulk around me loose and heavy, a staggering weight that made my movements slow and uncoordinated.
"God, he's so fucking heavy," I said, Mr. Clarke's deep timbre somehow resonated through me, a bizarre mixture of his voice and mine that boomed in the room.
I gripped the desk for support, my thick fingers leaving sweaty prints on the wood, and stood, feeling the floor creak beneath his mass. My legs, inside his now, felt like heavy pillars, each step a lumbering effort, his thighs rubbing together with a soft friction, khaki pants wrapped snugly around them. His hairy chest rose and fell with each breath I took inside, and his broad shoulders strained the dress shirt, the seams taut against the power beneath.
Dan gaped at me, his mouth open in awe. "Holy shit, Noah. You're wearing him! You look just like Clarke, but... it's you in there controlling him!"
"Yeah," I replied, my voice still that strange mixture of ours combined. "It's me. But god it feels strange being in here, like everything too big and heavy..."
Dan stepped closer, peering at my new bearded face. "How are you breathing? Seeing? It looks completely normal from out here."
"It feels like looking through a one-way mask," I explained, touching my cheek experimentally, and somehow feeling the scratchy beard poking me from the inside. "Like my eyes are hidden behind his, invisible from outside. And I'm breathing through his nostrils, the air flowing right to me. Sounds vibrate from his eardrums and fill this space I'm in. And my mouth, my tongue... they've slipped into his like a thick, larger sleeve. It's so freaky how this actually worked..."
"Damn," Dan said, reaching out to poke my arm, squeezing the thick flesh. "Can you feel that?"
"Barely," I admitted, the sensation dulled by the layer of Mr. Clarke's heavy flesh encasing me. "It's really like I'm wearing a big heavy skinsuit..."
But then he tried to reach into the hole on Mr. Clarke’s chest, his fingers brushed my real chest inside, tickling me lightly. "Hey, stop that!" I laughed, swatting him away, my voice booming louder than intended.
He grinned, then slapped my ass playfully, the thick flesh bouncing slightly, sending a jolt through me, a mix of embarrassment and a strange thrill at feeling this body respond under my control. "Damn... guess you're the one with the thick massive ass now, huh? How's it feel to have all that junk in the trunk?"
"Shut up, Dan," I said, but I couldn't help a small chuckle, shifting my weight and feeling the dense anchor pull me down. "It's weird. Heavy, but... powerful."
Then, noticing the clock on the wall, Dan's expression turned serious. "We need to hurry. The hall might fill up soon. I’ll unlock the door and check if it's clear. Remember, our plan is to get to the professor's office, change our grades on his computer, and then we’ll come back and I’ll help you climb back out."
I nodded before shuffling toward the door, each step slow and unfamiliar, but stopped when I reached the nearby cabinet.
Catching Mr. Clarke's reflection in the glass, I froze. His handsome, bearded face stared back, but the sternness was gone, replaced by my own shock and fascination in his eyes. His body was a colossus, shoulders a broad wall, chest heaving with each breath, and his ass a soft curve that shifted sensually with every movement. But then I saw the gaping black hole on the chest, a glaring void that would draw immediate questions from other students and faculty members.
"Wait," I said, my deep voice echoing. "I can't walk out like this. The hole's too obvious. The other professors would freak out seeing Mr. Clarke like this. Maybe I can just take it off for a while…"
Dan seemed preoccupied with checking the hallway outside. "Yeah yeah, whatever. Just hurry up. The coast is clear now."
Without thinking of the implications or consequences, my hands, now inside Mr. Clarke's thick, rugged hands, gripped the rim of the black hole. The surface was smooth, almost liquid under my fingers, and I pulled gently, peeling it away from the damp dress shirt. The moment it detached, a searing heat erupted around me, a burning wave that consumed every nerve, every fiber.
"Noah? What did you do?!" Dan asked, his voice rising in alarm as he turned his attention back to me.
I realized too late my mistake. The warm squishy walls inside of Mr. Clarke's body tightened suddenly, compressing around me like a vice, as if his flesh was collapsing inward, crushing my scrawny frame.
"No... it- it hurts!!" I gasped, my skin burning, my bones aching under the pressure. I felt my body, my real body inside, being crushed, warped, and dissolved into the vastness of Mr. Clarke's thick flesh, and then as if I was being wrung and dispersed throughout every pore and cell that was Mr. Clarke. The room spun wildly, Dan's scream echoing in my ears as my vision darkened. "Dan... help..."
My last thought was a desperate wish for Mr. Clarke to forgive me for what we had done to him…
—
–
-
"Hey! Wake up! Noah, wake up!" Dan's voice pierced through the fog, his hands shaking my shoulders with desperate force.
I groaned, my body feeling like it had been crushed under a boulder, heavy and unresponsive. My eyes fluttered open, vision swimming as the chemistry lab's fluorescent lights stabbed into my skull like knives. I pushed myself up slowly, sitting on the cold hardwood floor, every muscle screaming in protest. My limbs felt sluggish, foreign, like they belonged to someone else entirely.
Dan knelt before me, his face pale, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. "Is it you, Noah? Or is it Clarke? Say something, please."
I frowned, my head throbbing with a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes. "What do you mean?" I croaked, but the sound stopped me cold.
The voice was no longer a strange mixture; my original reedy tone of a college senior was completely gone without a trace. It was now deep, gruff, resonant, the voice I had heard barking orders in class, laced with coffee and unyielding authority. Mr. Clarke's fully complete voice.
My hand shot to my throat, fingers brushing a thick, muscular neck, the skin rough with coarse stubble that trailed downward. I froze, my breath catching as I felt the unfamiliar texture, the sheer bulk of it. "Dan... why does my voice sound like this?"
"Noah, is it really you?" Dan urged, his voice cracking with tension. "Please tell me it's you."
"It's me, dude. Noah," I said, but hearing that booming timbre again made my stomach drop.
I opened my mouth to speak more, but my gaze dropped to my hands, and the realization finally hit me. They felt massive now, rugged with blunt fingers and knuckles dusted with dark hair. I turned them over, palms up, staring at the calloused skin, the deep lines etched from years of grading papers and handling lab equipment.
"What the fuck?" I whispered, Mr. Clarke's voice booming out, alien and wrong coming from my thoughts. Somehow it no longer felt like I was wearing an oversized suit of flesh, but instead every breath, every sensation, every movement felt like it was my own flesh and blood.
I touched my face, fingers trembling as they encountered a scratchy beard, a strong jaw, thinning hair atop a broad skull. My other hand pressed against my chest, feeling the solid mass, the faint give of flesh, a heartbeat that thrummed powerfully but wasn't mine. I shifted, the floor creaking beneath my weight, my hips and thighs spreading wider than I had ever known, the sensation of bulk overwhelming and inescapable.
"Dan, what happened? Where's the hole, and why am I still inside Mr. Clarke?" I asked, my voice shaking despite its depth, each word a reminder of the flesh I now controlled completely.
Dan swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the black hole lying crumpled on the floor, its edges still faintly shimmering. "When you pulled the hole off, you screamed and collapsed. I rushed over and reattached it to your chest, hoping I could pull you out like before. But when I reached inside... there was nothing. Just emptiness, like it was before you climbed in. Your real body, Noah... I think it's gone. Like completely gone."
I stared at him, my mind refusing to process the words. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?" I demanded, my voice rising, filling the room with Mr. Clarke's commanding timbre.
Dan flinched slightly, raising his hands to calm me. "I think when you took the hole off, something triggered. Your real body was still inside Clarke's, and without the hole to keep you two separate… I think you fused with him. You became his flesh, his organs, his nerves, and maybe even his brain now. For all intents and purposes, Noah... I think you're Bruce Clarke now. Permanently."
The words shattered my reality like fragile glass.
"No..." I whispered, shaking my head slowly, the motion feeling heavy and unfamiliar as the coarse beard scratched against the collar of my damp dress shirt.
I grabbed at my thick arms, tugging desperately at the muscled flesh beneath the fabric as if I could somehow peel it away and reveal my old scrawny self hiding underneath. But the skin was undeniably real, warm and alive, every pinch sending sharp jolts through nerves that now belonged entirely to this body. I pressed both hands firmly against my broad chest, feeling the dense thickness of it, the coarse hairs curling under my palms, the heavy weight shifting with each ragged breath I took.
"I’m stuck…?" I murmured, the deep gruff voice choking in my throat. "I’m… Professor Clarke now?"
I was no longer a senior, just months away from graduation, with a future full of freedom stretching out before me like an open road. Instead, I had become a man in his late forties, a college science professor infamous for his unrelenting sternness and biting criticism. And, as Dan had always joked in the lab, the man with the thickest ass in town, a massive rounded backside that strained every pair of khaki pants he owned. The thought of my secret crush on Mr. Clarke, now twisted into my permanent reality, made my stomach churn with a sickening mix of horror and disbelief. I had admired this body from afar for months, stealing glances and fantasizing about its power and presence. But living in it, trapped forever inside its overwhelming bulk, was nothing I could ever have prepared myself for. It felt like a cruel joke, the object of my desire turned into an inescapable prison of flesh and weight.
"Come on, Noah. Sit down for a second. You look like you're about to pass out again." Dan stepped closer, his expression a blend of pity and lingering shock.
He guided me toward Mr. Clarke's office chair behind the desk, the one we had mocked so many times in our whispers. I lowered myself carefully, the wooden frame groaning immediately under the sudden load of my new mass. The chair creaked loudly, a long, protesting sound that seemed to mock me as I settled into it, my thick thighs spreading wide, my heavy gut pressing forward against the edge of the desk.
I ran my rugged hands over my face, fingers tracing the scratchy texture of the full beard, the deep-set eyes that now held my panicked gaze, the thinning hair on top that felt slick with fresh sweat. The sensations were all so alien, so rugged and scratchy, nothing like the old skin I had known just hours ago. My broad shoulders slumped as the reality sank deeper, the dress shirt pulling tight across my back.
"Dan, please," I pleaded, my voice cracking despite its depth, coming out as a quiet, desperate whimper from Mr. Clarke's lips. It felt so strange, so wrong, to hear that authoritative rumble reduced to begging. "You have to help me... I can’t be stuck like this forever... I can't live as him..."
Dan opened his mouth to respond, his eyes soft with sympathy. "We'll figure it out, I swear. We'll—"
Right as the words left his mouth, I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, trying to find a position that didn't feel so foreign and constricting. My massive frame didn't move lightly; the simple adjustment sent my weight rocking backward, my thick ass pressing down harder into the seat. There was a sharp, ominous crack, like wood splitting under too much strain, followed immediately by a loud pop as one of the supports gave way completely.
The chair collapsed beneath me in an instant. The back legs buckled, the seat tilted violently, and I tumbled backward with absolutely no grace. My heavy body hit the hardwood floor with a thunderous thud that echoed through the empty classroom, the impact jarring every bone in this giant frame. My broad back slammed down first, followed by the dense weight of my ass and thighs, sending a shockwave through me. Papers scattered from the desk, a beaker wobbled precariously on a nearby shelf, and the air rushed out of my lungs in a deep, involuntary grunt from Mr. Clarke's chest.
For a moment, I just lay there sprawled on the floor, stunned and breathless, staring up at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My khaki pants had ridden up slightly from the fall, exposing thick, hairy calves. My dress shirt had untucked in places, revealing a strip of soft gut and the dark trail of hair leading downward. My bearded face burned hot with flush, sweat beading anew on my forehead as humiliation flooded through me like fire.
We had always joked about this exact thing in the lab. Dan and I had whispered about how Mr. Clarke's poor office chair creaked every time he sat down, how one day surely his big heavy ass would finally snap it in half and send him crashing to the floor in front of everyone. We had laughed about imagining the scene, the uptight professor reduced to an embarrassing heap in front of the class. But I never, in my worst nightmares, imagined I would be the one inside his body when it actually happened. I never thought I would feel the sheer mortifying weight of it all from the inside. The way his massive frame made every movement so consequential, the way this thick, powerful ass that I had secretly admired was now the very thing that had caused my downfall.
"Shit, Mr. Clarke... I mean, Noah... are you okay?" Dan asked, rushing around the desk, his voice caught between concern and barely suppressed laughter as he looked down at me.
I groaned, trying to push myself up on my elbows, but the impact stung and made it awkward and slow. My thick arms strained, my gut shifted heavily, and I felt every pound of this body resisting the effort. Looking up at Dan from the floor with my flushed bearded face tilted upward in helpless vulnerability, only deepened the humiliation. The man who commanded fear and respect from the entire school was now sprawled helplessly like a toppled statue, and I was the one living it.
"Don't... don't laugh," I muttered, my deep voice rumbling with embarrassment as I finally rolled to my side and heaved myself upright, the floor creaking again under my rising weight. But even as I said it, I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the way this body's natural authority clashed with the ridiculous position I had landed in. It was so wrong, so utterly humiliating, and yet buried somewhere beneath the shame was that perverse flicker of sensation, the raw physicality of it all, the undeniable presence of this massive, hairy form that was now mine.
Dan offered a hand to help steady me as I stood, brushing off my rumpled shirt. "Sorry, man. But... we really did always say that chair wouldn't last much longer."
"Yeah," I replied quietly, adjusting my pants and feeling the dense curve of my ass settle back into place. "Just never thought I'd be the one to break it."
The words hung heavy, a stark reminder that every joke we had made about Mr. Clarke's body was now my reality, every flaw and excess now mine to carry, to feel, to live with from today on.
—
The next hour was a nightmare, a desperate scramble to reverse the impossible. We stayed late in the school lab, the black hole's shimmering void mocking me from the floor as it lay there like a discarded shadow, its edges rippling faintly under the fluorescent lights. Dan paced back and forth, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, while I stood there in Mr. Clarke's towering body, feeling every inch of its heavy presence pulling me down.
"Okay, Noah, let's think this through," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe we can have you climb into another body. Like one of the jocks or another student. At least you wouldn't be stuck as this old lumbering giant forever."
I nodded eagerly, a spark of hope flickering in my chest, making my thick beard twitch as I spoke. "Yes, please. Let's try that. Anything but this. I can't stay like him, Dan. His body feels so... overwhelming. So heavy and thick everywhere." My deep voice rumbled with desperation, and I glanced down at my broad frame, the dress shirt still clinging damply to my hairy chest from the earlier sweat.
Dan picked up the black hole carefully, unrolling it like a fragile map. "Alright, hold still. I'll place it on the floor, and you try to squeeze through. Imagine slipping into one of the jock's bodies or another student. We could grab one of them after practice or something."
He laid it flat, the void pulsing invitingly, and I lowered myself awkwardly, my massive knees creaking as they hit the ground. I positioned my large callused hand at the rim first, feeling the warm, squishy pull of the anomaly, but as I tried to push my arm in deeper, the resistance built immediately.
"It's tight already," I grunted, my rugged face flushing with effort. My broad shoulders caught painfully against the edge, the void stretching slightly but refusing to yield to my width. I twisted, sweat beading on my forehead and dripping into my beard, my thick chest heaving as I pushed harder.
"Keep going, Noah. You can do it," Dan encouraged, kneeling beside me, his voice tense. "Suck in your chest or something."
I tried, inhaling deeply, feeling the firm curve of my chest compress slightly, but it was no use. My thick chest, matted with coarse hair under the shirt, refused to squeeze through the narrow rim, the fabric straining as I wedged myself further. Pain shot through my shoulders, and I gasped, pulling back with a frustrated roar. "Damn it, it's not working. Clarke’s shoulders are too wide. This body is built like a wall."
We tried again, Dan suggesting I go feet first this time. "Maybe start with your legs. Your thighs are huge, but the hole might stretch."
I lay on my back, the floor cool against my broad shoulders, and slid one thick, hairy leg toward the void. The sensation was strange, the anomaly enveloping my calf with that familiar warm embrace, but as my massive backside approached, it jammed, the dense muscle and fat bunching up against the rim.
"Push harder," Dan said, grabbing my other leg to help guide me. "Come on, Noah, you're almost there."
I groaned, my deep voice echoing in the empty lab, sweat now soaking through the back of my shirt as I strained. "It hurts, Dan. These thighs and this ass are too damn big! It's like trying to force a tree trunk through a keyhole." After minutes of grunting and twisting, I yanked my leg free, panting heavily, my beard damp and itchy from the exertion.
We made a third attempt, this time with me on my side, but each try left me more exhausted, my beard dripping beads of sweat onto the floor as I gasped for air.
"Enough," I finally said, slumping against the desk, my thick frame trembling. "It's not working. I'm too fucking big now. Clarke's body is never going to fit that small hole..."
Dan shook his head in defeat, his face pale. "Damn it. Okay, plan B. What about recreating the chemical reaction? Maybe make another bigger hole or find a way to reverse the fusion somehow."
I nodded wearily, my rugged hands trembling as I stood up, feeling the weight of my ass shift with the movement. "Let's try. Anything to get me out of this."
For the next hour and a half we gathered beakers and compounds from the shelves, Dan reading off measurements while I poured with my blunt fingers, the liquids hissing as they mixed.
"Add more sulfur this time," Dan instructed, peering into the beaker. "That might be what triggered it before."
I complied, but the mixture just bubbled harmlessly, no void forming, no anomaly appearing. We tried variation after variation, frantically adjusting ratios, but without the exact accidental formula, it was futile.
"This isn't the right combination," I said after the tenth failed batch, my hands shaking as I set down the beaker, the reality sinking in deeper like a stone in my thick chest. Each failure cemented my fate deeper, the reality sinking in that I was stuck as Bruce Clarke for the unforeseeable future.
"Shit, Noah," Dan whispered, leaning against the table. "I don't know what else to do right now…"
"I can't go home like this," I said finally, my voice exhausted and defeated after hours of trying. "My parents would freak out if I showed up looking like our science professor. What do I do now, Dan?"
Dan thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. "We leave it for today and try again tomorrow when we're fresh. I heard Clarke lives alone, in an apartment a town over. Maybe… you could go there, and just pretend to be him until we fix this. It's not ideal, but it's something, I guess…"
The words felt like a death sentence, the idea of stepping fully into Mr. Clarke's life making my hairy chest tighten. "Pretend to be him? Dan, I am him now. But... fine," I agreed reluctantly, my deep voice heavy with resignation. "I don't have a choice. Just promise you'll help me tomorrow. We meet back here first thing?"
"I promise," Dan said, clapping me on the shoulder, though his hand barely made an impact on my thick frame. "We'll figure this out, Noah. You're still my buddy."
We shared an awkward hug, my massive arms enveloping him easily, the powerful scent of Mr. Clarke's sweat and cologne filling the air between us. "Thanks, Dan. See you tomorrow," I murmured, pulling away.
"Take care... Mr. Clarke," he joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood, but it only made my bearded face flush deeper as I nodded and headed out.
—
After saying goodbye to Dan, I decided to take the bus instead of daring to drive Mr. Clarke's car, unsure if I could even handle the pedals with these thick legs or fit inside comfortably with this towering body. The evening air was muggy as I waited at the stop, my dress shirt already sticking to my broad back. When the bus arrived, I ducked my head to board, my broad shoulders brushing the doorframe, and lumbered to the back, the vehicle dipping slightly under my weight. Sitting on the bus without any air-conditioning, I felt stuffed and hot, the seat creaking loudly as I lowered my massive frame into it, my thick ass spreading wide and filling the space meant for two. Mr. Clarke's body started sweating profusely almost immediately, and I felt the back of the dress shirt and my armpits soaked through with his musky sweat, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my hairy skin, outlining every curve of my chest and back.
A group of college jocks from our school boarded a few stops later, recognizing me instantly. They stared, pointing, and laughing quietly among themselves. "Look at Clarke taking up the whole backseat," one whispered, snickering. "Guy's like a tank. Bet he could crush the seat if he bounces."
At first, I thought it would feel absolutely humiliating, my cheeks flushing hot under the scruffy beard, the heat making my sweat drip faster. I shifted awkwardly, feeling the dense weight of my thighs rub together, the khaki pants damp and tight.
Yet, for some strange reason, a flicker of arousal stirred within me, warm and unexpected, building in my core as their eyes lingered on my bulk. Instead of shying away, I stared back at the jocks with a stern glare, channeling Mr. Clarke's authority.
"Something funny, boys?" I boomed, my voice deep and commanding, rumbling through the bus like thunder.
The jocks went quiet immediately, their laughter dying as they looked away in fear, mumbling apologies under their breath. "Sorry, Mr. Clarke…" one said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
There were perks to being big, scary, and having authority after all, I realized, a small thrill running through me as I shifted in the seat again, feeling the power in my bulk ripple through my muscles. The arousal lingered, a warm pulse in my thick crotch, making the ride feel strangely empowering despite the discomfort.
—
At the apartment, I fumbled with his keys at the door, my thick fingers clumsy and uncoordinated at first, the metal slipping twice before I finally turned the lock and entered. The space was clean and masculine, smelling of cedar and faint coffee, but it struck me how minimalistic it all was. The furniture was sparse: a plain wooden table in the kitchen with two mismatched chairs, a worn leather couch in the living room facing a small TV on a simple stand, and bare walls except for a few shelves holding books on chemistry and physics. No decorations, no clutter, just functional and stark, like the home of a man who lived for his work and little else.
I wandered the rooms slowly, my heavy footsteps thudding on the hardwood floors, exploring this new life that was now mine. In the living room, photo frames on a side table caught my eye. I picked one up with my rugged hands, staring at the unfamiliar faces: a group of people at a family gathering, smiling warmly, with Mr. Clarke in the center, his arm around an older woman who must have been his mother.
"Who are you all?" I whispered, my deep voice soft in the quiet space.
Another photo showed him with friends at a bar, laughing, beers in hand, a side of him I had never imagined. And on the wall in the hallway, diplomas hung framed: his bachelor's in chemistry, master's in education, awards for teaching excellence.
"All these achievements... and they're all mine now?" I murmured, tracing the glass with a thick finger, feeling a strange mix of awe and intrusion.
The closet in the bedroom was equally plain and boring, filled with rows of identical khaki pants, tight dress shirts in neutral colors, and a few pairs of sensible shoes. No flair, no variety, just practical clothes that strained over his massive frame.
"This is what I have to wear every day?" I said aloud, pulling out a shirt and holding it up, imagining buttoning it over my hairy chest.
Finally, exhausted, I collapsed onto the bed, the frame creaking loudly under my weight like a protest, the mattress sinking deeply beneath my bulk. I peeled off the sticky shirt slowly, button by button, exposing the broad, hairy chest and thick gut inch by inch. The air felt cool against the damp skin, but the heat from my body lingered. My hands roamed tentatively, tracing the unfamiliar terrain, a mix of revulsion and fascination washing over me as my fingers sank into the soft give of my belly, then up to the dense mat of coarse hair covering my pecs. This was my prison now, a body I had day-dreamed about from afar, now mine possibly forever.
That's when I realized this was the first time I had ever seen Mr. Clarke shirtless, even if it was my own view now. A mix of horror and fascination gripped me as I stared down at the insanely hairy chest and thick legs, the coarse hairs curling thickly over the skin, dark and wild.
"This is me now…" I whispered to myself, running my hands through the furry chest, feeling the texture rough and warm under my palms. I gave my own pecs a firm squeeze, the flesh yielding softly under my grip, sending a shiver through my new body, the hairs tickling my fingers sensually.
I had to come to terms with the fact that I was Bruce Clarke now, forced to take on his identity and career as a college science professor, infamous for being cruel and barely fitting through door frames.
"Bruce... I said aloud, testing the name on my tongue, my deep voice making it sound natural. The thought that I would have to live with this giant hairy body for the rest of my life still horrified me, but at the same time, a strange thrill emerged, building slowly like a fire kindling in my core. I had secretly always admired Mr. Clarke's body, the way it moved with such commanding presence, the sheer mass of it filling every space.
"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all…" I murmured, my hands pressing harder into the hairy expanse, feeling the sweat-slicked skin respond.
My hands drifted lower, unbuckling the khaki pants with deliberate slowness, the belt loosening with a soft click, sliding them down over my impossibly thick thighs, the fabric brushing against the hairy legs. The air felt cool against the newly exposed skin, but the warmth from within built steadily, a pulsing heat in my heavy crotch. I explored further, my fingers brushing the unfamiliar weight there, Mr. Clarke’s cock thick and responsive, stirring under my touch, growing heavier and warmer in my palm.
"Oh god…" I murmured, my deep voice husky now, laced with building desire as I wrapped my hand around it fully, feeling the alien yet intoxicating sensations build with each slow stroke. It was slow, sensual, each movement drawing out the twisted acceptance of my fate, the veiny length thickening in my grip, the hairy base brushing my knuckles.
I lay there fondling myself, grappling with the knowledge that I had to take on the identity of Mr. Clarke from now on, even calling myself by the name of Bruce. "I'm Bruce Clarke…" I whispered repeatedly, the words sinking in as my strokes grew firmer, the pleasure coiling tighter in my thick frame. In the darkness of my new bedroom, I surrendered to the body's pull, my fingers tightening around the shaft, my breaths coming deeper and more ragged, slowly embracing the thick, hairy middle-aged professor I had become.
The slow realization deepened: I could be stuck as Bruce forever, this sweaty, heavy, hairy, and impossibly thick body my permanent home. The thought sent waves of conflicting emotion through me, a mixture of horror at the loss of my youth, yet the thrill at the power and sensuality of this form. The pleasure mounted gradually, waves of it washing over me, building to an unbearable peak until I arched my broad back off the bed, a low groan escaping my bearded lips.
My massive frame shuddered violently, the climax ripping through me, sending spurts of Mr. Clarke’s semen arcing onto the floor, coating my thick hairy thighs in warm, sticky trails, and some residue even splattering upward to get stuck in the scruffy brown beard, clinging to the coarse hairs like dew.
I lay there panting, the afterglow settling over my bulk, sealing my new reality in a haze of reluctant ecstasy.
- Epilogue -
Three years had passed since the accident in the chemistry lab, three years since my life as Noah, the scrawny college senior, dissolved completely into the void of a black hole and left me forever trapped in the massive, hairy body of Bruce Clarke, Westview High’s infamous uptight and cruel science professor.
The classroom, once a place of quiet dread and stolen glances, had become my domain, its fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, the sharp tang of chemicals as familiar now as the constant, grounding weight of my own thick frame. I stood at the front of the classroom each day, chalk dust coating my blunt fingers, my deep voice rumbling through the space as I lectured a new batch of students on molecular bonds and atomic structures that I barely knew anything about myself.
My dress shirts, always custom-tailored larger to accommodate the broad expanse of my chest and the soft curve of my gut, pulled snugly across the coarse hair beneath. My khaki pants hugged my powerful thighs and rounded ass, the fabric stretching with every deliberate step I took across the linoleum floor, a sensual reminder of the man I had fully become.
In the beginning, Dan and I had spent frantic weeks trying to undo the impossible fusion, experimenting late into the nights in the empty lab, recreating mixtures and testing the black hole on objects, animals, anything we could think of. But every attempt failed, and by the end of the first month, exhaustion and resignation settled over us like a heavy blanket.
“It’s no use, dude,” Dan had said one evening, his voice quiet as he rolled the anomaly back up. “I don’t think you’re getting out of that big body. Ever...”
I nodded slowly, feeling the beard scratch against my collar, the weight of my chest shifting as I breathed deeply, and something inside me had quietly surrendered.
Eventually, Dan and I drifted apart, the strain of our changed dynamic too much to bear. He could not look at Mr. Clarke’s rugged face without flinching, could not hear that gruff voice without remembering the professor he had despised, even though he knew it was me trapped inside.
“It’s just too weird, man,” he confessed one afternoon in the empty classroom, his eyes fixed on the floor as the black hole sat rolled up in his backpack. “I hate that I still feel angry when I see you. It’s not fair to you, but I can’t help it.”
I understood, my massive hand resting gently on his shoulder, the touch heavy and paternal in a way that made us both uncomfortable. After that, our meetings grew shorter, rarer, until they stopped altogether.
I had no choice but to settle fully into Bruce Clarke’s life, his quiet apartment, his solitary routines, his very identity. The first months were a slow, deliberate adjustment, each day a lesson in inhabiting this towering body. I learned the rhythm of his mornings: the hot shower where steam clung to the thick hair on my chest and back, the way my heavy cock and balls swayed as I toweled off, the satisfying stretch of my broad shoulders as I buttoned a fresh shirt. I navigated grocery stores with my wide frame, feeling eyes linger on my bulk, my ass filling the seat of my small car. I graded papers late into the evening, my calloused fingers gripping the red pen, the creak of my new reinforced desk chair a constant companion beneath my spreading weight.
But as seasons turned, resistance melted into familiarity, then into something warmer, deeper. I began to crave the sensations of this body, the way sweat gathered in the dense fur of my chest on warm days, the powerful thud of my footsteps, the delicious heft of my thighs when I sat.
Alone in the apartment, I found myself drawn to mirrors more and more. I would strip slowly, savoring the slide of fabric over hairy skin, standing naked before the full-length glass in the bedroom. The reflection mesmerized me: a stereotypical lumberjack of a man, 6’8” of solid mass, chest broad and forested with dark curls that trailed all the way down to my crotch. I ran my thick hands over it all, palms sinking into warm flesh, thumbs circling nipples buried in fur, feeling them harden under my touch. My arms, thick and strong, flexed as I explored, veins standing out beneath the hair-dusted skin. Lower still, my cock hung heavy between muscular thighs, stirring as I cupped the weight of my balls, the musky scent of the day rising warmly.
Yet it was my ass that truly captivated me, that massive, rounded mound of muscle and softness that shifted with every movement. I turned sideways, watching it in the mirror, reaching back to grip the cheeks, fingers digging deep into the dense flesh, spreading them slightly to feel the heat within. It jiggled subtly when I walked, filled my pants to bursting, and in those private moments I reveled in its size, its power, its sheer sensuality. This body, once a prison of shame and loss, had become a source of dark, intoxicating pleasure. I was no longer Noah. I was Bruce Clarke, and I slowly grew to love every heavy, sweaty, hairy inch of my new self.
Then, months later and right before graduation, Dan reappeared suddenly, his eyes burning with a wild, desperate hunger. He cornered me after school in the lab, the black hole clutched tightly in his hands.
“I want it,” he said, voice trembling with excitement. “I want Austin’s body. All of it. The looks, the strength, the privileges. You have to help me, Noah. Please!”
I hesitated, memories of my own irreversible mistake flooding back, but the plea in his eyes, the years of torment we had endured from Austin and his crew, wore down my resistance. Against every instinct, I agreed.
That afternoon I lured Austin to the classroom under the pretense of discussing his borderline grades, my deep voice calm and authoritative as I gestured for him to sit. While the jock slouched defiantly, bragging about his athletic scholarship, Dan emerged silently from the supply closet behind him. In one swift motion, he slapped the black hole onto Austin’s broad, muscular back. The star athlete stiffened, a shocked scream escaping his lips before his perfect body went limp, collapsing forward onto the desk.
I watched, heart pounding in my thick chest, as Dan stripped off his shirt and climbed eagerly into the void, his slim frame disappearing inch by inch into Austin’s chiseled form. The sight stirred something dark in me, arousal mixing with guilt. When Dan was fully inside, eyes fluttering open behind Austin’s handsome face, he grinned wickedly and nodded. Without a word, I reached forward and ripped the black hole away, sealing his fate just as mine had been sealed years before.
The void came free with a soft, wet sound before Austin’s body shuddered and fell onto the floor, convulsing violently for a few minutes before returning to normal, although now permanently inhabited by my old friend.
“Holy shit,” the new Austin breathed, flexing powerful arms, running hands over sculpted abs. “It worked. I’m freakin’ Austin now!”
That evening, the new Austin insisted on coming over to the apartment, his voice over the phone laced with that cocky drawl he had already mastered. I could only agree, my deep rumble quiet and resigned, even though I knew exactly what dark intentions burned in his eyes. He arrived just after dusk, filling the doorway with his perfect athletic frame, shirt stretched tight over sculpted pecs, jeans hugging powerful thighs. The contrast hit me immediately: his smooth, golden skin against my hairy bulk as he stepped inside, grinning like he owned the place.
We barely spoke before he pushed me back toward the bedroom, hands greedy on my broad chest, tugging at my shirt buttons until they popped free. Clothes fell away in a heated rush, and soon he had me bent over, my thick palms pressed against the full-length bedroom mirror, my bearded face inches from the glass. Cool air kissed my sweaty skin as he positioned himself behind me, his hard cock sliding teasingly between my heavy cheeks before pressing in slow and deep. The stretch burned deliciously, and I groaned, the sound rumbling from my hairy chest as he buried himself fully in Mr. Clarke’s thick ass.
The mirror in front of us showed everything: Austin’s flawless chiseled body gleaming with sweat, muscles rippling with every thrust, while my massive, hairy form rocked forward, broad shoulders flexing, thick flesh shifting under coarse fur across my back and chest. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, my big ass bouncing loudly with each powerful drive, while the sound echoing off the walls like thunder.
“Look at you, Mr. Clarke,” he growled, voice dripping with triumphant venom as he gripped my wide hips harder, pulling me back onto his cock. “Always acting like you were better than everyone, barking orders in that stupid deep voice. Now you’re just a thick hairy daddy taking my dick like you were born for it.”
I moaned, eyes locked on my own reflection, mesmerized by the flushed bearded face staring back, mouth open in helpless pleasure, sweat dripping from my brow into the scruffy hair.
“That’s right, you massive old lumberjack,” he continued, slowing his thrusts to long, deliberate strokes that made my thick thighs tremble. “Feel this perfect cock stretching your hairy hole. I’ve got the body you could only dream of: tight abs, big arms, perfect skin. And you? You’re just a big, heavy brute with fur everywhere. Look at all that coarse hair on your chest. Bet it traps all your sweat like the thick bear you are.”
He laughed, reaching around to tug roughly at the dense mat on my chest, pinching a nipple hard enough to make me gasp. “God, these heavy pecs are huge under all that fur. And this trail running down your thick gut,” he traced it with mocking fingers, “leading straight to that musky crotch like the bearded giant you are.”
My cock throbbed harder at the degradation, leaking steadily onto the floor as I pushed back against him, craving more despite the shame. I moaned loudly, voice shaking as my broad back arched.
“Yeah, moan for me, Clarke,” he taunted, flexing one bicep beside my head so I could see it in the mirror, kissing the hard bicep while slamming deeper. “This is what real power feels like. I’m the star now, the perfect jock, and you’re just the thick hairy professor begging for my cock. Say it. Tell me how much better I am.”
“You… you’re better,” I rasped, voice thick and broken, staring at my own hairy bulk submitting so completely. “You’re perfect… young… strong…”
“Louder, you thick brute,” he demanded, slapping my ass hard, the cheek rippling wildly.
“I- I’m nothing like you,” I groaned louder, the words spilling out as he thrust harder, forcing them from me. “I’m just a big, hairy middle-aged college professor with a fat heavy ass!”
“That’s it, keep going, professor,” he laughed, pounding faster. “Now say how much you love watching your own reflection get fucked like this. Admit you’re just a hairy perverted man who deserves it for looking down on me all those years.”
“I love it,” I confessed breathlessly, the sight of my bearded face twisted in ecstasy pulling more words from me. “I love seeing my big hairy thick reflection being fucked against the mirror. This heavy old body I’m stuck in forever, jiggling and sweating in this small town as the uptight middle-aged professor who can barely fit anywhere.”
He reached climax then, roaring as he flexed both arms, veins popping. Hot pulses filled me, spilling down my thick thighs. “Fuck yeah! I’m Austin McCormack! Star athlete, perfect body, blowing my load deep in the science professor’s hairy ass! Look at these guns!”
The overwhelming sensation pushed me over too. My cock erupted untouched, thick ropes splattering the mirror, streaking down over my reflected chest and fur. I whimpered pathetically, mimicking him in broken surrender. “I-I’m Bruce Clarke… just a middle-aged college professor… with a big hairy body and thick ass… stuck in this small town forever…”
He pulled out slowly, laughing as my hole gaped and leaked, then slapped my ass one last time, watching it bounce against the impact. “Fuck, this ass is unreal. So big and juicy and hairy, like two thick muscular pillows. No wonder you could barely fit through doors. Remember that day you sat down and broke the damn chair? Crack, boom, big bad Mr. Clarke sprawled on the floor like a toppled tree, fat ass in the air, face red as a tomato. Bet the whole school would’ve paid to see that. And now here it is, bouncing beautifully while I fuck it raw.”
I whimpered, the memory burning hot through me, my reflection showing Mr. Clarke’s stern eyes now soft and pleading, filled with lust. Without pause, he spun me around, shoved me onto the bed, and climbed over me, sliding back in with ease. “But we’re not done, old man. I’m fucking you all night. Years of payback in one evening.”
“Dan,” I gasped as he started thrusting again, my voice trembling. I thought we were just role-playing, but now I wasn’t so sure. “It’s still me inside, you know... Noah, your friend.”
He paused for a split second, then laughed coldly, gripping my beard and forcing my head back. “Friend? Nah, I don’t see Noah anymore. I see a thick bearded daddy, the uptight stern professor who always looked down on me. And look at you, loving every second of watching your own hairy thick reflection get railed. There’s no way we’ll ever be friends, you old perverted man. This is my final goodbye to you, one last fuck from a stud like me. You’re Bruce Clarke now, and I’m Austin McCormack, the prom king and aspiring athlete. Enjoy that big hairy body and your boring small-town life.”
And he did fuck me relentlessly through the night: position after position, hour after hour, he took me on my back with my thick legs over his shoulders, on my side with his arm around my broad chest, on all fours again while he pulled my beard and whispered more humiliating truths about my thickness, my hair, my heavy build. Each time he came, he proclaimed his new identity louder, flexing and posing, while I whimpered mine in quiet defeat, spilling over my own hairy torso again and again, our former bond shattered irreparably, cementing us forever in these new identities and lives.
By morning, he was gone. No note, no goodbye, just the lingering ache in my body and the sticky evidence on the sheets.
I learned later he had left town right after graduation, the black hole vanished with him, off to live the perfect life of Austin McCormack: scholarships, trust funds, and endless possibilities. I did not blame him. He had everything he ever wanted, while I remained the middle-aged science professor with the big, hairy body and the quiet unassuming life.
The disappearance of Dan and the black hole sealed my fate irrevocably. There would be no reversal, no climbing into a new body. My old life as Noah was gone forever, with no hopes of ever returning. But as I stood in the shower that morning, hot water cascading over my broad back, running down through the dense hair, down the curve of my big ass and between my thick thighs, a profound peace settled over me. I ran my hands over myself slowly, possessively, feeling every inch of this magnificent form.
Later, dressed in fresh khakis and a snug shirt, I sat at my desk with coffee and papers, the reinforced chair creaking comfortably beneath my weight, my ass spreading wide and familiar.
I was Bruce Clarke now, completely and without reservation. Science professor, hairy giant, and infamous owner of the biggest ass in town. And in the quiet moments, before the mirror or alone in bed, I celebrated this mature body with slow, worshipful touches, reveling in its size, its hair, its unrelenting presence. The black hole had taken everything from my old life, but it had given me this, a deep, sensual love for the man I had ultimately become.
That sound was the thing that struck me first. Not the slick stretch of him inside me, not the deep stuttering moan rolling up out of a chest I should not have been straddling, nor the wet buzz of the toy he was working into himself with his free hand. The bed. The specific groan of the third slat from the headboard, the one I'd been meaning to replace for three years and never quite got around to. The sound was a key sliding into a lock I didn't know I had.
But I kept riding.
That was the worst of it, or the best, depending on which part of me you asked. My thighs were burning in a way that didn't feel like mine — narrow thighs, less stamina, bitten-down fingernails clutching at pecs they hadn't earned — this body I'd woken up in working harder than it should have to keep the rhythm going. But the rhythm itself was instinct. Up and down. The slow grinding pause at the bottom where he liked it, where the man under me liked it, because his hands tightened on a waist that didn't belong to either of us and his head pressed back into the pillow and that voice, my fucking voice, broke open into a sound somewhere between a curse and a prayer.
"Ohhh fuck — fuck, fuck — squirt, you feel that? You feel how deep you're sittin' on me? Ahnnh — goddamn, this fuckin' body, dude — I been goin' for like forty minutes and I'm not even— unh — not even tired, you believe that shit?"
He had the dildo in his other hand. He'd been working it into himself even before he pulled me on top of him, a thick veined silicone thing in a stupid sunset gradient, and he was not gentle about it. He was hammering it up into his own ass at the same rough cadence I was using on his cock, two rhythms cross-cutting through one body, and every time the toy hit deep his whole frame jolted and his cock kicked inside me and another shudder rippled through both of us. His own prostate was getting wrecked by his own hand and he was narrating the whole thing.
"S-so fuckin' full, man, you don't even know — got my new dick in you, got this fat thing from Mr. Leather splittin' me — ah-ah-ah — I'm like the meat in the fuckin' sandwich, dude, I'm— nnh — Christ on a cracker, you should see yourself riding me, you're so shrimpy, you're so—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. His free hand left the toy long enough to drag up his own torso, palm flat across the pecs I'd built, fingers spreading wide to feel every individual ridge of muscle, and the moan he made at his own touch was for himself, entirely for himself, and the loop fed itself the way it never stopped feeding itself. The cock buried inside me throbbed harder at the contact. He hadn't even touched anyone else and his body was getting off on its own existence.
"My body," he was muttering, eyes rolled halfway back, baritone gone slurry. "My body, my body, look at this fuckin' body—"
I sank down again and felt the head of his cock press against something deep that made the smaller frame around me shudder. A whimper came out of me that I didn't recognize. Thin. Reedy. The wrong throat making the wrong sound.
His hands slid up the stolen waist. Both of them now, the toy abandoned for a second, lodged deep in him while he pressed his thumbs into the soft place under my ribs. There was a freckle there I hadn't noticed before. Small and dark, just under the left side of my new ribcage. Someone else's. Someone else's me.
I looked down at him and tried, tried, to hate it.
He was beautiful.
That was the part I couldn't stop circling. He was beautiful in the way I had spent a decade and a half slaving over. The trapezius I'd built doing farmer's carries at five a.m. The obliques I'd sculpted with stupid little side bends nobody else in the gym would do. The small dark mole just above his left nipple that my mother had pointed to when I was six and called my khaal-e-shirin, my sweet little mark. He had my sweet little mark on his stolen chest and he was looking up at me through eyelashes I'd inherited from a grandmother he'd never met, half-lidded, slack-mouthed, fucked-stupid on his own reflection.
The expression. That was the worst part. He didn't wear my face the way I'd worn it. I'd worn it sharp, present, the jaw doing work. He wore it the way men wear someone else's good jacket — pleased with the fit, indifferent to the cut.
"You're so fuckin' tight, little guy—" The baritone cracked, the voice rolling up out of a throat that wasn't built to make that sound that high. He bucked up into me and I gasped, palms slapping flat against the pecs to steady myself. His chest. My chest. The skin was hot under my hands and slick with the sweat of how long he'd been working for it, and underneath the slick I could feel the script along his ribs, raised slightly the way fresh-ish ink does in heat.
I'd gotten it at twenty-six. I'd been reading Coleman Barks like he was the only translator in the world. I'd thought the line was the most profound thing anyone had ever written and I'd put it on my body in a script I couldn't read myself because I wanted to honor a heritage I'd only ever held at arm's length. Three years later I'd come to find the choice a little embarrassing — the Barks of it, the white-yoga-studio of it, the fact that I'd picked the most quotable line in the whole canon — but I'd kept it because removing it would have been worse than wearing it. Penance for my own earnestness.
He didn't know any of that. He just wore it. Because it had come with the package.
His left hip clicked.
Small sound. The kind of joint pop you only hear if you're close enough, the kind of pop my left hip had been making since I tweaked it deadlifting at twenty-seven. It clicked on the upstroke when he bucked up into me, and the click bypassed my brain entirely and landed somewhere lower, in the part of me that didn't have language yet, just recognition. I knew that click. I knew it from the inside. I'd been hearing it in my own pelvis for three years.
I didn't have time to interrogate it. He was talking again.
"—gonna come again, dude, I'm gonna— ahhh — I came like twenty minutes ago and I'm already— this body's a fuckin' factory, swear to god, it just— unh — keeps refillin' the tank—"
He shoved the toy deeper into himself. His thighs trembled under mine. His balls tightened.
I felt the draw of them against the base of the cock buried inside me, that specific physiological cinching I had experienced from the other side a thousand times and was now feeling from the inside like an inverted memory. His mouth fell open. His hands clamped down on the borrowed hips hard enough to bruise the soft skin there. He made a sound — deep, gutted, animal, the kind of sound my throat had never made when it belonged to me because I had been raised to be quiet about pleasure — and he came.
He came inside me. He came inside his own old body using his own old cock and the heat of it flooded into me thick and pulsing, and the dildo was still in him, and his free hand came up to drag through dark curls in a gesture so precisely minethat I felt the recognition like a slap.
He laughed, breathless. Stoned-sounding. "Fuck me sideways," he murmured, more to the ceiling than to me, "every fuckin' time, man."
His head lolled to one side on the pillow.
I was looking past his shoulder.
At the plaster seam above the headboard.
The uneven one. The one the contractor had bodged in 2019 when I'd had a leak in the unit upstairs and they'd patched the ceiling on the cheap and I'd looked at that crooked seam every morning for four years and meant to fix it and never fixed it. I was looking at my own deferred maintenance and the second click happened, the bigger one, the one in my chest.
I live here.
I fucking live here.
The thought didn't arrive as a sentence. It arrived as the entire architecture of the room reorganizing itself around me — the angle of light from the window I had chosen the curtains for, the corner where my reading chair used to be before he'd shoved it aside to make room for his stupid weight bench, the smell underneath the sweat and the cum and the cheap synthetic cologne, the smell of my own laundry detergent in the sheets because he hadn't even bothered to switch brands.
And then the bookshelf.
Mine. Every book on it was mine. The Hafez in the original. The dog-eared Le Guin. The architectural monograph my sister had given me for my twenty-eighth birthday, with her inscription on the flyleaf I couldn't see from here but knew was there. Mine, mine, mine, the spines in the order I'd put them in, alphabetical within genre, a system only I would have used—
Except for one book.
Third shelf down. Wedged in horizontal on top of the verticals, the way you stash something you didn't have a place for. Black leather. No title on the spine I could read from this distance, but the binding was wrong — hand-stitched, not commercial, the kind of object that does not belong in a Bay Area apartment in the twenty-first century. It was the only thing in the room that wasn't mine.
It was the only thing in the room that was his.
The fog covering me? It detonated.
It came back in a single shuddering rush — not memories one at a time but the entire form of myself returning at once, the weight of thirty-four years slamming back into a brain that had been running on a skeleton crew, and my name arrived with it like a struck bell.
Bardia.
Bardia.
I was Bardia Azadeh, though everyone here called me Blake because it was easier and this was my apartment and the man bleeding the afterglow into my mattress beneath me was wearing my body like a costume he'd shoplifted, and the book on the third shelf, the black leather book that was the only foreign object in my entire curated life, was how he'd done it.
He hadn't noticed yet. His eyes were closed. His hand was still in his own hair, lazy, the dildo still seated in him, the body cycling down into that brief and only window where the self-activation loop would slack — five seconds, ten, before his cock would start to fill again at the sensation of his own fingertips at his own scalp — and I knew that body's recovery period because that was my fucking body and the window was small but it was real.
I moved.
I came up off him in one motion, his softening cock slipping out of me with a wet obscene sound, his cum running hot down the inside of a thigh that wasn't mine but was now mine to use. His eyes fluttered open in lazy protest.
"Nnh — where you goin', squirt — c'mon, come back here, I'm not — I'm not even done—"
I was already off the bed. Already across the room. The boards of the floor I had refinished myself were cold under bare feet with bitten-down nails.
The book was heavier than it should have been. The small hand barely closed around the spine. I pulled it from the shelf and the leather was warm — not room-warm, not body-warm, warm in a way objects are not supposed to be — and I felt the back of my neck prickle with a knowledge that wasn't mine and a knowledge that was.
He saw what I was holding.
The lazy fell off his face.
"Put that down." Not soft anymore. The baritone gone hard, gone fast — but his body was still leaking afterglow, still loose-limbed on my bed, still betraying him with the slow involuntary thickening at his groin because his own forearm had brushed his own thigh as he tried to push himself upright. "Bardia. Put it down."
Playing With The Numbers: A SwapService Story (Pt. 3)
Tommy's POV
I woke up with David’s back pressed against my chest, my arm draped over his waist. Early morning light was coming through the blinds, and I just lay there for a minute, breathing him in.
Fuck… David Clemence is like the cutest guy ever.
I still couldn’t believe last night actually happened. I’d had a crush on him back when we swam together, but I never thought I’d get the chance to be with him like this. Fucking him last night was a dream. The way he moaned my name, the way his body reacted to every touch, how tight and warm he felt around me… I couldn’t stop replaying it in my head.
I carefully brushed some of his hair out of his face so I could see him better. Even sleeping, he looked good. Smooth skin, sharp jawline, those long eyelashes. He had no idea how cute he was, honestly. Guys like him never do.
I’d struggled to keep my hands off him all night at the bar. Every time he laughed at one of my stupid jokes, every time he leaned in a little closer, I wanted to pull him against me. But I held back. I really wanted to be respectful until I knew for sure he was into me too. The last thing I wanted was to make things weird or pushy.
Later at McDonald’s, when I finally made my move… I was so nervous. Sliding my hand around his waist in the booth, feeling the warm, smooth skin of his side and the hard lines of his abs under my fingers — fuck, I got so turned on. I kept glancing at my friends across the table, nervous as hell that I was being too forward. But then I felt David lean into my touch, his lustful gaze burning into me. When I rubbed the inside of his thigh before we left, I swear I could feel his breathing change. He wanted me too.
I pressed a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder, then another one a little higher on his neck. David stirred, letting out a quiet sleepy sound that made me smile.
“Morning,” I whispered against his skin, keeping my voice low. “You sleep okay?”
He nodded, still half-asleep, and pushed back against me a little. I tightened my arm around his waist, pulling him closer.
I ran my hand slowly up and down his side, enjoying the feeling of his smooth, toned body under my palm. I was already getting hard again just being pressed against him, but I didn’t want to rush anything. I wanted him to feel comfortable. Safe.
But I couldn’t help but let my mind wander.
He doesn’t know this either, but he was the reason I came out when I got to college. All those stolen glances I made in the locker room, trying not to stare at his body while we changed. Going back to his Instagram late at night just to look at every new cute photo he posted. I finally couldn’t deny it to myself anymore. I liked guys.
Unfortunately for me, I still haven’t found anyone I liked quite as much as I liked him back then. No one ever measured up.
I wondered what things would’ve been like if I had figured myself out while we were still in high school. Maybe we could’ve dated. Sneaking around, going to movies together, making out in my car after practice…
Can we date now?
The thought made my heart beat faster. It felt a little crazy, but it also felt right.
I leaned in and kissed the back of his neck again, speaking softly.
“Hey… I know this might sound sudden, but would you want to get dinner this week? Just the two of us. A real date.”
He looked back at me and smiled, still barely awake, and said, “I'd like that.”
Ryan's POV
It had been three weeks since I swapped into David’s body.
Tommy and I had been seeing each other almost every day since that first night. We weren’t officially calling it anything yet, but it felt like a relationship. Texts good morning and good night, dinners, movies at his place, waking up next to him on weekends. It felt natural. Easy.
David had been surprisingly cool about extending the swap. When I messaged him asking for two more weeks, he replied almost immediately saying it was fine. I didn’t tell him the real reason — that I was seeing Tommy. I just said I was having too much fun exploring life in a younger body and wanted a little more time. I was worried that if I mentioned I was dating someone — especially another former swimmer — he might get weird about it and demand we swap back.
Part of me liked to think he’d actually be excited for me. Worst case scenario, at least I’d be giving him a hot boyfriend when he finally got his body back. Best case scenario… I didn’t let myself think too far ahead on that one.
Having a boyfriend — or de facto boyfriend — was nicer than I ever imagined it would be. After years of hiding and pretending, being able to hold someone’s hand in public, kiss them goodbye on the sidewalk, or fall asleep with someone’s arm around me felt like something I’d been missing my whole life.
Tommy was every bit as sweet as I remembered from his swimming days. He was the perfect gentleman — always opening doors, checking in on how my day was, making me coffee in the morning exactly how I liked it. But when he wanted to turn on that raw sexual energy, he became something else entirely. The way he’d pin me against the wall the second we got back to his apartment, the way he’d look at me like he wanted to devour me, the low growl in his voice when he told me exactly what he was going to do to me… it made my knees weak every single time.
Tonight we were on his couch, half-watching a movie. I was lying with my head in his lap while he played with my hair. He looked down at me with that warm, affectionate smile that made my stomach flutter.
“You good?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing over my cheek.
“Yeah,” I said, looking up at him. “I have something I want to talk to you about.” I sat up.
“Hmm?” He kissed the top of my head. "What is it?"
I swallowed hard. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
He shifted so he could look at me better, his expression soft and patient. “You can tell me anything.”
I beat around the bush for a minute, stuttering. “I have this… kink. I’ve had it for a while.”
Tommy’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he smiled. “Okay. What is it?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, then tried again. My face felt hot. “It’s… body swapping. Like… the idea of switching bodies with someone.”
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t look weirded out. Instead, his smile grew a little.
“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said gently. “Actually sounds kinda hot. You want to pretend we’ve swapped bodies next time we fuck?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Not exactly pretending…”
“I found this site called SwapService. It says it can actually do it. For real.” I paused, then added the lie I’d rehearsed. “I’ve always been too scared to try it with anyone before… but I want to try it with you.”
Tommy’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. He pushed himself up on one elbow so he could look at me properly.
“Seriously? Like an actual body swap?” He didn’t sound judgmental at all. If anything, he looked excited. “That sounds like a lot of fun. Assuming it actually works, of course.” He grinned and ran his hand down my side. “And let’s be honest… you’re super fucking hot. It’s not like I’d be giving much up.”
I let out a breath of relief.
“You’d really be okay with that?” I asked, still a little stunned by how easily he was taking it.
“Yeah,” he said without hesitation, leaning in to kiss me softly. “If it’s something you’re into, I want to experience it with you. Plus…” He smirked, that confident, playful look returning to his face. “I wouldn’t mind taking that cock for a test drive.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hand sliding down to squeeze my crotch.
“So,” he murmured against my lips, “when do you want to do it?”
---
The next evening we sat together on Tommy’s couch with his laptop open. We made our profiles side by side, carefully filling in all the stats and preferences so the system would register us as a 100% match. Tommy kept laughing and teasing me the whole time, clearly enjoying how nervous and excited I was. Once everything was set, we confirmed the swap.
The flash hit.
When I opened my eyes, I was looking up at the ceiling from a different angle. Tommy’s bigger, stronger body. I flexed my new hands, feeling the thickness of his forearms, the power in his biceps. A rush of pure ecstasy ran through me.
I looked over at Tommy, now in David’s leaner body. He was sitting up, running his hands over his new smooth chest and abs, a big grin on his face.
“Holy shit,” he said, using David’s voice. “This feels weird… but not bad.”
He looked thrilled.
Before I could say anything, Tommy moved fast. He climbed on top of me, pinning my new, bigger wrists down to the bed with surprising strength. Even though I was now physically larger, the way he looked down at me with that confident, hungry expression made it clear nothing had really changed about who was in charge.
“Even in these new bodies,” he said, voice low and firm, “I’m still the one running things in the bedroom. Got it?”
I nodded quickly, already breathing harder.
Tommy reached down and slid his hand under the waistband of my underwear. His fingers found my hole and started rubbing slow, teasing circles against it. The sensation in Tommy’s more sensitive body made me groan.
“Good,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss my neck as his finger pressed more firmly. “Because I’ve got plans for this body tonight.”
Lying there pinned under him, feeling his finger teasing me, all I could think was:
David is going to have to wait a while longer to get his body back.
Playing With The Numbers: A SwapService Story (Pt. 2)
Ryan's POV
It had been three weeks since Cruz and I swapped back.
I was sitting on my couch with a beer in hand, staring at the SwapService app icon on my phone. I’d deleted it the day we returned to our own bodies, telling myself I needed a break. The whole experience had been intense. Eye-opening. Kind of incredible, honestly. For the first time in my life I’d been able to have sex with men without the crushing weight of fear that someone I knew would find out. I’d fucked, I’d been fucked, I’d finally let myself enjoy it. Cruz’s body had felt good. Young. Tight. Full of energy.
But the way he casually asked me on the last night if I wanted to make the swap permanent had freaked me out. Who the hell offers something like that so easily? Was that normal on this site? I’d said no immediately, and he’d just shrugged like it was no big deal. Still, I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t intrigued by the idea.
A do-over. Getting to live as an out gay man from a much younger age. No decades spent hiding. No pretending.
I shook my head and took another sip of beer. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ryan. One more swap. Just to explore a little more. Nothing permanent. Nothing crazy.
I reinstalled the app, set up my profile again, and adjusted my preferences.
The moment I hit search, a profile popped up at the very top with a bright green 98% compatibility score.
That was insanely high. Higher than anything I’d seen last time, even with Cruz.
I tapped on it.
My stomach dropped.
David Clemence, 25
One of my former varsity swimmers. Lean, athletic build, wavy brown hair, cocky smile in his profile picture. He was shirtless by the ocean, water still dripping down his chest. He looked exactly like I remembered him — confident, good-looking, and way too young.
What the hell was he doing on here?
I stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering. Part of me knew I should just close the app. But another part of me — the part that had spent years in high school and college fighting against stealing glances at other swimmers in the locker room — stayed frozen.
I opened his profile fully.
His bio was short:
“Former swimmer. Looking for an older, experienced guy who knows how to take charge. Open to anything, including longer swaps.”
My cock twitched in my shorts before I could stop it.
I told myself I was just curious. I clicked the message button.
A new chat window opened.
Before I could even type anything, David’s message came through.
David: Coach Ryan? Holy shit, no way. Is that really you?
I stared at the screen for a second, then typed back.
Ryan: Yeah, it’s me. Didn’t expect to see you on here, David.
David: Same here, Coach. This is wild. I just logged on tonight and your profile popped up. Crazy coincidence. What brings you on here>
I leaned back on the couch, heart still beating faster than it should. I decided to keep things vague.
Ryan: I’ve just been taking a little break from things. Trying to figure some stuff out, I guess.
David: I get that You doing okay?
I hesitated, then found myself opening up more than I planned.
Ryan: Honestly? I’ve been exploring my sexuality lately. First time I’ve really let myself do that. It’s been… new. Kind of freeing, but also scary as hell.
David: That’s awesome, Coach. Seriously. I’m really glad you’re doing that. You deserve to figure shit out without anyone giving you crap.
His words hit me harder than I expected. I felt a strange warmth in my chest. Out of all the people who could have said that to me, hearing it from one of my former swimmers felt surprisingly good.
Ryan: Thanks, David. That means more than you know.
We messaged back and forth for a while. He was easy to talk to — supportive, casual, and didn’t make it weird. After twenty minutes of chatting, he finally said it.
David: So… would you want to swap for a few days? I’m down if you are.
I read the message twice. My stomach tightened.
Ryan: You sure that wouldn’t be too weird? ... Exploring my sexuality, I mean.
David: Nah, not weird at all. That’s kind of what the site is for, right? Exploring stuff. Besides, I haven’t been getting much attention from guys lately anyway. I’ve worked hard to keep this body in shape. Might as well let someone who actually put it to good use. And if it’s an old friend like you? Even better.
Shit, I didn't realize David was gay. I mean, I guess in retrospect that makes sense, but I hadn't really thought that much about it. That would make things a bit easier.
I could feel myself getting tempted. The 98% match, the easy conversation, the way he was reassuring me… it all made it feel strangely safe.
Ryan: You’re really okay with me being in your body?
David: More than okay, Coach. I’d actually like it. I've always looked up to you, it would be cool to repay you for that.
I stared at my phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Ryan: Alright then, let's do it.
David and I agreed on a four-day swap. The process felt smoother than with Cruz. A bright flash behind my eyes, a moment of vertigo, and then everything settled.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in an unfamiliar bed in a small, tidy apartment. I looked down.
David’s body.
Lean, smooth, athletic. My new hands were younger, veins less prominent. I sat up slowly and walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.
It was so fucking weird.
I was staring at one of my former swimmers. The same kid I used to yell at for lazy flip turns and sloppy streamline. Now I was him. I ran David’s hands over his chest and abs, feeling the tight muscle definition I used to see every day at practice. His skin was smooth, almost no hair except a thin trail leading down from his navel. His cock was already half-hard just from the novelty of the swap.
I wrapped my new hand around it and gave a slow stroke. A sharp jolt of pleasure shot through me. It felt different. More sensitive. Quicker to respond.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered in David’s voice. It still felt surreal hearing his younger tone come out of my mouth.
I kept stroking, watching myself — watching him — in the mirror. The way his abs flexed, the way his biceps popped when I tensed my arm. I imagined all the times I’d stood on the pool deck trying not to look too long at these exact bodies. Now I was inside one.
I jerked off faster, breathing harder, until I came hard across David’s tight stomach, thick ropes landing on his smooth skin. I stood there panting, looking at the mess I’d made in my former swimmer’s body.
It was the strangest mix of guilt and arousal I’d ever felt.
A few days later I was at a gay bar downtown in David’s body. It was crowded, loud, and full of guys in their twenties. I felt both out of place and strangely excited. Being young again, being able to be here without anyone recognizing me, was liberating.
I was nursing a vodka soda at the bar when I saw him.
Tommy Morrison.
He was standing near the edge of the dance floor with a couple of friends, laughing at something. He’d filled out nicely since high school — broader shoulders, solid arms, a confident stance. He looked good. Really good.
I remembered him clearly. He joined the swim team as a junior when David was a freshman. It was supposed to be cross-training for running after he injured his ankle pretty badly. Less impact on the joints. But Tommy took to swimming so naturally that he stuck with it. Skipped indoor track his senior year just so he could keep swimming.
He’d always been one of the nicest kids I ever coached. Respectful, hardworking, good attitude.
And now I was staring at him like he was a piece of meat.
I quickly looked away, heat rising in my face. What the hell are you doing, Ryan? You were his coach.
Then it hit me.
In this body, I was younger than Tommy now.
The realization sent a strange thrill through me. I wasn’t his coach anymore.
Before I could decide whether to look away or go say something, Tommy started walking straight toward me. My stomach flipped. I tried to act casual, but when he tapped me on the shoulder I still startled slightly.
“Hey man, how are you?” Tommy said with a big smile. Without hesitation he pulled me into a quick, firm hug. He smelled like cologne and beer. When he stepped back, he looked me up and down, his eyes lingering for a second, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight grin.
I felt my cheeks heat up instantly. David’s face was probably bright red.
Tommy didn’t seem to mind. “This is crazy, I haven’t seen you in forever. Come meet my friends.”
He introduced me to the group as David. For the rest of the night I stayed with them — laughing, drinking, moving between the bar and the dance floor. I couldn’t stop watching Tommy. The way he carried himself was magnetic. He was masculine and confident without trying too hard, but he was also goofy and playful — teasing his friends, making dumb jokes, dancing badly on purpose just to make everyone laugh. Guys kept glancing at him and checking him out as they walked by.
He was everything I wished I could have been as a gay man — comfortable in his skin, open, free.
By the end of the night we were all drunk and starving. The whole group ended up at a McDonald’s a couple blocks away. We crammed into a booth, laughing too loud for the late hour. Tommy slid in right next to me. Without saying anything, he smoothly wrapped his arm around my waist and let his hand rest on my side, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.
The casual touch sent heat rushing through David’s body.
When it was finally time to leave, Tommy’s hand moved to my thigh under the table. He rubbed the inside of it, fingers pressing just firm enough to make my breath catch.
“My apartment is right around the corner,” he said, voice low and close to my ear. “I’ve got some new records if you want to come see them.”
I didn’t even pretend to hesitate.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice coming out a little rough in David’s throat. “I’d like that.”
We said goodbye to his friends and started walking. Tommy kept his hand on my lower back the whole way. His apartment was only a five-minute walk, but it felt longer with the tension building between us. When we got inside, he locked the door behind us and turned to face me, that same slight grin playing on his lips.
I wandered over to his record collection, pretending to look through the sleeves while trying to calm my nerves. A few seconds later I felt Tommy come up behind me. His hands gently grabbed my waist and turned me around. Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me.
It was tender at first, almost careful. Then he deepened it, one hand sliding up to the back of my neck. When he finally pulled back, he looked me in the eyes and said quietly, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.”
My heart slammed in David’s chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just kissed him again, harder this time.
We made our way to his bed, still kissing as we pulled each other’s shirts off. Tommy laid me down gently and started kissing down my neck, then across my smooth chest and stomach. Every touch of his lips sent electricity through me. I couldn’t stop staring at him — his perfectly toned body, the way his veiny biceps flexed as he held himself over me, that cute smile, the light mustache above his lip, his warm sweet eyes, and the cool geometric tattoo on his forearm.
He was gorgeous.
I was so turned on I could barely think straight. This was one of my former swimmers — a kid I used to coach — now kissing his way down my (David’s) body like he’d been waiting years to do it. The guilt and the thrill mixed together in a way that made everything feel even more intense.
Tommy looked up at me, eyes dark with want, his hand sliding slowly up my thigh.
He stood up and pushed his underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside. His cock sprang up, hard and thick, curving slightly upward. I stared at it, my mouth going dry. He had already stripped me completely naked.
He reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube. Then he climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself on his knees between my spread legs. Looking down at me with dark, hungry eyes, he poured some lube onto his fingers and warmed it up by rubbing them together.
He leaned forward slightly and pressed one slick finger against my hole. I tensed for a second, but his other hand gently rubbed the inside of my thigh, slow and soothing. He pushed the finger in carefully, working it deeper with small, patient movements. A low moan escaped my throat.
After a minute he added a second finger, stretching me open. I squirmed on the sheets, breathing heavier, my cock leaking against my stomach. The combination of his fingers and that steady, comforting hand on my thigh was driving me crazy.
Tommy looked me straight in the eyes, his voice low and commanding.
“Are you on Prep?”
I could barely form words. I was so desperate to feel him inside me that it came out shaky and needy.
“Yes,” I managed, practically whimpering. “Yeah, I’m on it.”
Tommy gave me that same endearing, cute, confident smile — the one that made my chest tighten. Without another word, he pulled his fingers out, slicked up his cock, and lined himself up.
He thrust into me in one smooth, steady motion.
I gasped loudly as he filled me, my hands grabbing at his arms. He felt huge inside David’s tighter body. Tommy let out a deep groan, eyes half-closed for a moment, then looked back down at me as he started moving his hips.
“Fuck, David…” he breathed, leaning down closer.
Tommy started thrusting, deep and steady. Every roll of his hips sent waves of pleasure through me.
Fuck, he’s so hot. The thought kept repeating in my head as I watched him above me. The way his shoulders flexed, the way his chest moved with each breath, the confident look on his face. This is exactly how I want to be. Masculine. At ease in my own skin. Open. Desired.
This was my first time having sex without a condom. The feeling of Tommy’s bare cock sliding in and out of me was overwhelming. I couldn’t tell if raw sex just felt this incredible, or if it was specifically his cock — thick, curved, and hitting the perfect spot every single time. Honestly, it was probably both.
Tommy’s rhythm picked up. His eyes had turned darker, hungrier. He looked down at me and said in a low, rough voice, “I wish you could see how sexy you look right now.”
That sent me spiraling.
I closed my eyes and pictured it — being inside Tommy’s body instead. Looking down at David’s lean, smooth body spread out beneath me. Seeing my new, stronger hands gripping these hips. Fucking him with this powerful body while wearing that cute, confident smile.
The fantasy hit me like a freight train.
I came hard, moaning loudly as my cock pulsed between us, shooting across David’s stomach and chest. My hole clenched tight around Tommy’s cock with every wave.
“Fuck— David—” Tommy groaned. His thrusts became shorter and harder, then he buried himself deep and came. I felt every pulse as he filled me.
He dropped down onto me, chest to chest, our sweaty skin pressing together and smearing my cum between us. I pulled him into a deep kiss, tasting beer and salt on his tongue.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard.
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.
Fucking hell how did you ever walk around with this huge ass dick swinging around? You don't know what I'm talking about? Oh shit right, forgot i drained your memories haha. Don't worry bout it little guy, just keep doing you squirt. You doing anything after the gym? Fuck nevermind I'm getting hard just thinking about railing your little twink ass, god you look hot without all that muscle. Lets take a break in between sets and hit up the sauna real quick, give you a taste of your old self, yeah?
I can see the gears turning in that pretty little head, trying to make sense of words that should mean something but just... don't. It's fucking intoxicating, watching you struggle with the empty spaces where your memories used to be. Where you used to be.
"Um... I'm sorry, do I know you?" you ask, that soft voice so different from the deep rumble that used to vibrate through this chest. My chest now. Your hand fidgets with the bottom of your oversized tank top - probably one of your old shirts that hangs off your new frame like a fucking dress.
I flex casually, watching your eyes track the movement of muscles that used to belong to you. The pump is incredible in this body. Every vein, every striation - I'm still getting used to how fucking good it feels to inhabit this much raw power. And the best part? You have no idea you're staring at yourself. Or what used to be yourself.
"Nah, we just... ran in the same circles," I lie easily, stepping closer. You have to tilt your head back now to look at me. Fuck, that's hot. You used to be six-two, and now you're what, five-seven? Five-eight? "I'm just messin' with you, man. You seemed a little out of it."
"Oh! Yeah, I've been feeling kind of weird lately," you admit, running a hand through your hair - straight and blond now, nothing like the thick curly mop I'm currently sporting. "Like I'm forgetting stuff? But I can't remember what I'm forgetting, if that makes sense."
It makes perfect sense. I made sure of that when I drained you. Took everything - your body, your muscle, your cock, your memories of having any of it. Left you with just enough to function, to think you've always been this cute little twink who's maybe a little gym-curious.
"Makes total sense, little guy." I let my hand land on your shoulder - so much smaller than I'm used to, delicate under my palm. This palm that used to be yours. I can feel you tense slightly at the contact, but you don't pull away. "You know what helps with that brain fog? Sauna. Gets the blood flowing."
"Oh, I don't know, I've never really—"
"Never really what? Come on, it'll be good for you." I'm already guiding you toward the locker room, my hand sliding from your shoulder to the small of your back. You're so fucking little now, it's driving me crazy. I can feel my dick - your old dick - starting to swell in my workout pants. This thick, heavy cock that used to hang between your legs, and now you don't even remember what it felt like.
"I guess... okay, yeah, sure," you agree, and Christ, you're so fucking compliant in this new body. Is it the size difference? The missing confidence that used to come with being built like a Greek god? Whatever it is, I'm here for it.
We push through the locker room doors. It's mostly empty this time of night - I planned it that way. A couple guys at the far end, but they're in their own world. I grab two towels from the stack and toss you one.
"So do we just... go in with our clothes?" you ask, and the innocent confusion in your voice makes my cock twitch again.
"Nah, man. Strip down, wrap the towel around." I don't wait, just hook my thumbs in my waistband and shove everything down. Your old cock springs free, half-hard already, and I watch your eyes go wide.
"Holy shit, dude, that's..."
"Big? Yeah." I wrap the towel around my waist - barely conceals it, honestly. This thing is a fucking weapon. Eight and a half inches soft, thick as a beer can, and you grew it over years of good genetics and testosterone. Mine now. "What's wrong, never seen a big dick before?"
You tear your eyes away, face flushing red. "No, I mean, yeah, I have, just... sorry for staring."
"Don't apologize. I'd stare too." I lean against the lockers while you awkwardly strip down, trying not to look at me. Your new body is tight, smooth, the kind of twink build that would've had old-you drooling. Has current-me drooling, honestly. "Damn, you're cute as fuck. You know that?"
The blush deepens. "Thanks? I guess?"
Your new cock is maybe four inches hard - I saw to that. Nothing wrong with it, but the contrast is fucking delicious. You wrap the towel around yourself like you're trying to hide, and I want to rip it off you right here.
"Sauna's this way." I lead you through the wet area, past the showers. The sauna door is heavy, and wet heat billows out when I pull it open. Empty. Perfect.
The cedar walls glow in the dim light, and I can already feel sweat prickling across my skin - your skin - as we step inside. I sprawl on the upper bench, legs spread, towel riding up on thick thighs that you spent years building in this exact gym.
You perch on the lower bench, nervous energy radiating off you.
"So... you work out here a lot?" you ask, trying to make conversation.
"Starting to, yeah. Trying out this new routine." I run a hand down my abs, feeling each ridge. "It's treating me pretty fucking well, don't you think?"
You nod quickly, then look away again. The heat is building, steam rising from the rocks.
"You ever wonder what it would be like?" I ask, voice dropping lower.
"What what would be like?"
"Being big. Strong. Hung like a fucking horse." I adjust my towel, making sure you get another glimpse. "Walking around knowing you could have anyone you want."
"I... I don't know. I never really thought about it." But there's something in your eyes - a flicker of loss, like you're reaching for something that isn't there.
"Liar," I say softly, and pat the bench next to me. "Come here."
"What?"
"Come. Here." Not a question this time.
You hesitate, then climb up to the upper bench, sitting a careful distance away. I close it in one movement, sliding right up against you. My arm goes around your shoulders, pulling you against my side. You fit there perfectly, your head barely reaching my shoulder.
"Relax," I murmur against your ear. "Just wanna make you feel good, little guy. Give you a taste of what you're missing."
My other hand lands on your thigh - so much softer than mine, less muscle. You gasp as I squeeze gently.
"Ever been with a guy?" I ask, already knowing the answer. You have no memories of your extensive history with men. Or women. I took it all.
"N-no..."
"Want to be?"
Your breath hitches. My hand slides higher.
"I don't even know your name," you whisper.
I grin against your temple. Should I tell you? That I'm wearing your name now, that I took everything?
"Call me daddy," I say instead, and pull your towel open.
"You know what the best part is?" I don't give you time to answer, just keep talking as my hand wraps around your little cock. You're already hard - can't help yourself. "It's not even the big shit. Yeah, the muscles are fucking incredible, and this cock—" I thrust my hips slightly, making sure you feel the weight of it against your hip, "—is a goddamn gift. But it's the little things, man."
My other hand comes up to touch the small silver hoop in my ear - your ear. "This piercing? Got it two days after I drained you. Just walked into a shop and did it. Nobody questioned it because why would they? I look like the kind of guy who can pull off whatever the fuck he wants." I tug on it slightly, grinning. "You used to think about getting one but never had the balls. I have your balls now, so I just... did it."
You whimper as I start stroking you slowly, deliberately.
"And the smell, fuck. You have no idea." I lean in close, dragging my nose along your neck, then pull back. "Press your face right here. Right into my pit."
"What—"
"Do it." I guide your head down to my armpit, holding you there. "Breathe it in. That's what a real man smells like. That's testosterone and work and power. I fucking reek after the gym and I love it. Walk around with it like cologne. Your old deodorant is still in my gym bag but I haven't touched it in weeks. Why would I cover this up?"
I feel your breathing get faster against my skin, and my cock throbs.
"My sneakers, man. Your sneakers. Those beat-to-fuck Nikes in my locker?" I flex my foot, the one currently in a size thirteen that used to be yours. "They're rank as hell. Socks are crusty. I wear them without washing them because I can. Because they smell like me now, like this body that dominates every room it walks into. What size are you now? Seven? Eight? Bet your little feet are cute as fuck."
I pull you up to look at me, keeping one hand working your dick.
"And clothes. Jesus Christ, the clothes. Everything fits perfect. Shirts stretch across these pecs, sleeves hug these arms. But you know what I wear most?" I grin wickedly. "Almost nothing. Went to the grocery store yesterday in just these tiny fucking running shorts - the ones with like a two-inch inseam - and no shirt. No shoes, even. Just walked around barefoot and half-naked because this body is a fucking work of art and everyone should see it."
Your eyes are glazed, mouth open, and I know I've got you.
"Tank tops that show my whole torso. Shorts so small my ass hangs out. I go to the beach, the park, anywhere, and just let everyone look. You know why?"
"Why?" you gasp.
"Because I can. Because I took everything you were too modest to flaunt. All that muscle you covered up with baggy clothes, all that confidence you were too in-your-head to use." I lean in until my lips brush your ear. "I'm living your best life, little guy. The one you were too chickenshit to live yourself. And it feels so. Fucking. Good."
My hand speeds up on your cock and you're making these desperate little sounds.
"Every morning I wake up and I'm still in this body. Still big. Still strong. Still hung. And you wake up in that tight little twink body with no memory of what you used to be. That's power. That's the ultimate flex."
You're close, I can tell. Trembling against me.
"Come for daddy," I whisper. "Come for the man wearing your old life like a second skin."
I’d been living in the building for about four months when I first noticed the way my next-door neighbor Kevin looked at me.
Mid-to-late fifties, silver hair cropped short, always dressed in either crisp button-downs or very nice workout clothes. Even on the days he clearly wasn’t trying, he looked put together. Every time we passed each other in the narrow hallway, he’d stop, smile that slow, easy smile, and find some reason to chat. The weather. The new gym down the block. Whether I’d tried the Thai place on the corner. His eyes would linger just a second too long on my shoulders, my arms, the way my tank top clung after a boxing session. I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what those glances meant.
I wasn’t interested. Not really. Kevin was handsome for his age — tall, still broad in the chest, with a deep voice that carried easy confidence — but he was over thirty years older than me. I just wasn’t into that.
Still, the attention was flattering. A man like him could probably pull plenty of guys my age if he wanted. He didn’t push, didn’t make it weird, so I just smiled back, kept the conversations short, and went about my business.
Then one Thursday night, close to midnight, there was a knock on my door.
I was sprawled on the couch in gym shorts and a hoodie, half-watching Netflix and half-scrolling on my phone, when the sound startled me. I figured it was the delivery guy with the wrong apartment again. Instead, when I opened the door, Kevin was standing there in a dark sweater, looking unusually nervous.
“Hey, Gio,” he said, voice low. “Sorry to bother you this late. Mind if I come in for a minute?”
I hesitated, then stepped aside. “Yeah, sure. Everything okay?”
He walked in, hands in his pockets, and glanced around my living room.
He didn’t sit down.
“I’ve been thinking about how to say this,” he started, then gave a short laugh. “There’s no graceful way, so I’ll just be direct.”
I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms across my chest. Here it comes.
But instead of the expected confession, Kevin reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, sleek device — black, palm-sized, with a glowing blue ring around the edge. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.
“This is, uh… this is a Chronovac,” he said, holding it up. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned it in his hands. “It, um… it can change things about reality. Like… swap stuff.”
He swallowed hard, eyes flicking between the device and my face.
“I can swap people’s ages… temporarily. Or, or, or permanently if you want, I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve used it, but since you moved in I just… I don’t know, you seemed like the right kind of guy who might… who might want to give it a try?”
I stared at him.
Kevin nodded quickly, eyes flicking between the device and my face.
“Yeah. It could make me be in my mid twenties again. And you’d… you’d become sixty-one,” he said.
Damn. He was even older than I’d realized—and he still kept himself in incredible shape.
“…Just for the weekend, if that’s all you’re comfortable with. I know it sounds completely insane. It’s just… it’s been so long, and I’ve really been craving it. With someone like you.”
The pieces clicked together in my head, and I almost laughed. This had to be some elaborate joke. Or maybe the guy was having a midlife crisis and this was his weird way of flirting. Either way, it was ridiculous.
“You’re serious,” I said, half question, half statement.
“Dead serious.” He turned the device slowly in his hands, thumb brushing over the glowing ring. There was something hungry in his eyes now, something raw and long-denied. Something in his face confirmed to me he wasn’t kidding.
I thought about it—really thought about it. About what sixty-one would feel like sitting on my frame. About the weight of those extra decades suddenly pressing into my bones, my skin, my cock. My mouth went dry.
Finally, I let out a slow breath.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
Kevin’s face lit up with pure relief, edged with something darker and hotter. “You’re sure? No pressure if it’s too weird—”
“I’m sure. Just the weekend, right? We swap back Sunday night?”
“Right.”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne mixed with warm skin. He held the Chronovac between us, pressed his thumb to the glowing ring. A soft chime filled the room.
“Ready?” he asked, voice husky.
I nodded.
The device hummed to life. A warm, heavy pressure bloomed deep in my chest, then surged outward like liquid heat flooding every vein. My vision blurred for a heartbeat. When it cleared, the world felt… different. Heavier.
My shoulders were still broad, but the muscle sat differently now—denser, more substantial. My arms looked thicker, the veins less razor-sharp, the skin just a little looser over the bulk. And I was covered in a thick layer of hair.
I looked back over at him. Across from me stood a version of Kevin I’d never imagined.
Twenty-seven years old, and fucking stunning.
“Fuck…” he whispered, voice now younger, smoother, and full of energy. He ran both hands over his new chest, then down his flat stomach, clearly savoring every inch. His fingers lingered at the waistband of his shorts, tracing the sharp V-lines. A wide, almost boyish grin spread across his bearded face. “This feels even better than I remembered.”
I cleared my throat. My voice came out deeper, rougher, with a slight gravelly edge that hadn’t been there before. “Jesus, Kevin… you’re really sixty-one, I swear I never would’ve thought you were that old?” I said, feeling up my new body.
“Sixty-one last month,” he said, still staring at his new arms like he couldn’t believe they were his. He rolled his shoulders and laughed softly. “God, I missed this. The energy. The way everything just… moves.”
He stepped closer to the mirror hanging by the door and turned sideways, checking out his profile.
Meanwhile, I was still trying to get used to the new balance in my own body. I shifted my weight and felt the subtle difference in my posture. My back didn’t hurt exactly, but it felt… like it had carried a lot of years.
Kevin turned back to me, eyes bright with excitement. “How do you feel?”
“Weird,” I admitted, running a hand over my new jaw. The stubble was coarser, the skin a little rougher. “Heavier. But not bad. Just… different.”
He smiled. “Well you look good, Gio. Really good. That silver looks sharp on you.”
It was already one in the morning, so eventually he slipped back to his own apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with a body that was and wasn’t mine.
I stood there for a long minute, then walked slowly to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I turned sideways, ran a hand over the new softness of my stomach, tested the solid weight of my arms. I lifted my shirt and studied the thicker chest hair, the gentler swell of my midsection, the way my shoulders still carried a lifetime of muscle even if the sharp definition had mellowed into something heavier, more mature.
It was weird. Surreal, even.
But as I stood there flexing my hands and feeling the quiet, grounded strength still humming beneath the surface, a strange sense of relief settled deep in my chest. If this was a glimpse of my future… it didn’t feel bad at all.
—
Sunday evening, just after eight, there was a knock on my door. Kevin — well twenty-seven-year-old Kevin — stepped inside with a bright, almost boyish grin.
“Hey,” he said, voice smooth and energetic. “I just need to thank you again before we switch back. That was… incredible. Best weekend I’ve had in years.”
He looked flushed, like he’d just come from the gym or maybe from somewhere more exciting.
“I hope it wasn’t too much of a paid for you” he said.
“Not at all, it was actually… enlightening,” I replied. My voice came out deeper and steadier than it had been just a few days earlier. “I guess we have to swap back. I’ve got work in the morning, and I don’t know what they’d do if I showed up as a sixty-one-year-old version of myself.”
Kevin nodded, already pulling the Chronovac from his pocket. “You’re right. Real life calls.”
As he toggled with the settings, I asked, “What else can that thing do, anyway?”
He took a shaky breath, still fiddling with the device, eyes fixed on the glowing ring instead of me. “A lot, actually. Age swaps are just the beginning. It can tweak personality traits — make someone more outgoing, more disciplined, more… submissive, whatever you want. It can shift sexualities, heighten or dull certain drives. Hell, it can even do full body swaps. I’ve only really played with the lighter stuff like the age swaps, but yeah… the potential is… it’s wild.”
Just as he finished speaking, he paused, thumb hovering over the glowing ring like he was wrestling with something. The air between us thickened again. Before he could press it, I stopped him.
“Wait,” I said, my deeper voice cutting through the tension. My heart was pounding hard enough that I could feel it in my thicker chest. “What if we didn’t swap back right away?”Just as hew as finished toggling, he paused, thumb hovering over the glowing ring, as if he was thinking. Before he could say anything, I stopped him and asked
“Wait,” I said, my deeper voice cutting through the tension. “Instead of just swapping our ages back… what if you took my real body for the whole week? You could go out into the world and actually be me. Go to my job at the warehouse, hang with my friends, live a real twenty-seven-year-old’s life.”
Kevin blinked, his borrowed young face flashing surprise. “Gio… that’s a big step. I don’t want to take advantage—”
“You’re not,” I cut in, stepping closer. “I’m offering. You seemed really happy just now, and I didn’t exactly hate being older. We can’t stay age swapped forever since we both have real lives to get back to this week, but there’s nothing saying we can’t fill in for each other. Why not let the fun last a little longer?”
He hesitated, fully wanting to take me up on it, but his eyes searching my older face for any sign of doubt. They didn’t find any. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “Alright. If you’re really sure.”
He adjusted the settings on the Chronovac, the blue light pulsing brighter. “Full body swap it is.”
The hum was deeper this time, almost electric, vibrating through my bones. A rushing sensation pulled at every part of me—bones, skin, muscle, even the rhythm of my heartbeat and the flicker of memories at the edge of my mind. When it finally stopped, I was staring at myself from across the room.
Perfect copy. My face, my build, my tattoos, even the small scar above my left eyebrow from that bad sparring session two years ago. Kevin was now me, completely.
And I was him.
Every inch of Kevin’s sixty-one-year-old body—which I had to admit was far more impressive than the sixty-one-year-old version of me had been—was now mine.
He flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulders, and grinned with my mouth. “Holy shit. This feels… fantastic. Your body feels so much more sensitive than mine. I feel so fucking horny right now.”
My original frame was a bit shorter than the twenty-seven-year-old version he’d just had, but he seemed to love the difference in build. As I watched him move around my apartment, testing the lighter, more agile limbs, something hot and unnameable stirred deep in my gut. I couldn’t quite place it, but I liked that he was me now. It was distinctly different from the age swap. This… this was him pretending to be me. Knowing he would go see my friends later, talk like me, move like me, live my life—it made my thicker cock twitch with a rush I wasn’t ready to admit out loud.
We parted ways again, except this time I went back to Kevin’s apartment and he stayed in mine.
Even though it was only Sunday night at 9 pm by the time we’d finished the full body swap, Kevin had clearly wasted no time. I had barely settled onto his couch — still getting used to the weight of his broader frame and the way his legs stretched out longer than mine used to — when I heard the front door of my apartment open and close next door. Then voices. A girl’s light laugh, followed by Kevin’s — my — voice, smooth and confident, saying something low that made her giggle again.
I sat there in the dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city outside the window, and listened.
The sounds were unmistakable.
Low laughter turning into soft moans. The rustle of clothes hitting the floor. The rhythmic creak of my bed as they moved onto it. Her gasps growing sharper, breathier. And his deep voice — my voice — encouraging her, telling her how good she felt, how tight she was, how he wanted to hear her moan louder.
He fucked her hard and loud.
The headboard started banging steadily against the shared wall, each thrust punctuated by her cries and his low, satisfied grunts. I could picture it perfectly: my younger, athletic body moving with that cocky new energy he’d already picked up, hips snapping forward, sweat glistening on my old skin.
I sat on Kevin’s couch, heart pounding, something strange and warm stirring deep in my gut. He was fucking as me.
My hand moved almost on its own. I reached down, pushed aside the loose sweatpants I was wearing, and wrapped my fingers around Kevin’s cock — thicker, heavier than mine had been, already half-hard from listening. I started stroking slowly at first, matching the rhythm I could hear through the wall.
As Kevin picked up the pace next door, I picked up mine.
Every time the headboard slammed against the wall, I stroked in unison. His groans grew deeper, more urgent. The girl was practically whimpering now, begging him not to stop. My own breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling heavily in this older body.
When Kevin finally came — letting out a loud, guttural groan that echoed through the thin walls, followed by the sound of him bracing himself against the wall with one hand to steady himself — I came too.
Hot spurts landed across my stomach and chest, thick and warm. I bit back a groan of my own, thighs tensing as the orgasm rolled through me, leaving me panting in the dark.
For a long minute afterward, I just sat there, cum cooling on my skin, listening to the muffled sounds of them catching their breath, soft laughter, the murmur of voices. Then the apartment next door went quiet.
I looked down at the mess on Kevin’s stomach — my stomach now — and let out a slow, shaky breath.
This was only the first night.
—
A week — and what sounded like numerous fuck sessions with different girls and guys — later, Kevin knocked on my door again — or rather, on his old door this time.
He looked a little sheepish but energized, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he couldn’t quite decide whether to smile or look guilty. My face looked good on him — flushed from whatever workout or adventure he’d just come from, eyes bright.
“Time to swap back?” he asked, rubbing the back of my neck with a familiar gesture.
I shook my head, smiling with Kevin’s calm, older face. The expression felt natural now, steady and knowing. “Nah. You’re welcome to stay like that a bit longer if you want.”
He laughed softly, the sound warm and young coming from my throat. “I appreciate it, Gio, but I wouldn’t want to do that to you — steal your youth like that. It’s generous, but no. Let’s get you back in your body.”
We swapped back. I had to admit, being back in my twenty-seven-year-old frame felt good — though I’d miss something about being Kevin, thats for sure.
So before he left, I just had to ask, “Hey… can I hang on to the Chronovac for a little while? Just to understand it a bit more.”
Kevin hesitated only a second, then handed it over. “Sure. Just… be careful with it. And bring it back when you’re done.”
The next night, alone in my apartment, I powered the device on and scrolled through the advanced options until I found the personality settings. I selected Kevin’s profile and made careful adjustments: a strong, growing craving for youth. A quiet voice in his head that would make him regret turning down the offer.
I hit confirm.
Less than twenty-four hours later, there was an urgent knock on my door.
Kevin stood there, eyes wide, breathing a little fast. My body looked tense on him, shoulders tight, like he’d been pacing before he worked up the nerve to come over.
“Gio… I changed my mind,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I want to swap again. Please. Just for a little while longer. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, and raised an eyebrow with a teasing smile. “Really? I thought you didn’t want to steal my youth.”
He flushed, shifting on his feet, my face turning a shade darker. “Oh please, I didn't really say that, did I? Come on, man. I was being polite before. I want this. I need it.”
I watched him for a moment, enjoying the hunger in his eyes — hunger I’d put there.
Then I picked up the Chronovac, adjusted the settings back to full body swap, and held it between us.
“Alright,” he said. “If you’re sure.”
The device hummed to life again.
—
A few days later, while he was out “being me” at the gym, I opened the Chronovac again. This time I went deeper into the personality settings. I dialed up the cockiness — just a notch at first. Made him a little more arrogant about how good he looked now, how much attention he got, how naturally the role of young, hot boxer fit him. I added a strong, swelling desire not just to be young, but to be me — to own my life completely.
I hit confirm and waited.
It didn’t take long to see the changes.
He started walking with more swagger when he passed my door. He’d knock, lean against the frame with my arms crossed, and smirk with my mouth like he owned the hallway. “Fuck, man, it is so easy to get laid as you,” he’d say, voice dripping with new confidence. “Girls at the gym are practically throwing themselves at me. Some of your boxing buddies keep checking me out on the DL too — I fucked that guy Connor actually. He's in the closet and apparently loves the taste of your cock.”
I’d just smile with Kevin’s calm, older face and nod. “Glad you’re enjoying it.”
One evening, we ran into each other in the building gym and I asked casually, “You ready to swap back soon?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, no way. Sorry, I’m having way too much fun. Can we stay like this just a bit longer?”
I played it up after that. Every few days I’d sigh and tell him I really wanted my body back, that I missed my own routine, my friends, my fights. He’d get this desperate look in my eyes and start begging.
“Come on, Gio, please,” he’d say, stepping closer, voice low and urgent. “Just a little more time. I need this. You don’t understand how good it feels. I’ll do anything — just don’t make me give it back yet.”
The more I pretended to hesitate, the more he begged. It was addictive watching him squirm inside my skin.
And every single night, without fail, he came home with another fuckable young guy or girl.
Each time I lay there in Kevin’s bed in the dark, listening through the thin walls, a warm thrill would roll through my borrowed body. I’d hear my own voice commanding some girl to take it deeper, rough and confident, or sometimes a guy’s low groan calling him a good boy while he got fucked harder.
I’d lie there stroking Kevin’s thicker cock slowly, letting the sounds wash over me.
I liked watching “Gio” own my life. No — I loved it.
One quiet evening, after another marathon session next door, I decided it was time to push further.
I picked up the Chronovac and went all in on Kevin’s profile. I cranked the craving until it was overwhelming: an all-consuming need to be me forever.
Then I waited.
Two nights later, I woke up to a faint noise in the living room. I got up, moving with Kevin’s heavier steps, and found him — my body, my face — crouched by the coffee table where I’d left the device. He had it in his hands. Before I could say anything, he raised it high and smashed it hard against the edge of the table. Plastic cracked. The blue ring flickered once and died.
He looked up at me, eyes wild with triumph and lust.
For a second I just stood there, staring at him —chest heaving, sweat already glistening on my old skin from the adrenaline. He had made it permanent.
And it turned me on so fucking much I couldn’t think straight.
I crossed the room in two strides, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and shoved him back against the wall. “You little shit,” I growled with Kevin’s deep, authoritative voice, pretending to be furious even as my cock thickened in my borrowed sweatpants. “You really think you can steal my life? What the fuck!?”
He grinned — my grin, sharp and defiant — and didn’t even try to push me away.
I spun him around, pressing his chest to the wall, yanking his shorts down with one rough hand. “You’re such a greedy, selfish piece of shit,” I snarled hotly against his ear, freeing my thicker, heavier cock. It was already leaking, the fat head slick as I rubbed it up and down his crack, teasing his hole. “Stealing my youth, my face, my tight fucking ass… acting like you own it now.”
He moaned loudly, pushing back against me with desperate hunger, his hole twitching against the head of my cock. “Do it,” he gasped, voice cracking with need.
I didn’t need more invitation.
I shoved inside him raw and deep, one hard thrust that made us both groan. He was tight, hot, and already rocking back to meet every stroke. I fucked him right there against the wall, one hand gripping his hip, the other braced beside his head.
“Fuck… you feel that?” I growled between savage thrusts, my voice thick and ragged with lust. “That’s what you get for thinking you could just take what’s mine. Stealing my cock, my life, my fucking future—now you’re getting fucked by the old man whose body you trapped me in.”
He was whimpering, pushing back harder, his own cock—my cock—leaking steadily against the wall as I railed him. “Yes—fuck yes—keep going,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Harder. Ruin me. I don’t care—I made it permanent because I needed this. Needed to be you. Needed your life.”
The confession, the sheer filthy greed in his words, sent a white-hot spike of arousal through me. I fucked him even harder, deeper, grinding against his prostate with every brutal snap of my hips. The knowledge that there was no way back—that he had destroyed any chance of returning—made the pleasure darker, more intense. I was trapped in Kevin’s mature, powerful body, balls-deep in my own stolen young form, and it was the hottest thing I’d ever felt.
I didn’t last long. The tight clench of his ass, the way my own body was milking me so perfectly, the raw, taboo thrill of it all pushed me over the edge fast.
With a deep, guttural roar I buried myself to the hilt and came hard inside him, pulsing again and again in thick, heavy ropes. I flooded my own stolen body with Kevin’s load, filling him until it started leaking out around my cock with every shallow thrust.
We stayed locked together, breathing heavy, bodies slick with sweat, my cock still twitching inside him as the last spurts drained out.
Then he turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder—my own face flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with satisfaction and filthy victory.
“Worth it,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “So fucking worth it.”
Do you think this is the first time Kevin has used the Chronovac's full swap function?
I’d been dreaming about studying abroad in Europe since I was twelve years old. So when the acceptance email hit my inbox at the end of my second year at the University of Calgary, I actually screamed in the middle of the library. A full year in Portugal? Sun-drenched streets, pastel buildings, ocean air, and actual European boys who probably knew how to kiss properly? Sign me the fuck up.
The only weird part was my school’s so-called “Immersion Exchange Program,” which was run by some educational company called Arterra. Every study abroad advisor that explained the program kept using the same weirdly specific language: “You’ll be living the life of a local student.” They said it with these bright, unnerving smiles. When I asked what that actually meant, they waved it off.
“Oh, you’ll understand once you’re there. It’s the deepest possible cultural integration. You’ll come back completely changed.”
The fourth-years who had already done the program were even cagier. I’d corner a couple of them after class and they’d just smirk, eyes glazing over like they were remembering something filthy.
“Changed my life,” one girl named Maya told me, twirling a strand of hair. “You have no idea how much.”
Another guy, Ethan, just laughed low and said, “Trust me, Liv. You’ll have the best time.”
It was strange, though. I could’ve sworn most of them had never actually left campus for a semester abroad. And every time I tried to dig, they changed the subject or suddenly remembered they had somewhere to be.
When I asked the international office about flights, housing, student visas, what to pack, all the normal stuff, they just smiled again and said, “We handle everything. Just show up at the Arterra Exchange Facility on August 29th at 11 a.m. sharp. Everything will be taken care of.”
So I spent the whole summer slinging overpriced leggings and iced lattes at the mall in Calgary, counting down the days. No confirmation email about my Portuguese class start date. No housing assignment. No flight itinerary. Every time I emailed, the reply was the same cheerful bullshit: “All arrangements are in hand. Don’t worry! Just show up on the 29th with a valid passport and your house keys and we will take care of the rest. No need to even pack a bag.”
By the time August rolled around I was low-key panicking, but I still showed up at the address they gave me. I assume they would just be giving me an airport transfer from here. I still thought was weird not to bring anything with me, but maybe they had clothes for me to make sure I dressed like a local too? Who knows?
The actual facility looked less like a travel office and more like a high-end medical clinic—sleek glass doors, soft lighting, and a faint smell of something citrusy in the air.
The receptionist checked my name off a tablet and motioned for me to follow her down a quiet hallway.
“Right in here, Olivia,” she said, opening the door to a small, windowless room. The walls had this strange sheen, like they were made of something that wasn’t quite drywall. A single padded chair sat in the center. “Just have a seat and relax. The process will begin shortly.”
“Process?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought this was just orientation or paperwork or—”
She was already stepping back out. “You’ll be fine. Most students find it… exhilarating.”
The door clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound. I stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring at the weird glowing walls. This felt off. Like, sci-fi movie off.
Before I could even knock on the door and demand answers, the lights overhead flickered once, twice—
A sudden, intense burning sensation ripped through my entire body, like every nerve had been lit on fire at the same time. My knees buckled. I tried to grab the chair but missed. The room spun violently, colors bleeding together, and then—
Everything went black
---
When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the silence. No more flickering lights, no burning. Just the low hum of air conditioning.
I groaned and pushed myself up in the chair, blinking hard. My arms felt… wrong. Heavier. Longer. The sleeves of my hoodie rode up on forearms that were definitely not mine—dusted with dark hair, veins standing out a little, and way more muscle than I’d ever had in my life.
I looked down.
My chest was flat. Broad. The soft curve of my breasts was gone, replaced by solid pectorals under a dark blue sweatshirt. My thighs pressed against the fabric of my jeans in a completely different way—thicker, stronger, the kind of legs that filled out pants instead of just sliding into them. Between them, there was an unmistakable, heavy weight that made my stomach drop.
I wasn’t Olivia anymore.
I was a guy.
A very real, very male guy.
Before I could even process the panic rising in my throat, the door opened again. This time a different woman stepped in—mid-thirties, sharp blazer, clipboard in hand, and the same unnervingly calm smile everyone here seemed to wear.
“Olá, Nuno,” she said gently, then switched to English with only a light accent. “Or… should I still call you Olivia for now? I’m so sorry for the abrupt transition. Most students handle the awakening a little better, but we understand this can be disorienting.”
I stared at her, mouth open. My voice—when it finally came out—was deeper, rougher, but still perfect English. “What the actual fuck did you do to me?”
She didn’t flinch. “You’ve been successfully exchanged. Welcome to Lisbon! Our program is designed for true cultural immersion: you live in your partner’s body, attend their classes, meet their friends, speak their language. It’s the only way to really learn about local life.”
I laughed, but it came out shaky and too loud. “You swapped me? Into a dude? Are you serious right now?”
She nodded, completely unfazed. “Your case is a little unusual, I’ll admit. There’s been quite a bit of foreign demand for Portuguese students this year but not nearly as much domestic interest in Canadian students I’m afraid. We could not find a local girl that met our requirements to swap with you, but Nuno here was offered a generous incentive—several thousand euros—to participate. He’s from a very small village to the south of here and wanted the money to move to the city properly.”
I ran a hand through my new hair—short, thick, dark brown—and felt the unfamiliar scratch of stubble on my jaw.
“Wait… so he wasn’t even a student here?” I asked, voice cracking a little in that new register.
“No, he wasn’t,” she confirmed. “And so we actually had to enroll you as an international student on study abroad. But don’t worry—it will still be an excellent experience. You’ll have full access to the university, the city, everything. And your knowledge of Portuguese will start filtering in naturally over the next few days as the neural integration settles. You’ll feel more like yourself—well, more like Nuno—soon.”
I stood up on legs that felt too long, too powerful. The movement sent an odd, warm shift through my groin that made my cheeks burn. “You should’ve just let me come as myself, then. Like fucking hell.”
She gave me a sympathetic tilt of her head. “We understand you’re upset. Many students feel that way at first. But give it a little time. You’ll settle in. Most of them say it’s the best year of their lives.”
They handed me a small envelope with keys, a student ID card that already had what I assume was my—Nuno’s—face on it, and directions to “my” flat.
By the time I stepped outside, it was night. The August daylight I’d left behind in Calgary had vanished. Lisbon glowed around me—warm streetlights and the distant hum of scooters.
The flat they’d assigned me was only a ten-minute walk from the main university buildings. When I let myself in, I was surprised at how nice it was: clean white walls, big windows overlooking a quiet street, a small balcony, and a nicely styled bedroom. Posters of famous Portuguese athletes hung on the wall and a guitar leaned in the corner.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed, heart still racing.
I caught my full reflection in the mirror across the room for the first time—Nuno’s reflection. Broad shoulders filling out the sweatshirt, that easy, bright smile still lingering on the face even though I wasn’t trying to smile. He was cute. I mean objectively speaking.
The exhaustion hit me like a truck—jet lag, body lag, whatever the hell this was. I stripped down to just a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs, then flopped back onto the sheets.
---
A few hours later I jolted awake in the pitch-dark apartment, heart pounding for no reason. The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 a.m. My mouth was bone-dry. But that wasn’t even the most urgent problem.
There was a hard-on tenting the front of my underwear. My new thick cock pressed insistently against the soft cotton, throbbing with every heartbeat. I could feel the weight of it, the way it curved slightly upward, the sensitive head already leaking a little and making a small wet spot. Heat flushed up my neck.
I lay there for a second, breathing shallow, trying to ignore it. But the thirst was overpowering. Curiosity won out first, though. Just a quick look.
I hooked my thumb under the elastic waistband and tugged it down just enough to let it spring free. It slapped lightly against my lower stomach, thick and flushed, veins standing out along the shaft. Fuck, it was bigger than I expected—maybe 18 cm, heavy, with a slight upward curve and a nice pair of balls hanging below.
I stared for a long moment, pulse hammering. It twitched under my gaze, another bead of precum welling up and sliding down the side.
Okay. Drink first.
I tucked myself back in and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The tile was cool under my feet. I yanked open the fridge and the little light inside lit up the modest contents, which included a big carton of passionfruit juice. Perfect. I poured myself a massive glass and downed the whole thing in several long gulps.
I set the empty glass on the counter and turned to head back to bed when my reflection again caught my eye in the narrow mirror hanging by the kitchen doorway.
Broad shoulders. Strong neck. The way the white t-shirt stretched across a chest with the faint outline of pecs. My new jaw looked sharper in the low light, dark stubble shadowing it. I stepped closer without thinking, turning my head side to side.
Curiosity pulled me in deeper. I reached up and rubbed my jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble under my fingers. It sent a little spark straight down my spine. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the hem of the t-shirt and peeled it off, tossing it onto the counter.
Nuno’s torso stared back at me—lean but defined, smooth olive skin, a light trail of dark hair running down the center of his abs and disappearing into the waistband of the boxers. The shoulders were wide, biceps nicely rounded even when relaxed. I rolled them back experimentally and flexed, watching the muscle pop under the skin.
My cock strained hard against the underwear again, the fabric tenting obscenely. It felt… good. Really fucking good. A warm pulse of pleasure rolled through me as the material rubbed against the sensitive head.
One thing led to another.
I shoved the boxers down my thighs, letting them pool at my ankles. I wrapped my hand around my cock and gave one slow stroke from base to tip.
“Oh… shit,” I muttered in that new, deeper voice. It came out husky.
I did it again, slower this time, thumb spreading the precum. My other hand roamed up my chest, feeling the firm muscle, pinching a nipple that sent an unexpected jolt straight to my cock. I leaned back against the counter, legs spreading a little as I started stroking in earnest—long, firm pulls that made my balls tighten and my abs clench.
Everything felt amplified. I watched myself in the mirror the whole time: this hot Portuguese guy with messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and a thick, leaking, uncut cock in his fist. It was me. I was him. And it was turning me on more than anything ever had in my old body.
I sped up, hips starting to buck forward into my hand. When I came, it was euphoric—nothing like the softer, slower orgasms I was used to. My cock pulsed hard in my grip, shooting thick ropes of cum across the kitchen floor in messy, powerful spurts. I kept stroking through it, milking every last drop while my knees shook and my vision whited out for a second. The groan that tore out of me was loud and shameless.
“Fuuuuck…”
I stood there panting afterward, cum still dripping from the tip of my softening dick onto the tile.
With a sheepish laugh, I grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the mess on the floor, still half-naked and glowing with aftershocks. My legs felt wobbly. My new cock gave one last lazy twitch as I wiped everything down. I tossed the towels, washed my hands, and headed back to bed, collapsing onto the sheets with a satisfied sigh.
---
The next few days were a blur. I spent way too much time in front of that narrow kitchen mirror, shirt off, hands roaming slowly over Nuno’s body. I’d flex my arms just to watch the biceps tighten, trace the light trail of dark hair down my abs with my fingertips, and let my palms slide lower until I was gripping that thick cock again. The orgasms were intense, almost addictive; thick ropes of cum that left me panting and grinning at my own reflection like an idiot.
By the time orientation rolled around, some Portuguese had started trickling into my brain. Basic phrases, greetings, even a few slang words. But luckily I hadn't lost any of my English and still had my Canadian accent. That was a relief, because even after all the hassle, the program still expected me to play the part of a Canadian exchange student.
Orientation was held in a big lecture hall at the university, packed wall-to-wall with international students. Mostly loud Americans in backwards caps, a solid crew of fellow Canadians, clusters of chatty Latin Americans, tall Germans, stylish Italians, and a random mix of other Europeans. None of them had the slightest clue I wasn’t the real Nuno. The Arterra Exchange Facility had made that crystal clear before I left the building: the swap program was 100% confidential. No one outside the actual participants was ever supposed to know.
When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stood up with a casual grin and said, “Hey, I’m Nuno Seguro, from Calgary.”
“Dude, your name sounds super Portuguese,” one American girl laughed. “And you definitely look it.”
I shrugged easily, the lie sliding out smoother than I expected. “Yeah, my mom’s Portuguese. She basically guilt-tripped me into coming here to connect with the heritage and all that. I’m not even mad about it though—Portuguese classes are gonna be a breeze since I grew up speaking it.”
They bought it.
---
The first couple of weeks were actually lit.
Classes were laughably easy—designed for international students who were clearly here more for the party scene than actual academics. Professors barely assigned homework, lectures were short and chill. Meanwhile, the social life was nonstop. Parties every single night: rooftop bars with insane views of the Tagus sweaty little hidden clubs tucked away in Bairro Alto, cheap bottles of vinho verde.
The other internationals were jealous as hell that I had my own nice little apartment instead of cramped shared dorms or sketchy hostels. Within a week, my place had become the default hangout spot. People would text me at 8 p.m. saying “Pre-game at Nuno’s?” and suddenly there’d be ten of us on the balcony, blasting music, passing around bottles of cheap wine and beer. Someone always ended up crashing on the couch. Someone else always brought a speaker that made the walls shake. I’d lean against the railing in just a tank top and shorts, feeling the warm night air on my skin and the way people’s eyes lingered on my shoulders and arms a little longer than necessary.
I eventually decided Nuno’s original look needed an upgrade. He was already a good-looking guy—strong jaw, warm brown eyes, that easy smile—but his style had been stuck somewhere between “small-village casual” and “whatever was clean.” I wasn’t about to waste a year in Lisbon looking basic.
So I made a couple of changes.
First, I let the facial hair grow. Within a couple of weeks I had a thick, dark mustache that framed my smile just right, the kind that looked effortlessly cool and made my teeth flash brighter when I grinned. It suited the face perfectly—gave me this warm, slightly cocky vibe that turned heads.
Then I booked a cut at a trendy little barbershop in Chiado. I told the guy exactly what I wanted: a modern mullet, short and tight on the sides, longer and curly in the back, just like so many of the local guys and the Spanish and Italian exchange students were rocking.When I walked out, the breeze hitting the longer curls at the nape of my neck felt ridiculously good. Fuck, I’d always thought those cuts looked so hot on guys. Now I was the one wearing it, and every time I caught my reflection in a shop window I had to fight the urge to smirk.
Next, I made friends with this really fashionable Estonian guy named Karl in the international crowd—always dressed like he’d stepped out of a European fashion shoot. I was pretty sure he was gay and definitely into me and I wasn’t above flirting a little to borrow some of his clothes. A couple of flirty texts and suddenly I had access to his closet: fitted button-downs that hugged my shoulders just right, slim dark jeans that made my ass and thighs look incredible, a sleek leather jacket, and some expensive jewelry.
The other Canadians, Americans, and Latin American crew ended up traveling around Europe together nonstop—Rome, Budapest, Paris, Prague, Madrid. We did all the classic study-abroad shit: hitting every tourist trap and monument during the day, then drinking cheap local beer and wine until we were loud and sloppy at night.
Back in Lisbon, a bunch of us got cheap gym passes at a nearby university facility. Lifting felt incredible in this body. I could throw around weights I never would’ve dreamed of touching as Olivia. I’d bench numbers that made the other guys whistle and shake their heads, deadlift until my back and legs burned in that deep, addictive way. Every session left me pumped—veins popping along my arms and shoulders, sweat dripping down the light trail of dark hair on my abs, my tank top clinging to my chest. The mirror in the gym changing room became another favorite spot. I’d stand there flexing, admiring the way my new mullet looked messy and sexy after a workout, that thick mustache framing my cocky grin while my cock half-hardened in my shorts from the pure rush of it all.
I started taking a lot of really douchey mirror selfies—especially in the apartment elevator. I posted some of the tamer ones on the new Instagram I’d made for Nuno and kept the spicier ones just for myself, saved in a hidden folder where I could scroll through them late at night, stroking slowly while I replayed how good this body felt.
---
One of the international girls from Brazil, Isabela, had caught my eye early on. She was stunning—curvy in all the right places, long dark wavy hair, golden-brown skin, and a smile that could stop traffic. We started flirting almost immediately, and pretty soon we were exclusively speaking in Portuguese with each other. It drove the rest of the group insane, especially this tall German guy named Lukas who had been obviously pining after her since day one. He’d sit there with his arms crossed, trying (and failing) to follow our rapid-fire conversations, his face getting redder every time she laughed at something I said.
One night at a crowded rooftop party, Isabela land I were chatting.
“Vocês portugueses todos falam como se fossem russos ou algo assim,” she complained with a dramatic sigh, her Brazilian lilt turning every word into a melody. “It’s like you have this heavy Slavic thing going on. So serious!”
I grinned, letting my hand rest lightly on her waist as I fired back in perfect Portuguese. “E você, brasileira? Parece que está cantando uma música em vez de falar. Tudo soa tão doce e dramático. Como se estivesse sempre flertando, mesmo quando reclama.”
She laughed, shoving my chest playfully, but her eyes sparkled with clear interest. The teasing only made the tension between us thicker. The German guy shot me a death glare from across the table, but I just raised my glass to him with a smirk.
One thing led to another and later that night Isabela ended up back at my apartment. The second the door clicked shut we were on each other—hands everywhere, mouths hungry. pushed her up against the wall first, kissing down her neck while she moaned softly.
We barely made it to the bedroom.
When I finally got her out of her dress and onto the bed, I took my time peeling off my own clothes, letting her watch. Her eyes widened when my cock sprang free—already rock-hard, thick, and leaking for her. “Nossa…” she whispered, biting her lip.
This was my first time having actual sex as Nuno, and it was on a completely different level from the months I’d spent happily jerking off in this body or making out in clubs.
I climbed over her, kissing her deeply as I lined up. The moment I pushed inside her—slow, deep, feeling her tight, wet heat stretch around every inch of my cock—was euphoric. The sensation was so much more intense than anything I’d experienced before: the slick grip, the way her walls fluttered and clenched, the raw physical power in my hips as I started thrusting. My balls slapped against her with each deep stroke.
“Porra, Nuno… você é tão grosso,” she gasped, nails digging into my back.
I fucked her harder, finding a steady rhythm that had her arching off the bed. I flipped her onto all fours at one point, gripping her hips with both hands and pounding into her from behind. The view was insane—her ass rippling with every impact, my thick cock disappearing into her again and again.
When I came, I buried myself deep, groaning loud and raw as my cock pulsed and spilled inside her in thick, powerful ropes. The orgasm seemed to last forever, wave after wave of intense pleasure ripping through me while her pussy clenched around me, milking every drop. I kept thrusting through it, riding the high until we both collapsed in a sweaty, panting heap.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest as she traced lazy circles over my abs with her finger.
“Você foi incrível,” she murmured sleepily, pressing a kiss to my skin.
I just smirked, still glowing from the aftershocks, my cock giving one last lazy twitch against her thigh.
Yeah. This body was fucking dangerous.
---
A couple of months into the semester I took a quick weekend trip south to visit Nuno’s family in their small village. They knew he had moved up to Lisbon for “work opportunities,” but they had zero clue where the sudden money had come from. I played it safe the entire time—kept my answers vague, smiled a lot, and let the Portuguese flow naturally. His mom hugged me tight and kept pushing food on me, while his dad clapped me on the shoulder and asked about “the big city.” They had no idea their son wasn’t really their son anymore. I felt a tiny pang of guilt, but mostly I just felt relieved that the secret was still safe.
---
By the end of the first semester, the other international students started packing up for home. There were teary goodbyes at the train station—Isabela cried a little and made me promise to visit her in São Paulo someday, Lukas gave me a grudging bro-hug, and the whole crew swore we’d stay in touch. I hugged them back, genuinely sad to see them go, but I had opted for the full year, so I was staying.
Or at least… I thought I was.
A few days later an email from the study abroad facility popped into my inbox:
“Dear Nuno,
Please report to the Arterra Exchange Facility on January 15th for scheduled return transfer. Your semester exchange has concluded.”
My stomach dropped. I fired back an immediate reply explaining that I had clearly opted for the full academic year. Their response came fast:
“We apologize for the miscommunication. Your partner only agreed to a one-semester term. We are required to facilitate the return swap at this time.”
Fuck. No. I couldn’t go back now. I typed out a careful reply asking for at least a few extra days “to settle my affairs and say proper goodbyes.” They agreed, reluctantly, giving me until the end of the week.
In those few days the money they'd promised Nuno hit his bank account. It was more than enough to cover several months of rent and give me breathing room to figure shit out.
I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the balance for a long time, heart racing. First thing I did was go through all my new socials and blocked my old accounts. Then I packed a bag with the essentials, left most of the apartment, and got on the first train heading north t. Lisbon was too risky now; if the facility came looking, they’d start here. I needed to disappear, at least for a while.
As the train rattled through the Portuguese countryside, I leaned my head against the window and watched the hills roll by. My reflection stared back at me—dark mullet a little messy from the morning, thick mustache framing my mouth, broad shoulders filling out the hoodie. I caught myself smiling, just a little.
This body was mine now.
And I wasn’t giving it back.
—
Five years later, the swap facility still hadn’t found me.
After leaving Lisbon in a hurry, I bounced around for a few months before finally settling in Coimbra with a couple of guys my age who were renting a cheap, grimy apartment. It was nowhere near as nice as the one I'd left in Lisbon, but I didn't mind. I had what was important.
I worked for a while at a small, loud bar packed with local students, pouring cheap beers, flirting shamelessly, and closing the place down most nights. The tips were decent and nobody ever asked me too many probing questions.
Eventually I knew I needed to get back to Lisbon. The city had gotten under my skin. So I talked my new gym buddy Rui—a tall, easygoing guy who had just graduated from university in Coimbra—into moving back with me. We found a decent shared flat in the Alfama district with a killer view, and within a couple of months I managed to get admitted to one of the other universities in the city.
Isabela came to visit me a few times over the years. We’d spend a few wild days and nights together—fucking like rabbits in my room while Rui pretended not to hear anything through the thin walls—but I made it clear I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I was having way too much fun playing the field, especially when the new wave of international students rolled in every semester.
God, it felt like every semester i got even sexier and those hot international girls (and a few guys) wanted me more and more. They were so pent up and horny it was crazy and not to mention i really had learned how to use my cock. They’d show up at parties already buzzing, eyes lingering on my arms and chest, and half the time they barely made me wear a condom—or didn’t complain at all when I slid it off halfway through so I could feel them raw. The way they gasped and clenched around me when I fucked them deep and bare was addictive. I loved the risk, the heat, the way their legs would shake when I filled them up.
Between all that, I actually managed to graduate with a degree in engineering. Late nights studying engineering diagrams mixed with even later nights out drinking and hooking up, but I wasn’t mad about any of it. I thrived on it—commanding the classroom during group projects with that calm, deep voice, then commanding attention at the bars afterward.
Now I’m due to start work at a green energy firm in a few months. The salary is excellent, the benefits are solid, and the office is full of sharp, ambitious people who seem to like me already.
Life is good.
I still catch my reflection sometimes—in the elevator of my new building, in the gym mirror, or in the window of a tram—and I grin at the guy staring back. Thick mustache, sharp jaw, confident eyes. Nuno.
He’s me now. Completely.
And I wouldn’t trade this body, this life, or this city for anything.
It's a bit longer, but I am super happy with how this one turned out. Enjoy!
The email about the Serbian exchange program hit my inbox on a Tuesday morning, buried beneath the usual flood of meeting invites and project updates. I almost deleted it on reflex, but the subject line—Host Opportunity: Belgrade Team Visit—$5K Bonus—caught my eye. Five grand wasn’t nothing. And besides, I’d heard murmurs about it before—last year, a handful of engineers from our Belgrade office had filtered through the US branch for a few months, shadowing teams, attending meetings, and, from what I gathered, drinking heavily at every happy hour within a ten-mile radius. Nobody I knew had hosted, though. Or if they had, they hadn’t mentioned it.
I skimmed the details. The company was flying over a dozen employees from Serbia, all of them mid-level or higher, for a three-month immersion program. The idea was to give them a taste of life at the US office—how we worked, how we (allegedly) collaborated, how we complained about the same corporate nonsense in a different language. And if they liked it? Well, then maybe they’d angle for a sponsored transfer. The host bonus was just grease to make sure enough of us volunteered to house them.
I didn’t think too hard before signing up. My apartment had a guest room that had been functioning as a glorified storage closet for the better part of a year. A real, live human being might actually put it to good use.
A few days later, the assignment email landed in my inbox. I clicked it open, scanning the spreadsheet until I found my name paired with Nikola Vasić, DevOps Engineer. His photo showed a guy in his late twenties—maybe a few years younger than me—with a sharp jawline, short-cropped dark hair, and sleeves of tattoos running down both arms. His bio read: 5 years with company. Powerlifting, MMA, craft beer.
Hell yeah. This was going to be easy. We’d hit the gym, crush some deadlifts, maybe grab a beer after. I could already picture it—Nikola nodding approvingly at my protein shake stash, me pretending I knew anything about MMA. A total bro situation.
I shot him a quick LinkedIn message—Hey man, looking forward to hosting you. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from the airport. He replied almost immediately: Appreciate it! Will send flight details soon. Excited to train together. Perfect. This was going to work.
Then, three days later, another email.
Subject: Host Assignment Update
Due to a last-minute adjustment in seniority prioritization, your guest has been reassigned. You will now be hosting Dragan Kovačević, Infrastructure Architect. Nikola Vasić has been reassigned to Mark Teslik. Apologies for any inconvenience.
I pulled up Dragan’s profile, which I hadn’t bothered to check before.
It was a selfie—dim lighting, the kind taken in what looked like a basement, the camera angled slightly upward. And Dragan was, inexplicably, shirtless and flexing, but not in a particularly attractive way. The bio beneath read: 20 years with company. Enjoys hiking, chess, and American whiskey.
I sighed. Of course. Instead of a gym buddy, I got a middle-aged, bare-chested supervisor.
Well. At least it was only three months.
---
A few weeks later, the Belgrade team arrived, and the office threw a welcome reception in the cafeteria—plastic cups of cheap wine, a sad platter of cubed cheese, and a banner that read Welcome Serbian Colleagues!
I spotted Nikola first. He was even bigger in person—broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of guy who looked like he could deadlift a car. He noticed me and walked over, his expression serious.
"Sam," he said, his accent rough around the edges. "Is shame we are not paired."
I shrugged. "Yeah, but we can still hang out. Hit the gym, grab a beer."
He nodded, but there was something off in the way he said, "Mark is... very skinny." He flexed one arm slightly, as if to emphasize the contrast. "I did not want to be him for three months."
I frowned. His English was a little broken, so maybe he meant something else—like he didn’t want to train him, or room with him? Before I could ask, the HR coordinator clinked her glass and announced, "Alright, everyone, find your host or guest and take a seat!"
I scanned the room for Dragan.
He was sitting at a table in the corner, watching me. Not in a casual oh-there’s-my-host way, but in a slow, deliberate stare, like he was sizing me up. When I approached, he stood and shook my hand—his grip was firm, almost testing.
"American Sam," he said, his voice deeper than I expected. "I am very excited."
There was something in the way he said it—not quite enthusiasm, more like anticipation. I forced a polite smile. "Yeah, it’ll be nice to have you."
The HR coordinator clinked her glass again, signaling for silence. "Thank you all for participating in this year's cultural exchange program," she said with a smile that felt a little too rehearsed. "The swaps will begin first thing tomorrow morning. Please report to the designated conference rooms by 8 AM."
A murmur of confusion rippled through the American employees. I glanced around—most of the American team looked baffled, but the Serbians all had placid looks on their faces.
"Swaps?" I muttered under my breath.
Dragan leaned in slightly, his voice low. "You did not read paperwork?"
Before I could respond, the HR coordinator continued. "For full immersion, participants will temporarily inhabit one another's bodies, with access to each other's memories. To avoid legal complications, you are expected to maintain your host's professional and personal life as closely as possible during the exchange."
My stomach dropped. What the hell?
A guy from Marketing shot his hand up. "Wait, so we’re just—switching bodies? Like, for real?"
"Yes," the coordinator said, unfazed. "It’s all outlined in the consent forms you signed. Section 12, subsection C."
I didn’t remember signing anything about body swapping. Then again, I’d skimmed most of it, clicking through the digital paperwork just to get to the bonus disclaimer.
The coordinator wrapped up with a cheerful, "Get a good night’s sleep! Tomorrow’s a big day."
---
The next morning, they led us into sterile white chambers that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Two by two, employees disappeared behind frosted glass doors, emerging minutes later—swapped.
Just before my turn, I watched Mark stumble out, his movements awkward in Nikola’s muscular frame. He kept flexing his tattooed arms, his eyes wide with childlike wonder. Nikola followed behind in his body, just seeming borade
Dragan gave me a knowing smirk before we entered. Then inside, there was a flash of light, a sensation like falling—
—and then I was standing again, but wrong. My center of gravity was lower, my shoulders heavier. When I lifted a hand, it was thick-fingered, lightly hairy. Dragan’s hand.
Across from me, my body blinked rapidly—then broke into a grin. "Ha!" Dragan said with my mouth, his English flawless, his tone giddy. "This is perfect!"
Meanwhile, my thoughts were... sluggish. Words didn’t come easily. Instead of English, my brain churned in Serbian, the syntax heavy and familiar. When I tried to speak, the accent rolled thick off my tongue. "Šta je—? What the—?
Dragan barked a laugh. "You sound just like me!" He clapped my shoulder, delighted. "And I don’t understand a word you’re saying!"
---
That night, he vanished into the city the second we got home, leaving me to wrestle with his body alone. The weight of it, the way it moved—none of it felt right. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. A gross longish beard. A thicker neck. A patchwork of ugly tattoos.
Dragan stumbled in past midnight, reeking of whiskey. He leaned against the doorframe, my usually neat shirt unbuttoned halfway, his—my—face flushed. "You missed a hell of a night," he slurred, though his English was still weirdly perfect.
I scowled, struggling to force out the words. "You... left me... like this." The accent mangled the sentence, made it sound like a complaint.
He grinned, swaying slightly. "Aw, poor Dragan," he mocked, using his own name like a joke.
I wanted to snap back, but the English tangled in my throat. Instead, I muttered something crude in Serbian.
Dragan just laughed harder, pointing at me like I was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. "God, this is even better than I thought."
---
The next few months were pure, unrelenting hell.
Dragan, in my body, was like a kid who’d been handed the keys to a candy store. He wanted to do everything—especially the kind of obnoxiously American shit I’d never even bothered with.
"We’re going to go shooting today," he announced one Saturday morning, already pulling on my favorite jacket.
"What? No, we—" I fumbled for the English words. "I don’t shooting."
"You do now!" He grinned, clapping me on the back. "Your friends think it’s funny you’re bringing your ‘Serbian coworker’ to the range. Play along."
So I did. I had to stand there in Dragan’s bulky frame, nodding awkwardly while he laughed and high-fived my buddies, pretending to be me. He was a disturbingly good shot.
"Damn, Sam," my friend Jake said, slapping him on the shoulder. "When the hell did you get so good at this?"
Dragan just smirked and said "natural talent," before pulling the trigger of his shotgun, exploding the clay disk.
---
The dating was worse. He always dressed to the nines and I have to admit, it looked great.
But , he came home one night, still buzzing from whatever bar he’d crawled out of, and flopped onto the couch. "American women," he sighed, stretching my arms behind my head, "are very impressed with you."
I glared. "You—what?"
"They assume you’re boring in bed," he mused, inspecting my fingernails. "But then—surprise! Serbian passion!" He winked. "They like it."
I wanted to strangle him.
---
Then there was the shirt thing.
Dragan refused to keep it on. Ever. Working out? Shirtless. Drinking whiskey on the balcony? Shirtless. Cooking (badly)? Shirtless, with an apron that barely covered anything.
"Put on a damn shirt," I growled one evening, my Serbian accent thickening with frustration.
"Why?" He flexed my biceps—which, thanks to him, were actually looking better. "This body is so in shape, I just want to show it off."
He would also smoke all the time, somethg I never did. When I complained to HR, Dragan, smug bastard that he was, dug up a single photo from my buddy’s bachelor party two years ago, where I’d half-heartedly smoked a cigar.
"See?" he said, waving the evidence in front of the HR rep. "Sam smokes."
They caved.
---
The final insult was the wedding.
My college friend Chris was getting married, and of course, Dragan insisted on going.
Chris had been talking about setting me up with his fiancée's cousin for months. "She's perfect for you, man," he'd said.
But of course, Dragan went instead of me.
I spent that night alone in the apartment, stewing in Dragan's body while he was out living my life. The photos started popping up on social media around midnight—there I was, looking sharper than I'd ever looked in my life, my arm around the bridesmaid Chris had wanted to set me up with. She was beaming up at me like I'd hung the moon.
Dragan stumbled in at 3 AM, reeking of whiskey and expensive perfume. "Ahhh," he groaned, flopping onto the couch next to me. "American weddings. So much food. So much drink. So much..." He made a crude gesture.
My stomach dropped. "You didn't—"
"She was very disappointed when I said I don't do girlfriends," he chuckled, inspecting a hickey on my neck. "But not too disappointed, if you know what I mean."
I nearly punched him.
---
By the last two weeks, I was done. Completely, utterly done.
Dragan, of course, was in the best mood of his life. He sprawled across my couch—shirtless, obviously—sipping whiskey while scrolling through visa application forms on my laptop.
"The company wants someone in US for my same infrastructure role," he mused, grinning. "And when we swap back, my English will be even better thanks to you practicing all this time. Its perfect."
I clenched my jaw. My English had improved slightly—enough to get by without sounding like a complete beginner—but it wasn’t perfect the accent still clung stubbornly.
"Great," I muttered in Serbian-inflected English, not even hiding my bitterness.
Dragan finally glanced up, studying me. "You hate this," he said, not a question.
"Yeah. I do."
A long silence. Then, to my surprise, he sighed and closed the laptop. "We could swap back early."
I froze. "...What?"
The whiskey glass clicked softly as Dragan set it down on the coffee table. For the first time since the swap, his expression was completely earnest—no smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just quiet gratitude.
"Sam," he said, my own voice sounding strangely solemn coming from my lips. "I see how much you hate this. And... I want to thank you." He gestured to himself—to my body. "This has been... more than I hoped for. The freedom, the experiences. And you—" He nodded at me, sitting stiffly in his heavier frame. "You worked hard. My body will return to me much improved.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "We can swap back tomorrow. Before HR arrives. No one needs to know."
"Yes," I blurted, the Serbian accent rough with urgency. "Yes. Let’s do it."
Dragan smiled—soft, almost relieved. "First thing in the morning, then." He stood, stretching my arms overhead with a satisfied groan. "One last night as you, yes? I think I will enjoy it."
He grabbed his keys and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to throw me a wink over his shoulder. "Do not wait up."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sank back into the couch, Dragan’s body suddenly feeling lighter, the weight of those final two weeks already slipping away. Tomorrow, I’d be myself again.
Tomorrow, this nightmare would be over.
---
The predawn darkness clung to the empty streets as we drove to the office in silence. My truck’s headlights cut through the gloom, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh from Dragan in the passenger seat. He kept rubbing his face—my face—with a look of quiet regret, like he was already mourning the loss of my younger, fitter body.
Meanwhile, my fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Every second in his overweight, middle-aged form had been torture, and now freedom was so close I could taste it.
When we pulled into the deserted office parking lot, Dragan hesitated before getting out. "Maybe we should—"
"No," I cut him off, already unbuckling. "We’re doing this."
The security guard wasn’t at his desk—convenient—and Dragan led me through the maze of cubicles to the sealed-off wing where the swapping chambers were kept. He punched in a code I didn’t recognize, and the door clicked open.
"How the hell did you get access?" I asked.
He ignored me, walking straight to the pod controls.
Inside the sterile room, Dragan stripped off his clothes without hesitation. I averted my eyes at first—then did a double take. Damn. My body did look good. Leaner than before, muscles more defined. Dragan had clearly been putting in work.
The machine hummed to life with a low, ominous whine. We stepped in. Dragan hesitated one last time, his hand hovering over the activation switch. "You sure about this?"
"Do it."
He pressed the button.
A flash of blinding light—
—and then, relief.
I stumbled forward, catching myself on the pod’s edge. My hands were mine again. Slimmer, familiar. I patted my chest, my face, no more thick beard. Just me.
Across from me, Dragan flexed his fingers, his expression unreadable. He ran a hand over his own thicker frame, his mouth twisting slightly.
"Happy now?" he muttered.
I didn’t answer.
I was too busy grinning.
---
The day before the official swap-back ceremony, I pulled Dragan aside, my stomach twisting with nerves.
"What’s the plan?" I hissed. "They’re expecting to swap us tomorrow. If they find out we already did it—"
Dragan waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. I talk to the Serbian tech who runs the machine. He know we already did swap. He fake it tomorrow—will not activate it for us. We walk in, play along, walk out. Easy."
I frowned. "And he’s cool with that?"
"Of course," Dragan said, grinning.
The next day, we lined up with the rest of the swapped employees in the sterile white chamber room. The air buzzed with nervous energy—some people looked relieved, others apprehensive. I caught the eye of the Serbian technician, a wiry guy with a buzzcut, and gave him a subtle, knowing smile.
He barely glanced at me. Just shook his head slightly and turned away.
Right. Discretion.
Dragan nudged me as our turn approached. "Ready?" he murmured.
I nodded, stepping into the pod beside him. The glass door hissed shut, sealing us inside.
Then, just as I was getting ready to get out, the machine whirred to life. A wave of panic washes over me and I turn to Dragan expecting to see a similar look. Instead, he smile and whispers "I will love being you, American Sam."
My blood ran cold.
The light flashed—
—and suddenly, I was staring at my own face from across the pod.
My face.
Wearing the widest, most triumphant grin I’d ever seen.
I looked down.
Thick fingers. Heavy frame.
Dragan’s body.
Again.
Across from me, Dragan—now me—stretched luxuriously, rolling my shoulders with delight. "Ah," he sighed, his voice mine now. "Much better."
When do you think Dragan came up with this plan
Before coming from Serbia
Immediately after swapping into Sam's body
After his first hookup as Sam
Right before he offered to swap back early
After they swapped back to their original bodies and he regretted it
After three straight years of grinding in NYC, Pedro and I had finally done it. We bought tickets for a real vacation. Pedro had found the deal on some sketchy travel site, but the photos looked insane: turquoise beach, infinity pools, palm trees swaying. We didn’t ask too many questions, but maybe we should’ve.
“Finally,” I said, stepping out of the transport bus and stretching. “No spreadsheets for seven whole days.” Pedro grinned beside me as he hauled our suitcases from the trunk.
The lobby was even better than the pictures—white marble, soft blue accents, and the faint smell of coconut sunscreen and expensive rum. We were pinching ourselves about how cheap the package had been for such a nice place when the cheerful front desk attendant slid our keycards over with a bright smile.
“Welcome to Azure Sands! Just a heads-up—your orientation starts in twenty minutes at the Sapphire Lounge.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Orientation?”
“Oh, it’s our signature Body Harmony Experience!” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Everyone swaps bodies for the duration of their stay. Temporary, of course… unless you don’t want it to be.” She winked like she was sharing a fun secret.
Pedro and I exchanged a look. My stomach did a little flip.
By the time we made it to the Sapphire Lounge, the place was buzzing. The staff explained the process: random pairing unless you requested to swap with someone you came with. Most people seemed excited. A few looked nervous. I scanned the room and immediately spotted way too many creepy older guys eyeing the crowd like it was a buffet.
I leaned over to Pedro and whispered urgently, “No way am I risking some random dude in my body. Please, can we just swap with each other? I trust you.”
Pedro hesitated, his eyes drifting across the room to a group of ridiculously sculpted guys laughing near the bar. True Adonises—broad shoulders, sharp jawlines. Honestly they were all his wet dream. For a second I thought he was going to say no.
“Come on, Pedro,” I begged, grabbing his arm. “I do not want to spend a week wondering if some stranger is jerking off with my clit or whatever. Please?”
He sighed dramatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. But I’m filing a formal complaint that I’m missing out on prime vacation dick potential.”
We told the staff we wanted to swap with each other.
That evening, after a welcome dinner that was way too fancy for the price we paid, they walked us through the final details in a smaller group session.
“The swap activates at dawn,” the coordinator explained. “It’s completely reversible at checkout… provided no vaginal or anal intercourse occurs between the swapped individuals and their original bodies.”
Pedro and I made almost identical faces of mild disgust at each other.
“Yeah, hard pass,” I muttered. He glared at me before we both broke out into a bit of laughter.
Then, as if to just fuck with me, he quickly raised his hand and asked, “Can we still fuck other people at the resort?”
I slapped his arm as the coordinator calmly and professionally responded, “Yes, having sex with any other guests will still allow you to swap back at the end of your stay.”
Later that night we sat on the balcony of our villa, feet up, sipping something sweet and strong while the ocean whispered below us.
“Still can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said, staring at the stars. “Seven days in someone else’s body. Your body.”
Pedro smirked, swirling his drink. “Hey, you’re getting the upgrade. This ass has been doing squats religiously. You’re welcome.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Just promise me you won’t do anything too embarrassing in my body.”
“Same goes for you, bestie.”
We clinked glasses, both of us pretending the whole thing felt completely normal. But as I lay in bed later, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, a tiny flutter of nerves settled in my stomach. Tomorrow morning I’d wake up as Pedro. Short brown hair. A mustache and some scruff. Some tattoos. And a cock.
And he’d wake up as me.
I pushed the thought down, rolled over, and tried to sleep.
—
Two days later, the swap already felt… normal. Weirdly normal.
Pedro’s lean, athletic build moved easily. The way people looked at me now was different too—more direct, more appraising. I kind of liked it.
Pedro, meanwhile, had practically sprinted off to sign up for every free excursion the resort offered. Snorkeling, kayaking, some jungle hike that sounded miserable in the heat. “I’m living my best gay life in your hot little body,” he’d texted me this morning, along with a selfie of my face smiling way too brightly on a catamaran. “Don’t wait up.”
So I stayed behind. Beach chair, sunscreen, endless piña coladas, and zero plans. Pure vacation mode.
I was stretched out on a lounger by the infinity pool when he approached.
“Hey, mind if I take the chair next to you?”
I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun. The guy standing there was stupidly good-looking. Tan skin that glowed under the Caribbean light, dark hair still damp from the pool, and a mustache that was just a little longer and thicker than the short beard framing his jaw. A light dusting of dark hair trailed down the center of his chest and over abs. His biceps flexed naturally as he set his towel down—really nice biceps.
“Sure,” I said, sitting up a little. “Plenty of room.”
He dropped into the chair with an easy grin, that big, bright smile flashing white against his tan. “Thanks, man. I’m Aidan.”
For the first time out loud, I introduced myself as someone else.
“Pedro,” I said, testing the name on my tongue. It felt strange, but not bad. “Nice to meet you.”
We chatted for a while. Aidan had this effortless bro energy that made everything feel easy. He laughed loud and often. As he relaxed in the lounge chair, he draped one thick arm behind his head, causing his bicep to flex and pop under his tan skin.
At first, I thought he was completely straight. His voice was deep and relaxed, the kind of guy who probably played pickup basketball on weekends and talked shit with his buddies. He kept the conversation light — complaining about the overpriced drinks, joking about the resort’s cheesy “harmony activities,” and asking if I’d tried the jet skis yet.
But then I caught the glances.
While I was mid-sentence about the ridiculous infinity pool and looking off into the distance, I could feel his eyes flick down to my waist, lingering on the sharp cuts of Pedro’s obliques. A second later I turned my gaze back to him and they snapped back up to my face, innocent again. When I stretched my arms overhead to crack my back, his eyes dropped to my chest and shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle before he quickly looked away.
Once I noticed, I couldn’t stop seeing it. And fuck, it sent a warm little thrill straight through me.
I started flirting back without even meaning to. Every time he cracked a joke, I leaned in closer, laughing low. When I reached for my drink, I flexed my arm just a little more than necessary. Pedro’s body responded instantly — heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse picking up.
Aidan’s smile grew wider, slower, more interested.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.
“So…” I said, swirling the last of my piña colada, “what’s your real body like? You know… before all this.”
“So… what’s your real body like?” I asked, taking a slow sip of my drink. “You know, before.”
Aidan blinked, then gave me the most perfectly innocent look. “Oh no man, I actually didn’t have to swap. The guy they matched me with ended up having to leave unexpectedly. But I’m not mad about it, the whole thing seems a bit too out there for me.”
He said it so smoothly. But there was this tiny, cheeky grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Alright, well… my original name’s Luna, actually,” I said, watching his reaction. “This is my best friend Pedro’s body.”
Aidan’s eyebrows lifted, and that big, beautiful smile spread across his face again, slower this time.
“No shit? A gender swap too?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving me a much more obvious once-over now that the cards were on the table. “I haven’t met anyone yet that’s done that. How’s it feeling? Being in a guy’s body?”
I shrugged, feeling a little heat rise in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. “Weird at first. But I’m getting used to it. Pedro seems to like it more, he’s probably flirting with half the resort on some boat tour right now.”
Aidan laughed, low and warm. He leaned back to stretch and lifted his arms up flexing them slightly before reaching over and gently rubbing his shoulder. He pretended not to realize I was admiring his physique.
Then, his gaze lingered again—this time openly—tracing the lines of Pedro’s torso, the light definition in my arms and chest. “Gotta say… you wear it well, Pedro. Really well.”
I smirked, flexing one arm just enough for the bicep to tighten.
We let the silence linger for a moment and then laid back down in our chairs.
—
That night, while Pedro snored softly on the other side of the room, I slipped out of bed. My heart was hammering in Pedro’s chest as I pulled on a pair of loose shorts and padded barefoot down the moonlit path toward Aidan’s room. He’d mentioned his room number earlier, all casual, like it was no big deal. I told myself I was just going to talk. Maybe have another drink. But we both knew that was bullshit.
He opened the door shirtless, that light dusting of hair across his chest catching the low light, and gave me that big, beautiful smile. “I was hoping you’d drop by.”
We didn’t waste much time on small talk.
The second the door clicked shut, Aidan pulled me in, his hands sure and confident on my waist. His mouth found mine—warm, tasting faintly of rum—and I let myself melt into it. Pedro’s body responded fast, heat pooling low in my stomach as Aidan’s fingers traced down my sides, mapping every new inch of me like he had all the time in the world.
He was slow about it. Deliberate. The kind of dominance that came from years and years and years of experience. He laid me back on the bed, kissing down my neck, my chest, his mustache brushing softly against my skin. His hands ran along every curve of muscle, slow and attentive, like he was savoring the body he was in just as much as the one he was fucking.
When he finally pushed inside me—his thick cock sliding into my tight hole—I gasped, back arching off the sheets. Aidan let out a low, amused chuckle, deep in his throat, like he couldn’t quite believe how good it felt.
“Fuck… so tight,” he murmured, staying perfectly still for a moment, letting me adjust. Then he started moving—slow, deep rolls of his hips that made my toes curl. He was in no rush. Every thrust was controlled, experienced, hitting just the right angle while his hands kept exploring, stroking my chest, my arms, my cock with lazy confidence.
It reminded me of one night in Miami I’d spent with some 46-year-old model—same attentive patience, same way of making every touch feel intentional. But this was better. Hotter. Maybe because it was happening in Pedro’s body, with this gorgeous guy who kept looking at me like I was the best thing he’d seen all week.
In the middle of it, as his rhythm stayed steady and deep, Aidan’s breathing got rougher. His voice dropped into these low, filthy grunts right against my ear.
“God… haven’t felt this good in forever,” he groaned, hips snapping a little harder. “So fucking tight… so good…”
Then, he moaned his own name softly. “Aidan… fuck, Aidan… fuckkkk”
Then, a bit louder, almost reverent: “Aidan… thank you, Aidan… for letting me have this.”
My brain was too fogged with pleasure to fully process it at first. But then he pulled back just enough to look down at me, eyes dark and gleaming. Realization flickered across his face.
Instead of stopping or apologizing, he just smirked. That cheeky little grin from the pool earlier, only darker now. Hungrier. He started thrusting faster, one hand wrapping around my cock and stroking in time with his hips.
We both came hard—me first, spilling over his fist with a choked groan, then him a few deep thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed inside me. The room spun for a minute, nothing but heavy breathing and the distant crash of waves outside.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on our skin. I turned my head to look at him, still catching my breath.
“So… I’ll ask again. Who are you?” I asked quietly.
Aidan propped himself up on one elbow, that same small smirk playing on his lips. “My nephew and I came here together.” He said, gesturing to himself. “And within an hour of the swap, we made it permanent.”
I blinked. “Why would you do that?”
He gestured again lazily at his body—tan skin, curly hair, those perfect biceps and the light trail of hair down his abs. “Wouldn’t you?”
I let out a short laugh. “Let me reframe. Why would he do that? What did you look like before?”
He reached for his phone on the nightstand, scrolled for a second, then turned the screen toward me. The photo showed a guy in his late 40s—still handsome, salt-and-pepper stubble, decent build, the kind of “cool uncle” vibe.
He looked good for his age. Really good. At least if the pictures he was showing me were recent. But still, nowhere near the level of the twenty-five-year-old Adonis currently lying next to me.
“I was the cool, muscular bachelor uncle,” he explained with a shrug, voice still lazy and satisfied. “Guess it was more idolization than anything.”
I looked at him pensively, he shifted.
“My nephew always looked up to me,” he continued. “I figured I’d invite him on a nice trip just the two of us, pretend I didn’t know about the whole Body Harmony thing, convince him it’d be a cool bonding thing to swap, I’d get a week of this—” he ran a hand down his own chest, flexing slightly, “— have some fun, then swap back.”
He leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling smirking to himself.
“But then he agreed so fast. Surprised the hell out of me,” he said. “And I knew how horny my body was just from the anticipation of swapping with him and not having jerked off in a few days… so when I started sucking his cock that morning, he didn’t want to stop… And when I lined my new ass up over my old big uncut cock…” He turned to look at me, “well he wanted to cum so bad that I didn’t really have to do any convincing.”
The way fingers kept tracing lazy circles on my hip told me he wasn’t exactly broken up about it.
“And so I didn’t think it was worth telling you because, well, it doesn’t really matter now,” he added, leaning in to kiss my shoulder. “For all intents and purposes, I really am Aidan.”
I slipped out of Aidan’s villa sometime after 3 a.m., the warm night air cooling the sweat on my skin as I walked back along the torch-lit path. My legs still felt a little shaky in the best way. When I eased open the door to our room, Pedro was still dead asleep, curled up on his bed with my long hair fanned across the pillow, breathing slow and even. I slid back into bed carefully. Pedro didn’t even stir.
—
The next few days blurred into a lazy, sun-drenched rhythm that felt dangerously good.
Aidan and I kept finding each other. We had way more in common than I expected—same dry sense of humor, same taste in music, same low-key hatred for overly touristy bullshit. He asked me endless questions about New York, leaning in close on our loungers with that big, easy smile. Turns out the real Aidan—his nephew—had moved to the city just a few months ago. The new Aidan would be heading back to that apartment soon and knew almost nothing about actually living there.
“So… best cheap sushi spot in the West Village?” he’d ask, tracing idle patterns on my arm with his fingers. “And where do people actually go running without getting hit by cabs?”
I gave him all the tips I could—hidden bagel spots, which subway lines sucked the least, the best rooftop bars that weren’t completely overrun.
We did one of the excursions together—jet skiing out on the turquoise water. The engine roared under us as he drove, my arms wrapped tight around his waist from behind, my chest pressed to his back. Every time we hit a wave and bounced, he’d laugh as I grabbed him tighter. When we stopped in a quiet cove to float for a while, he pulled me in for a slow, salty kiss. We barely made it back to shore without getting ourselves in trouble.
The rest of the time we just relaxed. Long hours by the pool or on the beach, tanning side by side, talking about everything and nothing. And whenever the mood struck—and it struck often—we’d sneak off to some secluded spot: behind a cluster of palm trees, an empty cabana at the far end of the resort, once even a quiet corner of the beach after dark. He’d fuck me slow and deep again, that experienced, patient dominance making my brain melt every single time. His hands always seemed to know exactly where to touch, how hard to grip Pedro’s hips, how to stroke my cock until I was biting back moans.
One afternoon, while we were tangled up in a shaded lounger, he ran his fingers over the tattoos on my—Pedro’s—arm and murmured, “Fuck, I love these tattoos on you…”
He caught himself almost immediately, blinking like he’d said something dumb, because they weren’t actually mine. I laughed softly, still catching my breath.
“Actually… I’m the one who picked out most of these,” I told him, tracing one of the lines on my own bicep. “Pedro came to me for advice on pretty much all of them. The haircut too. And half his clothes. He really does listen to me about that stuff.”
Aidan’s smirk softened into something warmer. “Makes sense. You’ve got good taste.” His hand slid lower, squeezing my thigh possessively. “Clearly.”
I thought about it more later, lying there while Aidan dozed beside me. I really had shaped a lot of how Pedro presented himself. He trusted my eye for that kind of thing. It felt strangely intimate now—seeing those choices from this perspective.
I only really saw Pedro at dinners. He’d show up flushed and buzzing from whatever random adventure he’d dragged my body into that day—parasailing, some rum tasting tour, a dance class that apparently involved way too much hip movement. He looked happy as hell in my skin, laughing loud, gesturing with my hands, flirting shamelessly with anyone who caught his eye. We’d catch up over cocktails and fancy seafood, swapping quick stories, but he was always itching to run off again afterward.
“Best week ever, Luna,” he’d say with my face, clinking his glass against mine. “Don’t wait up.”
I never did.
On the fifth day, Pedro cornered me at dinner looking equal parts excited and sheepish. We were halfway through some fancy grilled fish dish when he leaned in, my own face flushed and eyes bright.
“Okay, so… I met a guy,” he said, biting his lip in that way I usually did when I was nervous. “And holy shit, Luna, he’s super into me. Like, really into me. I’m so fucking horny right now I can barely think straight. Would it be okay if… you know… he fucked me? In your body?”
I had to press my lips together hard to keep from laughing out loud. If only he knew. I was literally sitting there full of Aidan’s cum from earlier that afternoon—it was slowly leaking out of me into my borrowed shorts.
Instead, I kept my face perfectly chill, shrugging one of Pedro’s shoulders like it was no big deal.
“Yeah, of course,” I said, taking a casual sip of my rum punch. “Go for it. Have fun.”
Pedro’s eyes lit up—my eyes, technically—and he grinned wide. “You’re the best. I’ll tell you everything later.”
He practically bounced off after dinner. A couple hours later he came back to the villa glowing, hair messy, cheeks pink, walking a little funny in my body.
“Oh my god, Luna,” he whispered as he flopped onto the bed beside me. “That guy is the hottest person here. Tall, built like a Greek god, cock like… fuck, I don’t even know how to describe it. He fucked me so good. Bent me over the balcony, then on the bed, then in the shower. I came twice. He kept calling me pretty and telling me how tight I was. Your body? Absolute MVP. Props to you for keeping it in such good shape.”
I just smirked, feeling a weird mix of pride and amusement. I’d seen the guy he was talking about around the resort—he definitely was objectively the hottest one at the resort. Pedro had done well. And yeah… props to my body, I guess.
—
A day before the end of the trip, Aidan and I were tangled together in a big woven hammock strung between two palm trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The sun was low, painting everything golden. My head rested on his chest, one of his arms wrapped around my waist while his fingers idly traced patterns on my skin.
“We gotta make plans to meet up once we’re back in the city,” I murmured, running my hand over the light hair on his abs. “I’ll show you all the spots I told you about.”
Aidan smiled, that big beautiful grin flashing as he looked down at me. “I’m excited to be there. But I’d be way more excited if I had a boyfriend waiting for me.”
I chuckled softly. “With a body like that? You’re not gonna have any trouble finding one.”
He shifted a little, pulling me closer so our bodies pressed together in the hammock. His voice dropped lower, warm and serious. “It won’t be a problem at all… if you agree to be my boyfriend.”
I froze for a second, then laughed, pushing up on one elbow to look at him. “I can’t. This isn’t even my body, Aidan. Maybe the real Pedro would be interested though—”
He cut me off gently, his fingers deliberately tracing the tattoos along my arm—the ones I’d helped Pedro pick out years ago. “You are the real Pedro now,” he said, voice low and confident, thumb brushing over the ink like he was claiming it. “As far as I’m concerned, this is you.”
My stomach did a slow flip. I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how good his hand felt on Pedro’s skin.
“…Is there any chance you’re bi?” I asked quietly.
Aidan gave a soft laugh and shook his head, that cheeky little smirk returning. “Not even a little bit…. Guess we’ll just have to enjoy the time while we have it,” his voice dropping from low to a whisper. “Drop by my room around 9 tonight, and I’ll make sure we leave this on a good note.” he said, before standing up and flashing me a cheeky grin and walking off. I hung back and decided to watch the sunset by myself.
—
That night, my phone buzzed as I was scrolling through my feed. It was from Aidan.
Aidan: “You coming over?”
Aidan: “Want to spend at least one full night sharing a bed with you before we leave.”
I stared at the text for a second, a little thrill running through me. Pedro was sprawled on this bed in my body, scrolling through his phone with a lazy grin.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’m gonna spend the night with a guy I met. That cool?”
Pedro looked up, my eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated surprise, then he burst out laughing. “Holy shit, finally! Good for you, Luna. Go get some. I’m heading to the bar anyway. Try to find some dick for myself before we leave.”
When I got to Aidan’s room, I knocked but there was no answer. I turned the handle and the door was unlocked, but the place was empty. The lights were on low, the balcony doors open to the ocean breeze, but no sign of him. I wandered around for a minute, heart beating a little faster than it should. The bed was neatly made, his suitcase half-packed in the corner. I snooped a bit—nothing weird, just normal vacation stuff—until I stepped into the bathroom and spotted it on the counter: a blister pack of Viagra with one pill punched out.
I raised an eyebrow. Interesting.
I sent him a quick text telling him I was in his room and asking him where he was.
My phone buzzed again.
Aidan: “Stay there. I’ll be there in like 10 minutes.”
I shrugged and kicked off my shoes, settling onto the edge of the bed to wait. Ten minutes turned into fifteen. Then twenty. At the twenty-seven-minute mark, I was starting to wonder if he’d gotten distracted when the door finally clicked open.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, when the door opened.
Aidan walked in first, that familiar big smile on his face. Right behind him was Pedro—in my body—laughing at something Aidan had just said. My own long hair was a little messy, my sundress riding up slightly on my thighs.
Pedro froze the second he saw me. His eyes went wide.
“Wait… that’s my body,” he said, pointing straight at me, voice pitching up in surprise.
I blinked hard, genuinely shocked. I played it cool though, keeping my expression surprised and trying not to let on what started to race through my mind of what Aidan was trying to do here.
“Uh… yeah. Small resort, I guess.” I responded.
Aidan acted like he had zero idea we knew each other, raising his hands innocently. “Whoa, you two know each other? Shit, I didn’t realize.” He flashed me a knowing glance. “This could be fun, though, right? No pressure.”
Pedro—in my body—shifted uncomfortably, crossing my arms over my chest.“I don’t know, man… I don’t want the swap to become permanent or anything.”
But I could read the look on his face: Pedro really really wanted to get some tonight and he was really into Aidan.
Aidan stepped closer, grabbing Pedro’s waist, voice smooth and reassuring. “Ahhhh… if that’s what you’re worried about baby, don’t be. It’s only permanent if he cums in your pussy.”
Pedro still looked hesitant, biting my lower lip the way he sometimes did. But Aidan didn’t give him time to overthink it.
“I’ll keep that pussy all to myself then,” he said in a low husky voice as he suavely dipped his hand under the dress and underwear and started to gently rub his clit. Pedro made a soft surprised noise but didn’t pull away.
Aidan gently leaned him back onto the bed, kissing him harder. As he did, Aidan glanced over at me quickly and winked—quick, dirty, and full of mischief.
I moved in, heart racing, and started making out with Pedro while Aidan kept working on him. It felt so fucking weird—kissing my own mouth, tasting the familiar lip gloss I usually wore, feeling my own soft lips move against mine.
And Aidan was good at faking it. Really good. He’d told me flat-out he wasn’t even a little bi, but the way he kissed and touched Pedro in my body looked completely convincing—hungry, experienced, completely in control. I was actually a bit unnerved.
Before long, Aidan had flipped Pedro onto all fours. He pushed the sundress up over his hips, pulled his panties aside, and slid into his pussy from behind in one smooth, deep thrust. Pedro moaned loudly, gripping the sheets. Aidan started fucking him doggy style—slow and steady at first, that same experienced dominance I’d grown addicted to over the week.
Then Aidan looked over at me, voice low and rough. “Come here. Let him suck you off.”
I moved around to the front. Pedro hesitated for half a second, then leaned in and took my cock—his old cock—into his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing, tongue working the underside, sucking with just the right pressure. I got rock hard almost instantly, groaning as I threaded my fingers through my own long hair.
Aidan and I leaned in over Pedro’s back and started kissing each other deeply while he kept sucking me. The whole thing felt filthy and surreal—my best friend blowing me in my own body while the guy who’d been railing me all week fucked her from behind.
I started getting close way too fast. Aidan noticed immediately. He reached forward, gently but firmly pulled Pedro’s mouth off my cock, and pushed his face down into the pillows. Then he looked at me, eyes dark with heat, and motioned for me to come around behind.
Aidan pulled out of my old body completely, smooth and quick. Before Pedro could even register the sudden emptiness or turn his head, Aidan was already moving. He gripped my hips firmly from behind, guiding me forward with strong, experienced hands until the head of my cock—Pedro’s cock—was pressed right against the slick, warm entrance of my own pussy.
With one deliberate push on my waist, Aidan lined me up perfectly and shoved me forward.
I slid inside her—inside myself—in one smooth thrust.
The feeling was insane. Hot, tight, and wet in a way that made my brain short-circuit. Pedro (in my body) let out a shocked, muffled moan into the pillows as I bottomed out.
Aidan didn’t stop there. He took my right hand, wrapped it around the back of my old body’s head, and firmly pushed her face deeper into the pillows, arching her back even more for me.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and rough with approval. Pedro thought he was talking to him, but he said it looking directly at me.
I matched Aidan’s original thrusting pace—rhythmic, deep strokes that made my old body’s hips jolt forward with every push. Pedro was moaning loudly now, the sound vibrating against the pillow, his pussy clenching around me.
Aidan stepped back for a second, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and snapped a quick picture. Then he walked back over, pressed himself against my back, and whispered hot against my ear:
“I want to remember seeing my man take what’s his.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine. He reached around me, hands sliding to gently rub and pinch my nipples while his lips found the back of my neck, kissing and sucking softly as I kept thrusting harder into my old body.
Pedro’s moans grew louder, more desperate, muffled by the pillow.
Aidan’s voice dropped even lower, right against my skin. “Now do it, Pedro. Fill her up.”
That was all it took.
I came harder than I had the entire trip—my biggest load yet—burying myself deep as my cock pulsed and spilled inside my old pussy. Wave after wave of it, hips jerking involuntarily while Aidan kept kissing my neck and teasing my nipples, holding me through every shudder.
The room spun for a long moment, nothing but heavy breathing and the distant sound of waves outside.
—
A few months later, the city was deep into fall. I was sprawled on Aidan’s massive sectional in his Upper West Side apartment, legs kicked up on the coffee table while he cooked something that smelled ridiculously good in the kitchen. This place till felt too nice to be real—its amazing what Aidan’s finance salary and no student loans could get him.
My phone buzzed. Another text from “Luna.”
Luna: “This fucking guy ghosted me after three dates. Thought he was different. Whatever. At least the sex was good while it lasted.”
I snorted softly and didn’t reply right away. She was still pissed. Every other message was some variation of complaint about how unfair life was now, how she missed her old body, how she hated having to relearn everything. I’d tried telling her once that she’d actually won out—she made more money in my old job, lived in a nicer apartment now, and was getting regularly fucked by the exact kind of tall, masc, Equinox jock types she used to pine after but could never pull. She’d usually just sent back a middle finger emoji.
Deep down, I was pretty sure she knew it too. She just liked complaining—girls like her were just a bit delusional about shit like that.
The doorbell rang.
Aidan wiped his hands on a dish towel and grinned at me. “Showtime.”
When the door opened, in walked his “uncle” — late forties, salt-and-pepper stubble, still decently built in a navy button-down. Right behind him was his boyfriend Matt, about thirty, clean-cut with an easy smile.
“Uncle Tony! Matt, nice to meet you finally! Come on in,” Aidan said warmly, pulling them both into quick hugs. He turned and gestured to me. “This is my boyfriend Pedro, by the way. Pedro, meet my uncle Tony and his boyfriend Matt.”
“Nice to meet you” I said, standing up to shake their hands. “Tony, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise, kid.” He said, with an expression a bit difficult to read.
We chatted for a while in they entryway before we settled into the living room. Aidan stood at the open concept kitchen island, making us drinks and sliding effortlessly into polite-boyfriend mode.
“I’m really happy you two got together,” he told Matt, voice warm and genuine. “Uncle’s been single for so long — it’s awesome to see him finally settling down.”
Matt laughed, clearly charmed. “He’s been spoiling me rotten.”
“That sounds exactly like him,” Aidan said with a grin. “He deserves someone who appreciates him.”
I caught the way Uncle Tony’s jaw tightened just slightly as he forced a smile. His eyes flicked over to me — taking in the tattoos on my arms, the way I filled out the fitted shirt, the casual way I was lounging on what used to be his couch. I hate to admit it, but his jealousy felt good.
Aidan handed us all each a cocktail as Matt glanced around the sleek apartment, taking it all in. “So how long have you two been together?” He asked.
“A few months now,” Aidan answered easily, settling in next to me on the couch and sliding an arm around my waist. “We actually met on a trip Uncle Tony treated me to down in the Caribbean, right before he met you.”
Matt whistled. “Lucky nephew. Most uncles just send a birthday card every year.”
Uncle Tony gave a tight smile, looking out at the river view beyond the windows. “Yeah… figured the kid deserved a nice trip before he started grinding in the city.”
Aidan kept laying it on, completely deadpan. “Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better uncle.”
Matt beamed, totally buying the sweet, supportive nephew act. But the rest of us could feel the cockiness simmering under Aidan’s polite tone.
Uncle Tony’s gaze lingered a beat too long on Aidan — on the tan skin, the light dusting of chest hair at the open collar of his shirt, the easy confidence in every movement. For a second raw jealousy flashed across his face before he buried it. He knew there was nothing he could do.
Aidan kissed the side of my head, casual and possessive, his hand resting low on my hip where his favorite tattoos disappeared under my waistband.
After a night of drinking and laughing, Tony and Matt finally left the apartment. The moment the door clicked shut and the living room fell quiet, Aidan turned to me, still wearing that perfect, polite nephew smile he’d kept up all evening.
“Your uncle so wished he never swapped with you,” I said as he settled back in with me on the couch.
Aidan stared back at me for a second, then let out a light laugh, the kind that said I was being ridiculous. “What are you talking about, babe?” he replied, still in that same warm, innocent tone.
His grin slowly widened, dark and knowing. We both understood. We weren’t ever acknowledging the swap again. This was our reality now — me as Pedro, him as Aidan — forever.
Without another word, he pulled me in hard for a deep, hungry kiss, his hands already sliding under my shirt as we stumbled toward the bedroom, ready to fuck like the couple we had become.
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.
Part I https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/804788356374544384/asset-forfeiture-extinci%C3%B3n-de-dominio?source=share
Part II https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/805103844518445056/asset-forfeiture-part-ii?source=share
Part XIX: Monday Morning Reversal
I woke up wrong.
Not disoriented—wrong. The wrong weight. The wrong smell. My nervous system screamed before my eyes opened.
My ceiling. The hairline crack from light fixture to corner. My apartment.
My body.
I lifted my hand—Jake Delgado's hand. Scarred knuckles, crooked pinky from the academy. Six-foot-four, one-ninety of earned muscle.
I was back.
But something was… wrong.
Heat. Impossible furnace heat wrapped around my cock. Tight, pulsing muscle contracting, drawing me deeper.
I looked down.
Dean. Face-down in my bed. Naked except for black socks. Morning light painting his back gold—every muscle defined, purple bruises on his hips like fingerprints. Bite marks on his shoulders.
My cock—thick, rigid, leaking—buried deep inside him.
Horror and arousal collided.
Pull out. Get away. Figure out—
But it felt good. Perfect. The heat gripping my shaft with unconscious contractions. My hindbrain roared: more, deeper, stay, claim.
My hips rolled forward on instinct. Dean made a small satisfied sound and the noise bypassed thought, went straight to some newly-installed circuit screaming yes, good, mine.
Three days. I'd been trapped in Miguel's body for three days while that freak wore my skin. The memories hit like shrapnel:
Kneeling on cold tile, boot sole on my tongue. Miguel's voice—my voice—commanding: "Lick it clean."
Murphy's. Carrying drinks. The wet spot spreading across my crotch while Greg laughed and Dean ignored me. Being called "mascot."
Filming. Holding the phone with shaking hands while Miguel-in-my-body spitroasted Dean with Greg. Seventeen minutes. Dean gasping "I'm winning" while I documented my own obsolescence.
My cock pulsed inside Dean. Hard. Insistent.
I bit back a groan, hips shifting involuntarily. Dean made another pleased sound and fuck, my body wanted to keep going.
The smell hit me. Everywhere. Citrus body wash, salt, concentrated male musk saturating my sheets. Dean. And my body was responding like an addict. My nostrils flared automatically and my cock throbbed so hard Dean shifted in his sleep.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I looked down. Gray CHP workout shirt—too small, stretched tight. Saturated with dried sweat, soaked with Dean's concentrated essence. I brought the collar to my nose without thinking.
Breathed deep.
My cock pulsed violently.
NO.
But my body didn't want to think. My body wanted to stay buried in this heat forever—
Movement in my peripheral vision. On the floor.
Boots.
Black leather Chippewa engineers. Scuffed, road-worn. The ones Miguel had stripped off Greg at poker.
My mouth went dry. My cock throbbed so hard inside Dean that he stirred.
My hand reached out. Fingers brushing scarred leather. Electricity up my forearm, cock leaking inside Dean's body.
I grabbed the boot. Pulled it close. The smell—concentrated male musk, sweat-soaked leather—hit immediately. My hindbrain exploded. My cock pulsed so hard I nearly came.
I brought it closer to my face.
The smell was everything. My breathing got ragged, nostrils flaring, while my other hand moved on autopilot—gripping my shaft where it was buried in Dean, feeling myself pulse and leak.
NO.
I dropped the boot. It hit the floor with a thud.
Miguel's fetishes. Three days in his body. Three days of his neural pathways installed in my brain like malware. Targeted. Specific. An addiction to Dean Cammarata wired into my nervous system.
Dean shifted beneath me, ass clenching reflexively, and I nearly lost it.
I pulled out. Fast. The drag, the loss of warmth, my cock slick and glistening. My body protested violently—physical ache at the disconnection.
Dean mumbled, satisfied, completely unaware.
I stumbled out of bed. Looked around my apartment. My furniture. My life.
But Dean's smell was everywhere.
On my desk—a phone. Oh god, my own actual phone - relief. I grabbed it. My lockscreen photo - me and Dean at the triathlon last year – smiling, holding our medals and grinning like idiots. A simpler time.
I unlocked the phone, and it auto-opened to the photoroll. New videos and photos, time-stamped from the last seventy-two hours.
The poker game. Every hand. Every article of clothing stripped away.
The bedroom. All seventeen minutes from three angles.
Me-in-Miguel's-body. On my knees. Worshipping boots in the background. Filming Greg and me spit roasting Dean.
Evidence. Proof.
My cock twitched.
I was getting harder looking at evidence of my best friend’s violation.
From the bed, Dean stirred. Rolled over. Eyes opened—sleepy, satisfied.
"Jake?" Voice rough. "Bro, come back to bed—"
He stopped, seeing me with the phone. But he didn't look concerned. He looked amused.
"You reliving the dream?" Dean grinned, stretching. His cock was already hardening. "I looked good that night. Seventeen minutes. New personal record."
Talking about getting spitroasted like it was a triathlon result.
"I need to go," I said, voice strangled. Grabbed jeans from the floor, yanking them on.
Dean's smile faltered. "Go where? We don't start shift until—"
"The mascot?" Dean laughed—that harsh sound Miguel had trained into him. "What could that little freak possibly need? He just left like four hours ago. Said something about crashing at his own place like the foot of your bed isn't good enough."
Mascot. The word hit like a physical blow.
"Did he fuck up your work emails?" Dean sat up. "Just kick him. He probably needs it. Little guy was practically drooling over Greg's boots all night." Dean's grin widened. "Although you should check the foot of the bed anyway. Make sure he's not curled up there, sucking on a sock."
Before I could respond, Dean moved. Fast. Triathlete reflexes catching me, yanking me back by my wrist.
"Nah, fuck that," Dean said. "You're not leaving yet. Hangover protocol, remember?"
"Dean, I really need to—"
But Dean was already pulling me down, and my contaminated body betrayed me—didn't resist, wanted the contact. I fell onto the bed.
"Relax." Dean popped the button on my jeans. "No homo, bro. You did it for me yesterday. Now it's my turn."
He yanked my jeans down. My cock sprang free—still hard, still leaking.
Dean wrapped one hand around my shaft, pumping slowly. "See? Already there. Just lay back."
"Dean, this isn't—"
"Shh." Dean lowered his head, tongue dragging up the underside. The sensation shot through me like electricity. "Don't make this weird."
Then he swallowed me whole.
The heat was devastating. I groaned—raw, animal—hips bucking. Dean's throat opened easily, nose pressing against my pelvis.
"Fuck," I gasped.
Dean pulled off with a wet pop, grinning. "See? Already working."
He went back down, but this time his hands moved lower. Gripping my calves. Then—
He grabbed my foot.
"What are you—"
Dean's mouth left my cock and moved to my toes.
He took my big toe into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue working around it like he was giving it a blowjob.
The sensation was obscene. My whole body locked up, a moan ripping out.
"Aahhh—fuck—Dean, what—"
"Reflexology," Dean said around my toe. "Pressure points."
He sucked harder, teeth grazing. My cock leaked steadily, precum pooling on my abs. Dean switched to the other foot.
I was panting. Hips rolling. The combination—Dean's hot mouth on my toes, hands gripping my calves—was breaking my brain.
"Nngh—oh god—Dean—"
Dean pulled off. "Bro, you sound like a bitch in heat. Don't make this sexual. I'm just helping you out."
He went back to my foot, taking two toes this time, tongue working between them while his hand stroked my cock.
"Ah—fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Then cum," Dean said simply. "Get it out so you can function."
Mouth on my toes, hand pumping my shaft. The dual stimulation was too much. Already primed, already compromised—
I came hard.
My cock pulsed in Dean's grip, thick ropes shooting across my abs, my chest. The orgasm ripped through me in waves, toes curling in Dean's mouth as he kept sucking through it.
"Fuuuck—"
Dean released my foot, sitting back, watching with clinical satisfaction. He wiped my cum on the sheets casually.
"There," Dean said. "Feel better?"
I stared at him—this beautiful, broken man who'd just sucked my toes and was treating it like he'd given me Advil.
"I..." My voice came out hoarse. "I need to go."
"Yeah, you said that." Dean stretched. "Go deal with the mascot. But you owe me later. I want a full session tonight—team building."
Casual. Like scheduling a meeting.
I pulled my jeans up with shaking hands. Dean's smell was all over me. His saliva on my toes. My cum drying on my skin.
The addiction was worse. Feeding it had only made it stronger.
I grabbed the phone. My evidence.
"Yeah," I managed. "Tonight."
Dean flopped back, satisfied, already drifting back to sleep.
I walked toward the door. My body screamed to go back. My mind screamed for revenge.
I paused at the threshold. Looked back at Dean sprawled across my bed. At Greg's boots on the floor. My cock twitched.
Miguel's apartment was ten minutes away.
My fingers tightened on the doorframe until my knuckles went white.
He'd be waking up about now. Back in that scrawny frame. Realizing he'd lost everything.
He thought the addiction would keep me docile.
He had no idea rage could burn hotter than need.
I walked out. Got in my truck.
Time to confront this motherfucking rat.
Part XX: The Imposter's Claim
Half an hour later I was parked again in front of my own apartment building. Engine off. Looking at the photos on my phone with shaking hands. Dean was upstairs. I wasn’t ready to tell him the truth of what happened this weekend.
I'd banged on that rat's door for five solid minutes until an old lady in a bathrobe glared at me like I was an irate ex. Whatever. Plan B.
Back to my apartment to regroup.
The evidence. Three days of selfies, corruption, seventeen minutes of Dean's breaking. Proof.
Proof that would destroy Dean if I used it.
My finger hovered over delete. But I'd opened the videos again—watched Miguel-in-my-body spitroasting Dean with Greg—and my cock had gotten hard.
Even knowing it was a violation, my contaminated nervous system responded.
I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel.
A knock on my window made me jolt.
Dean.
Standing outside in a CHP t-shirt and sweatpants, looking concerned.
I rolled down the window. "Dean. I—"
"You okay, brother?" Genuine worry. "You've been sitting out here a while."
"I'm fine. Just needed a minute."
"Come inside," Dean said, opening my door. "Whatever's going on can wait."
I got out. Because my body moved toward Dean automatically.
We walked toward my building.
That's when I saw him.
Miguel.
Standing in front of my apartment door. Five-foot-seven, 130 pounds, wearing black running shorts and an oversized hoodie. His own body.
But when his eyes met mine, he smiled.
Triumphant.
"Dean!" Miguel called out, and his voice dropped an octave—forcing it deeper, more confident. "Bro, thank the fuck you're here."
He walked toward Dean with alpha body language—shoulders back, direct eye contact, despite the scrawny frame. Then he said the thing that made my blood run cold:
"Saturday night. Murphy's. You said watching Greg rail you from behind while I fucked your throat was the hottest thing you'd ever seen." His eyes locked onto Dean's. "You came just from that. No hands. Just from being used."
Dean's expression changed. Recognition. Familiarity. That casual intimacy of shared corruption.
"Wait, what?" Dean laughed, surprised but engaged. "You weren’t there for—"
Miguel was already reaching him, and what he did next made my stomach drop.
He grabbed Dean's arm—then slid his hand up to Dean's bicep, squeezing the muscle. Familiar. Possessive. "Missed you, man. Even if I'm stuck looking like—" He gestured at his scrawny frame with disgust. "—this."
His other hand went to Dean's chest, groping his pec through the shirt. Casual. Aggressive. The exact touching the corrupted Jake-Dean dynamic had normalized.
"Whoa, hey," Dean said, but he was grinning now. Surprised but not uncomfortable because Jake would touch him like this. "Easy there, brother. What's going on?"
"Something's wrong with me," Miguel said, both hands still on Dean—one on his chest, one sliding down to squeeze Dean's ass. Bold. "I woke up this morning and—this is going to sound insane—but I'm trapped in the mascot's body."
Dean's laughter faded. "What? How is that—so he stole your body?"
"I'm still Jake," Miguel said desperately, pressing his small body against Dean's frame, actually rutting against his thigh. Shameless, aggressive, alpha—exactly how the corrupted Jake would act. "Somehow I'm trapped in this. And HE—" pointing at me, "—must have done it last night. Revenge for making him film us after poker."
Film us. Making it sound like Jake had forced Miguel to document Dean's corruption.
"That's not what happened!" I said desperately. "Dean, listen. He's lying—"
Dean looked at me—really looked—and I could see it. The gears turning. Connecting dots that formed the wrong picture.
"Motherfucker," Dean breathed, stepping toward me. "You did this. You actually swapped bodies with him."
I flinched.
Couldn't help it. Dean's aggressive approach triggered every conditioned response—submit, defer, please—
Dean saw the flinch. His expression hardened.
"Jake would never back down from me," Dean said quietly. "Not in a million years. But you?" He gestured at my powerful body, betrayed by submissive tells. "I can smell a mascot from a mile away."
My mouth opened. Closed.
Dean looked between us. "Alright. What's our patrol call sign?"
"Seven-Adam-Twelve," Miguel said immediately. "And you always bitch about dispatch using Seven-Adam-Eleven for the rookie unit because it sounds too close on the radio."
Fuck. He'd learned that. Three days wearing my skin, stealing my memories.
"Dean, he knows that because he WAS me," I said desperately. "He wore my body—"
"Stop." Dean held up a hand. "You're not gonna fool me, Mascot."
"No, we swapped twice!" My voice cracked. "Three days ago and then—"
"Sure buddy, and I only fuck brunettes with tiny tits." Dean's voice went cold.
Miguel played his card. "Dean," he said softly, trembling. "Remember that night at your place, before everything started? I told you about my ex Sarah. How she cheated during my rookie year. How I didn't date for two years after."
A story I'd shared once, years ago, drunk and vulnerable. Miguel had learned it through my phone, through wearing my consciousness.
Dean's expression changed. Softened.
"Dean, NO—"
But Dean was already pulling Miguel into a protective embrace. Five-foot-seven of scrawny IT contractor dwarfed by Dean's massive build.
"I got you, brother," Dean murmured. "We'll figure this out. Get you back in your real body."
Miguel looked at me over Dean's shoulder.
And smiled.
"Thanks brother," Miguel said, voice muffled against Dean's chest, hands still roaming. "I thought you might not believe me. I might be trapped in mascot's body permanently. And HE—" pointing at me, "—could get away with living my life as an imposter."
"Motherfucker!" I was shaking. "Dean, please. LOOK at me. I'm Jake. Your partner—"
"My partner wouldn't be screaming at a scared victim," Dean said coldly, stepping in front of Miguel protectively. "My partner would want to help."
The addiction surged. Dean's disapproval felt like physical pain, my contaminated nervous system screaming I'd failed, needed to submit, to please him—
The weakness in my voice betrayed me. "Dean..."
Sounding exactly like a weak beta mascot.
Dean's eyes narrowed, seeing it. Seeing the submission.
"Here's what's going to happen," Dean said, command tone coming out. "We're going inside. We're figuring this out. And YOU—" pointing at me, "—are going to cooperate. No one gets to wear Jake like a meatsuit. We're stopping you right here, right now."
Miguel stepped around Dean, looking up at me—five inches shorter, sixty pounds lighter, but holding all the power.
"It's okay," Miguel said softly, reaching out to touch my arm with his small hand. "It must be hard, always wishing to be something you're not. You just have to accept you were never a real man, and whatever trick you forced onto me, we're gonna undo."
Never was real man. Rewriting reality. And Dean was his accomplice.
"Fuck you," I spat.
Miguel's hand stayed on my arm. Small. Weak. I could break every bone with one squeeze.
But Dean was watching. Would protect "Jake" from "Miguel's" violence.
"Inside," Dean commanded. "Both of you. Now."
Miguel led us toward my apartment door—already playing the alpha. Damnit.
I followed.
Because what choice did I have? My apartment. My space. Now Miguel's territory.
We walked inside. The smell hit immediately—Dean, everywhere. My contaminated nervous system lit up.
"Sit," Dean commanded, pointing at the couch.
I sat. Miguel sat next to me—too close, asserting dominance despite his smaller frame.
Dean stood in front of us both. Judge. Jury. Enforcer.
"Alright," Dean said. "We're going to get to the bottom of this, and when we prove you're Miguel, you're going to tell us how to get Jake back into his rightful body."
Miguel smiled.
Part XXI: The Transfer
"I can't stand this," Miguel said, plucking at the oversized hoodie with visible disgust. "Dean, I can't stand wearing his stuff. It smells like him. Like... desperation." He pulled the fabric to his nose and made a face. "It's making my skin crawl."
Dean's expression softened immediately. "Yeah, of course, brother. Go grab whatever you need from your closet. Get comfortable."
"Thanks." Miguel moved toward my bedroom, but paused at the hamper in the hallway. He dug his hands into the pile of dirty clothes—my dirty clothes—and pulled out a pair of jeans, still with my boxerbriefs inside. The ones I'd worn yesterday. Still holding my shape, my sweat, my scent.
"These," Miguel said, holding them up. "Perfect."
"Those are—" I started.
"Mine," Miguel interrupted, looking me dead in the eye. "My favorite pair. Broken in exactly how I like them." He pulled out a gray tank top next—the CHP workout shirt I'd been wearing this morning before Dean's toe-sucking session. It was still damp with sweat.
Miguel stripped right there in my living room. Kicked off his cheap sneakers, shoved the black running shorts, peeled off the oversized hoodie until he was completely naked—his own body, pale and scrawny, nothing like the powerful frame he'd worn for three days.
But he moved with confidence. Alpha body language in a beta frame.
Dean watched, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Approving.
Miguel stepped into my jeans and boxer briefs from yesterday, yanking them up in one go. They were way too big—the waistband gaped, the legs pooled around his ankles—but he cinched the belt tight. "God, so much better," he said, running his hands over the denim. "Even if they don't fit right on this body. Boxerbriefs are loose, but the texture’s right."
Then he pulled on my workout shirt. It hung off his narrow shoulders like a tent. Made a show of pulling up and breathing in the collar. "Still smells like me. Like my sweat."
Bullshit. It reeked of Dean—citrus body wash and concentrated male musk from this morning's "hangover protocol." My nostrils flared involuntarily at the scent even from here, my contaminated nervous system responding. And Miguel was claiming it as his own sweat, rewriting the narrative.
"Better?" Dean asked.
"Better," Miguel replied. Then his eyes landed on me. On my hands. My neck. My pockets.
"Wait," Miguel said, voice sharpening. "You're wearing my stuff."
I looked down. My rings—the academy ring on my right hand, the silver band my dad gave me on my left. My wallet in my back pocket. My phone in my front pocket. My Ray-Ban sunglasses hanging from my collar. My Saint Christopher necklace—the one I never took off—around my neck.
"Those are mine," Miguel said, stepping toward me.
"No—these are—" I backed up instinctively. "These are my things. I'm Jake. This is my—"
"Dean," Miguel said, not taking his eyes off me. "Help him understand, bro."
Dean smirked. "You're wearing Jake's bod, but that doesn't make you Jake. You don't get to carry around Jake's wallet and wear his rings just because you have his face."
Miguel moved closer. Stood right in front of me—five-foot-seven, 130 pounds, but Dean was behind him, a wall of muscle and authority.
"Give them back," Miguel said quietly. "Everything. All of it. It's mine."
"Fuck you," I said, but my voice shook.
"Dean," Miguel said without turning around. "Help him understand."
Dean stepped forward. Put a hand on my shoulder—my own shoulder—and squeezed. Not gentle. A compliance hold.
"Hand them over," Dean said. "All of it. Now."
"Dean, please—"
The squeeze got harder. Pain shot through my shoulder, and my body—my contaminated, conditioned body—responded immediately. Submitted.
My hands moved on their own.
Everything came off in a blur of surrender. The rings—both of them—pulled free and dropped into Miguel's waiting palm. The phone from my pocket, my own fingerprint unlocking it one last time before it became his. The wallet—my license, my credit cards, my badge—handed over like I was paying a toll. The sunglasses yanked from my collar.
Each item felt like losing a piece of myself, but I couldn't stop. Dean's grip on my shoulder, Miguel's expectant face, my body's complete capitulation to authority—it all combined into one devastating moment of transfer.
Miguel took each item calmly, methodically. Smiling at my phone's lock screen. Opened the wallet to examine the badge—"Officer Jake Delgado. That's me"—before pocketing it in jeans too big but now holding my entire identity. Put on the sunglasses that slipped down his nose but marked him as Jake anyway.
And then he looked at my neck.
"And the necklace," Miguel said, stepping even closer. "That's the important one. The one I never take off."
My hand went to my throat automatically, fingers closing around the Saint Christopher medal. My grandmother gave me this. Blessed it at church. Put it around my neck the day I graduated the academy and made me promise I'd never take it off because Saint Christopher would keep me safe on patrol.
"No," I whispered.
"Dean," Miguel said.
Dean grabbed my wrist, pulled my hand away from my throat. Held me still while his other hand went to the clasp of the necklace.
"Dean, please, my grandmother gave me this—"
"Jake's grandmother gave Jake this," Dean corrected, working the tiny clasp. "And you're not Jake."
The necklace came free. Dean held it for a moment—the silver chain, the worn medal—then handed it to Miguel.
Miguel took it, but instead of putting it on immediately, he stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell my own deodorant on him, my own clothes wrapped around his smaller frame.
He held the necklace up between us. Let it dangle. Catching the light.
Then he leaned in, his mouth near my ear, and whispered:
"I don't know how you did it. How you forced me back into this—" his voice caught with genuine frustration, "—into this form." His breath was warm against my neck—the spot where the necklace had rested moments before. "But you fucked up, Jake. Because Dean thinks you're the impostor. Trusts me. Loyal to me." He pulled back slightly, meeting my eyes with cold determination.
Dean fidgeted, still applying pressure to my wrist, locking me in place. "Eventually I'll figure out how to get back into your body. But until then?" He smiled, bitter and satisfied. "I've got everything that matters."
He fastened the necklace around his own thin neck while maintaining eye contact, the movement sharp with resentment for the body he was forced to settle for. It hung too low on his smaller frame, the medal resting against his sternum instead of his collarbone. Wrong. Ill-fitting. But he adjusted it carefully, like he was claiming territory he'd been cheated out of.
Then he tucked it under the oversized t-shirt—my t-shirt—and patted it through the fabric. "Abuela Delgado," he said more loudly, so Dean could hear. "She died two years ago. Lung cancer. I cried at her funeral. Couldn't speak during the eulogy." He smiled, but there was edge to it now. Determination. "Because she was my grandmother." Back to a murmur: "And when I figure out how you swapped us back, she'll be my grandmother again."
I was shaking. Standing there in my own powerful frame, stripped of every marker of identity, while a scrawny IT contractor wore my life like stolen clothes.
"You good?" Dean asked Miguel, releasing my wrist.
"Yeah," Miguel said, touching the necklace through the shirt one more time. "Yeah, I'm better. Thanks for backing me up, brother."
"Always," Dean said, and the casual affection in his voice—affection meant for me, given to him—was worse than the physical loss.
Miguel turned away from me, wearing my rings on fingers too small, my necklace around a neck too thin, my wallet heavy in jeans too big.
Dean clapped Miguel on the shoulder—the way he used to clap mine. "You should sit down, man. This has gotta be overwhelming."
"Yeah," Miguel agreed, moving to my couch, sitting in my spot. "It is. But it helps having you here." He looked up at Dean with perfect vulnerable gratitude. "I don't know what I'd do without my partner."
Dean smiled. That warm, loyal smile I'd seen a thousand times. Never thought I'd see it directed at someone else while I stood watching, invisible.
"I'm gonna grab a shower," Dean said. "Wash off the shift. You two just... sit tight. Don't kill each other while I'm gone."
He headed toward my bathroom. I heard the door close. The water start.
And then it was just me and Miguel. In my apartment. Him wearing my identity. Me wearing nothing but meat and bone and betrayal.
Miguel leaned back into my couch, my rings catching the light, my phone in his hand, my necklace around his throat.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"You should sit," Miguel continued, gesturing to the chair across from him. "We have about ten minutes before Dean gets out. Plenty of time for us to have a conversation about your new place."
I should have refused. Should have stayed standing, maintained distance, clung to some scrap of autonomy.
But my legs moved. Carried Jake's powerful frame across the room—six-foot-four of dense muscle and authority—and deposited me on the couch beside this scrawny IT contractor wearing my stolen identity.
Our thighs touched. My thigh—thick, corded with muscle built through years of training—pressed against his. The contrast was obscene. I could feel how small he was, how fragile, and yet my body was the one trembling.
"Good boy," Miguel murmured.
My cock jumped violently in my jeans.
The response was instant, involuntary, devastating. Those two words hit some newly-installed button in my nervous system and my entire body responded like I'd been electrocuted. My cock went from half-hard to rigid in seconds, pressing painfully against my zipper. A wet spot bloomed immediately through the denim. I gasped, hands flying to grip my thighs, trying to hide the reaction even as my hips shifted involuntarily, seeking friction.
Miguel saw everything. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating, then narrowed with predatory fascination.
"Oh," Miguel breathed, his gaze locked on the bulge straining my jeans. "Oh, that's interesting." He leaned closer, studying my face—the flush spreading up my neck, the way my jaw clenched, the barely-suppressed whimper catching in my throat. "I should say it again. Good. Boy."
My cock throbbed so hard I saw stars. The wet spot spread, precum soaking through my boxer briefs and jeans, visible evidence of my body's complete betrayal. A sound escaped me—desperate, needy, pathetic.
"Submitting isn’t the whole story," Miguel said slowly, putting the pieces together. "It's praise. You need approval. You need to be told you're doing well." His hand landed on my thigh—small, cool fingers against the thick muscle wrapped in denim. The touch sent electricity straight to my cock. "Three days in my body didn't just teach you to submit to alphas. It taught you to crave comfort. Validation. Being taken care of."
"Stop," I managed, but my voice was weak. Pleading rather than commanding.
"You're such a good boy, Mascot," Miguel whispered, and I moaned—actually moaned, a raw sound of need that filled my apartment. My hips bucked, seeking friction against nothing. "Look at you. That big, powerful body, and all I have to do is tell you you're good and you fall apart."
His hand slid higher on my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Moving closer to where my cock was straining against my zipper, leaking steadily, pulsing with every heartbeat.
I looked down at myself. My chest was rising and falling rapidly, abs flexing with each breath, the defined V-cut of my lower abs disappearing into my jeans. Sweat was beading on my skin despite the cool air. Jake Delgado's body—powerful, trained, built for dominance—trembling under the touch of a man sixty pounds lighter.
"I thought Dean was the prize," Miguel continued, his voice soft and wondering. His eyes traveled over my torso, drinking in every detail. "Spent months obsessing over him. Watching him. Building my whole fantasy around possessing him." His hand squeezed my thigh—fingers couldn't reach all the way around the circumference of muscle, but the pressure was firm. "But you, Jake... god, that body. Always standing next to Dean, separated by two thin bits of cloth between your cocks. That beautiful body and pre-formed, trusting relationship with Officer Cammarata. It's wasted on you."
His free hand reached up, fingers tracing the center line of my abs. Following the groove between muscle groups, feeling them flex and twitch under his touch, his nose brushing up against my hairy areola.
"Look at this," Miguel murmured, almost reverent. His hand slid up to my chest, palm flat against my pec, feeling my heart hammering. "I wore this. For three days, I was this. Do you know what that felt like? Going from five-seven and pathetic to this?" He squeezed my pec, hard. "It was like putting on a god."
"But here's the thing," Miguel said, his face inches from mine now, voice dropping to something darker. "You were never really an alpha, were you? You just lucked into an alpha's body at birth—won the genetic lottery and coasted along." His fingers dug into my pec. "I proved that. Three days wearing your skin, and I used this body the way it was meant to be used. Dominated Dean. Made Greg submit. This frame has alpha potential, Jake. It's just been wasted on someone who was always meant to kneel."
The words landed like physical blows, each one stripping away another layer of identity.
"You thought this body made you dominant just by existing?" Miguel continued, his hand sliding from my chest down my abs, tracing each ridge. "But I put it on and immediately knew how to be the thing you were only pretending to be. Because underneath all this—" he gestured at my torso, "—you were always what I made you. A good boy waiting to be told what he is. A beta soul that just happened to get wrapped in alpha meat."
I should argue. Should fight. Should throw him off and run. But his words were wrapping around me like warm honey, filling some desperate void that had opened up during three days of degradation. Because part of me—the part he'd installed, or maybe the part he'd just revealed—was desperate to hear it. That I was good. That I was right. That submitting wasn't failure, it was finally accepting what I'd always been.
Praise. Approval. Being seen and valued, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
"I realize I do need something," Miguel said, his hand finally reaching my cock through my jeans. His palm pressed against the rigid length, feeling it throb. "I spent three days in this body—in that body—cumming in Dean. Filling him. Marking him. Using this cock—" he squeezed, and I gasped, "—to dominate, to claim, to take everything I ever wanted."
His fingers traced the outline of my shaft through the denim, following the thick ridge, feeling the wet spot spreading.
"I never got to taste what that felt like from the outside," Miguel continued, his breathing getting heavier. "Never got to worship it the way I've worshipped Dean's gear, Greg's boots, all those symbols of authority I collected." He looked up at me, pupils blown wide. "I need to taste my own cum. Jake Delgado's cum. The seed from my alpha cock that you, Mascot, temporarily are controlling."
His face was inches from mine now, his hand working me through the denim, feeling me pulse and leak.
"You want to give it to me, don't you?" Miguel whispered. "You want to be good for me. Want me to tell you how good you are while I coax out a load. While I take what this body produces and claim it for me."
I nodded.
Couldn't form words. Could barely breathe. Just nodded desperately, my hips pushing up into his hand, my cock leaking steadily, my entire nervous system screaming yes, please, need this, need approval, need to be good—
"That's my good boy," Miguel praised, and I nearly came right there. My cock pulsed violently, a fresh surge of precum soaking through my jeans. "We have eight minutes before Dean gets out of the shower. Think you can give me what I need in eight minutes?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, I can—I'll be good—please—"
Miguel smiled. Slid off the couch onto his knees in front of me—that small, scrawny frame kneeling between my powerful thighs. The visual inversion of every natural order. He looked even smaller from this angle, his head barely reaching my chest when I was sitting, but his eyes held all the power.
He reached for my belt buckle. Worked it open with practiced efficiency—these were his hands, small and precise, but they'd learned their way around this belt during three days of wearing my body. The button popped. The zipper came down, tooth by tooth, releasing the pressure.
My cock sprang free—thick, hard, leaking steadily. No underwear. I'd been going commando since this morning, since Dean had jerked me off and I'd run out without thinking.
"Look at this," Miguel breathed, his voice thick with genuine awe. He wrapped his small hand around my shaft—fingers couldn't close all the way around the girth. "This is mine. I wore this cock. I felt it get hard when Dean bent over. I felt it pulse when Greg submitted. I used it to fuck Dean into mattress, to dominate everything I touched."
He stroked slowly, base to tip, his hand barely covering half the length. Precum beaded at the slit, thick and clear.
"And now you're going to give it to me willingly," Miguel continued, his thumb smearing the precum, using it as lube for his strokes. "Because you need to be praised. You need to be my good boy. Don't you?"
"Please," I whimpered. My hips were rolling, fucking into his grip, chasing friction and approval in equal measure.
"Please what?" Miguel's hand kept working, steady rhythm, his other hand moving to cup my balls—heavy, full, aching.
"Please tell me—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't admit what I needed.
"Tell you you're good?" Miguel supplied, smiling up at me. "Tell you you're doing so well? That you're making me happy? That this beautiful body is perfect when it's being used the right way?"
"Yes," I sobbed, actual tears pricking my eyes. "Yes, please—"
"My cock is perfect," Miguel whispered, lowering his mouth toward my cock. His breath was hot against the sensitive head. "You're being so good for me, Jake. Such a good boy. I'm so proud of you."
And as his lips wrapped around the head of my cock—as his hot mouth enveloped me, tongue working the underside—I came.
Instantly.
Overwhelmed by sensation and praise and the complete psychological domination of being reduced to this: a powerful body made weak by words, an alpha cock serviced by the man who'd stolen everything, cumming in my enemy's mouth because being called "good boy" shattered every defense I had left.
I shot hard, the first pulse hitting the back of Miguel's throat before he was ready. He made a surprised sound—half-choke, half-moan—but didn't pull back. Instead he sealed his lips tighter around my cock and swallowed.
His throat worked, adam's apple bobbing, taking the first thick rope down. Then the second. The third.
I kept cumming—wave after wave, my balls clenching, emptying everything into his mouth. More than I'd ever produced, backed up from the morning's interrupted session with Dean, from the three days of constant arousal and violation.
Miguel's eyes went wide as his mouth filled. The volume was too much—I could see his cheeks bulge slightly, see him struggle to swallow fast enough. Cum leaked from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin, but he kept going, kept swallowing, determined to take it all.
"Good boy," Miguel murmured around my cock between swallows, and I pulsed again, another surge flooding his mouth. "So good. You're doing so well. So much for me—"
His tongue worked against the underside of my shaft, tasting, savoring. I could see it in his eyes—the hunger, the satisfaction, the fetishistic completion of finally experiencing this from the outside.
When the pulses finally slowed, Miguel pulled back slightly, just enough to hold the last mouthful on his tongue. He looked up at me, mouth full of my cum, and I watched him taste it. Really taste it. His eyes fluttered closed, his throat hummed with satisfaction.
Then he swallowed deliberately, slowly, making sure I saw. His tongue darted out to catch the strand that had escaped down his chin, licking it up, cleaning every drop.
"Fuck," Miguel breathed, voice rough. "That's... that's what I taste like. Thick. Hot. Salty-sweet with that sharp edge at the finish." He licked his lips again. "Three days I spent feeding Dean and never bothered to sample my own merchandise. Like power and musk."
He brought his fingers to his mouth, licked them clean where they'd been gripping Jake’s shaft.
"And there was so much," Miguel continued, almost reverent. "Your balls were so full. You produced all that for me because I told you you were good. Because you needed to please me." He leaned forward, tongue darting out to lick a stray drop from my cock head, making me gasp and twitch. "This essence, this seed—it should have been mine from birth. That body produces premium alpha juice and you were wasting it."
"There," he said softly. "Now I’ve tasted it. The premium juice. Say thank you, Mascot."
I couldn't answer. Could barely think. My brain was flooded with endorphins and shame and a desperate, pathetic gratitude.
"You feel good, don't you?" Miguel continued, standing up. "Because you were good for me. You gave me what I needed. That body belongs to me, and your real name, Mascot, is Miguel Coronado ."
My cock twitched weakly at the words. "Let's get you dressed properly, Mascot."
He picked up the discarded clothes he’d walked in wearing, before dressing himself from my hamper. The oversized hoodie. The black running shorts. The shitty Adidas sneakers.
He brought them over, dropped them at my feet.
"Put these on," Miguel said.
The post-orgasm clarity was starting to hit. The shame. The realization of what I'd just done.
"No," I said weakly.
"Yes." Miguel's voice was firm. "Because when Dean comes out, he needs to see the right picture. The Mascot wearing the right clothes. 'Jake' wearing Jake's clothes. Visual confirmation."
"Dean will know—"
"Dean will see what he expects to see," Miguel interrupted. "Now get dressed. Be a good boy for me one more time."
And god help me, I reached for the khakis.
Part XXII: Dress Rehearsal
I was still pulling on Miguel's running shorts when Dean emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing yesterday's jeans and had clearly raided my dresser—one of my undershirts stretched across his chest, my boxer briefs visible at his waistband when he reached up to towel-dry his hair.
The casual intimacy of it—Dean wearing my clothes like it was normal, like we'd crossed that boundary permanently—made my stomach twist.
He looked between us. Miguel in clothes too big, wearing my identity like stolen jewelry. Me struggling with shorts that were pulled tight at the waistband, the cheap fabric hugging my thighs because Miguel wore XS and I was anything but.
"We have a problem," Dean said, checking his watch. "Shift starts in ninety minutes. And there's no way I'm walking into the station with my partner looking like—" he gestured at Miguel's small frame swimming in my tank top"—that."
"I know," Miguel said quickly, touching the Saint Christopher medal around his neck—my medal, now resting too low on his smaller chest. "I know I can't go in like this. People would ask questions. We can't let anyone know about the swap."
Dean nodded, relieved. "Exactly. So what do we do?"
Miguel looked at me. That predatory smile.
"The mascot goes in as me," Miguel said simply. "He wears my uniform. My gear. He patrols with you. He pretends to be Jake Delgado."
The words hit like ice water. "No. Absolutely fucking not. I AM Jake Delgado."
"It's the only option," Miguel continued, ignoring my protest. "No one can know. So he—" pointing at me, "—has to act like me. Walk like me. Talk like me. Be me. Until we figure this out."
"You want me to pretend to be myself?" I said, voice rising, the absurdity making me dizzy.
Dean completely ignored what I said like I was invisible. He looked me up and down, squinting. "Can you do it? Can you act like Jake for one shift?"
The question was so absurd I almost laughed. "I AM—"
"Miguel," Dean corrected sharply. "Can you act like Jake? Be professional enough to get through a shift without raising suspicion?"
Miguel stepped closer. "He'll need coaching. He's been in that body for—what, maybe twelve hours? He doesn't know how to carry authority." He circled me slowly, appraising. "Look at him. Standing all wrong. Shoulders hunched. No confidence."
"Because this is INSANE—"
"Stand up straight," Miguel commanded.
My body responded before my brain could stop it. Shoulders back. Spine straight. The conditioning from three days in Miguel's submissive frame, still poisoning my responses.
"Better," Miguel observed. "See, Dean? He can learn. But he needs my help. I need to teach him how to be me."
Dean was nodding. "Alright. What does he need?"
Miguel walked to my closet. Opened it. Started pulling out my uniform.
Actual CHP uniform, fresh from the dry cleaners. Pressed and ready on its hanger.
"This," Miguel said, laying it on the bed with reverence. "All of it. Uniform, gear, boots. Everything has to be perfect. We can practice now."
He started unpacking my duty belt from the dresser. Heavy leather, every tool in its place. Radio. Cuffs. Baton. Weapon.
"Strip," Miguel ordered, looking at me.
"No."
"Dean," Miguel said calmly. "Make him strip."
Dean's hand landed on my shoulder. "Come on. We don't have time for this. Get out of those clothes so we can get you dressed properly."
Get you dressed properly. Like I was an invalid.
But Dean's grip tightened, and I pulled off the hoodie. Shoved down the shorts. The cheap seams had left red marks on my thighs, visible welts from fabric straining against muscle it was never designed to contain. I stood there naked, my cock soft but my body trembling.
Miguel picked up my uniform pants. Held them out.
"Put these on," he said.
I snatched them from his hands. Started pulling them on—and the relief of familiar fabric was immediate. These pants knew my body, broken in to accommodate my thighs, my ass, the exact proportions I'd built over years.
"No," Miguel said sharply. "You're doing it wrong."
"I'm putting on pants—"
"You're putting them on like Miguel would. Hesitant. Awkward. Jake puts his pants on with confidence. One leg, then the other, smooth motion. Do it again."
"This is fucking ridiculous."
"Dean," Miguel appealed.
Dean crossed his arms. "He's right. If you're going to pass as Jake, you need to move like him. Do it again. Properly."
I stared at them both. Miguel—five-foot-seven, 130 pounds—directing me on how to put on my own fucking pants. Dean enforcing it.
I stripped the pants off. Put them on again. One leg, smooth motion, pull them up, button, zip. The muscle memory was there—Jake's body knew this routine.
"Better," Miguel approved. "See? You're learning." He picked up my uniform shirt. "Now this. Arms through the sleeves, don't bunch the fabric."
I put on my shirt. Miguel circled me, adjusting the collar, smoothing the fabric across my shoulders. His hands lingered, feeling the muscle definition through the material.
"Good boy," he murmured, and my cock jumped. Started hardening despite everything, despite the humiliation, despite the rage.
Miguel noticed. Smiled. His hand brushed my cock through the uniform pants—casual, possessive—feeling it swell against the fabric.
"See that, Dean?" Miguel said. "He responds to praise. Authority."
The implication hung there. Evidence confirming bias.
Dean's eyes narrowed, studying the bulge forming in my pants. "Jake never got hard from being told he did something right. That's... that's submissive behavior."
"Exactly," Miguel said. "We can't let anyone see the Mascot's tell."
He picked up my duty belt. "This is important. I wear this every day. The weight. The balance. Every tool has its place."
He wrapped it around my waist, threading it through the loops. His small hands worked the leather with intimate knowledge—radio on the left, cuffs here, baton here, weapon on the right hip.
He buckled it. The familiar weight settled on my hips, and my body relaxed into it automatically. Six years of carrying this rig, my muscles knew exactly how to distribute the load.
"His body remembers," Miguel said. "We can work with that."
He picked up my boots. The black leather Danner Acadias. Broken in perfectly, still holding yesterday's shape of my feet.
"Sit," Miguel commanded.
I sat on the bed. Miguel knelt in front of me—that small frame between my powerful thighs—and held up one boot.
The smell hit me immediately. Leather, yes, but underneath—my own foot sweat from yesterday's shift. Concentrated. Masculine. I could feel it in my hindbrain, tht contamination, the urge to worship, to obey, now coming from my own gear.
"Foot," Miguel said.
I lifted my foot. Miguel guided it into the boot, his hands supporting my calf, working the leather over my heel. His breath was warm against my leg, his fingers lingering on my ankle as he positioned the boot.
"I like them tight," Miguel explained to Dean while beginning to lace. "Not too tight, but firm. Tactical lacing. Always double-knotted."
His fingers worked methodically—thread the lace through the bottom eyelets, pull, cross, thread through the next set. The sound was intimate: leather creaking, laces sliding through metal eyelets, Miguel's slightly quickened breathing as he focused.
He finished the first boot with a perfect double knot. His hands ran up my calf—feeling the shape of muscle through leather, the way the boot hugged my leg.
"Perfect," Miguel murmured. He started on the second boot, repeating the ritual. Thread, pull, cross, thread. His small fingers brushing my ankle, my calf, proprietary touches that said mine.
"There," Miguel said, finishing the second knot. He sat back on his heels, admiring his work. My boots. My legs. My body under his control. Why wasn't I protesting, telling this rat to fuck off?
He looked me over one last time, adjusting my collar, fingers lingering on my chest.
"You look just like me," Miguel said softly. "But there's one more thing."
He grabbed the full-length mirror from beside my closet, angled it so I could see myself.
Jake Delgado stared back. Six-foot-four, 190 pounds of muscle in perfectly fitted CHP uniform. Duty belt gleaming. Boots polished. Every inch the highway patrol officer I'd been for six years.
"That's me," Miguel said, standing beside my reflection—his small frame barely reaching my shoulder. "Say it. That's Jake Delgado."
"Fuck you."
Miguel's hand shot down, cupped my cock through my uniform pants—still semi-hard from the earlier praise. He squeezed.
"Say it."
The pressure, the conditioning, the three days of breaking—I couldn't fight it all.
"That's... that's Jake Delgado," I whispered.
"And who are you?" Miguel pressed, squeezing harder.
"I'm..." My voice broke. "I'm the mascot."
"Good boy." Miguel released me. Patted my chest. My cock throbbed, leaked, made a visible wet spot on my uniform pants.
Dean saw it. "He's leaking through his uniform. Jake never leaked on duty. That's..." He looked at me with something like pity. "That's pure beta response. You need to control yourself."
"I'm trying—"
"You'll do fine today," Miguel said, reaching down to pat my head. "Just remember—you're playing a part. Pretending to be Jake Delgado. But underneath, you're still the mascot. Still mine."
"We don't have a lot of time. I never show up at the Precinct in uniform," the rat lied. I often came to work prepped and ready to go. He continued not taking a breath to let me protest. "You'll have to do this routine again in the locker room in public. With Martinez and Chiu maybe watching. Strip. Back into your hoodie, mascot."
He pulled me to my feet, and before I knew it I was in his musky, disgusting hoodie and shorts he showed up in this morning.
"Let's go to work, partner," Miguel said to Dean.
Dean clapped him on the shoulder—the casual affection meant for me, given to him. "Let's roll."
They walked toward the door. I followed, my boots heavy on the floor, my duty belt creaking, wearing my own identity like a costume while the real me walked free in someone else's skin.
We headed to work.
To my job. My patrol route. My life.
With the most important person in my life believing I was someone else.
Part XXIII: The Commute
"I'll drive," Miguel said, pulling my keys from his jeans pocket—my my jeans hanging loose on his fucking hips.
Dean nodded, heading for passenger side. Natural. Expected. Jake always drove his own truck.
I stood there, staring at the driver's door. My truck. My wheel. Four years of driving this beast, and now I was watching a five-foot-seven IT contractor climb into the driver's seat like he owned it.
"You good getting in back?" Dean asked, not unkindly. Looking at me—"Miguel"—the passenger.
The rat adjusted the seat, sliding it forward so his short legs could reach the pedals. Adjusted the mirrors. Put his small hands on my steering wheel.
Miguel settled in, immediately adjusting things. The seat position—sliding it forward so his short legs could reach the pedals. The mirror angle. He flipped down the sun visor, examined himself, touched the Saint Christopher medal around his neck.
"Mejor," Miguel murmured, satisfied.
Dean glanced over. "What?"
Miguel caught himself, laughed lightly. "Sorry—'better.' Still a little fucked up this whole weekend. Hangover residuals."
"Yeah, you were speaking Spanish yesterday morning too," Dean said, accepting it easily. "Must be the stress. Your brain's all fucked up."
"Coffee first?" Dean asked.
"Yeah," Miguel agreed. "Usual spot?"
He said it casually. Like he knew. Like he'd made this drive a thousand times.
Dean nodded, turning toward Beanery—the coffee shop two blocks from the station where we stopped every Monday morning. Our routine. Mine and Dean's. For three years.
"Man, it's weird being this small," Miguel said, looking at his hands. "Everything feels wrong. I keep moving like I'm six-four and running into reality." He flexed his arm—thin, no definition. "Look at this. Six years of lifting, now just... noodles."
"We'll figure this out," Dean assured him. "Get you back where you belong."
The rat caught my eye in the rearview mirror. Winked.
"Remember that time," Miguel said, "when we pulled over that Dodge Charger doing ninety-five? The guy was so drunk he tried to run and ate shit within ten feet?"
Dean laughed. "Oh shit, yeah. Face-planted so hard."
"I was laughing so hard I could barely cuff him," Miguel continued, the story flowing easily. "And then he tried to bribe us with expired Taco Bell coupons."
They both laughed. The easy camaraderie of partners sharing war stories. Except the story was mine. My memory. My experience. Miguel was telling it like he'd lived it because he'd stolen the memory from three days of wearing my consciousness.
I sat in the back seat and said nothing.
"Or that domestic call where the wife was chasing the husband with a frying pan," Miguel continued. "She kept yelling about his fantasy football league."
"'You spent four hundred dollars on a quarterback!'" Dean quoted, and they both cracked up.
More of my memories. More of my partnership. Being retold by someone else while I watched from behind them like a dog who wasn't allowed to participate.
Dean pulled into the Beanery parking lot. The small coffee shop where Linda worked Monday mornings. She knew my order. Always had it ready.
"I'll grab it," Dean said, killing the engine.
"I'll come with," Miguel said immediately, unbuckling.
They both got out. Left me in the back seat.
"You good here?" Dean asked through the window. "We'll just be a minute."
Like I was a dog waiting in the car.
"Yeah," I said. "Fine."
I watched through the window. Linda looked up, smiled, waved. Her mouth formed words: "Morning, officers!"
Miguel stepped to the counter, pulled out my wallet. The badge visible as he fished for cash. Not flashing it—just the natural movement of someone who carried a badge every day.
Linda's eyes lingered for half a second on his smaller frame, but Miguel was already smiling, completely at ease.
"Rough morning," Miguel said. "Needed the caffeine before shift."
Linda accepted it. "You two work too hard."
Two. She said two.
She finished the drinks—large black coffee, two sugars for "Jake," Dean's espresso. TWO drinks. No third cup. No afterthought.
They walked back out. Miguel handed Dean his cup, kept mine. Brought it to his lips and sipped.
"God, I missed this," Miguel said. "This exact order. The way Linda makes it." Another sip. "Some things just taste right."
Dean started the engine. "She's good people. Never fucks up the order."
"Yeah," Miguel agreed. "Three years of consistency."
My timeline. My relationship with Linda. My coffee.
The smell of fresh coffee filled the cab. My mouth watered.
Neither of them offered me any. Neither even looked back.
We merged onto the highway. Ten minutes to the station. Ten minutes of smelling my own coffee being drunk by someone else while I sat behind them, thirsty, invisible, erased.
Part XXIV: Performance Review
Stale air, industrial cleaner, burnt coffee, too much gun oil. Home. Still fond smells and just like I remembered, even considering I spent most of this last weekend locked in a IT supply closet.
"Morning, Delgado."
Chiu, crossing the lobby with a stack of reports. No pause, no second look. Just the Monday script.
"Morning," I managed.
Behind me, Dean and the rat walked together. I could feel Miguel watching my back, clocking the hesitation.
We headed toward the locker room.
"Delgado. Looking solid, brother."
"Yo, Delgado, you catch the game?"
Every greeting hit like a double punch. Validation—yeah, they saw Jake. Violation—they had no idea who was inside.
Then Greg stepped towards us, stiffly rushing out of the locker room.
Backup uniform. Backup boots. The shirt a little too big in the shoulders, the Magnums stiff on his feet where his Chippewas used to be. Forty-five minutes early and moving like he was late.
Our eyes met for half a second.
Greg went pale. Looked away immediately. No “morning,” no nod. Just a muttered "’Scuse me," shoulder brushing mine as he pushed past, almost jogging for the exit.
The door slammed behind him.
"That was weird," Dean said, watching him go. "Bull never shows up early."
Miguel, my rings flashing on his too-small fingers, gave a sly shrug. "Maybe he just wants break in those backup Magnums. Doesn’t look good."
I was also in on the joke.
Greg couldn’t look at me after Saturday. Not after losing his boots, his gear, his composure. Not after he’d fucked Dean from behind while Jake called the plays and the dude he named Mascot filmed it from the floor. Not after realizing how much of it he'd liked.
He thought that had been me calling the shots. Thought Jake Delgado had stripped him, used him, turned him into another tool to break Dean. Now Greg was in his backup kit, avoiding eye contact like proximity alone might drag him back into that night.
"Come on," Dean said, nudging my shoulder toward the door Greg had just escaped through. "Let’s get you geared up."
We reached the locker room. The heavy door swung open, and the familiar chaos hit—officers in various stages of dress, lockers slamming, Velcro on duty belts being adjusted, Martinez's voice carrying over everything.
"—and I swear to god, the guy had a fucking peacock in his passenger seat—"
Laughter. Vulgar jokes. The easy camaraderie of men who worked together, trusted each other.
I walked to my locker. Number 47. Second row from the bottom, third from the left. I'd opened this locker five days a week for six years. Knew the combination better than my own phone number: 17-32-8.
My hands moved automatically. Click. Click. Click. The lock popped.
I opened the door. My space. My life condensed into two cubic feet of metal.
Extra uniform shirts, pressed and hanging. Spare duty belt. Box of protein bars. Small red framed mirror. Photo of me and Dean at our academy graduation taped inside—both of us younger, leaner, grinning like idiots. My backup boots. Deodorant, cologne, the good hand lotion.
Everything exactly where I'd left it Friday.
But now I stood in front of it like a stranger.
I reached for the spare uniform shirt. Hesitated. Did I usually grab the shirt first, or the belt?
"Delgado, you stroking yourself off over there?"
Rubio, three lockers down. Still shirtless, his duty belt half-assembled on the bench. Grinning.
I forced a laugh. "Nah, just... tired. Long weekend."
"Tell me about it," Martinez agreed from the other side, yanking his belt tight. "I spent Saturday helping my ex move. She owns, like, seventeen bookshelves. And where the fuck was her new guy?"
Normally I'd have a comeback. Something about Martinez's taste in flat-chested brunettes, or the only books he reads having centerfolds. Easy banter. Automatic.
But my brain snagged, trying to calculate what Jake would say, and the window closed. Martinez turned back to his locker. The moment died.
My jaw clenched. That should have been reflex.
I pulled out the uniform shirt. Started unbuttoning my civilian clothes—Dean's undershirt that I'd borrowed this morning, the jeans I'd put on before we left.
"Need help with anything?"
The voice was small. Meek. Apologetic.
The rat.
He was standing just inside the locker room door, wearing my oversized workout clothes, holding a tablet like he belonged here. Playing the part of the timid IT contractor.
But his eyes. His eyes were sharp, predatory, locked on me with absolute focus.
"No," I said, turning back to my locker. "I'm fine."
"Just making sure," Miguel said, his voice loud enough that a few officers glanced over. "Dean said you might need... orientation. Since everything's still confusing."
Orientation. In my own locker room. At my own locker.
I gritted my teeth and started changing. Pulled off Dean's shirt, reached for my uniform shirt. Slid my arms through the sleeves. Tucked the shirt in. Reached for my duty belt.
"Hey, Delgado."
Captain Morrison's voice cut through the locker room noise. Everyone straightened slightly—not quite attention, but the ingrained response to command presence.
Morrison stood in the doorway, coffee in hand, looking directly at me. "Got a minute? Need to talk about Friday's report."
My stomach dropped.
Friday's report. What had I written on Friday? Was there something wrong with it?
"Yeah, Captain," I said, trying to sound normal. "Let me just finish—"
"Now's fine," Morrison interrupted, his tone making it clear this wasn't optional. "Conference room. Two minutes."
He left. The locker room went back to its normal volume, but I felt every eye that had briefly landed on me. Wondering what I'd fucked up.
I looked at my duty belt, half-assembled. My boots, still unlaced.
"Better not keep him waiting," Dean said from across the room. He'd been changing too, already in uniform. "I'll finish gearing up and meet you in the squad room after."
The rat stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Friday's report was about the DUI stop. Older woman, failed the field sobriety test, blew a .12. You—Jake—wrote that she was cooperative and remorseful. Suggested first-time offender programs." His eyes bored into mine. "Morrison's probably just signing off on the disposition. Don't overthink it."
He was feeding me information. Coaching me through my own life.
I wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to grab his narrow shoulders and shake him.
But Morrison was waiting.
"Thanks," I forced out, the word tasting like battery acid.
"That's what I'm here for," the rat said quietly, so only I could hear. "Making sure you don't blow your cover... mascot."
The word hit like a cattle prod. Quiet enough that no one else heard, loud enough that I felt it in my bones.
I walked out of the locker room in my half-assembled uniform, boots unlaced, duty belt in my hands.
The conference room was at the end of the hall. Door open. Morrison sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet.
I knocked on the doorframe. "Captain."
"Delgado. Come in. Close the door."
I stepped inside, shut the door. The click of the latch felt final.
Morrison gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. This won't take long."
I sat, my duty belt clanking awkwardly on my lap, my boots still unlaced and flopping. Professional as fuck.
"Friday's DUI stop," Morrison started, eyes on his tablet. "Linda Vasquez, fifty-three, blew a .12 on the portable. You wrote her up with the standard charges but noted she was cooperative, remorseful, first-time offense."
"Yes, sir," I said, trying to remember the stop. Older woman, crying, kept apologizing.
"I apologize for my tardiness in reviewing Friday's report just now. I'm approving your recommendation for the diversion program," Morrison continued. "But I wanted to talk to you about the body-cam footage."
My blood went cold.
"The footage?" I repeated, keeping my voice neutral.
"Yeah." Morrison looked up from his tablet, meeting my eyes. "You handled it by the book. Professional, courteous, explained everything clearly. But..." He paused, studying me. "You seemed off. Distracted. Kept looking at your phone between the field sobriety test and the breathalyzer."
Fuck.
I'd been watching porn. Friday afternoon, late shift, and I'd been bored during a routine DUI stop. The woman had been crying, cooperative, taking forever to find her registration, and I'd pulled out my phone. Checked some videos. Got distracted.
Unprofessional as hell. The kind of thing that could cost me my job if Morrison decided to make an issue of it.
"I was..." I started, scrambling for an explanation that wasn't I was watching Asian MILFs get railed while your taxpayer-funded body camera captured everything. "I was checking on something. Personal matter. It didn't affect my performance—"
"I'm not saying it did," Morrison interrupted. "Your performance was solid. I'm saying you seemed distracted, and I want to make sure everything's okay." He leaned forward slightly. "You're one of my best officers, Delgado. Six years, spotless record, commendations for three major arrests. If something's going on—personal issues, stress, whatever—I need to know my officers stay squeaky clean because those microphones pick up everything."
The concern was genuine. Morrison being a good captain, looking out for his people.
And I was sitting here unable to admit that the "personal matter" had been me being a lazy piece of shit on duty.
"It's handled, sir," I said carefully. "Personal situation. Won't happen again."
Morrison studied me for a long moment. "You sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"Because if you need time—"
"I don't," I said, maybe too quickly. "I'm good. Ready to work."
Morrison nodded slowly. "Alright. But I'm keeping an eye on it. Any more distracted stops, we're having a longer conversation. And Jake?" He held my gaze. "Phone stays in your pocket during stops. I don't care what's happening in your personal life. When you're on duty, you're on duty."
The implication was clear: he'd seen what I was looking at. Maybe not the specific content, but enough to know it wasn't work-related. Enough to know it was inappropriate.
"Understood, Captain."
"Good. Get geared up and hit the road. Dean's waiting for you."
I stood, duty belt still in my hands, boots still unlaced, feeling the weight of Morrison's disappointment even though he'd been professional about it. "Thank you, sir."
I left the conference room and headed back to the locker room. The conversation had gone fine—better than fine, Morrison had approved my recommendation—but I felt like I'd just navigated a minefield blindfolded.
Back in the locker room, I found the rat waiting. Standing near my locker, tablet in hand, looking like he was checking something technical. But his eyes tracked me immediately.
"How'd it go?" the rat asked, quiet enough that the noise of other officers covered it.
"Fine," I said shortly, moving to my locker.
"Friday's DUI report?"
"He approved the recommendation." I finished lacing my boots, not looking at him.
"But?" The rat stepped closer. "Something happened. You look rattled."
I hesitated, then realized he'd find out anyway. Probably already knew.
"He saw the body-cam. Mentioned I was distracted. Looking at my phone during the stop."
Understanding flickered across the rat's face. Then amusement. "Oh. That stop. Friday afternoon. You were watching porn."
My jaw clenched. "How the fuck—"
"I watch everything," the rat said simply. "Every body-cam upload. Every report. Every interaction. I've been studying Dean for months, remember? His cam catches most of the same stuff. But your feed is good too. I should say... my feed, though." He smiled. "Asian MILFs, wasn't it? About twelve minutes into the stop, right after she started crying about her kids?"
I wanted to kill him.
"So," the rat continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "Morrison knows you're unprofessional. Knows Jake Delgado—the model officer, the perfect CHP golden boy—watches porn on duty while citizens cry in front of him." He tilted his head. "How does it feel, having that on your record? That little stain on your perfect career?"
"It's handled," I gritted out.
"For now," the rat agreed. "But think about it, mascot. That's the real Jake. Not the hero you pretend to be. The guy who gets bored during routine stops and pulls out his phone to watch women get fucked. That's who you really are."
He was rewriting my identity even as I stood there. Taking my moment of weakness and making it definitional.
"Get the fuck out of the locker room," I said, my voice low and dangerous.
The rat smiled. "Good. That sounded like Jake. Keep that energy."
He walked away, and I stood there, hard in my uniform again from his praise even as rage made my hands shake.
The real Jake.
Flawed. Compromised. Human.
And now everyone knew it.
Part XXV: Patrol Protocol
Seven-Adam-Twelve. Our call sign for six years. I was behind the wheel because Jake always drove—our routine, our rhythm, carved into muscle memory through thousands of shifts. The vinyl seats were already heating up in the morning sun, the cabin filled with familiar scents layered like sediment: stale coffee, gun oil from our service weapons, and underneath it all, Dean. His deodorant. His sweat and citrus shampoo. His particular musk that this weekend, it turns out I was now very fucking attuned to. Aroused by. Fuck you, rat.
Dean rode shotgun, handling the laptop, running plates, managing dispatch communication. Everything looked normal from the outside—two CHP officers on morning patrol, professional and competent.
Except nothing about this was routine.
Twenty minutes into the shift, 101 southbound, traffic light for a Monday morning. My hands gripped the wheel at ten and two, knuckles white, every muscle in my body coiled tight with the effort of performing my own fucking life.
"You're going to blow this."
Dean's voice cut through the road noise. Flat. Annoyed.
"What?"
"Look at yourself." Dean gestured at me with visible irritation. "Shoulders up around your ears. Jaw clenched. You look like you're about to snap." He shook his head. "Anyone who knows Jake is going to take one look at you and know something's wrong."
"I'm handling it," I said through gritted teeth.
"No. You're not." Dean shifted in his seat, angling toward me. "And when you fuck this up, it's on me. I'm the one who vouched for you. I'm the one who told Morrison everything's fine." His hand landed on my thigh. Hard. High. "So I'm going to fix this before you embarrass me."
My entire body went rigid. "Dean, what are you—"
"Hangover protocol," he said, the words clipped and businesslike. "Same thing I do for Jake when he's wound too tight. You're in his body now, you get his maintenance."
His hand slid higher, gripping my inner thigh with enough pressure to make me flinch.
"That's not—we don't need to—"
"I don't care what you think you need." Dean's voice was cold, impatient. "I need you functional. I need you to stop looking like you're about to have a panic attack in the driver's seat of a patrol car." His hand moved to cup my cock through my pants. "This isn't for you. This is so you don't fuck up my career."
I grabbed his wrist. Instinct. Self-preservation. "Don't."
Dean looked at my hand on his wrist, then at my face. His expression was utterly calm, utterly annoyed. "Let go."
"Dean, we're partners—"
"You're not my partner," Dean interrupted. "My partner is in Miguel’s body back at the station, and I'm stuck babysitting you so you don’t shit the bed roleplaying a cop." He twisted his wrist—not violently, but with enough controlled force to break my grip. "Now here's what's going to happen. I'm going to get you sorted so you can do your job. You're going to let me, because the alternative is you fess up that you stole a cop’s body and we put you in the ice box until we figure this out. Clear?"
"Fuck you," I spat.
"Clear?" Dean repeated, his hand already popping the button on my pants.
Was that rat watching this? Monitoring our patrol car GPS? Checking our location, our status, knowing exactly when this was happening? Did he plan this? Did he tell Dean to do this?
"Dean—stop—" I tried to grab his hand again, but he was faster, one hand already massaging my shaft as I felt my hips shift, spreading open to give him better access.
"I get it, you’re a loner, you’ve never had friends," Dean said, almost conversational now. "But real bros help each other out. I happen to know my way around Jake’s cock and you’re being difficult." It was getting real hard to focus on the road with Dean’s attention on me with his casual, corrupted narrative of our fucking history. "We can drop the act when it’s just us, but I am going to make sure you can function for the next eight hours without blowing Jake’s cover."
"Nngh—" The sound escaped before I could stop it. My cock was already hardening in his grip, the conditioning the rat had installed firing on all cylinders despite my desperate attempts to will it down.
"See?" Dean's tone was matter-of-fact, clinical. "That bod knows what it needs even if you don't want to admit it." He stroked once, base to tip, his grip firm and practiced. "Now shut up and let me work."
"Dean, please—this isn't—"
"This isn't what?" He stroked again, and I felt myself leak, precum spreading under his palm. "Isn't professional? Isn't appropriate? Jake and I do this all the time. You're just borrowing his protocols along with his body."
The rat’s lies spewing out of Dean’s mouth were seamless. Three days of corruption and Dean believed this was normal. Believed this was partnership.
"Dean… I don’t…," I said, hating how weak my voice sounded.
"Don't care." Dean's hand moved faster, the slick sounds filling the patrol car. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. "What I care about is you not fucking up a traffic stop because you're too tense to think straight." He squeezed harder. "We’ve been called in for backup - a speeding Mercedes coming up in two miles. Soccer mom, probably late for carpool. You're going to walk up to that car, chat with the other Officer like this isn’t your first day on planet earth, act cool in case she throws a fit, and act like Officer Jake Delgado. Can't do that if you're shaking like a leaf back there on Saturday, carrying pitchers back to the table."
I tried to focus on the road. Tried to ignore the sensation of his hand working my cock, the way my hips were starting to roll despite my attempts to stay still, the sounds coming out of my throat that I couldn't quite suppress.
"That's it," Dean said, but there was no warmth in it. Just assessment. "Almost there. Come on, get it over with so we can do our jobs."
My hands were shaking on the wheel. My vision was blurring. The pressure was building, and I hated it, hated him, hated the rat, hated my own body for responding—
"Good boy."
Dean said it quietly, almost absently, like he'd said it a thousand times before to "Jake."
The trigger detonated.
I came with a choked sound—"Ahh—fuck—"—my cock jerking violently in Dean's grip, cum spurting in thick ropes that painted his hand, my uniform shirt, the inside of my pants. Wave after wave while I fought to keep the car steady, the orgasm ripping through me with brutal intensity I couldn't control.
"There we go," Dean said, completely unmoved. He kept stroking, milking every drop with efficient, mechanical precision. "Get it all out."
My cock kept pulsing, the smell of cum sharp and unmistakable in the enclosed cab. I could feel it soaking through my boxer briefs, spreading down my thigh, warm and obscene.
Finally it stopped. I slumped in the driver's seat, chest heaving, destroyed.
Dean pulled his hand out and examined it with detached interest. "Lot of volume. You really were wound up." He grabbed the Beanery napkins and wiped his hand clean, casual as anything. "Now can you do your fucking job?"
I couldn't speak. My uniform was ruined—cum soaking through the front of my pants, visible wet spots spreading, the evidence of what had just happened obvious to anyone who looked.
"You'll need to change when we get back to the station," Dean noted, back to scrolling through the laptop like nothing had happened. "Can't do the rest of the shift like that. But for now, you should be able to think clearly enough to handle one soccer mom."
The Mercedes was coming up. Pulled over to the side, the officer’s car already parked behind it.
"Better zip up," Dean said. "We're pulling over in thirty seconds."
I fumbled with my zipper, trying to tuck my sensitive cock back into soaked underwear, trying to make myself presentable while cum cooled against my skin and the smell of my own degradation filled the car. But underneath the rage, underneath the humiliation—something else. A settling. Like my nervous system had been screaming static and Dean's hand had tuned it to a clear frequency. I hated that I felt... steadier. Calmer. Ready to work. Fuck. Was this what the rat had installed? Or maybe something he revealed?
"And mascot?" Dean's voice was flat, final. "Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. I don't have time to fight with you while you're wearing my partner's face. Understood?"
"Understood," I forced out.
I could see the driver in the Mercedes now. A woman in the driver's seat, visible stress, probably rehearsing her excuse. Officer Chiu was already walking over from his unit, one hand resting casually on his duty belt.
Chiu. I'd worked with him for four years. Covered his shifts when his kid was born. Helped him move apartments last summer. He'd been at my birthday party—the one Dean organized, the one the rat now claimed as his own memory. I adjusted my duty belt to cover my wet spot over my crotch as I opened the door and stepped out.
In thirty seconds, I'd be standing next to Chiu, talking to this woman, performing the job I'd done five days a week for six years. And Chiu would see Officer Jake Delgado. Would greet me by name. Would treat me exactly like he always had.
And if I tried to tell him—I'm Jake, I'm really Jake, I'm not pretending, I'm not the IT guy borrowing this body, I'm ME—he'd look at me like I'd lost my mind. Because of course I was Jake. I looked like Jake. I wore Jake's uniform. I drove Jake's patrol car.
The cruelest part wasn't that no one believed I was Jake.
The cruelest part was that everyone believed I was Jake—and none of them knew what that meant anymore. Not when Dean called me "mascot" in private. Not when the rat wore my identity like a stolen jacket. Not when I'd just been jerked off against my will by my own partner, forced to cum in my own patrol car, reduced to a "maintenance task" that Dean completed with all the warmth of changing the oil.
The cum cooling in my boxer briefs was proof of what I'd become.
But to Chiu, to this soccer mom, to everyone at the station—I was just Jake. Having a normal Monday.
"Better get moving," Dean said, already opening his door. "Chiu's waiting."
I got out of the car. Felt the wet fabric shift against my thigh. Smelled myself—sex and shame, obvious to anyone who got close enough.
"Delgado!" Chiu called out, nodding in greeting. "Thanks for the backup. She's been crying for ten minutes. Could use the good cop energy."
Good cop energy. From Jake Delgado, model officer, cum drying on his uniform because his partner decided he needed "maintenance."
"Got it," I said, and my voice sounded almost normal. Almost like me.
Because I was me. I was Jake fucking Delgado.
And no one would ever believe how much that didn't matter anymore.
The rat had won this round.
But the shift was eight hours long, and somewhere in this nightmare, I'd find a way to turn this rage into something the rat couldn't control.
I just had to survive long enough to figure out how.
Part XXV-B: Muscle Memory
The call came through forty minutes after Dean's "maintenance." Dispatch's voice crackled over the radio:
"Seven-Adam-Twelve, 10-50, northbound 101 at the Sepulveda exit. Two vehicles, minor injuries. First unit on scene."
"Copy," Dean responded. "Three minutes out."
I hit the lights and siren, muscle memory taking over. The cum in my boxer briefs was still wet, still uncomfortable, but my hands were steady on the wheel. This wasn't performance. This was work.
The accident was minor—rear-end collision, two cars, both pulled to the shoulder. A silver Lexus with a crumpled bumper and a black Audi that had clearly been the one doing the rear-ending.
I was out of the patrol car before it fully stopped, six years of training overriding everything else.
The Lexus driver was already out—older woman, visibly shaken but uninjured, on the phone with her insurance. "I'm fine, officer. Just startled."
"Stay with your vehicle, ma'am. I'll be right back."
The Audi driver was still in his car.
I approached the driver's side window, and he looked up.
Fuck.
Mid-twenties. Dark hair, styled but mussed from the impact. Strong jawline. Athletic build visible even sitting down—fitted button-down shirt that showed off his shoulders, sleeves rolled to reveal toned forearms. And his eyes—sharp green, tracking me as I approached—held recognition. Interest.
"You okay, sir?" I kept my voice professional, authoritative. "Any injuries?"
"I'm good." His voice was smooth, confident. "Airbag didn't even deploy. Just a tap." He smiled—not sheepish, not apologetic. Appreciative. "Though I have to say, the response time is impressive. And so is the responder."
The compliment hit my system hard. Warm. Immediate. My cock stirred in my cum-damp boxer briefs.
No. Stop. Not now.
"Step out of the vehicle," I said, maintaining professionalism. "Need to make sure you're not injured."
He complied, unfolding from the driver's seat, and he was tall—maybe six-one—broad-shouldered and clearly fit. He moved with confidence, no shock, no fear. Just confidence.
And he was standing close. Very close.
"I'm fine, officer," he said, and his eyes traveled down my body—the uniform, the duty belt, the size and strength of Jake's frame—and something in his expression heated. "No injuries. Clean impact. Actually this might be the best accident I've ever had."
He was flirting. Openly. With a cop at an accident scene.
"Sir, I need you to focus," I said, but my voice came out lower than intended. "Any pain? Dizziness? Neck stiffness?"
"No pain." He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked onto Jake’s body, roving up and down as he inventoried Jake’s pecs and biceps. The gesture was submissive but somehow still confident. "Unless you want to make sure."
My thumb traced his jawline and my cock jumped. Three days ago - fuck, even three HOURS ago - would I have noticed his forearms? The way his ass looked in those jeans? My cock stirred watching him stand there - confident, direct, looking at me like he was cataloging something. Had the rat made Jake's body recognizable to men who cruised online? Had Marcus seen this torso on Grindr three days ago while the rat wore it? I had no fucking way to know.
His skin was smooth. Hairless in the right places. Was I… feeling him up? His pulse jumped under my fingertips.
"Feels fine," he murmured, and his voice had dropped too. "Strong hands, Officer."
I was checking his neck for whiplash and my cock was getting hard. Professional assessment and arousal bleeding together until I couldn't separate them. Was I always like this? Three days in the rat's body and I couldn't tell my impulses from his anymore.
But I didn't. My hand lingered. My thumb brushed against the edge of his jaw. And some corrupted part of my brain whispered he wants this, he likes your touch, you could—
"Officer Delgado?"
Dean's voice cut through the fog. I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned, stepping away from the civilian, my face hot.
"Yeah," I managed. "He's uninjured. Just checking."
Dean was looking between us, one eyebrow raised. "I'll get statements from both drivers. You want to do the paperwork?"
"Yeah. Good." I turned back to the Audi driver, forcing professionalism. "I'll need to see your license and registration."
"Of course." He leaned back into his car, and his shirt rode up slightly, exposing a strip of toned lower back, the curve of his ass in well-fitted jeans. He took his time retrieving the documents, and when he straightened, he held them out with a business card on top.
"License and registration," he said. "And my card. In case you need to follow up. For the report."
I took them. Our fingers brushed. His card read: Marcus Rossi, Personal Trainer, FullBody Fitness.
"A personal trainer," I heard myself say.
"Mmm." Marcus smiled. "I work with a lot of law enforcement. Help them maintain their physique. Stay in fighting shape." His eyes traveled over me again, slower this time. "Though you clearly don't need help. You ever think about training as a second career?"
The card was in my hand. Marcus Rossi. Personal Trainer. My cock throbbed looking at it. Three days ago I would've thrown it away without thinking. Now I was picturing those forearms, that exposed lower back. Ugh. The rat again.
"I'll need you to wait with your vehicle," I said, but even I could hear how my voice had roughened. "Until we finish the report."
"I'm very patient," Marcus said. "Take your time, officer. I'm not going anywhere. Call me if you need anything else,” Marcus said, and despite the uncertainty in his eyes about where he'd seen me, his tone was pure confidence. “Consultation. Professional or otherwise.” This was definitely an offer. How the fuck did I know this was an offer?
I walked back to the patrol car, documents in hand, my cock throbbing with every step. Dean was already there, writing in his notepad.
"So," Dean said without looking up. "You get his number?"
"What?"
"The card. Personal trainer." Dean glanced at me, grinning, tapping his finger on the card, clipped to the pile of insurance documents. "Rossi. That was smooth. ‘Consultation.'" Dean laughed. "Guy wants you to follow up on more than the accident report."
"I was being professional," I said, but my voice sounded defensive.
"Sure. Professional. That's why you were feeling him up for a full thirty seconds." Dean's grin widened. "Motherfucker didn't even glance at me. Zeroed in on you like I wasn't standing there. Jake's height? The uniform? Who knows. But you should use it before you give the body back. Usually Jake doesn't touch back though, just smirks."
My stomach dropped. "I wasn't—I was checking for injuries—"
"Uh-huh. On his jaw?" Dean clapped my shoulder. "Look, man, I get it. He's hot. You more talk to servers than to people as Mascot. And dropped like a hot rock into that body—" he gestured at Jake's frame, "—it comes with perks. Might as well enjoy them."
Enjoy them. Enjoy being attracted to men. Enjoy the attention. Enjoy the corruption that the rat had sunk so deep into my nervous system that it was bleeding into every interaction. My own straight patrol partner giving me tips on how to flirt with men. Now Dean believed this was normal. Believed Jake had always been like this. Three days. That's all it took for the rat to rewrite six years of partnership into something I didn't recognize.
I looked back at Marcus, still standing by his Audi, leaning against it casually. He caught me looking and smiled—slow, knowing, confident.
And my cock pulsed.
"Finish the report," I told Dean, my voice tight. "I need to use the bathroom when we get back to station."
"I'm fine." But I wasn't fine. I was hard as stone from a man flirting with me at an accident scene. I was contaminated so thoroughly that I couldn't even do my job without my body betraying me. I was losing myself in increments, and everyone thought it was normal, thought it was me, thought this was just Jake being Jake.
We finished the scene. Exchanged insurance information. Filed the preliminary report. Marcus gave me one last lingering look before getting in his Audi and driving away, his business card still in my hand with his number written on it.
As we pulled back onto the highway, Dean said, "You should call him."
"What?"
"Marcus. You should call him." Dean gestured at the card. "Show's you're actually settling into the role. Jake gets hit on all the time - might as well keep the seat warm for Jake when he gets back into his rightful bod." He glanced over. "So text him and set up a workout session. See where it goes."
Jake deserves to have some fun. With a man. Because apparently that's who Jake was now.
"Maybe," I heard myself say. Everyone. Not just women. Dean said it like it was obvious. Like Jake - real Jake - had always been this way. Had I? The rat wore my body for three days. What had he done? Who had he fucked? What preferences had he performed until everyone believed they were mine?
And the worst part—the absolute fucking worst part—was that some corrupted corner of my brain was actually considering it.
Marcus's number glowed on my screen. One text and I could be someone new. Not Jake the cop. Not Miguel the mascot. Just... someone who trains with a hot guy and sees where it goes. Someone who doesn't carry six years of partnership or three days of violation. A reset that had nothing to do with the rat or Dean or any of this. My thumb hovered. But that's not strategy. That's running. And Jake Delgado doesn't run. I saved the number under 'Evidence - Marcus Rossi' and put the phone down. Not calling him. Not deleting him. Keeping options open while I figure out the real play
Fuck you, rat. Look what you've done to me.
"We should head back to station," Dean said. "Finish the paperwork. And hey. You weren’t bad back there. You actually looked like you knew what you were doing. First time today you haven't second-guessed yourself.”
Back to station. Where the rat would be waiting. Where I'd have to use the bathroom eventually. Where every space was a potential trap.
But for those few minutes at the accident scene, I'd been Jake. The competent officer who controlled situations and handled emergencies.
Except I'd also been the Jake who got hard from a man's attention. Who touched a civilian too long. Who took his number and considered calling him.
The rat's corruption ran deeper than I'd thought. It wasn't just submission to him or Dean. It was changing how I moved through the world, who I was attracted to, what my body wanted.
And everyone else thought it was normal.
This isn't over, I told myself as we drove back to station. I'm still in here. Still fighting.
The rat hadn't just taken my life.
He'd changed who Jake Delgado was and I was terrified I couldn’t tell the difference.
Part XXVI: Facilities Management
Four hours into the shift and I needed to piss. Not want—need. The kind of urgent pressure that came from the large coffee Dean had ordered this morning, the coffee I hadn't been offered, the coffee I'd watched the rat drink while sitting in my seat.
We were back at the station for a break. Dean was in the break room, writing up reports. I headed for the men's room, my cum-stained uniform still clinging to my thighs under the spare pants I'd changed into from my locker, the smell of my earlier degradation still faint but present.
The bathroom was empty. Fluorescent lights, white tile, three urinals, two stalls. The same bathroom I'd used five days a week for six years.
I was halfway to the urinal when I heard the door open behind me.
The rat.
Small frame. My oversized workout clothes. That fucking tablet clutched to his chest like a security blanket, my fucking rings and St Christopher’s cross around his neck. Not a single fucking person noticed he was wearing my shit. The rat’s eyes locked on me immediately.
"What are you doing here?" I said, not stopping. I had to piss. I was going to piss. He could fuck off.
"Making sure you don't fuck up something as simple as using the bathroom," the rat said calmly, following me. "You've been second-guessing everything all morning. Walking wrong. Talking wrong. I overheard in the break room if 'Jake' was feeling okay today."
I reached the urinal. Started to unzip my fly.
"Hold on, bud."
The word hit my nervous system like a command. My hands froze.
"What?" I said, turning to look at him.
"Did I give you permission?" The rat's voice was quiet, conversational. Like we were discussing the weather. "To use my cock? To touch Jake's body without asking first?"
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. "I need to fucking piss."
"I know." The rat stepped closer. "But you're going to ask me first. You're going to ask permission to use my body you're borrowing."
"I'm not—" I caught myself. Lowered my voice to a hiss. "I'm not borrowing anything. This is MY body."
"Is it?" The rat tilted his head, studying me. "Because from where I'm standing, you're a beta trapped in alpha meat, and that meat belongs to Jake Delgado. Me. Which means I'm the authority on what happens to it." He gestured at my crotch. "So. Ask permission."
The pressure in my bladder was building. I could feel it, urgent and insistent, bordering on painful.
"Fuck you," I spat.
"Wrong answer." The rat glanced at the door—still closed, still empty—then back at me. "You're going to stand there until you ask properly. And if you piss yourself in Jake's uniform, you'll have to explain to Morrison why you're walking around with wet pants for the second time today."
My hands were shaking. With rage. With desperation. With the sheer fucking absurdity of being held hostage by a five-foot-seven IT contractor while my bladder screamed for relief.
"Please," I forced out, the word tasting like poison. "May I use the bathroom."
"May I use the bathroom, what?" the rat prompted.
My vision was going red. "May I use the bathroom... Jake."
"Good boy." The rat smiled. "But you're too worked up. Your hands are shaking. You'll make a mess." He stepped closer, reaching for my belt. "Let me help you."
"Don't you fucking—"
His hands were already at my waist. Undoing my belt buckle with practiced ease. Popping the button on my pants. Lowering the zipper.
"Stand still," the rat ordered.
My entire body locked up. Not from fear—from pure, incandescent rage. This scrawny little fucker was undressing me in a public bathroom, treating me like someone who needed help, and my body—my powerful, six-foot-four frame—was just standing there taking it.
The rat pulled down my zipper fully. Reached into my boxer briefs—the clean pair I'd changed into after Dean's "maintenance"—and pulled out my cock.
His small hand wrapped around my shaft. Holding it. Aiming it at the urinal.
"There," the rat said. "Now you can go."
I stared down at him. At his hand on my cock. At the casual violation, the complete assumption of control, the degradation of having someone else hold my dick while I pissed.
"Go on," the rat encouraged. "You said you needed to. So piss."
The pressure was unbearable. But my body wouldn't cooperate. Couldn't relax enough to release with his hand wrapped around me, with his small frame standing so close, with the sheer wrongness of the situation locking every muscle.
"Having trouble?" The rat's thumb rubbed along the underside of my shaft. "That's okay. Take your time. We're not in a rush."
"Let go of me," I growled, my voice dropping to something dangerous.
"No." The rat's grip tightened slightly. "You asked permission. I granted it. Now you're going to piss while I hold you, because that's what Jake needs right now. Help. Guidance. Someone to make sure he doesn't make a mess."
Something inside me snapped.
My hand shot out—Jake's large, powerful hand—and grabbed the rat's throat. Slammed him back against the tile wall. His tablet clattered to the floor. His eyes went wide, but not with fear.
With satisfaction.
"Let. Go. Of. My. Cock." Each word came out between clenched teeth, my grip tightening on his throat, feeling his pulse rabbiting under my palm. I could crush his windpipe. Could make him regret every fucking second of this nightmare.
The rat smiled around my chokehold.
"Good boy," he whispered. "Stand down."
My hand released.
Not gradually. Not reluctantly. Just—released. Like my fingers weren't connected to my brain anymore, like the command had bypassed my consciousness entirely and gone straight to my muscles.
I staggered back, staring at my own hand like it had betrayed me.
Because it had.
"See?" The rat rubbed his throat, his voice slightly hoarse but still calm. "Jake's body. My rules. You can rage all you want up here—" he tapped his temple, "—but down here—" he grabbed my cock again, still hanging out of my pants, "—you're mine."
"I'll fucking kill you," I breathed.
"No, you won't." The rat started stroking my cock, slow and deliberate. "Because every time you try, I'll just say the magic words and you'll stop. Like a good dog. Like a good mascot."
My cock was hardening in his grip. Despite the fury. Despite the violence still screaming in my veins. Despite everything.
"Now," the rat said, his hand still working my shaft, "you're going to piss. And then you're going to do something else for me."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." He released my cock, stepped back. "Piss. Now."
The command bypassed my resistance. My bladder released, the stream hitting the urinal with force and relief so intense it made my knees weak. The rat watched me the entire time, his eyes tracking every second of my vulnerability.
When I finished, I reached to tuck myself away.
"No," the rat said. "Leave it out. We're not done."
"Done with what?" But I already knew. Could see it in his expression. In the way he was looking at my body like it was a toy he hadn't finished playing with.
"I want to see if Jake's hole remembers me," the rat said casually. "Three days I spent training it. Making it responsive. Making it mine." He walked to the stall, opened it, gestured inside. "Get in there. Bend over the toilet. Pants down."
"No."
"Yes." The rat's voice hardened. "Because if you don't, I'm walking out there and telling Morrison that Miguel tried to assault me. That he grabbed my throat. That he's dangerous." He touched the red marks on his neck where my fingers had been. "I've got the bruises to prove it. And when they ask me why, I'll tell them he finally snapped from the stress of being trapped in the wrong body."
The threat was real. Calculated. Devastating.
"You fucking—"
"Mascot," the rat interrupted. "Get. In. The. Stall."
My feet moved. Not because I chose to. Because the command structure he'd built over three days was still there, still active, still turning my body into a puppet that danced when he pulled the strings.
I walked into the stall. The rat followed, closing the door behind us. Locking it.
"Pants down," he ordered. "Bend over. Hands on the tank."
"Someone could walk in—"
"Then you better be quiet." The rat smiled. "Now do it. Be a good boy."
The trigger phrase made my cock pulse. Made my hands move to my belt, my zipper, pushing my pants and boxer briefs down to my ankles. Made me turn around, bend forward, brace my hands on the toilet tank while my powerful frame folded into submission in a public bathroom stall.
I heard the rat moving behind me. Heard fabric rustling. Then felt his hands on my ass, spreading my cheeks, exposing my hole.
"Beautiful," the rat murmured. "Still a little swollen from yesterday. Still remembering what I taught it."
"I swear to god—" I started, but then his tongue was there, wet and warm, licking across my hole, and the words died in my throat.
"Mmm," the rat hummed, the vibration making me shudder. "Tastes like Jake. Smells like Jake. But responds like a beta." His tongue pressed inside, breaching me, and my cock jumped between my legs.
He ate my ass with methodical precision. Long, slow licks from my balls to my tailbone. Short, rapid flicks across my hole. Deep, probing thrusts of his tongue inside me. My legs were shaking, my hands white-knuckled on the porcelain, trying to stay quiet while the rat violated me in the most intimate way possible.
"Such a good hole," the rat praised between licks. "So responsive. So eager. Jake's body loves this. Loves being reminded what it's for."
"Fuck—" I gasped, barely keeping my voice down. "Stop—please—"
"Please stop, or please more?" His tongue pushed deep, curling inside me, hitting something that made my vision blur. "Your hole is clenching on my tongue, mascot. That's not a 'stop' response."
He was right. My body was betraying me again, my ass pushing back against his face, seeking more contact, more stimulation, three days of conditioning making me desperate for the degradation.
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps. Someone at the sinks.
The rat didn't stop. Just kept eating my ass, quiet and thorough, while I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood trying not to make a sound.
The footsteps moved closer. Someone using the urinal. The sound of piss hitting porcelain, a sigh of relief, then the flush. More footsteps to the sink. Water running. Paper towels. The door opening and closing.
Silence.
The rat didn't pull back. Didn't stop. His tongue pushed deeper, curling inside me, finding that spot that made electricity shoot up my spine.
"Nnh—" The sound escaped before I could stop it, and the rat's hand cracked across my ass. Sharp. Warning.
"Quiet," he hissed against my hole. "Unless you want Martinez walking in here and finding Officer Delgado bent over a toilet getting his ass eaten."
But his tongue went back to work immediately, more aggressive now, like the near-discovery had excited him. Long, deep strokes. Rapid flicks across my rim. Then inside again, fucking me with his tongue while his hands gripped my ass hard enough to bruise.
My cock was throbbing between my legs, untouched but leaking steadily, and I could feel it building—the pressure, the heat, the inevitable—
"Fuck—I'm gonna—" I whispered, panic threading through my voice.
"I know." The rat's voice was muffled against my ass but satisfied. "I can feel it. Your hole's clenching. Getting desperate. You're going to cum just from having your ass eaten, aren't you, mascot?"
"No—" But even as I denied it, I knew it was happening. Could feel the orgasm coiling at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight, my cock pulsing with each thrust of his tongue.
"Stay quiet," the rat commanded. "Whatever you need to do, stay fucking quiet. I want to feel you cum on my tongue without making a sound."
I was going to scream. Could feel it building in my chest alongside the orgasm. There was no way I could stay silent through this, no way—
My hand shot to my duty belt. Grabbed the baton. Yanked it free from its holder and shoved it between my teeth, biting down hard on the textured grip.
"Good boy," the rat praised. Then his hand reached around, grabbed my cock—hard, leaking, ready to explode—and angled it down. Pointing directly into the toilet bowl. "There. Can't have you making a mess. Cum goes where I tell it to go."
His other hand never stopped working my hole, tongue pressing deep, hitting that spot, and—
The orgasm detonated.
My cock jerked violently in his grip, spurting thick ropes directly into the toilet water. Splash. Splash. Splash. Each pulse audible, obscene, my entire body convulsing while I bit down on the baton hard enough to taste rubber and plastic. Muffled sounds forced through my nose—nnnh, nnnh, NNNH—desperate and animal while the rat held my cock steady, controlled exactly where every drop went.
"That's it," the rat murmured, feeling my cock pulse in his hand. "Every drop in the bowl. Such a good mascot. Cumming hands-free like the beta you are."
My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stay upright. Wave after wave, my cock spurting into the toilet while his tongue kept working my prostate, milking every last drop. More cum than should have been possible after Dean's "maintenance" just hours ago.
Finally—finally—the spasms stopped. My cock gave one last weak pulse, dripping the final drops into the water below, and I slumped forward against the toilet tank, the baton still clenched between my teeth.
The rat released my cock. Stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looked down into the toilet bowl. At the cloudy water. The evidence of my complete degradation floating there.
"Look at that," the rat said, his voice sharp with disappointment. "All that cum. Jake's cum. Wasted. Down the toilet like it's nothing."
I couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. The baton dropped from my mouth, clattering against the toilet tank.
"Do you know how valuable that is?" the rat continued, staring at the bowl. "How much protein? How much essence? And you just—" he made a disgusted sound, "—flushed it away. Like garbage."
My brain couldn't process what he was saying. He'd been the one who positioned my cock. He'd been the one who made me cum into the toilet.
"I'm disappointed, mascot," the rat said, shaking his head. "Jake's body produces such quality loads, and you're just wasting them. Letting them disappear down the drain instead of putting them where they belong."
"You—you made me—" I started, but he cut me off.
"I made you cum, yes. Because you needed it. Because you were wound too tight. But the waste?" He gestured at the toilet. "That's on you. You could have asked me to catch it. To save it. But you didn't. You just let it spill into the water like it didn't matter."
The logic was insane. Circular. Designed to make me wrong no matter what I did.
"Now flush," the rat ordered. "Get rid of the evidence. And next time—" he leaned close, his voice dropping, "—next time you cum, you better make sure it goes somewhere useful. Understood?"
I stared at him. At this scrawny little fucker who'd just eaten my ass, made me cum untouched, and was now berating me for wasting the load he'd deliberately directed into the toilet.
"Understood?" he repeated, his voice hardening.
"Yes," I forced out.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes... Jake."
"Good." He stepped back. "Now clean yourself up. Fix your uniform. You've got four more hours of shift, and Dean's probably wondering where you are."
I flushed the toilet, watching my cum disappear down the drain. Pulled up my pants—still feeling the rat's saliva cooling on my hole, still feeling the ghost of his hand on my cock. My boxer briefs were damp with precum and the residual mess, but at least the bulk of the load had gone where he'd directed it.
Small mercies.
The rat picked up his tablet, unlocked the stall door. "You're learning," he said. "Slowly. But you're learning. By the end of the week, you won't even hesitate anymore. You'll just obey. And you'll stop wasting what belongs to me."
He walked out. Left me standing there, my baton back in its holder, my ass still tingling, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Just got his ass eaten, came hands-free, and got scolded for wasting his own cum.
Four more hours.
Four more hours of this nightmare.
But underneath the conditioning, underneath the humiliation—the rage was still there. Growing. Patient. Deadly. The rat thought he'd won.
But this shift was only half over.
And somewhere in the remaining hours, I'd find my moment.
I just had to be smart enough to take it when it came.
Part XXVII: Strategic Patience
The locker room was empty when I got back from the bathroom.
My legs were still shaky. My hole was still wet with the rat's saliva, clenching involuntarily with phantom sensation. And my cock—fuck, my cock was already starting to swell again in my clean boxer briefs, like the hands-free orgasm twenty minutes ago hadn't even happened.
I walked to my locker on unsteady legs. Started changing out of my uniform, and that's when I saw it.
The rat's tablet. Sitting on the bench between the lockers. Unattended.
My heart rate spiked. Everything was on that thing. Years of surveillance. Evidence. Proof.
I could end this. Right now. Walk it to Morrison's office and—
Heat surged low in my gut. Full hardness in seconds, tenting my boxer briefs.
What the fuck.
I stared down at myself. At the obvious bulge. At the wet spot already forming because apparently Jake's body leaked constantly now, always ready, always responsive.
My dick twitched. Not from fear. From the thought of what happens if I take it. Show Morrison. End the game. Get my life back.
And then what?
Go back to being Jake Delgado who doesn't need Dean's approval, doesn't respond to "good boy," doesn't leak in his uniform from a man's tongue in his ass? That Jake is gone. And if the game ends before I figure out who I am now...
The rat gotten in me, deep. He'd made corruption feel good. And taking this tablet meant choosing chaos over the rewards I was already drooling for.
I reached for the tablet with a shaking hand—
Arousal spiked. A drop of precum soaked through the fabric.
My hand stopped.
But underneath the rage, underneath the humiliation—I felt something else. A settling. Like my nervous system had been screaming static all day and the thought of maintaining this dynamic tuned it to a clear frequency. I hated that keeping the longing felt... steadier. Safer.
Fuck. Or did that rat reveal something I had buried?
I couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't separate my own thoughts from that rat’s tinkering.
Think. Focus. You need to—
But thinking was impossible with my cock this hard. With blood pounding in my ears and my hole still sensitive and my entire nervous system screaming for stimulation I didn't want to want.
I sat down on the bench. Right next to the tablet. My hand was inches from it.
The locker room door opened.
I yanked my hand away, tried to look casual, but my cock was obviously hard and my face was flushed and—
The rat walked in. Saw me. Saw the proximity to the tablet. Saw the state I was in.
His smile was slow, knowing, satisfied.
"Left my tablet," he said, picking it up. "Thanks for watching it." His eyes traveled down to my crotch, to the obvious tent, to the wet spot. "Though you look like you've been... busy."
"Fuck you," I managed.
"Not yet." He tucked the tablet under his arm. "But maybe later." A pause, his eyes still on my cock. "You're hard. Again. What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." He stepped closer. "Were you thinking about taking my tablet? About playing hero?" His voice dropped. "Your body tells me everything you won't say out loud."
He was right. My cock had answered for me.
"That's why you didn't take the tablet," the rat continued. "Your cock made the choice for you." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Dean said you did well today. At the accident scene. Met someone new for me. Made me look good. An alpha, even. "
My cock pulsed so hard I nearly came.
"Good boy," the rat added. "Same time tomorrow."
He left.
I sat there. Cock painfully hard. The opportunity I'd let slip dissolving like smoke.
The worst part wasn't the orgasm earlier. Wasn't even the violation. It was the thirty seconds after—when my hands had stopped shaking, when my breathing had evened out, when I could suddenly think clearly. The rat had just eaten my ass in a station bathroom and my brain treated it like hitting reset. Like this was... maintenance. Like Dean's hand in the car. Like I responded, craved this.
That can't be right. That can't be what I am.
But my body disagreed.
I drove to the apartment in a daze. Twenty-three minutes through surface streets, my cock finally softening, the reality settling in.
Not my actual apartment—Miguel's shitty studio with the stained carpet and broken blinds and the perpetual smell of the taqueria downstairs. The place I'd been relegated to while the rat occupied my space.
I parked. Walked up the exterior stairs to the second floor. Lights off across the courtyard at Dean's place—he lived in the same complex, different building. That's when I noticed the sightline.
From Miguel's bathroom window, I could see directly into Dean's bathroom. Clear as day. Three months of surveillance. The rat had been watching him shower, watching him piss, cataloging every private moment from right here.
Explains everything.
Inside, I pulled off my uniform in the cramped studio. Stood in Miguel's bathroom staring at Jake's body in a mirror too small to show the full frame.
My phone buzzed.
I should call Dean. My actual partner. My best friend. The one person who might—
I opened texts. Found Dean's number.
Me: You home? Need to talk. I’m across the hall
The response came fast:
Dean: bad time guy, with Jake atm at his place. He's pretty shaken up from the swap, asked if I could crash here tonight.
At his place. At my actual crib.
Dean was in my apartment. With Miguel. The rat was in my bed, using my shampoo, occupying my space. And Dean was there, protective, keeping "Jake" company while I stood in this shitty bathroom three miles away.
My stomach dropped.
I could picture it perfectly—Dean on my couch, close enough to touch, that protective instinct he always had with me now focused entirely on the rat. Maybe Miguel was playing vulnerable. Maybe Dean's hand was on his shoulder. Maybe—
Heat coiled low in my belly.
No. Not that.
But I'd watched it happen Saturday when he had my face. And now they were alone together, Dean thinking he was caring for his traumatized partner, and the rat probably—
I opened a new text. Miguel's number—my own number, since he carried my phone now.
My thumbs moved:
Me: Tomorrow after shift. My place. We need to talk about the situation.
Three dots appeared immediately. The rat was awake. Probably checking his phone while Dean sat next to him in my living room.
Miguel: Talk? Or something else?
My dick twitched reading that, already hard and leaking. I typed faster:
Me: You spent 3 days building an addiction. Maybe proximity burns it out. Only one way to find out.
Miguel: You're inviting me into your space. Why?
Me: Because I'm tired of reacting. Because you want access and I'm giving it to you. Controlled exposure.
The response took longer this time. I imagined Miguel reading it while Dean was in my bathroom, thirty seconds of privacy to plan his next move.
Miguel: Or maybe you're already addicted and eight hours without me felt too long.
Arousal shot through me. Hard again. I should have been angry. Should have thrown the phone. Should have—
But I was typing:
Me: Tomorrow. 6 PM. Don't make me regret this. Just you and me.
Miguel: Good boy. See you then.
I came.
Right there. Standing in Miguel's bathroom, overlooking Dean’s. No hands. Just those two words on a screen and three days of conditioning detonating in my nervous system. My cock pulsed, spurting against the sink, my vision whiting out while I bit my fist to stay quiet.
When I could breathe again, when the aftershocks stopped, I stared at my phone.
At the invitation I'd sent.
At "Good boy" still glowing on the screen.
A new text from Dean appeared:
Dean: Jake asked me to stay over tonight. Says he doesn't want to be alone. Won’t be back tonight
My hand squeezed my phone so hard the case creaked.
I typed back:
Me: Yeah. Later bro
What else could I say?
Dean: Cool. Don't stay up too late - you've got shift tomorrow too. See you in the bullpen
The irony was a knife in my chest. Not even "thanks"—just a reminder to be ready for work.
I cleaned up the sink. Stared at Jake's reflection. I got my face back but lost everything else.
Controlled exposure. Using his obsession against him. Document everything. Build the case. Classic strategy.
That's what I told myself.
But I'd just came untouched from a text message.
And I'd invited the man who destroyed me back here because the thought of going eight hours without his voice calling me "good boy" made my chest feel hollow.
My phone buzzed again.
A photo.
Dean and Miguel in my bed. My sheets. My pillows. Dean was completely naked, one arm draped across Miguel's small frame, both of them clearly post-sex relaxed. Miguel's head was on Dean's chest, that fucking Saint Christopher medal visible around his thin neck, and he was smiling at the camera—the angle made it clear he'd taken the selfie while Dean dozed.
My stomach lurched. My cock hardened. The contradiction made me want to vomit but I kept staring.
The text underneath:
Miguel: Dean's worried about "Jake." Needed comfort. You understand.
I did understand. I understood too well. My cock throbbed looking at Dean's arm around my replacement, at them in my bed, at the satisfied smile on Miguel's face.
Miguel: Don't worry. He thinks I'm fragile right now. Thinks I need protection. It's sweet how much he wants to take care of me.
Another photo. Closer. Dean's face peaceful in sleep, Miguel's small hand resting possessively on Dean's lower chest, brushing his treasure trail.
Nausea and arousal fought for dominance. I was getting harder looking at proof of my own erasure.
Miguel: Tomorrow he’ll be here again. In my bed. Still thinking I need him. And I'll take everything I wanted.
Miguel: Sleep well, Mascot. Try not to think about what position we're in right now.
I should have deleted the photos. Should have blocked the number. Should have driven over there and kicked down my own door.
But I saved them. Every one.
More evidence, I told myself. Building the case.
But I pulled out Marcus's business card with my other hand. Entered the number. Saved it as "Personal Trainer - Evidence."
I should call him. Should reach out to someone outside this nightmare. Someone who represented escape, normalcy, a path back to being Jake Delgado who didn't leak in his uniform.
But my thumb opened Miguel's text thread instead. Scrolled back to the photos. Dean naked. Miguel smiling. My bed.
My cock was fully hard again.
I told myself: tomorrow Miguel would come here. To Miguel's apartment. My prison. While Dean slept in my bed across town. And I'd... what? Burn out the addiction? Build my case?
Or would I just get on my knees the moment he said "good boy"?
I set a reminder for 5:30 PM tomorrow: Clean apartment.
Because if Miguel was coming over, I wanted everything perfect.
Part I: https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/804788356374544384/asset-forfeiture-extinci%C3%B3n-de-dominio?source=share
Negotiation
I returned to the station Sunday night, when the building was a tomb. Jake's boots echoed down the corridor—my boots now—and I couldn't stop looking down at them.
Black tactical leather, size 14.5 wide, laced tight over my thick ankles. Every step was a reminder of what I'd become. The weight of them. The authority. I'd spent Saturday breaking them in properly—walking around Jake's apartment, standing in front of his full-length mirror just staring at my feet. These boots that I'd worshipped the moment I woke up in this body, that I'd pulled off my own feet and licked clean in the locker room, were now mine. Attached to my body. My massive, powerful, alpha body.
I flexed my toes inside them, feeling the leather creak. Size 14.5 wide. Miguel had worn size 8.5 narrow Adidas with orthotic inserts because his arches collapsed without support. Pathetic.
The IT office door was still locked. I slid the key in and pushed it open.
Miguel's body—my old body—was awake. Sitting upright against the filing cabinet, knees pulled to his chest, the floor littered with discarded protein bar wrappers he’d clearly eaten out of boredom. The bruise on his temple had darkened to purple-black. My phone lay on the tile near his foot, the screen smashed but glowing with a red warning: iPhone Unavailable. I smirked. He must have panicked and guessed the wrong passcode ten times in a row until it locked him out. He had my fingers, my face, and my entire digital life in his hand, but he was too stupid to access any of it.
But it was the eyes that stopped me. Jake's eyes, staring out from Miguel's pathetic face with pure, incandescent rage.
And below, on Miguel's feet: those sad Adidas sneakers. White with navy stripes, scuffed and creased. Size 8.5. I could see the insoles through the mesh—bright blue orthotics that Miguel needed just to walk without pain. The laces were frayed. There was a coffee stain on the left toe.
I almost laughed.
"You," Jake spat. His voice—Miguel's voice—was hoarse, ruined from screaming. "You fucking—what did you do to me?"
I closed the door behind me and locked it. Then I walked forward slowly, deliberately, letting him hear every footfall. The boots made a heavy thud-thud-thud on the tile—the sound of authority, of power. I watched Jake's eyes track downward, following the sound.
"Hey there, partner," I said, grinning. "Sleep okay?"
Jake-in-Miguel tried to stand, but Miguel's legs were weak, shaky from dehydration. He stumbled, catching himself on the desk. When he did, I heard it—a faint squeak from those Adidas. The rubber sole, worn thin.
My boots didn't squeak. They commanded.
"Change us back. Right fucking now."
"Can't," I said simply, leaning against the door. "Won’t," I added, crossing my arms, then uncrossing them because I wanted an excuse to look down again. At my forearms—thick, veiny, covered in fine dark hair. At my hands—massive, calloused. At my thighs—tree trunks in denim. And at my feet. Those beautiful, powerful feet in Jake's boots.
I shifted my weight, rolling onto the balls of my feet, and felt the flex in my calves. "Don't know how it happened. One minute I was Miguel, next minute I'm..." I gestured down at Jake's massive frame, a hand tugging on one of my firm, full nipples through the shirt. "...living the dream."
"You're insane." Jake's hands—Miguel's small, soft hands—clenched into fists. "When I get back in my body, I'm going to fucking destroy you. Do you understand? I will end your life."
I laughed and took a step closer. Jake flinched.
"With what?" I lifted one boot and placed it on the edge of the desk, right next to where Jake was standing. The sole was at his eye level—thick black rubber with aggressive tread, caked with dried mud and oil from Jake's patrol routes. "You think anyone's gonna believe the IT guy when he says a cop stole his body?"
Jake's eyes were locked on the boot. I watched his throat work as he swallowed.
"You like these?" I asked, my voice dropping. "I've been wearing them all weekend. Barely took them off. Can you smell them from there?"
"Stop," Jake whispered.
But I saw it. The flicker in his eyes. The way his gaze lingered on the boot, traced up the leather shaft to where it hugged my calf.
This was new. Jake had never looked at men like this. Never looked at his own body like this.
"You're feeling it, aren't you?" I said softly, realization dawning. "The biology. You're looking at me—at your body—and your brain is flooding with dopamine."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I lowered my boot and took another step forward. Now I was looming over him, Jake's full six-foot-four frame towering over Miguel's five-foot-seven. "The swap didn't just trade our bodies, Jake. It traded our instincts. You're in a beta body now. A follower's body. And it knows its place when an alpha walks in the room."
"That's bullshit," Jake said, but his voice cracked.
"Then why are you hard?"
Jake looked down at himself—at Miguel's crotch—and his face went white. The khakis were tented, a small wet spot forming at the tip.
"I'm not—this isn't—"
"It's me," I said, leaning down so my face was close to his. "You're attracted to yourself. To the body you used to have. You're looking at Jake Delgado—big, powerful, alpha Jake—and you want him."
Jake tried to step back, but he was already against the wall. "Shut up."
I placed my hands on either side of his head, caging him in. "I know because I lived in your body for two days, Miguel. I know how it feels to see a superior man and want to worship him. To see boots like these..." I tapped one foot against the floor, startling Jake. "...and imagine what they taste like."
"You're sick."
"Maybe." I looked down at our feet. My massive boots, scuffed and powerful, next to Miguel's sad little sneakers with their orthotic inserts. I remembered his puny frame, his below-average cock now straining against his pants. "But at least I'm sick in a body that commands respect. What are you?"
Jake's jaw clenched.
"Say it."
"Fuck you."
I grabbed the front of Miguel's shirt and shoved him harder against the wall. "Look at yourself, Jake. Look at what you are now." I forced his head down, making him stare at his own feet. "Size 8.5 Adidas with orthotics because Miguel's arches are so fucked he can't walk without support. You think anyone's going to take you seriously in those?"
Tears were forming in Jake's eyes. Real tears.
"Now look at me." I lifted his chin with one finger, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Size 14.5 wide. Black tactical leather. The boots you wore on patrol. The boots you polished every Friday night, unknowingly, for me to take. They're mine now. And they fit perfectly."
Something broke in Jake's expression. The rage was still there, but underneath it was something else, bubbling to the surface. Hunger. Want.
"Here's the thing," I continued, my voice softening. "I need some information. Jake’s PIN codes. Bank. Phone. Security questions. Things to grease the logistics of being me."
"Go to hell."
"Jake." I sighed. "Be reasonable. I can reset them myself—got the face, the fingerprints—but that’s work. Easier if you just tell me."
"I'll die before I help you."
"Dramatic." I pulled out my phone—Jake's phone—and opened the photo gallery. "But before you commit to that, maybe you should know what I've been up to."
I turned the screen toward him.
The photo was from earlier this weekend. Dean, still asleep in his bed, naked from the waist up, the yellow triathlon shirt discarded on the floor. You could see the bruises on his hips where I’d gripped him while folding him in half.
Jake went white. "You... you didn't."
"Oh, I did." I swiped to the next photo. Dean's cum-stained compression shirt. "Your best friend, Jake. Your partner."
"I'll fucking kill you!" Jake launched himself at me, and this time I let him. Miguel's fists pounded uselessly against Jake's chest—against my chest—like a child throwing a tantrum.
I grabbed his wrists and shoved him back against the wall, pinning him there with my body weight. Miguel's body felt like nothing. Hollow. Breakable.
And that's when I felt it—his cock, hard and insistent, pressing against my thigh.
"Well," I said softly. "What do we have here?"
"Shut up," Jake growled, but his face was flushing. "That's—it's just—"
"Just your body responding to mine." I pressed my thigh between his legs, feeling him twitch. "You can't help it. You're looking at these boots, smelling my musk, and every instinct Miguel had is firing in your brain, overwriting whatever straight-boy delusions you might have clung to."
I stepped back, and that's when he saw it. Really saw it.
I was wearing Dean's clothes.
The gray t-shirt stretched tight across Jake's chest—that was Dean's. The compression shorts visible above my jeans—Dean's triathlon gear. Even the socks inside my boots were Dean's, stolen from his hamper.
"They smell like him," I said, lifting the collar of the shirt to my nose. "Sweat, deodorant, that citrus body wash. I've been marinating in Dean all day." I looked down at my boots. "These socks are still damp from his last run. I can feel his sweat against my feet—against Jake's feet—every time I take a step."
"Stop. Please."
"I fucked him," I said bluntly. "Used your body, your cock, and I fucked your best friend while he was passed out drunk. Came inside him. And you know what? He trusts me completely."
Jake made a sound like he'd been gut-punched.
"When he realizes what happened—and he will—it's your face he'll remember. Your body. Your betrayal."
"No," Jake whispered.
"So here's my offer." I lifted one boot and placed it on the desk again, this time closer to Jake's face. The scent of leather and sweat filled the small space. "You give me the PIN. You give me everything I need to be you. And in exchange..."
I watched Jake's eyes lock onto the boot. His pupils were blown wide.
"...I'll let you worship what you lost."
"I don't—"
"Yes, you do." I pressed the sole against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath it. "You're confused, Jake. You think this desire is yours? It's not. It's Miguel's. For twenty years, this pathetic body has been hardwiring itself to crave men like me. Men like us." I leaned in, my voice a dark purr. "And now you're trapped in the cockpit of a machine that only knows how to do one thing when it sees a pair of boots like this: get on its knees."
Jake's breathing was ragged, his eyes glued to my boots.
"Get on your knees," I said softly.
"Fuck you."
"Wrong answer." I removed my boot and turned toward the door. "Guess Dean and I will have round two tonight. Maybe I'll take pictures. Really document what 'Jake' does to his best friend."
"Wait," Jake gasped.
I looked back.
He was sliding down the wall, sinking to his knees on those pathetic little Adidas. Miguel's body looked so small down there, so vulnerable.
"Please," Jake whispered, staring at my boots.
"Please what?"
"I'll... I'll give you the codes. Just..." His voice broke. "Just let me—"
"Let you what, Jake?" I turned back, standing over him. "Say it."
His hands were shaking as he reached for my boot. "Let me touch them. Please."
I placed my boot on his thigh, the sole pressing into the khaki fabric. "Start talking. PIN first."
"Six-eight-three-nine," Jake whispered, his hands coming up to grip my boot like it was a lifeline.
"Good," I said, not moving. "Now the email password."
"I can't—" His voice was shaking. "I can't remember—"
"Then I guess we're done here." I started to lift my boot off his thigh.
"Wait! Wait." His fingers dug into the leather, desperate. "Delgado-Seven-Seven-Bravo."
"Better." I let him keep his grip on my boot, watching him trace the laces with trembling fingers, following the weave pattern like it was a religious text. "You can touch them now. Both hands."
Jake's other hand came up immediately, both palms pressing against the leather shaft, feeling the creases, the wear patterns, the places where Jake's calf had shaped the material over years of use.
"You know what's funny?" I said conversationally. "These aren't even my socks."
Jake's hands froze. His eyes flicked up to mine.
"I mean, they're in Jake's boots, on Jake's feet. But they're not Jake's socks." I shifted my weight, letting him hear the leather creak. "They're Dean's. Stole them from his hamper Friday night. Black tactical socks, damp with his sweat. I've been wearing them for two days straight."
Jake's breathing hitched. His pupils dilated further.
"And here's the really good part," I continued, watching his face. "Yesterday morning, after I woke up next to Dean? After I'd spent all night wearing his dirty triathlon gear, sleeping in his bed, breathing his air?" I leaned down closer. "I jerked off. Used Jake's cock and came so hard I thought I'd pass out. And you know what I used to clean up?"
Jake's mouth opened. No sound came out.
"Dean's sock. The left one." I tapped my left boot against the floor. "This one. It's crusty with dried cum now. Jake's cum, technically. But really mine. Mixed with Dean's foot sweat, ground into the fibers."
"Oh god," Jake whispered.
"So when I give you permission to take this boot off, when you press your face against my foot and inhale..." I smiled. "...you're going to be smelling your best friend's sweat, and the cum I shot while fantasizing about violating him again. All of it marinating against Jake's foot. Your old foot."
Jake made a sound—half moan, half sob. His cock was visibly throbbing now through Miguel's khakis, leaking a spreading wet spot.
"Does that disgust you, Jake?"
"Yes," he gasped.
"Does it turn you on?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"Bank routing number," I said. "Give it to me, and you can take the boot off."
"Three-two-one-zero-seven-four-nine-eight-six." The numbers spilled out of him in a rush.
"Good boy." I lifted my boot off his thigh and placed it directly in front of his face, the toe touching his chin. "Unlace it."
Jake's hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip the laces, but he managed. He pulled each cross loose, working his way down, until the boot was open. I watched him stare at the shaft, at the dark interior, at the edge of the sock visible inside.
"Pull it off," I commanded.
He gripped the boot with both hands and pulled. It came off slowly—Jake's body heat and my sweat had sealed it tight—and when it finally slid free, the smell hit both of us.
Concentrated foot sweat. Leather. Boot musk. And underneath it, faint but unmistakable—the sharp, bleachy scent of dried cum.
Jake's eyes rolled back. His whole body shuddered.
"That's Dean," I said softly. "And me. And you. All mixed together."
I lifted my socked foot—Dean's sock, dark and damp, the ribbed texture visible, the toe slightly crusty—and pressed it against Jake's face.
"Inhale."
Jake did. Deep, desperate pulls of air through his nose, his mouth falling open, his hands coming up to grip my ankle like he was drowning and I was the only thing keeping him afloat.
"That's your best friend you're smelling," I whispered. "The man you swore to protect. And you're getting off on it."
"Please," Jake whimpered against my foot.
"Please what?"
"More. Please. I need—" His voice broke. "I need the codes—I mean, I'll give you—fuck—"
His brain was short-circuiting. The disgust and the arousal were colliding, and Miguel's body didn't know how to process it. Neither did Jake.
"Social security number," I said. "And I'll let you lick it."
The numbers came out garbled, desperate: "Five-nine-three-dash-eight-seven-dash-four-two-one-one."
"Good boy." I pressed my toes against his lips. "Open your mouth."
And Jake—alpha, aggressive, dominant Jake—opened his mouth and let me slide Dean's cum-crusted sock against his tongue.
Collateral
"Face ID," Miguel whimpered, holding the phone out with shaking hands. The screen glowed angry red—iPhone Unavailable. Try again in 15 minutes. "I… I can't get in. I tried everything."
I let the silence stretch, just breathing. Even that felt different now—Jake's lungs had capacity, volume. Each inhale expanded my chest like a bellows, filling me with oxygen that fed these massive muscles. I stood there with my arms crossed, feeling the weight of my forearms resting on my pecs, solid and heavy. The boots anchored me to the floor like I was made of stone.
Miguel stood there trembling, arm extended, those weak little fingers—nails bitten to the quick—clutching the iPhone like a lifeline.
"Of course you can't," I said finally, my voice rolling out deep and easy from Jake's barrel chest. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, felt the flex in my calves, the way my thighs pressed against the denim. Every movement was controlled power. "You locked yourself out. Ten failed attempts. You need to accept you're Miguel now. That PIN? It's buried in Miguel's memories, bro. Dig for it."
"I thought maybe—" His voice cracked. "If I tried a birthday, or—"
"Your cat's name? Your mom's maiden name?" I laughed, the sound vibrating through my ribcage. God, even laughing felt different—fuller, more resonant. "Bro, you're not thinking this through. Miguel doesn't have a fucking cat. Think."
I watched reality settle over his face like ash. Everything that proved Miguel Coronado existed was locked behind that screen.
"Please," he whispered. "Just tell me the passcode. I haven't checked my texts in hours. I need to know I have something."
"You need?" I took a step forward, letting him hear the full weight of my boot hitting tile. One hundred ninety pounds of muscle and bone driving down through leather and rubber. The sound echoed. "Let me tell you what you need, Miguel. You need to understand your station. You're an IT contractor. A nobody with a desk and a dying laptop. You're a pet. My pet."
I rolled my shoulders back, felt the traps bunch and release. Jake's body was a machine, every part working in perfect hydraulic harmony. I could feel the definition in my obliques when I twisted, the V-taper of my torso tapering down to narrow hips. Power packaged in human form.
"But," I continued, reaching out with one of these massive hands, "I'm not completely cruel."
I took the phone, held it up, waited for the timer. When the screen cleared, I typed with thick fingers that still somehow moved with precision: 0-6-2-8-9-5.
The phone unlocked.
"There." I handed it back, watching my forearm flex, the dark hair catching the light. "Zero-six-two-eight-nine-five. Dean's birthday. June 28, 1995. The man you spied on is now the key to your entire existence."
Miguel stared at the screen, face crumbling.
"Go ahead," I urged. "Open the photo gallery. That 'Fitness Goals' folder. Look at all those screenshots of Dean. Remember what you were—a pathetic voyeur worshipping from a distance."
His hands shook as he opened it. Dean at the beach. Dean in uniform. Close-ups of Dean's boots, legs, arms.
"You're going to keep being pathetic," I said, leaning down. I felt my quads engage, the controlled descent of all this mass bending at the knees. "But useful. You'll live your boring life. Work at the station. Play your mobile games. Jerk off to these photos. Except now you'll know—I'm touching him. I'm inside him. He trusts me."
Miguel made a wounded sound.
"That's your new normal." I straightened up, my knees locking out with a solid, heavy thunk. Jake's body lifted me without tremor—dense, powerful, thirty-six years of prime muscle. I rolled my neck, heard it crack, felt the stretch down through my traps. "Accept it, embrace it, and maybe I'll let you be useful. Speaking of which..."
I squared my shoulders, felt the weight of Jake's frame settle. "Dean and I are hitting Murphy's tonight. Greg's joining us for poker. Strip poker. We need someone to carry pitchers when it gets crowded. Fetch and serve and stay quiet."
His eyes widened. "You can't take me there. Not like this."
"I can do whatever I want." I flexed my hands, watched the tendons shift under skin. These hands had pinned suspects, pulled triggers, dominated. "Because I have this." I tapped my jaw—square, stubbled, masculine. "And you have that." I gestured dismissively.
"I won't go," Miguel whispered, trying for defiance and achieving only terror. "I won't let you parade me around."
"Is that so?" I crouched down smooth and easy, all that mass compressing like a coiled spring. This close, I could smell him—sour anxiety sweat, fear, protein bar residue. "Miguel, you're confused about leverage. I have your face. Your fingerprints." I wiggled these thick fingers, felt the calluses on the pads. "Your voice." I dropped it an octave, felt the rumble in my chest.
His face went pale. "You're trying to fuck all my friends."
"Maybe. But really just to spit-roast the prize here: Dean."
I stood, uncoiling from the crouch, felt every muscle fire in sequence—glutes, hamstrings, quads, core. Hydraulic precision lifting me vertical. "But here's the thing, Miguel." I lifted one boot, placed it on the desk beside him. Let him see it. Smell it. "Even though you're scared, even though you hate me... you want to be near these."
His jaw clenched. His gaze dropped to the boot. I watched his throat work.
"That's what I thought." I reached into my back pocket—felt my glute flex when I did—and pulled out the second sock. Dean's. Friday shift. Twelve hours marinating in patrol boots. Stiff with dried sweat, the fibers crispy.
"Open your mouth."
He hesitated. Eyes darted to the door. But he opened.
I stuffed the sock in slowly, deliberately, packing it against his tongue. Feeding him. His eyes rolled back as the stiff, salty cotton hit the back of his throat, filling his mouth with concentrated Dean Cammarata essence.
He tried to gag. Instead his tongue curled around the fabric, tasting. Craving more.
"Delicious, isn't it?" I whispered, using my thumb to shove deeper. "Twelve hours of patrol sweat. You're soaking it up."
That's when I saw it. A dark stain spreading across Miguel's cheap khakis. He wasn't just hard—he was weeping. Thick, clear precum soaking through fabric, leaking out in biological gratitude. Miguel's body was starving for this.
"Look at you." I tapped the wet spot with my knuckle, felt the solid mass of bone underneath. "Leaking like a bitch in heat. Your brain hates this, but this trash body? It's in heaven."
I grabbed his belt—cheap bonded leather from Target—and yanked it free. Wrapped it around his head, threaded it between his teeth, pulled tight. The pressure forced his jaw shut around the sock, locking the taste inside.
"There." I grabbed his collar—wrinkled polo, coffee stain on the chest—and hauled him up. Miguel's body went boneless, melting into my grip. I could feel his ribs through the fabric. Light. Insubstantial. Totally dependent on my strength.
I marched him to the door, Adidas squeaking, and kicked it open with my boot. The impact reverberated up through my shin, my knee, absorbed by dense muscle.
Dean was leaning against the wall, scrolling his phone. He looked up, expression shifting from boredom to confusion to horrified amusement.
"Whoa, Jake." He pushed off the wall. "Everything okay? What's with the belt?"
"Caught him wiping server logs," I lied smoothly, shaking Miguel's body. His head lolled. "Started screaming about conspiracies. Government surveillance. Deep state bullshit." I shook my head, felt the bristle of Jake's buzz cut scratch my palm when I ran a hand over it. "Total psychotic break, Dean."
Dean's expression softened to pity. "Shit. Should we book him? Psych eval?"
"Nah." I flashed Jake's easy grin, felt the stubble on my jaw shift. "Too much paperwork. Besides, look at him. Harmless. Buck-thirty tops." I leaned in conspiratorially. "Someone needs to carry beer at Murphy's. I'm sick of getting up every five minutes."
Dean stared. Then looked at Miguel. Then back at me.
And he laughed—that easy, cruel laugh of someone who's never been prey.
"You're fucked up, Delgado," Dean said, clapping my shoulder. His hand was warm, heavy, familiar against Jake's solid deltoid. "Alright. Bring the freak. But if he drools in my truck, you're cleaning it."
"Deal."
I felt my lips pull into a smile, felt the power in every step as I dragged Miguel toward the exit.
Bets and Mascots
Murphy's was already humming when we walked in—a wall of sound and heat and the particular smell of cop bars everywhere: hops, fried food, leather, and barely-contained testosterone. The air was thick enough to taste—salt and sweat and the metallic tang of badge polish.
I walked in first, owning the room in Jake's body. My boots hit the floor with authority, each step a declaration. Heads turned. A few nods. A raised glass from a drunk off-duty sheriff who recognized Jake's frame, his swagger. I felt eyes tracking me—respect, recognition, the weight of being seen as someone who mattered.
Dean followed behind me, limping slightly—I'd fucked him hard enough that he was still feeling it—but hiding it behind that cocky swagger he wore like armor. I could smell him even through the bar stink: the citrus body wash from his shower, the faint musk underneath, the hint of my cum still inside him.
And trailing behind us both, head down, clutching a stack of coasters I'd shoved into his hands in the parking lot, was Miguel. The belt-gag was gone—too obvious for public—but I'd made it clear what would happen if he spoke without permission.
We headed for the big circular booth in the back.
"Yo! Delgado! Cammarata!"
A voice boomed from the corner, deep and commanding. I turned, and felt a spike of adrenaline—pure hunger.
Officer Greg "The Bull" Mendes sat sprawled in the booth, legs wide, taking up space like he owned it.
Miguel's memories had shown me photos—department Instagram, action shots on his bike—but seeing him in person made my mouth go dry and my cock twitch.
He was massive. Maybe an inch shorter than me, but wider. Thicker. Built like a stone monument. Brown Sheriff's Class Bs, short sleeves straining against biceps that looked inflated. His chest was a shelf, top two buttons undone, revealing dense dark chest hair that disappeared down into his shirt.
But the gear made my breath catch.
High black motorcycle boots that came up almost to his knees—Chippewa Engineers, heavy leather with reinforced toes and shin guards. Scuffed from the road, creased and worn. Thick leather gloves tucked into his duty belt, which creaked when he moved—cuffs, radio, sidearm, all of it hanging heavy on his hips.
And those pants. Regulation brown, but tight. Tight. I could see everything—the swell of his quads, the massive curve of his calves straining against the fabric, and there, at his crotch, an unmistakable bulge. He was packing. My eyes lingered, measuring, imagining what he'd look like stripped down.
I wasn't just admiring him. I was sizing him up for fit. I wanted those boots on my feet. That shirt stretching across my chest, imagining his sweaty boxerbriefs tight up against my massive thighs. And the only way to get them onto me was to get him out of them.
"Greg," Dean said, sliding into the booth with a barely-concealed wince. I followed immediately, boxing him in, my thigh pressing against his. Warm, solid contact.
"Didn't know you were off shift," Dean continued.
"Just clocked out," Greg rumbled, voice like gravel in a cement mixer. He kicked his legs out under the table—thud—the heavy sound of those riding boots hitting wood, buckles jingling. "Saw you two walking in. Figured I'd grace you with my presence. Plus, Delgado here has been blowing up the group chat about a 'special game' tonight."
Under the table, I let my hand find Dean's thigh. Not subtle—deliberate. I rested it just above his knee, feeling the heat of his leg through his tight denim, the muscle underneath. Dean shifted slightly but didn't pull away.
"Looking swole, man," Greg said, nodding at me. "You been hitting the weights harder?"
"Something like that." I squeezed Dean's thigh, feeling him tense. My hand slid higher, just an inch. Testing. "Good to see you, Bull. Yeah—tonight's not about drinking. We're just fueling up. The real party is back at my place."
"Poker, right?" Greg cracked his knuckles—thick, scarred ridges of bone like paving stones that had definitely broken noses. The sound was dry and sharp, cutting through the bar noise like a gunshot. "I warn you, I don't lose."
"We'll see." My eyes dropped to Greg's crotch again, lingering. I let myself lean back into the booth, feeling the full weight of Jake's frame settle—one hundred ninety pounds of dense muscle sinking into the leather upholstery. My shoulders were so broad they pressed against the booth's edge. I felt massive. Immovable.
Greg noticed me staring—and his grin widened. Not flirtation. Arrogance. The cocky, self-satisfied smirk of a man who catches you staring at his expensive car and thinks, Yeah, everyone knows I bring the biggest gun. He shifted his hips forward, just an inch, presenting the bulge like a challenge. The tight brown fabric stretched obscenely around it.
My hand slid higher on Dean's thigh, now mid-thigh, my thumb brushing the thick inseam. The denim was rough against my fingertips—Jake's fingertips, calloused and powerful—but the heat radiating from the muscle underneath was searing. I could feel Dean's pulse through the fabric, rapid and confused.
Dean shot me a look—furtive, confused, his brow furrowing. Bro, what are you doing?
I ignored it. My fingers pressed into the adductor muscle, digging deep into tender flesh. The muscle was dense, solid from all those triathlons, but it gave under Jake's strength. Dean let out a sound—half-grunt, more-moan—that vibrated against my side before he tried to cover it with a cough.
I felt the vibration travel through our contact points—his thigh against mine, his shoulder brushing my arm. Every nerve ending in Jake's body was firing, processing touch, heat, pressure. I flexed my hand slightly, felt the tendons shift under skin, the raw power in just my grip.
Greg snorted. "Jesus, get a room. You bros need to keep that shit for your fuckin' girlfriends."
Greg had seen the hand on the thigh, but he missed what came next.
Dean flushed—color rising up his neck like a thermometer, his skin going from tan to ruddy in seconds. Not embarrassed. Not angry. Just flooded with adrenaline. Instead of pushing me away, he laughed it off—that "bromo" instinct normalizing the weirdness. He threw his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer, trapping himself against me.
The contact was electric. I felt the weight of Dean's arm across my shoulders—Jake's thick, powerful shoulders that bunched with muscle when I rolled them. Dean's hand gripped my deltoid, and I could feel every finger, the pressure, the heat. I could smell him—sour beer breath mixing with citrus soap, his natural musk underneath. The smell of my cum still inside him, faint but unmistakable to someone who knew what to look for.
"Jealous, Mendes?" Dean joked, voice tight and strung high. "Just keeping the team close. Someone's gotta make sure Delgado doesn't get into trouble."
I took a breath—deep, controlled, feeling my chest expand against Dean's side, feeling my abs engage, the intercostal muscles between my ribs flexing. Jake's body was a symphony of coordinated power, and I was conducting every note.
"Whatever you say, sunshine," Greg laughed, leaning back. His duty belt groaned—thick saddle-leather friction that sounded like heavy machinery settling. I watched the leather stretch, heard it creak, and my cock twitched. He wrote us off as a pair of codependent patrol partners.
That was his mistake. While he looked away, my hand slid off Dean's thigh and slipped beneath the table's edge.
"The stakes are going to be a little different tonight," I said, dropping my voice to a rumble that I felt vibrate in Jake's chest cavity. The bass resonated through my sternum. "High risk, high reward."
Greg's gaze drifted to Miguel. "And who the fuck is the mascot?"
"That's Miguel," I said, kicking a chair out—thud—feeling the impact travel up through my boot, my ankle, my shin, absorbed by the dense muscle of my calf. "Our pet project. Sit."
Miguel sat.
"He's the IT guy," Dean explained, voice strained. My hand was now high on his inner thigh, fingers splayed wide—Jake's hands could cover so much territory, each finger thick and strong. My pinky brushed the dangerous heat of his crotch, felt the rigid seam of his jeans, the furnace underneath.
Greg laughed, leaning forward. Belt creaking again—leather on leather—a sound of restraint and authority that shot straight to my cock. "I like it. We should make him useful."
He lifted one massive leg, boot on display. A monolith of black leather, caked in grey road dust and exhaust soot, the shifter pad worn smooth and shiny. The smell hit me—hot asphalt, engine oil, concentrated boot musk. My mouth watered.
"Hey, mascot. You like these?"
Miguel's eyes locked on, helpless. His nostrils flared.
"Look at him," Greg grinned, nudging Dean. "He's fucking drooling. What is he, the backup fag for our drinking group?"
"Something like that." I spread one arm along the booth back—dominant display, taking up maximum space. My wingspan was enormous in Jake's body; I could feel the stretch in my lats, the way my tricep pressed against the booth material. Meanwhile, my other hand squeezed Dean's thigh hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises in that dense muscle.
Dean took a jagged sip of water, pretending not to notice, but I felt it—his cock stirring, thickening under my proximity. A confused pulse of blood, his body responding despite his brain's protests.
My hand slid higher, now at the crease where thigh met groin. My fingers brushed the heavy seam of his jeans, felt the furnace heat. I could feel his pulse there—rapid, thready, his heart pumping blood straight to his cock. Dean's knuckles went white around his glass, and I heard his breathing change—shallow, controlled, trying not to show how affected he was.
"Alright, mascot," I barked. "Go get us three pitchers. Bud Light for Dean. IPA for me and Greg. Keep them coming. We need Greg here nice and loose for the game later."
I winked at Greg, my hand now firmly cupping the bulge in Dean's jeans. The weight of him filled my palm—heavy, semi-soft, but filling fast. I felt the ridge of his cock through denim, the shape of him, the heat. Dean made a small, strangled sound, his eyes darting around the bar to see if anyone noticed.
I squeezed—slow, deliberate, feeling him twitch helplessly against my fingers. His cock pulsed, swelling another degree. I could feel his heartbeat through his dick.
"I've got a bottle of the good stuff at the apartment," I continued casually, like my hand wasn't currently molesting my partner under the table. Another squeeze, thumb rubbing against the base of his shaft. "Winners drink, losers strip. House rules."
Greg snorted. "Strip poker? What are we, sorority girls?"
"Why? You scared, Bull?" Dean interjected suddenly, voice unexpectedly loud. He leaned forward—chest puffing out, shoulders back, peacocking—trying to reclaim ground even while my thumb rubbed circles against his cock. His body was a mess of conflicting signals: performing alpha confidence while his dick throbbed in my palm. "Worried we're gonna see what you're compensating for with those big boots?"
Greg's eyes narrowed, smirk playing on his lips. "Careful, Cammarata. I don't want you crying when you're shivering in your boxers."
"Please," Dean scoffed, grabbing his beer with his free hand—the other still draped over my shoulder like we were war buddies. He took a long, aggressive pull, Adam's apple bobbing. His cock twitched in my hand with each swallow. "I'm gonna clean you out. By midnight, I'm gonna be wearing that badge. And maybe the bike."
I twisted my hand slightly, catching Dean's balls through the denim—two round weights, heavy and full. He gasped, beer splashing over his lip and down his chin, but he played it off as a laugh. His thighs clenched around my hand involuntarily.
"Unless you're scared you'll get cleaned out first," I interrupted, voice low and dangerous. I gave his balls a gentle squeeze—not pain, just pressure, just reminder. "I've had my eye on those boots for a while. And that shirt. Wonder if it'd fit me."
I looked down at myself—Jake's torso, massive and powerful, the gray t-shirt stretched tight across pecs that pressed against the fabric. Then at Greg—his brown Sheriff's shirt, the short sleeves cutting into his biceps. I imagined myself wearing it, filling it out, those riding boots on my feet.
My eyes dropped to Greg's crotch again, obvious and lingering. "Wonder if everything would fit."
Greg's grin widened, challenge accepted. He spread his legs wider—scrape—the heavy Chippewa boots dragging against floorboards, opening his stance to show me exactly what he thought I couldn't handle. The bulge in his crotch shifted, settled, prominent and unmistakable.
"In your dreams, Delgado," Greg rumbled. "You want these, you gotta earn 'em."
Under the table, Dean's cock was fully hard now, straining against his jeans, trapped under my possessive palm. He was breathing through his nose, jaw clenched, trying to maintain composure while his body betrayed him completely.
I smiled, feeling Jake's stubbled jaw shift, feeling the power in my massive frame, the satisfaction of controlling two alpha males with nothing but strategic touch and psychological warfare.
I turned to Miguel, not bothering to hide what my hand was doing under the table. "Pitchers. Now. And if you spill a drop, you're licking it off the floor. Understood?"
Miguel's eyes were glassy, unfocused. I watched him try to look away from the scene—from my hand clearly moving under the table, from Dean's flushed face, from Greg's displayed bulge—and fail. His gaze kept snapping back, magnetic and helpless. His breathing was rapid, shallow, his chest rising and falling too fast.
And there—the telltale dark spot spreading across his khakis again. Miguel's body was betraying him, leaking precum in response to watching three alphas establish dominance.
"I said, understood?" I barked.
"Y-yes," Miguel stammered, his voice cracking. His hands were trembling so badly the coasters rattled together like dry bones.
"Yes, what?"
Miguel's throat worked, swallowing hard. His eyes darted between the three of us—me with my hand on Dean's cock, Dean with his arm still draped over my shoulders, Greg with his legs spread wide and his boot on display. The power dynamic was visually explicit, and Miguel was drowning in it.
"Yes... sir," he whispered, but then, quieter, almost involuntarily: "Please."
"Please what?" I squeezed Dean harder, watching Miguel's eyes track the movement.
"Please, I—" Miguel's face flushed crimson. "I won't spill. I promise. I'll be good."
Dean snorted, leaning forward—trying to distract from his own flushed face by punching down. "Jesus, look at him shake," Dean laughed, his voice a little too loud, overcompensating. "You gonna cry, Miguel? Over a beer run? Pull it together, man. You're embarrassing us."
Miguel flinched at Dean’s voice—the voice of the man he’d loved from afar, now laughing at his degradation. It didn't make him angry. It made him leak more.
"You want to lick it off the floor, don't you?" I said softly, cruelly, cutting through Dean's laughter. "You're hoping you fuck up so I'll make you get on your knees in front of everyone."
Miguel's mouth opened. Closed. A visible shudder ran through his body. The wet spot on his khakis grew, darkening the cheap tan fabric.
"Pathetic," Greg laughed, watching the display with a cruel, heavy-lidded gaze. "He's about to jizz off standing right there."
"He is," I echoed. "Because this is what he lives for now. Being useful. Being degraded. Being reminded of his place." I leaned forward slightly, still palming Dean's cock. "Isn't that right, Miguel?"
"Yes, sir," Miguel breathed, the words almost reverent. His whole body was vibrating with need—the need to serve, to submit, to be part of this even if only as the bottom of the hierarchy.
"Then go get our drinks," I continued. "And Miguel? Walk slowly. Let everyone see what's happening in those pants. Let them know what you are."
Miguel's eyes widened—fear and arousal mixing into something intoxicating. "Sir, I—"
"Now."
Miguel turned and shuffled toward the bar, Adidas squeaking with each step. I watched him walk—saw the dark wet spot visible even from behind, spreading down his inseam. I saw how his legs were unsteady, saw him try to adjust himself and fail. Several patrons glanced his way, eyes lingering on the obvious stain, the trembling gait.
He knew. He knew everyone could see. And the humiliation was feeding him.
Greg lifted his bottle, watching Miguel's shame parade. "To breaking in new pets."
Dean clinked his glass against it, laughing nervously, trying to act normal while my hand worked him steadily under the table, his arm still wrapped tight around my shoulders like he was protecting the very thing corrupting him.
"Five bucks says he pisses himself before he makes it back," Greg observed, shaking his head and taking a pull from his beer. "Guy's shaking like a leaf."
"Good," I said simply, giving Dean's cock a long, slow stroke through the denim that made his hips buck. "He earned it."
And I smiled, feeling Jake's face stretch into pure predatory satisfaction.
The pieces were set. The Bull was baited, his thick cock practically calling to me from those tight regulation pants. The Partner was broken, hard and confused and clinging to me under my touch. And the Mascot was walking toward the bar with piss-warm pre-cum soaking his khakis, desperate and grateful and exactly where he belonged.
Tonight, I was going to take everything and not just the pot.
The Ride Over
The cab of Dean's truck smelled like old leather, gun oil, and the faint ghost of fast food wrappers shoved in the door pocket. It was dark except for the green glow of the dashboard—speedometer climbing, engine rumbling under my beautiful boot—and the harsh white headlight beam of Greg's motorcycle burning in the rearview mirror like a predator's eye.
I was driving, one hand controlling the wheel, the other resting loose on my thigh. Dean was in the passenger seat, knees spread wide, his whole body still vibrating with residual adrenaline from the bar. I could hear his breathing—fast, shallow, struggling to regulate.
And Miguel was huddled in the backseat, silent except for the occasional wet sniffle. I could smell him even over the truck's musk—fear sweat, the copper tang of adrenaline, and the sour scent of precum-soaked khakis.
The road stretched out ahead, empty and dark. Greg's engine roared behind us, keeping pace. I flexed my hands on the steering wheel, felt Jake's thick fingers grip the worn leather, felt the power in my forearms. Every sensation was amplified—the vibration of the engine through the seat, the weight of my boots on the pedals, the controlled strength it took to pilot this machine.
Dean hadn't spoken since we left Murphy's, but the air between us was electric, crackling. I could feel his eyes on me—darting to my profile, down to my lap, back to the road, then to my hands on the wheel.
"Dude," Dean said finally, voice tight and breathless. "Back there. You were—fuck, man."
I didn't look over. Just kept my eyes forward, watching Greg's headlight cut through the darkness. "I was what?"
"You know what." Dean let out a short, shaky laugh. He shifted in his seat—rasp of denim against leather—and I heard the adjustment, knew he was still half-hard. "You had your fucking hand on me for twenty minutes straight. I thought Greg was gonna notice. Thought I was gonna lose it and blow right there at the table."
"But you didn't," I said, voice level.
"No." Dean turned toward me, his face illuminated by a passing streetlamp—flushed, pupils blown, manic energy radiating off him. "I held it together. You were testing me, seeing if I'd break, seeing if I'd push you off or moan like a bitch in front of the Bull. But I took it."
He grinned—crooked, desperate, proud. "I won that round, brother. You tried to make me crack, and I didn't."
I smiled. Adorable. His brain was already rewriting reality, turning violation into victory, submission into strength. In his mind he was a champion of endurance who passed a dominance test.
"You did good," I said, feeding the delusion.
From the backseat, a sound. Not a warning. Not a scream. Just a high, desperate whine.
"Dean..." Miguel gasped. He was leaning forward, gripping the headrest with white-knuckled fingers. He looked at Dean, then down at Dean's hand reaching into my zipper, then up at my eyes in the rearview mirror.
He opened his mouth to tell the truth. To say I'm Jake or He's lying or Run.
But the words didn't come. Because looking at us—two massive, dominant men sharing a secret, sexual intimacy—short-circuited his brain. The beta instinct in Miguel's blood didn't want to stop us; it wanted to watch.
"Dean, please," was all he managed to choke out, his voice thick with tears and spit. "It's... it's not right. Don't... don't touch him."
It wasn't a warning. It sounded like jealousy. Like a pet whining because its master was petting another dog.
Dean didn't even turn around. He just scoffed—a harsh, dismissive sound.
"Shut the fuck up back there," Dean snapped, his voice cold. "Jealous, Miguel?"
"No, I— I just—" Miguel stammered, his eyes glued to the zipper Dean was toying with. "It's too much. Please."
"I said shut it." Dean slammed his palm against the dashboard—crack—loud enough to make Miguel flinch violently. "You're lucky we're even letting you watch. One more word and you're walking home."
Miguel shrank back into the shadows, his sobbing quieter now, muffled behind his hands. He wanted to look away, but I saw him in the mirror. He was peeking through his fingers. Watching.
Dean turned back to me, and I saw it—the shift. The justification clicking into place. He'd convinced himself this was a game. A dominance competition between partners. Testing boundaries, pushing limits, seeing who'd break first. And now he wanted to prove he could play too.
"So that's what this is?" Dean's voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. His hand moved—landed on my thigh. Warm, calloused, aggressive. "We're testing each other? Seeing who breaks?"
"Something like that," I agreed, keeping my voice casual.
Dean's hand slid higher. Clumsy compared to my calculated touch, jerky and uncertain, but the intent was there. He found my zipper, the metal hissing as he tugged it down.
The smell of Jake’s musk—hot, confined, potent—filled the small space immediately. Dean didn’t hesitate; he reached inside. His fingers wrapped around Jake's cock through the boxer briefs—thick, hard, leaking.
"Fuck, dude," Dean breathed, squeezing the mass of it. "You're rock hard. Guess I got you worked up too, huh?"
From the backseat, a choked, wet sound—Miguel realizing exactly what Dean was holding. He wasn't just watching his best friend betray him; he was watching his best friend jerk off his stolen body.
I glanced in the rearview. Greg's headlight burned bright, his bike maybe twenty feet behind us. Miguel was a dark shape in the backseat, trembling. And Dean Cammarata had his hand wrapped around my cock, thinking he was winning, thinking he was the one in control.
"Yeah, Dean," I said softly, letting him feel the weight of it, the heat. "You got me."
Dean grinned—victorious, feral—and started stroking slowly through the fabric. His breathing got heavier. He thought he was dominating. He thought this was mutual competition.
He had no idea he was already mine.
I pressed the accelerator, felt the surge of power—engine roaring, Dean's hand working my cock, my massive frame controlling both the machine and the man. I steered with one hand, letting Dean service me with his clumsy strokes, piloting us all into the dark.
The Game
Pushing the door open with the toe of Jake's boot, the apartment smelled like I'd left it—stale testosterone, unwashed laundry fermenting in the hamper, old pizza boxes stacked by the trash.
In essence the particular funk of a bachelor who didn't give a fuck.
Miguel's apartment had always smelled like "Ocean Breeze" air freshener and desperation. Jake's smelled like raw, unfiltered male. I fucking loved it.
"Alright, mascot," I barked, not even looking at Miguel. "Get to work. Table. Chips. Beer. Glasses. Move your ass."
Miguel scrambled past us, his Adidas squeaking pathetically against the hardwood. He knew the drill. While Greg and Dean wandered in, sizing up the space, I watched Miguel scurry to the closet to drag out the folding poker table. It helped that our mascot used to live here; he probably hauled all this shit up the stairs himself back when he was a man.
Greg walked in like a conquering general, his Chippewa riding boots thudding against the floor with each step. The sound reverberated through my chest, made my cock twitch. He still had his helmet tucked under his arm, those thick leather gloves shoved into his duty belt. The belt creaked when he moved—leather groaning under the weight of gear, authority, power.
He looked massive in the small living room—a brown-and-black monolith of Sheriff's Department authority. His boots alone were works of art: black leather that came up almost to his knees, reinforced shin guards, steel toes scuffed from the bike's shifter. They were broken in, molded to his calves, darkened with sweat and road grime around the ankles where his legs had been cooking inside them all shift.
I wanted them so fucking badly I could taste the leather on my tongue.
"Nice place, Delgado," Greg sneered, glancing around around. "Smells like gym socks and jack-off rags."
"Smells like a man lives here," I corrected, walking to the kitchen. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey—the expensive shit I'd bought with Jake's credit card—and three tumblers. "Not some faggot with scented candles."
Greg laughed, dropping into the armchair like a king taking his throne. The chair groaned under his weight. His legs spread wide, and I watched those boots settle, one crossing over the other. The sole was caked with dried mud and oil, the heavy tread pattern staring me in the face.
I wanted to lick it clean.
Dean wandered over to the couch, still riding that manic energy from the truck. He kept glancing at me, then at Greg, like he was trying to figure out the new rules of engagement.
Meanwhile, Miguel was on his hands and knees, struggling with the folding table legs. His ass was in the air, the wet spot on his khakis dried to a dark, crusty stain. The fabric had stiffened where his precum had soaked through, creating a visible oval of shame.
Greg watched him, eyes narrowing in disgust and amusement. "Look at him. Pathetic."
Miguel finally got the table up. He laid out the green felt mat with shaking hands. Stacked the chips in neat columns. Poured three tumblers of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing because his hands were trembling so badly.
"Good boy," I said, not looking at him. "Now stand in the corner. Don't move. Don't talk. Just watch and learn."
Miguel shuffled to the corner near the kitchen, hands clasped in front of him like a penitent sinner, eyes glued to the floor.
"Sit," I commanded the other two.
We took our seats. Me with my back to the wall, facing the room. Dean to my right, close enough that our knees brushed under the table—a jolt of electricity every time. Greg to my left, his chair tilted back so it creaked under two hundred and forty pounds of muscle, gear, and arrogance.
I shuffled the deck, the cards snapping sharp and rhythmic. The sound was hypnotic, predatory.
"Five-card draw," I announced. "Nothing wild. Standard rules... with modifications."
I dealt. The cards hit the felt with soft thwips.
Greg picked up his hand with those thick, scarred fingers. He glanced at them, then at me. A slow, arrogant grin spread across his face.
"Rules are simple, right?" Greg rumbled. "High hand takes the pot. Low hand strips."
"Almost," I said, fanning my cards. Two pair—Kings and Fours. "But here's the twist. Winner of each hand gets to decide what comes off. And who it comes off."
Dean frowned, shifting in his seat. "Wait, what?"
"House rules," I said simply. "Winner picks the loser and the item. Makes it more interesting."
Greg's grin widened, the predator recognizing the trap but thinking he's the hunter. "I like it. More control. More power."
"Exactly." I threw a chip into the center. "And one more thing—no folding. Everyone plays every hand. You're either winning or you're stripping."
"Ballsy," Greg said, tossing his chip in. "I'm in."
Dean hesitated, looking at the whiskey, then at me. "Fuck it. I'm in."
We played. Cards were discarded, drawn. The silence was thick, broken only by Miguel's shallow breathing from the corner and the heavy creak of Greg's boots when he shifted his weight.
I watched those boots. Every time Greg moved, I tracked them. The way the leather wrinkled at the ankle. The way the laces were double-knotted, military-style. The way they smelled—I could catch hints of it from here, a wave of hot leather and foot musk mixing with the gun oil on his belt.
"Show 'em," I said.
Dean laid down a pair of nines. Trash.
I laid down my two pair. Kings and Fours.
Greg stared at me, his grin not faltering. He slowly, deliberately flipped his cards. Three Jacks.
"Read 'em and weep, Delgado," Greg boomed. "The Bull takes round one."
My heart hammered—not with defeat, but with anticipation. This was perfect. I'd lost on purpose, holding back a better draw. Because now Greg got to choose.
"So, Bull," I said, leaning back. "You won. Pick your victim. And pick what comes off."
Greg looked between Dean and me, his eyes calculating. He was enjoying this—the power, the control, the way we were both waiting for his judgment.
His eyes landed on me, lingering on my chest. "Since you've been eye-fucking my gear all night, Delgado... why don't you start us off? Lose the shirt."
I stood up slowly, making sure they both watched. I grabbed the hem of the gray t-shirt—Dean's shirt, still carrying traces of his scent—and pulled it over my head in one smooth motion.
Jake's torso emerged. Thick pecs dusted with dark hair. Solid abs, not shredded but powerful. The trail of hair led down from my chest, getting denser as it disappeared into the waistband of my jeans. My shoulders were massive, my lats flaring as I stretched.
From the corner, I heard a sharp intake of breath. Miguel. Watching his own stolen body being displayed, stripped, and offered up.
"Fuck," Dean breathed, staring openly at my chest.
Greg's eyes tracked every muscle, lingering on the v-cut leading into my jeans. "Not bad, Delgado. You been holding out on us."
"Your turn to deal, Bull," I said, sitting back down shirtless.
I rested my bare forearms on the table. The green felt was coarse, dragging deliciously against the thick dark hair on my arms—thousands of new nerve endings firing at once. It felt raw. It felt right.
Greg dealt the next hand. His thick fingers moved with surprising dexterity, cards flying across the felt.
I picked up my hand. Three of a kind. Sevens.
But I wasn't playing for chips. I wasn't even playing to win the hands.
I was playing for those boots.
And I was willing to lose as many hands as it took to make Greg comfortable. To make him cocky. To get him drunk and stripped down to nothing but those Chippewas.
Then I'd take everything.
"Mascot," I snapped, still looking at my cards. "Refill the Bull's drink. Full pour. And bring him some of those pretzels from the cupboard."
Miguel moved like a whipped dog, scurrying to obey.
Greg leaned back, boots thudding heavily onto the floor as he spread his legs wider, giving me a prime view of the gear I was hunting. "I could get used to this."
"That's the idea," I said softly, meeting his eyes over my cards. The night was young and I was looking forward to getting both of these alphas under my spell.
Asset Forfeiture
An hour later, the whiskey bottle was half empty, and the apartment had transformed into a den of masculine humidity—sweat, booze, testosterone, and the concentrated musk of three alpha males in a heated, enclosed space. The smell was intoxicating, layering on itself with each passing minute.
The dynamic had shifted exactly as I'd engineered it.
I kept Greg's glass full. Every time he took a sip, I'd give Miguel a sharp nod, and the mascot would scurry over with trembling hands, pouring with the reverence of a supplicant serving his god. Greg was loud now, his movements sloppy, his arrogance curdling into reckless bravado. The whiskey was doing its job.
Dean was the primary casualty. He sat in his boxer briefs and black socks—those tactical socks I'd watched him peel off so many times through my bathroom window. His pile of clothes lay in a pathetic heap: jeans, shirt, belt, all kicked aside like shed skin. Gooseflesh covered his arms and chest, his nipples hard from the air conditioning I'd cranked up on purpose. But he refused to quit, sitting with his legs spread, trying to project confidence while nearly naked between two still-clothed men.
I was down to my jeans and Jake's boots. Shirtless, the light catching the definition in my chest and abs, the dark hair trailing down from my pecs. I could feel their eyes on me—Dean's confused desire, Greg's competitive assessment, Miguel's broken worship from his corner.
And Greg? Greg was shirtless too. I'd won that hand forty minutes ago, and I'd savored watching him peel off that brown Sheriff's shirt, revealing that massive, hairy torso—thick slabs of muscle covered in dark fur, his nipples small and tight, his stomach solid. His brown uniform pants were still on, held up by that magnificent duty belt loaded with gear that creaked every time he moved.
And those boots. Still laced tight on his feet. Black Chippewa Engineers, shin guards gleaming dully, the leather darkened with sweat around the ankles where his calves had been cooking inside them all day.
I wanted them so badly I could barely focus on the cards.
"Deal the fucking cards, Delgado," Greg slurred, slamming his glass down hard enough to rattle the chips. "I'm gonna win those jeans off you next. See what you're packing."
"Coming right up, Bull," I said smoothly, dealing. The cards snapped against the felt with hypnotic rhythm.
I picked up my hand. Full House. Aces over Eights. The Dead Man's Hand—unlucky for anyone else, but for me it was a skeleton key to everything I wanted.
"All in," I said, shoving my entire stack forward with one smooth motion.
Dean looked at his cards and groaned. "I'm out. I can't—I can't lose the boxers, man."
"House rules," I reminded him, my voice sharp. "No folding. You play, or you strip right now and sit there with your cock out."
Dean's face went red, but he threw his chip in with a curse.
Greg squinted at me through the whiskey haze. He looked at his cards—I could tell from his micro-expression they were trash—but his ego wouldn't let him back down. Not in front of Dean. Not in front of the mascot. Not in front of Jake Delgado.
"Call," Greg growled. "Let's see it."
I flipped my cards slowly, one at a time, savoring each reveal. "Full boat. Aces over Eights."
Greg stared at them like they were a personal insult. He threw his hand down—two pair, Queens and Fours—and cursed. "Lucky bastard."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," I said, standing up. I felt the rush—blood surging, cock thickening, power radiating through Jake's massive frame. "I win. Which means I choose."
I walked around the table slowly, letting my bare feet slap against the hardwood. Each step deliberate. Predatory. I could feel their eyes tracking me—Dean's nervous, Greg's defiant, Miguel's desperate.
I stopped behind Greg's chair, so close I could feel the heat radiating off his back. I could smell him—whiskey-sour breath, failing deodorant, the concentrated scent of his armpits after a long shift, the leather of his belt and boots mixing into one glorious bouquet of authority.
"Stand up, Bull."
Greg grunted and pushed himself up. The chair scraped. He was swaying slightly, having to catch himself on the table. He was down to his pants, that duty belt, and those magnificent boots.
He turned to face me, chin up, trying to project dominance even though he was drunk and losing. "What do you want? My pants? You wanna see what I'm packing?"
"Not yet," I whispered, stepping into his personal space until our chests were almost touching. I was maybe an inch taller in Jake's body, and I used every bit of it. I reached out slowly, deliberately, and laid my hand flat on the heavy leather of his duty belt.
The contact sent electricity through me. The leather was warm, almost hot, soaked with his body heat and shaped by hours pressed against his hips.
"I want this," I said softly.
Greg froze. The belt was more than gear—it was identity, authority, power. Cuffs hanging from one side, radio clipped to the other, baton, keys, all of it.
"The belt?" Greg scoffed, but his voice wavered. "What do you—"
"Take it off," I commanded, dropping my voice to that deep, rumbling register that Jake's chest produced effortlessly. "And put it on me."
The room went silent. Dean watched from his corner, mouth open, cock visibly stirring in his boxers. Miguel watched from his standing position, eyes wide and wet, a fresh stain forming on his khakis.
Greg hesitated. For one second, the alcohol fog cleared and I saw confusion flash across his face—maybe even fear. But then he laughed, harsh and forced.
"Fine. You wanna play Sheriff, Delgado? Let's see if you can handle the weight."
He unbuckled it. The keepers came undone with heavy click-clacks that echoed in the small room. He pulled the leather strap from his waist, and the gear swung heavily, clanking. Without the belt, his pants sagged slightly on his hips, revealing the elastic band of black boxer briefs.
He held it out.
I didn't just take it. I grabbed it with both hands, feeling the weight—easily five pounds of leather and equipment. The leather was warm, almost hot, completely saturated with Greg's body heat and sweat. I brought it close to my face, inhaling. Leather oil, metal, and underneath it all, Greg's concentrated waist-sweat.
I stepped back and wrapped it around my own waist—Jake's narrow, powerful waist. The leather creaked as I pulled it tight, feeling the stiff material dig into my hips. The weight settled low, gear swinging and clanking, pulling the belt down naturally.
I buckled it, hearing the metal tongue slide through the leather with a definitive click.
The transformation was instantaneous. My posture shifted to accommodate the load, my shoulders rolling back, my stance widening. I rested my hands on the gear—thumbs hooked on the belt like I'd done it a thousand times.
I looked at Greg. He was just a drunk guy now—shirtless, beltless, his authority stripped away. He looked smaller. Diminished.
I turned to the hall mirror.
Jake's body stared back—massive bare chest, dark hair trailing down carved abs, and that heavy black duty belt slung low on powerful hips. I looked like a recruiting poster. I looked like what Greg wished he could be.
I reached for the brown uniform shirt draped over my chair—Greg's shirt, still warm, still carrying his scent.
I pulled it on slowly, sliding my arms through the sleeves, feeling the starched fabric against my skin. It was tight—Jake's lats were wider than Greg's, his chest thicker—but I forced the buttons, watching the fabric strain across my pecs. The short sleeves cut into my biceps perfectly.
I left the top two buttons undone, revealing the dark hair on my chest.
I turned back to them.
Miguel let out a small, broken sound—half moan, half sob. He was staring at me with shattered worship, precum visibly dripping through his khakis onto the floor.
"How do I look, mascot?" I asked, adjusting the collar, running my hands down the front of the shirt.
Miguel couldn't speak. He just nodded frantically, tears streaming, his whole body trembling.
"You look like a fucking stripper," Greg tried to joke, but his voice was hollow. He was staring at his own uniform draped over a bigger, more powerful frame. Seeing himself replaced. Upgraded.
Dean was staring too, his cock now fully hard and tenting his boxers obscenely.
"Deal the cards, Dean," I commanded, sitting back down. The duty belt crunched against the wooden chair—that beautiful sound of leather and metal settling. I spread my legs wide, letting them see the full display: Sheriff's uniform, duty belt, Jake's powerful bare feet.
I stretched one leg out under the table deliberately, until my toes brushed against the heavy, mud-caked leather of Greg's boot.
Contact.
I pressed my foot against it, feeling the solid leather, the warmth still inside, imagining Greg's sweaty foot trapped in there.
"One more round," I said, locking eyes with the Bull. I smiled—Jake's cocky, predatory smile. "I think you've got one piece of gear left that I need."
Greg looked down at his boots. Then back at me.
And for the first time tonight, I saw something real flash in his eyes.
Perfect.
The Final Hand
The whiskey was almost gone. The air in the room was electric, heavy with the smell of three men—salt, musk, and the sharp tang of competitive testosterone.
"Show 'em," I commanded.
Greg slammed his cards down hard enough to make the chips jump. "Three Queens." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his bare, hairy chest, a smug grin cutting through the flush of alcohol. "Top that, Delgado. I'm keeping my boots."
I looked at him. At those massive black Chippewa boots, scuffed and heavy, encasing his thick calves. The leather had molded to his legs over months of wear, dark with sweat around the ankles. They were the last piece of his authority, and I wanted them more than I'd wanted anything in Miguel's pathetic life.
"Three Queens is good," I said softly, sliding my cards onto the felt one at a time. "But a Straight Flush is better."
Greg's face froze. He stared at the cards—Nine through King of Spades, perfectly sequential, perfectly suited.
"Fuck!" Greg roared, but he was laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "You lucky son of a bitch. You got a horseshoe up your ass tonight, Delgado."
"Skill, Bull. Pure skill," Dean chimed in, his voice bright with manic energy.
I let myself really look at Dean. He wasn't slumped over drunk—he was wired, elevated, transformed. Sitting in his black boxer briefs and socks, legs spread wide with zero shame, he was vibrating with the kind of reckless energy that comes from crossing boundaries you didn't even know you had. His chest was flushed, his pupils dilated, and when he leaned over the table to look at my winning hand, I could smell him—the citrus body wash mixing with fresh sweat, the musk of arousal barely contained by those black boxers.
This wasn't the Dean who'd nervously laughed off my hand on his thigh at the bar. This was a Dean I'd corrupted in real-time, rebuilt in the span of three hours. And he had no idea.
"Pay up, Greg," Dean taunted, grinning wildly at the Bull. "Don't be a pussy. House rules. Jake cleaned you out."
Look at him, I thought, my cock thickening in my jeans. He thinks he's on my team now. He thinks we're allies in taking down the Bull. He doesn't realize he's the one being hunted.
"I ain't a pussy," Greg grumbled, standing up. He swayed slightly, hands going to his hips—hips that were naked without his duty belt, which was currently wrapped tight around my waist, the weight of it a constant reminder of stolen authority.
"Then take 'em off," I commanded, sitting back in my chair. I rested my hand on the heavy leather holster at my hip, fingers drumming against Greg's radio. "I want the boots."
Greg glared at me, but it was the glare of a man who knew he'd been outplayed. With a grunt of resignation, he bent down.
The unlacing was erotic torture. His thick fingers worked the knots, loosening the leather laces one eyelet at a time. I watched every movement—the way his shoulder muscles bunched as he pulled, the way he had to brace one hand on the chair for balance. He grabbed the heel of the left boot with both hands and yanked.
Squelch.
The sound of the boot sliding off his sweaty foot was wet and obscene. A wave of scent hit me instantly—hot, pungent foot musk, damp leather, and the concentrated tang of socks that had been sealed inside riding boots for a twelve-hour shift. My mouth watered.
He kicked it toward me with a grunt. Then repeated the process with the right boot.
Now Greg was standing there in his brown Sheriff's trousers and black socks, shirtless and beltless. He looked diminished. A cop without his gear was just a guy with a bad attitude.
I didn't wait. I hooked both boots with my bare feet and dragged them under the table toward me, feeling the still-warm leather against my skin.
They were radiating body heat like living things. I lifted the left one, bringing the open shaft to my face. I didn't care that they were watching. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes.
The scent was overwhelming—concentrated male musk, mineral salt from dried sweat, leather oil, and underneath it all, the sharp, almost ammonia-like tang of foot sweat that had fermented in enclosed leather. It was the smell of power, of authority, of the Bull reduced to his most basic essence. I could taste it on my tongue. I ran my tongue along the inside rim of the boot shaft, tasting the salt crystals that had formed there.
"Jesus, Jake," Dean laughed, watching me with fascinated, hungry eyes. His cock visibly twitched in his boxers. "You really have a thing for those, huh?"
"I like winning," I said, meeting his gaze. I shoved my foot inside the boot. It was tight—Greg's feet were wider, built for stability—but I forced my heel down, the leather giving grudgingly, Greg's sweat acting as lubricant. The interior was damp, hot, molding to my foot like a second skin. I felt the impression his foot had left, the worn-down insole conforming to mine.
I stomped the floor. THUD.
The impact reverberated up through my shin, my knee, settling in my groin like a physical touch. I repeated the process with the right boot, then stood up. The steel-toed Chippewas added two inches to Jake's already impressive height. The weight anchored me, grounded me.
I was the Sheriff now. Not Greg. Not Jake. Me.
"Well, you cleaned me out," Greg said, hands on his hips, trying to maintain swagger despite being half-naked and barefoot. "Game over. I'm gonna take a leak and call it a night."
"Not yet," Dean interrupted.
He stood up, his black boxers obscenely tented with his erection. He didn't try to hide it or adjust himself. He walked around the table with purpose, confident and cocky, placing a hand on my shoulder—claiming me as his ally, his partner.
Perfect, I thought, feeling his warm palm through the Sheriff's uniform shirt I was wearing. He's so far gone he doesn't even realize what he's doing.
"Game's not over, Greg," Dean said, his voice dropping to a challenge. "You claimed you were the 'Bull.' You talked all that shit in the car about how you were gonna dominate us, how you don't lose."
Greg narrowed his eyes, tracking from Dean's face down to his obvious erection, then back up. "Yeah? And look at you, Cammarata. Standing there with a hard-on like a dog in heat. You been excited all night?"
"Maybe I have," Dean shot back, stepping into Greg's space with zero hesitation. He was chest-out, shoulders back, challenging. "Maybe I'm just comfortable with my team. Unlike you."
I nearly groaned out loud. Dean thought this was masculine bonding. He thought getting hard around other men during competition was normal, natural, a sign of being comfortable in his own skin. He had no idea I'd systematically dismantled every boundary that would have stopped him from saying something like that.
"I'm comfortable," Greg snapped defensively.
"Are you?" I asked, standing up slowly. The boots added authority to every movement. I towered over them both now, the massive frame of Jake Delgado amplified by Greg's stolen gear. "Dean's hard. I'm hard." I rubbed my hand over the bulge straining against my jeans, making sure they both saw. "You're the only one here who's soft, Greg."
Greg's face flushed dark red. The ultimate insult—questioning his virility, his masculinity, his adequacy.
"I ain't soft," Greg growled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm packing more right now than you two combined."
"Talk is cheap," Dean laughed, and then—god, this beautiful, corrupted man—he reached out and flicked the waistband of Greg's trousers with his finger. "Show us. Unless you're scared you don't measure up."
I watched Dean's face as he said it. He thought he was taunting Greg. He thought this was still a game of chicken, of who'd back down first. He had no concept that he'd just propositioned another man to expose himself sexually. The cognitive dissonance hadn't even registered.
Greg looked at Dean, then at me. The alcohol, the competitive atmosphere, the direct challenge to his ego—it all swirled together into a perfect storm of terrible decisions.
"You want to see?" Greg challenged, his jaw set. "Fine."
He unbuttoned his trousers with aggressive, jerky movements. He shoved them down his thick thighs.
He wasn't wearing underwear.
His cock swung free—heavy, thick, and already semi-hard from the confrontation. It was massive. A true Bull's cock, thick as a wrist at the base, hanging heavy between his legs, the head dark and prominent.
Dean's eyes went wide. His breath hitched audibly. All the banter, all the bravado died in his throat. He stared at it with undisguised fascination, his own cock visibly pulsing in his boxers, leaving a wet spot.
"Damn," Dean whispered, looking from Greg's cock up to his face. His tongue darted out to wet his lips unconsciously. "Okay. Respect."
He just licked his lips looking at another man's dick, I catalogued internally, fighting to keep my face neutral. And he doesn't even realize he did it.
"Respect?" I stepped forward, the duty belt creaking with authority. "Don't just look at it, partner. We're testing limits tonight, right? Seeing who's man enough to handle anything?"
"Right," Dean breathed, his eyes glazed with lust and confusion and the heady rush of breaking taboos. "Testing limits."
"Touch it," I commanded softly. "See if it's real."
Dean hesitated for exactly one second. Then his hand—the hand of a straight man who'd convinced himself this was just athletic comparison—reached out and wrapped around Greg's shaft.
Greg hissed, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. "Jesus—watch the grip, Cammarata."
"It's heavy," Dean murmured, his voice awed. He squeezed, testing the weight, the girth. His thumb traced along a prominent vein. He looked up at Greg, and that reckless, corrupted grin split his face. "I bet I can make you hard before you make me cum."
There it is, I thought, my cock leaking precum into my jeans. He's reframed it. It's not gay—it's a competition. He's not groping another man—he's testing his dominance.
Greg looked down at Dean—at the sheer audacity of this pretty-boy partner groping his cock and issuing a challenge. The anger melted into lust. This was a game he could win.
"You think?" Greg growled, his hands landing heavily on Dean's bare shoulders, squeezing the muscle there. "I bet I can make you beg."
"Prove it," I said, stepping between them. I placed one hand on Dean's neck, one hand on Greg's chest—the authority figure directing his subordinates, choreographing their corruption. "Show me what the Bull's got."
I looked toward the corner where Miguel stood trembling.
"Miguel," I barked.
Miguel was shaking violently, phone raised with both hands to keep it steady, capturing every second of Dean's downfall. He was leaking through his khakis—a fresh wet spot joining the dried ones from earlier—tears streaming down his face as he watched his straight crush actively groping another man's cock and grinning about it.
"Bedroom," I ordered the room. "Bring the bottle. We're going to see who the real Bull is tonight."
Dean laughed—a low, filthy sound I'd never heard from him before—and tugged Greg's cock, leading him toward the hallway like a leash. "Come on, Greg. Let's see what you got."
Greg followed, fully hard now, his ego and his lust completely engaged, being led by his dick toward the bedroom by another man.
I walked behind them both, my stolen boots thudding with authority on the floorboards, the Sheriff's belt heavy and perfect on my hips. I hadn't forced them. I hadn't drugged them. I had simply opened the door and reframed what walking through it meant. And they'd run through it, eager to prove they were men enough to handle anything.
This is control, I thought, watching Dean's ass flex in those black boxers as he led Greg down the hall. Not violence. Not coercion. Just... reframing. Dean thinks he's dominating. Greg thinks he's reclaiming his alpha status. And neither of them realizes they're both mine.
The Corruption of Dean Cammarata
The bedroom smelled like Jake—unwashed sheets, stale cedar, old sweat. But tonight we were adding new layers.
Dean walked in ahead of us, not stumbling, not hesitating. He turned at the foot of the bed, naked except for those black socks, his body flushed and radiating heat. His cock stood rigid against his abs, leaking steadily.
"Alright," Dean said, rolling his shoulders like a fighter entering the ring. "You two have been talking shit all night. Time to see who's actually got stamina."
Greg stood in the doorway, naked and massive, his thick cock half-hard and rising. "You think you can outlast both of us?"
"I know I can," Dean shot back. "Question is whether my ride-along partner and an easy-ride plush seat cop can keep up with actual patrol conditioning."
Perfect, I thought, watching Dean reframe this as athletic competition. He genuinely believed this was a test of endurance, not corruption.
I stepped forward, the duty belt creaking on my hips, the stolen boots heavy on my feet. "Mascot," I barked toward the corner. "Get in position. Document everything."
Miguel shuffled forward from the doorway where he'd been frozen. His phone was already recording, his hands shaking so badly the image must have been vibrating. His khakis were soaked through, a dark stain spreading from crotch to thigh.
"I... yes sir," Miguel whispered.
"Closer," I commanded. "Three feet from the bed. I want audio."
Miguel moved closer, his breathing ragged. He stared at Dean—the body’s innate need to submit to superior men flooding him with endorphins and dopamine—standing naked and eager for what was coming.
Dean didn't cover up. He didn't shy away. He looked at Miguel’s trembling hands and laughed—a sharp, arrogant sound.
"Look at him shaking," Dean grinned, flexing his quads, utterly unbothered by his own nudity. "You never seen a real athlete up close, have you, mascot?"
"I... I want to see," Miguel choked out, the words spilling before he could stop them. "I want to watch."
Dean winked at the camera lens, treating Miguel like a paparazzi he was graciously allowing into the VIP section.
"Yeah, I bet you do," Dean said. "Just keep that hand steady. You're documenting history tonight."
I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself at the headboard. The mattress dipped under Jake's weight. I unbuckled my jeans, pulled out my cock—thick, hard, leaking. "On your knees, Dean. Let's see that jaw strength."
"That's it?" Dean laughed, crawling onto the bed. "I thought this was supposed to be a challenge."
Greg climbed on from the other side. "Mouth full and ass full, Cammarata. Let's see you maintain form under pressure."
"Bring it," Dean said, getting on all fours, positioning himself between us.
The reality of the geometry seemed to hit Miguel all at once. "Oh god," he breathed. "You're going to—both of you—"
"Film it," I ordered. "Don't miss a second. This is what real men look like."
Dean crawled forward, his eyes locked on mine with competitive intensity. No hesitation. No shame. He opened his mouth wide and took me in one smooth motion, his tongue working immediately, his throat relaxing to accommodate depth.
"Fuck," Greg muttered behind him, watching Dean service me with technical precision. "I might lose this."
Dean pulled off with a wet pop. "I haven't done shit. I'm just better at everything than you, Mendes. Now shut up and do your job."
He went back down on me, and Greg grabbed the lube bottle from the nightstand.
"You want me to warm you up first?" Greg asked, squeezing lube onto his fingers.
"Stalling, Greg?" Dean said around my cock. "I'm not made of glass."
Greg lined up. His cock was massive, easily the thickest of the three of us. He pushed the head against Dean's hole—I could see it from my angle, see the resistance, see Dean's body fighting the intrusion.
"Breathe," Greg instructed.
"I'm breathing," Dean snapped. "Push harder."
Greg pushed. The head popped through the ring of muscle with visible effort. Dean's entire body went rigid, his throat convulsing around my cock.
"Status check," I said, grabbing Dean's hair to pull him up slightly. "Color?"
"Green," Dean gasped. "Keep going."
From the corner: "Jesus Christ." Miguel's voice was thick with tears and arousal. "Dean, you don't have to—"
"Shut the fuck up, Miguel," Dean interrupted. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because I can."
Greg sank deeper. Inch by inch, using Dean's own words as permission to split him open. Dean's arms were shaking, supporting his weight, his core engaged to stabilize against the assault from behind.
"This what you wanted?" Greg grunted, finally fully seated. "Feel like a man now?"
"I feel like I'm doing all the work," Dean shot back. "You're just standing there. Fuck me like you mean it."
Something shifted in Greg's face—the challenge overrode any remaining hesitation. He pulled back and drove forward hard.
The bed frame slammed against the wall. Dean choked on my cock, eyes watering, but he didn't pull away. He adjusted his stance, widened his knees for stability, and pushed back to meet Greg's next thrust.
"There we go," Dean panted. "Now we're moving."
I grabbed his head with both hands, holding him steady, and started thrusting. Slow, controlled pumps that forced him to coordinate breathing with the rhythm from behind.
Miguel made a broken sound from the corner. "He's... you're destroying him."
"I'm not destroyed," Dean managed to articulate, pulling off my cock for air. "I'm crushing this. Both ends, full capacity, no complaints. This is—" thrust from Greg, "—fuck—this is elite level shit."
He was sweating profusely now, his back slick and gleaming in the dim light. Every muscle in his body was engaged—quads, glutes, core, shoulders—working to maintain position while accommodating both of us.
"Time check," I said, looking at Miguel. "How long?"
Miguel stared at his phone screen. "Twelve minutes."
"Twelve minutes," I repeated to Dean. "Can you make it to fifteen?"
"I can make it to thirty," Dean growled, the competitive fire blazing. "Question is can you two last that long without blowing early."
Greg laughed, a harsh sound, and grabbed Dean's hips harder. "You're talking a lot of shit for someone getting split open."
"Because I can take it," Dean insisted. "This is—nngh—this is nothing. I do harder cardio than this every morning."
"Miguel," I said, my voice dropping to command tone. "Tell us what you see."
Miguel's voice cracked. "I see... Dean's taking both of you. He's... his hole is stretched around Greg's cock. It's—god—it's obscene how thick you are, Greg. And Dean's throat keeps—every time Jake pushes in, I can see the outline in his neck."
"Keep going," I ordered. "Details."
"His thighs are shaking," Miguel continued, the words tumbling out. "There's sweat dripping off his balls. His cock is still hard—it's not even touching anything but he's leaking all over the sheets. There's a puddle under him."
Dean moaned at the narration, his body responding to being observed, being documented as capable of this.
"Thirteen minutes," Miguel whispered. "His jaw is starting to slack. Greg, you're—you're going harder. The sound is so wet. There's lube everywhere, mixing with—oh god—"
"With what?" Greg demanded.
"Pre-cum," Miguel breathed. "From all three of you. The sheets are soaked."
I felt it building—not just orgasm, but the complete domination of this moment. Dean thought he was winning. He thought enduring this proved his strength. He had no idea he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.
"I'm close," Greg admitted, his rhythm getting erratic.
"Don't you dare finish before me," Dean gasped around my cock, the competitive instinct overriding everything else.
"Touch yourself," I commanded Dean. "Let's see you cum while taking both of us."
Dean snaked one hand down to his cock, stroking in time with our thrusts. The coordination was impressive—maintaining position while being fucked from both ends while jerking himself off.
"Fifteen minutes," Miguel announced, his voice reverent. "He's going to—Dean, you're going to—"
Dean came first. His whole body locked up, cum shooting across the sheets in thick ropes, his throat clamping down on my cock, his ass spasming around Greg.
The chain reaction was inevitable. Greg roared, slamming forward one final time, emptying inside Dean. The sight and sound pushed me over, and I pulled out just enough to paint Dean's face and throat with cum.
For a moment, the only sound was heavy breathing.
Then Dean collapsed forward onto the mattress, rolled onto his back, and raised one fist in victory.
"Fifteen minutes, both holes, finished strong," he panted, grinning through the cum on his face. "Who's the fucking champion?"
I stared at him—this beautiful, corrupted man who thought he'd just won something.
"You are," I said, bumping his raised fist with mine. "Absolute champion."
Miguel was on his knees in the corner, cum soaking through his pants, the phone still recording, watching his fantasy destroy himself with a smile on his face.
"Clean up," I ordered Miguel, standing and adjusting the duty belt. "I need a shower."
As I walked past Greg in the hallway, I caught his expression—confusion, shame starting to creep in now that the adrenaline was fading.
But Dean? Dean was still grinning on the bed, victorious.
Tomorrow I'd tell him whatever story I wanted. And he'd believe it. Because tonight, in his mind, he'd won.
Your Morning Report
Sunlight hit the bedroom like a physical blow—harsh, unfiltered, exposing everything.
I was already up, showered, and dressed. I'd reclaimed my own jeans, but I kept the boots. Greg's black Chippewas were on my feet, laced tight. I liked the weight of them. I liked knowing he had to ride home in his socks.
I stood in the doorway, nursing a pounding headache and drinking coffee from a mug that used to be Miguel's, watching the creature in my bed stir.
Dean groaned—a long, ragged sound. He rolled onto his back, shielding his eyes. He was naked, the sheet tangled low around his waist, and god, he was magnificent. Morning light illuminated every line of muscle earned through endless triathlons—his chest rising and falling, abs flexing with each breath, the V-cut of his lower abs disappearing into the sheet. Bruises bloomed on his hips—dark purple fingerprints where Greg had gripped him. His lips were swollen, bee-stung and obscene. Dried cum crusted his collarbone.
He was a masterpiece of corruption.
"Fuck," Dean croaked, his voice wrecked. "My head is splitting. You look like shit too, partner."
"Rough night," I admitted, rubbing my temple. "Whiskey and adrenaline."
Dean squinted at me, assessing my condition with that competitive edge he applied to everything. Then that slow, corrupted grin spread across his swollen lips.
"I know the cure," Dean rasped.
He didn't wait for a response. He didn't ask permission.
He swung his legs off the bed—and I noticed immediately. He was wearing Greg's black socks, bunching loosely around his ankles, too big for his feet. He'd stolen them at some point during the night and didn't even realize it. The corruption was unconscious now.
Dean stood, wincing at the soreness in his glutes, and walked straight to me.
"Sit," he commanded, pushing me backward toward the chair by the dresser.
"Dean, what are you—"
"Sit down," Dean ordered, his voice rough with authority. "You did this for me last night. Fair's fair. Partners take care of each other."
I sat. Dean immediately dropped to his knees between my legs, those too-big socks sliding on the hardwood. He reached for my belt buckle with purpose.
"Hangover protocol," Dean explained, working my belt open like he was field-stripping a weapon. "Endorphins. Oxytocin. Better than Advil."
He popped the button of my jeans, yanked the zipper down. He freed my cock—semi-soft but heavy—and wrapped both hands around it, studying it like a problem to solve.
"Last night you barely used your hands," Dean muttered, more to himself than to me. "Just throat and suction. But I can do better."
He looked up at me with bloodshot, competitive eyes. "I'm gonna find your buttons, Jake. Make you feel it more than Greg made me feel it."
Then he went to work.
He started with his mouth—opening wide and engulfing me in one aggressive motion, taking me deep until his nose pressed against my pelvis. Immediate vacuum seal. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, creating pressure so intense I gasped and nearly dropped the coffee mug. The obscene wet sounds filled the room—slurp, gag, slurp—punctuated by Dean's breathing through his nose, hot air hitting my pelvis in rhythmic bursts. Saliva was running down his chin, dripping onto his chest, mixing with the dried cum already there. The visual was devastating—this pristine athlete reduced to a drooling, eager mess, and loving every second of it.
But then his hands joined the assault.
One hand gripped the base, jerking in rhythm with his bobbing head. The other slid up under my shirt, fingers splaying across my abs, then climbing higher. He found my nipple and pinched—hard.
"Fuck!" I hissed, my hips bucking involuntarily.
Dean started to hum.
It wasn't a moan of pleasure. It was a low, guttural vibration deep in his throat, humming against the sensitive skin of my shaft. He was turning his throat into a vibrating sex toy. He kept working that nipple, rolling it between his fingers, while his mouth created a rhythm that was mechanical, efficient, and possessive.
In the corner, Miguel scrambled upright, eyes wide, phone instinctively rising to document. He watched his straight fantasy give another man a competitive blowjob as "hangover medicine."
Dean pulled off with a wet pop, spit connecting his lips to my now-rigid cock.
"You got a prostate preference?" he asked, dead serious. "Greg's was right there—I could feel it from outside. Where's yours?"
"Dean, you don't have to—"
"I want to be better at this than you were," Dean interrupted, his competitive streak fully engaged. "You made me feel like I was gonna black out last night. I want to do that to you."
He dove back down, throat opening to take me deeper than before. But now his hand slid down, cupping my balls, rolling them, then sliding further back—fingers pressing against my taint, searching for that spot.
Dean’s finger found the spot and pressed with the same precision he'd use checking someone's pulse. Firm, steady, unrelenting. The pressure built like a dam about to break, radiating from that single point through my entire groin.
The sensation shot straight up my spine. My back arched, the chair creaking. "Jesus Christ, Dean."
"Mmhmm," Dean hummed, pleased with himself.
Dean treated my body less like a lover and more like a high-performance engine requiring calibration. Every movement was calculated—the vibration of his throat, the torque on my nipple, the precise pressure against my prostate. It was competitive analysis applied to sexual technique. Sweat beaded on his flushed forehead, dripping onto my thighs. From this angle, the wreckage of his body was on full display—purple bruises blooming on his hips, Greg's stolen socks slipping off his heels—yet he worked with the cold, mechanical efficiency of a pit crew. To him, this wasn't submission; it was just high-level maintenance.
"Dean... I'm gonna..."
He didn't pull back. He doubled down. Sucked harder. Vibrated his throat. Pressed deeper on my prostate. Twisted my nipple. The triple assault shattered my control.
I exploded.
I fired hard, pulsing thick and deep into his throat. Dean’s eyes watered, cheeks bulging, but he didn't swallow. He held it. He kept his lips sealed tight around the head, catching every drop, storing the release like fuel.
He pulled off with a wet pop.
His cheeks were full, his lips pressed tight. He reached up and plucked the coffee mug from my hand. He leaned over the rim and opened his mouth, letting the thick mixture of saliva and cum spill into the black coffee—plop, plop, splash.
He swirled the mug once, mixing it.
He took a sip, swallowing the mixture without blinking. Then he held the mug out to me, his lips wet and grinning.
"Don't waste the protein, bro," Dean rasped. "Drink up. We got a long day."
I stared at him—at the mug, at his face, at the sheer audacity of the power move. He wasn't submitting. He was hazing me.
I took the mug. I drank.
"Good man," Dean said, satisfied. He stood—wincing at his sore glutes—and walked toward the bathroom, Greg's socks sliding on the floor. Dean paused, looking down at my feet.
"Those boots," he said, his destroyed voice dropping with appreciation. "They look better on you than they ever did on him. You wear them right—like you earned them." He flexed his toes in Greg's stolen socks. "I'm claiming that helmet. The Bull left it in the living room. Spoils of war, right?"
"Right," I agreed, feeling the leather creak as I shifted my feet. "You earned it."
"Damn right I did," Dean said, that corrupted grin spreading. "Seventeen minutes. That helmet's mine."
"You were perfect," I said honestly, tasting myself and him in the coffee.
"Good." Dean walked past Miguel without looking at him. "You missed a spot in the corner, mascot. Clean it up."
The bathroom door closed. A moment later I heard the shower running, Dean humming that same rough, broken tune.
I zipped my jeans, feeling the afterglow settle in. I looked at Miguel. He was staring at the bathroom door, shattered.
"He... he studied you," Miguel whispered. "He analyzed what you did and tried to do it better. Like it was a sport."
"Partners look out for each other, Miguel," I said, lacing up Greg's boots. "He was just being a bro."
The corruption was total. Dean Cammarata wasn't just broken; he was rebuilt. He was competitive, eager, and completely convinced this was normal masculine bonding.
Dean emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, hair wet, a towel around his waist. He walked straight to the living room and picked up Greg's motorcycle helmet from where it sat by the door. He tried it on, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror.
"Perfect fit," Dean announced, turning his head side to side. The black helmet with the Sheriff's insignia gleamed. "Yeah. This is mine now. Tell Greg he can pick it up at the station if he wants it back." He grinned at his reflection. "But he won't."
And tomorrow, when the fog cleared a little more, I'd introduce another boundary to cross. Another "team-building exercise." Another test of endurance.
Because Dean was a champion. And champions always wanted to improve their performance.
His boots weren't the only things I was obsessed with.
This story was inspired by one of my old favorites from Brosession (Compression PART 1 PART 2) that I reworked to give it a more boot focused cop angle. Please enjoy.
Part I: Collision
The first time I saw Dean Cammarata strip down in the station locker room, I knew I was fucked.
He was a California Highway Patrol officer—the kind they put on recruiting posters. All squared jaw, powerful build, and that infuriating confidence that came from knowing you were genetically blessed. I was just a civilian IT contractor, invisible unless the Wi-Fi went down. But Dean? Dean existed in a different stratosphere entirely.
And I had a secret. I lived in the apartment complex directly adjacent to his. From my bathroom window, if the angle was right and the blinds were open, I could see directly into his master bath.
For three months, I had been watching Dean Cammarata shower.
I knew the way he scrubbed his back with a rough loofah. I knew how he shaved his face in the mirror, jaw jutting out. I knew the exact shade of tan on his ass. But watching him through a window was one thing; being in the room with him was another.
By month three of my contract, the fascination had curdled into something pathological. I started timing my bathroom breaks to coincide with his shifts ending. I memorized his schedule. I knew which locker was his. I knew he wore those regulation black leather boots that he polished every Friday, leaving behind a faint chemical tang of boot black mixed with the leather and his foot sweat.
And one Thursday evening, I crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
The station gym was technically closed after seven, but I'd swiped a maintenance key card. I told myself I was just going to work out—use the equipment while it was empty. But when I heard the locker room door swing open and saw Dean's cruiser parked outside through the window, my feet carried me toward the sound of running water.
The locker room was humid, thick with steam from the showers. Through the gap between a row of lockers, I could see him.
Dean was in his undershirt and uniform pants, the tan fabric pulled taut across an ass that defied physics. His duty belt hung on a hook, the leather creaking slightly. But it was the boots that caught my attention first—those massive black tactical boots, unlaced now, the tongues hanging loose. He'd been wearing them for a twelve-hour shift, and even from here I could see the leather was darkened with sweat around the ankle area.
He sat down on the bench and pulled off the first boot with a grunt. Then he peeled off his sock—a thick black tactical sock, damp and crumpled. He tossed it aside carelessly, and I watched it land on the tile, still holding the shape of his foot.
My mouth went dry.
He pulled off the second boot and sock, then stood and rolled his massive shoulders, peeling the sweat-damp shirt over his head in one fluid motion.
Jesus Christ.
His back was a roadmap of muscle—lats that flared like wings, traps that bunched when he stretched his neck. A light coating of hair dusted his shoulders, trailing down his spine. When he bent forward to shove down his pants, those glutes flexed under the fabric, two perfect mounds of power.
He stripped down to just compression shorts—black ones, the fabric molded to every contour of his thighs and that obscene bulge at his crotch. He adjusted himself absently, and I nearly choked on my own spit.
I was so transfixed that I didn't hear the footsteps behind me until a hand clamped down on my shoulder like a vice.
"You lost, buddy?"
My blood turned to ice. I spun around and had to crane my neck back to see the face attached to the hand.
Officer Jake Delgado—Dean's partner.
I didn't know anything about Jake other than his name and his size. He was bigger than Dean, if that was possible, with shoulders that barely fit through doorframes. His dark hair was cut in a severe buzz cut, so short I could see his scalp beneath the bristle.
"I was just—"
"Watching my partner get changed?" Jake's voice was flat, dangerous. His eyes flicked to the gap in the lockers, then back to me. "That's a real bad look."
"No, I wasn't—"
"Save it." He grabbed my shirt, shoving me back against the lockers with enough force to rattle the metal. "You're the IT guy, right? The one who's always hanging around?"
My mouth opened and closed uselessly. This close, I could smell him—a potent mix of sweat, the leather from his duty belt, and something else. Something masculine and territorial.
Jake leaned in, his breath hot on my face. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to leave. You're going to request a transfer. And you're never going to look at him again. Because if I catch you pulling this creep shit one more time, I'll make sure you never work in this county again. We clear?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He shoved me harder, and my head cracked against the metal edge of a locker. Pain exploded behind my eyes, bright and white-hot. My knees buckled.
"We clear?" Jake repeated.
"Yeah," I gasped. "Clear."
He released me, and I crumpled to the tile floor. My head was ringing, vision swimming. Through the fog, I heard Dean's voice from the other side of the lockers.
"Everything okay out there, Delgado?"
"Yeah, man. Just some guy who got lost. He's leaving."
I heard the heavy thud of Jake's boots as he walked away—those same tactical boots that all the officers wore, but somehow sounded more menacing when he wore them. The sole had a distinctive tread pattern that left marks on the tile.
Behind him, I heard Dean laugh at something. Easy. Unconcerned. I was less than nothing to him.
I should have left. But I didn't.
I crawled to where Dean had tossed his socks. They were still warm, still damp. With shaking hands, I grabbed one and brought it to my face.
The smell was concentrated—sharp and salty and intoxicating. I inhaled deeply, my eyes rolling back, feeling the damp fabric against my skin. This was Dean. His sweat. His scent. The man I watched every night through a window, finally tangible.
I shoved the sock in my pocket and stumbled to my feet, head spinning. I made it to the exit just as the rage set in.
White-hot, impotent rage that made my hands shake and my vision blur. I wanted to be Jake. I wanted to be the one who could slam someone into a wall and make them disappear. I wanted Dean to know my name, to see me, to fucking respect—
The world tilted.
It wasn't gradual. One second I was standing in the hallway, and the next I was falling through space. No—not falling. Being pulled. Sucked through a tunnel that had no dimensions, no light, no sound.
My body dissolved. My senses shut down one by one until I was just consciousness, floating in an abyss.
And then, impact.
Part II: Transfer
I slammed back into existence with the force of a car crash.
Sensation flooded in all at once—too much, too fast. Heavy limbs. Hot skin. The smell of sweat and leather and something else, something primal and musky that I recognized but couldn't place.
My eyes snapped open. I was staring at a ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The locker room.
But I was too tall. The perspective was all wrong.
"—fuck, did I just black out?"
The voice rumbled out of my chest. Deep. Gravelly. Not mine.
I lurched upright, and the sheer momentum of my body surprised me. I moved like a freight train—powerful but unwieldy. My center of gravity was completely different, higher and broader.
My hand came up automatically to touch my head, and instead of my soft, thinning hair, I felt bristle. Short, coarse bristle that scratched against my palm. I rubbed harder, feeling the texture, the density. It was aggressive masculinity condensed into a haircut.
I looked down at my hand—but it wasn't my hand. It was enormous. Thick fingers, callused knuckles, veins snaking up the forearm like cables under tanned skin. Dark hair covered the forearm in a dense pelt.
I stared at it. Flexed it. Watched the muscles in the forearm bunch and shift.
"No fucking way."
I looked down at my body—this body. Huge. A broad chest straining against a gray tank top. Thick thighs encased in black tactical pants. Heavy black boots on my feet—the same boots I'd heard Jake walking away in.
I stood up, the motion surprisingly smooth despite my size. I stumbled to the mirror mounted on the far wall.
The face staring back at me was Jake Delgado's.
Square jaw dusted with stubble. Dark eyes, slightly bloodshot. That severe buzz cut, so short I could see the scalp beneath. I was six-foot-four if I was an inch, shoulders broad enough to cast shadows.
"Holy shit," I whispered, leaning closer. I ran my hand over my head again, obsessed with the sensation. The hair was maybe a quarter-inch long, standing straight up in stiff bristles. It was the kind of haircut that said military, cop, alpha. I rubbed harder, feeling it scratch against my palm, and a shiver ran through me.
My heart was pounding—or Jake's heart. I could feel it hammering against my ribs, a powerful rhythm that seemed to shake my entire frame.
I looked down at myself, really taking inventory. My hands were huge, hairy, masculine. My forearms were covered in that thick dark hair, denser near the wrists. I rolled up the sleeves of the tank top and stared at my biceps—massive, veiny, dusted with more hair.
And then the smell hit me.
It was coming from me. From this body. A potent mix of sweat, the leather from my duty belt still hanging on the chair, and something deeper. Musk. Male musk.
I lifted my arm and buried my nose in my armpit. The scent was concentrated there—sharp, almost acrid, but intoxicating. I inhaled deeply, groaning at the intensity.
But I needed more.
I looked down at my boots—Jake's boots. Black tactical leather, the kind with reinforced toes and thick soles. They were massive, easily size thirteens. I could feel the heat trapped inside them, the sweat soaking into the insoles after a full shift.
I sat down on the bench and unlaced one boot, pulling it off with effort. The smell that escaped was immediate and overwhelming—concentrated foot sweat, leather, and that musky male scent that made my head spin.
I brought the boot to my face and inhaled deeply.
"Fuck," I moaned, the sound deep and guttural. It was disgusting. It was perfect. The inside of the boot was damp, the leather darkened with sweat. I could see the impression of Jake's foot in the insole, worn down from months of use.
I licked the inside of the boot, tasting salt and leather, and my cock—Jake's cock—stirred in my pants.
I set the boot aside and peeled off the sock. It was damp, heavy with sweat, and when I brought it to my face, the scent was even stronger. Pure foot musk, concentrated and heady.
I inhaled until my lungs burned, then licked the sock, tasting the salt, feeling the damp fabric against my tongue.
And then I heard it—Dean's voice, distant but getting closer.
"Delgado! You still here?"
Part III: Awakening
Panic and excitement surged through me in equal measure. I scrambled to put my boot back on, lacing it quickly. As I stood, my head spun slightly—Jake's body was still adjusting to whatever the hell had just happened.
And then I saw it.
Through the doorway, in the hallway leading to the IT office, was a crumpled body. My body. Miguel Coronado, unconscious on the tile, a bruise already forming on his temple where Jake had slammed him into the locker.
"Shit," I muttered.
I walked over, my heavy boots echoing in the empty corridor. Looking down at myself—at Miguel—was surreal. He looked pathetic lying there. Small, thin, wearing a wrinkled button-up and khakis that didn't fit right. His chest was rising and falling shallowly. Still alive.
I couldn't leave him here. Someone would find him, call an ambulance, start asking questions. And if Jake's body was walking around while Miguel was unconscious... that would raise flags I couldn't afford.
I bent down and scooped Miguel's body up with ease. He weighed nothing in Jake's arms—maybe one-thirty soaking wet. I carried him down the hall to the IT office—a cramped closet of a room with a desk, two monitors, and shelves of equipment.
I laid my old body (Miguel's body) in the corner, wedging him between a filing cabinet and the wall. From the doorway, you couldn't see him unless you walked all the way in. I checked his pulse—steady—then grabbed his jacket from the desk chair and draped it over him.
"Sorry," I whispered. "Just need you to stay out of the way for a bit."
I locked the door from the inside and pocketed the key. The station would be mostly empty over the weekend. No one would look for him until Monday at the earliest.
By then... well, I'd figure that out later.
I walked back to the locker room just as Dean rounded the corner.
"Hey," I said, my voice—Jake's voice—steady despite my racing heart.
"I thought you left," Dean said, frowning slightly. He was dressed now, wearing jeans and a tight black t-shirt that showed off every muscle. His hair was damp from the shower, and he smelled clean—soap and something citrusy.
But I knew what was in his locker. Those socks. Those boots.
"Nah, just... had to deal with something," I said.
Dean nodded. "You heading out? I'm gonna grab a beer at Murphy's if you want to come."
"Yeah, let me just change real quick."
Dean nodded and headed toward the exit. "Meet you out front."
The moment he was gone, I turned back to the lockers. My hands were shaking—Jake's hands—as I opened Dean's locker.
There they were. His socks from earlier, crumpled on the shelf. His boots on the floor—massive black police boots, the leather scuffed and worn, the tread caked with dried mud and oil.
I grabbed a sock first, bringing it to my face. The scent was different from Jake's—lighter, cleaner, but still undeniably male. Sweat and cotton and Dean. I inhaled deeply, my cock hardening in my pants.
Then I grabbed one of his boots. It was heavy, solid, still warm from his foot. When I brought it to my face, the smell was intoxicating. Dean's foot sweat, trapped in the leather, mixing with the boot polish and the rubber of the sole. It smelled like long shifts, like standing in the sun on the highway, like pure concentrated cop.
I pressed my face deeper into the boot, my tongue darting out to taste the leather. Salt exploded on my taste buds, and I groaned, my free hand moving to my crotch to adjust my aching cock through the tactical pants.
I wanted to stay here forever, buried in Dean's scent. But I didn't have time.
I set the boot down carefully and turned to Jake's locker. I stripped off the tank top, revealing Jake's torso in the mirror. Broad chest, thick pecs dusted with dark hair, abs that were solid and powerful. I ran my hands over my chest, feeling the coarse hair, then moved to my head, rubbing that buzz cut again. The bristle scratched my palm, and I felt a surge of masculine pride that didn't belong to me but felt right.
I looked down at my forearms—covered in that thick dark hair, veiny and powerful. I brought one to my nose and inhaled. Jake's scent was there too, trapped under the hair. Musky and male.
I shoved down my tactical pants and boxer briefs in one motion.
Jake's cock sprang free, already hard and leaking. It was thick, veiny, surrounded by a dense forest of dark pubic hair that was coarser than the hair on his arms. I wrapped a hand around it, groaning at the sensitivity, and gave it two slow strokes before forcing myself to stop.
I couldn't jerk off here. Dean was waiting.
I pulled on Jake's spare jeans from his locker—dark denim that hugged my ass and thighs—and a gray t-shirt that was tight across my chest. I laced up my boots, feeling the weight of them, the power they represented.
Before I left, I grabbed Dean's sock and shoved it in my pocket. As an afterthought, I grabbed his other sock too, and one of his boot insoles that had come loose. Souvenirs.
When I walked out to the parking lot, Dean was leaning against his truck, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and grinned.
"Ready?"
"Yeah," I said, patting my pocket where Dean's socks were hidden.
Part IV: Seduction
Murphy's was a wall of noise—cops and first responders drowning the stress of the week in cheap beer and whiskey. Dean grabbed us a booth in the back, the leather creaking under his weight. I slid in next to him, not across.
"Two Buds," Dean told the waitress, loosening his collar. "And two shots of Cuervo."
I watched him. Usually, I was the guy sitting alone at the bar, nursing a soda, hoping Dean might glance my way. Now, I was thigh-to-thigh with him, his body heat radiating through his denim and soaking into Jake’s leg.
"You trying to kill me, Delgado?" Dean laughed, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Come on. We earned it." I channeled Jake’s easy, toxic confidence. I leaned in, my shoulder bumping his. "Long week. Let’s drown it."
By the fourth round, the dynamic had shifted. Dean wasn’t just sitting next to me; he was leaning on me. The alcohol had stripped away his professional armor, leaving him loose, heavy, and tactile.
"You know..." Dean slurred, his head lolling onto my shoulder. His breath was hot, smelling of agave and lime. "You’re good people, Jake. Solid. Not like... not like the brass. You get it."
"I got you, brother," I whispered. My hand drifted to his thigh, squeezing the thick muscle just above the knee. He didn't flinch. He leaned into the touch.
By the sixth round, Dean was gone. His eyes were glassy, blinking out of sync. He was a dead weight against my side, completely surrendering control.
"I think I’m done," he mumbled, eyes sliding shut.
"I’m driving," I said, snatching the keys from the table before he could protest. "Let’s get you home."
I hauled him up. He stumbled, a massive, uncoordinated weight, and I caught him. I wrapped an arm around his waist, my fingers digging into his side, feeling the solid obliques under his shirt. I practically carried him to the truck, his arm draped over my neck, his face buried in my shoulder.
The drive was short. I pulled into the complex—my complex. But instead of turning left toward my shitty studio, I turned right.
I parked in Dean’s spot. I killed the engine.
I sat there for a second, listening to his heavy, wet breathing. I looked up at the building. I could see my own bathroom window from here—dark and empty. For months, I had stood behind those blinds, watching a silhouette move behind Dean’s frosted glass.
Now, I had his keys in my hand.
Part V: His Sanctuary
The key turned in the lock with a heavy clunk.
I pushed the door open and dragged Dean inside. The air in the apartment smelled exactly like him—a concentrated hit of Tide, leather, and bachelor musk. It was the Holy of Holies.
"Bedroom..." Dean groaned, waving a heavy hand. "Thataway."
I navigated the hallway, half-carrying him. The bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds—the same blinds I used to watch from the outside.
I dumped him on the king-sized bed. The mattress groaned under his 220 pounds. He rolled onto his back, limbs sprawling, and was out cold in seconds.
I stood over him, heart hammering in Jake’s chest.
I had complete access. No glass. No distance. No "Officer Cammarata." Just Dean. Drunk, pliable, and mine.
I turned my attention to the wall. The shoe rack. It was floor-to-ceiling. A shrine to his feet.
I dropped to my knees, overwhelmed. There were easily thirty pairs. Work boots. Gym shoes. Dress shoes. Hiking boots. Sandals.
I grabbed his hiking boots—Merrells, caked in dried mud. I shoved my tongue deep inside the heel cup, tasting the salt and grit of the trail. Then, on the bottom shelf, I found his old academy boots. The leather was cracked, the soles worn smooth. I picked one up. It weighed a ton. The smell was rancid in the best possible way—years of rot, sweat, and panic.
I unzipped my jeans, freeing Jake’s aching cock, and fucked the tongue of the boot with my fist while inhaling the rot from the insole.
"Fuck," I hissed, glancing back at the bed. Dean snored, oblivious.
I abandoned the shoes. I needed to be closer.
I crawled onto the bed, straddling Dean’s legs. He didn't stir. I was just a weight he accepted in his sleep.
"Let’s get you comfortable, partner," I whispered.
I undid his belt and button. I grabbed the cuffs of his jeans and yanked. He was heavy, dead weight, forcing me to manhandle him to get the denim over his hips. The friction of the rough fabric against his skin made him groan low in his throat, but he didn't wake. I peeled off his socks, his t-shirt, his boxer briefs.
I stripped him bare.
Dean Cammarata lay naked in the center of his bed, bathed in shadows. He was magnificent. Thick, hairy legs splayed open. A soft, heavy cock resting against a thigh that was as thick as a tree trunk. A stomach that rose and fell with the deep, alcohol-fueled sleep of the righteous.
But I wasn't done.
I got up and stripped out of Jake's clothes, leaving them in a pile. Then I went to the hamper in the closet. It was overflowing.
I dug my hands into the pile, pulling out a week’s worth of dirty laundry. I found a pair of mesh gym shorts he’d worn to the gym yesterday, stiff with dried sweat. I stepped into them. They were tight on Jake’s massive frame, the fabric straining across my thighs, the waistband digging into my hips.
I found a compression shirt from a race, smelling of chlorine and armpit funk. I forced it over my head. It was suffocatingly tight, compressing Jake’s pecs, trapping Dean’s old sweat against my new skin. I was wearing his filth. I was marinating in him.
Then, I reached into the pocket of Jake’s discarded jeans.
I pulled out the sock. The one I’d stolen from the precinct locker room. The one Dean had worn for a twelve-hour shift.
It was still damp. Cold now, but pungent.
I climbed onto the bed, crawling over Dean’s naked body. I positioned myself big spoon, curling my massive, tactical frame around his vulnerable, naked back.
I took the stolen sock and wrapped it around Jake’s rock-hard cock. The sensation was electric—the rough, sweat-stiffened cotton grinding against the sensitive head, the smell wafting up to my nose.
I pressed my chest against his back, the dirty compression shirt creating a barrier of sweat between us. I slid my leg over his, trapping him. I wrapped my arm around his chest, hand splayed wide over his heart.
I leaned into his ear, inhaling the scent of his neck, while my hand stroked my cock through his stolen sock.
"Officer Cammarata," I murmured into his skin, the name tasting like a claim.
Dean grunted in his sleep, shifting back against me, his naked ass pressing into my crotch. He thought I was safety. He thought I was his partner.
He had no idea he was being devoured.
Part VI: Harvest Season
I lay there next to Dean for what felt like hours, just breathing him in. The triathlon gear clung to his unconscious body like a second skin, and the smell—god, the smell—was driving me insane. Concentrated sweat, salt, the faint chemical tang of dried sports drink, all of it marinating in the compression fabric.
But looking wasn't enough anymore. Smelling wasn't enough.
I needed to consume him.
My hands—Jake's huge, hairy hands—were shaking as I reached for the sock I'd stolen from the locker room. Dean's sock. I'd been carrying it in my pocket all night, and now it was warm, damp with my own precum that had been leaking steadily since we left the bar.
I brought it to my face first, inhaling one more time. The scent had mellowed, mixing with my own musk, becoming something hybrid. Then I opened my mouth and shoved it in.
The thick cotton filled my mouth completely, pressing against my tongue, my teeth, the roof of my mouth. I bit down, feeling the ribbed texture, and sucked hard. The taste exploded across my tongue—salt, sweat, the essence of Dean's foot after a twelve-hour shift. It was rank and perfect, and I groaned around the makeshift gag as I ground my hips against the mattress.
I looked at Dean. He was still out cold, snoring softly, his chest rising and falling beneath that yellow compression shirt. His face was peaceful, unaware. Vulnerable.
I could do anything to him right now.
The thought sent a bolt of electricity straight to my cock. I was painfully hard, Jake's thick meat straining against the denim, leaking so much precum that I could feel it soaking through to my thigh.
My eyes drifted back to the shoe rack. To his old academy boots—the ones that were more worn than the others, the leather creased and softened from years of use. The ones that smelled the strongest.
I grabbed them, my hands trembling with need. They were heavy, solid. I brought one to my face, inhaling through the sock gag, layering the scents. Then I did something that Miguel never would have had the courage to do.
I shoved my hands inside the boots.
The leather shafts fit snugly around my forearms, turning Jake's massive fists into leather-clad weapons. The smell was overwhelming now—trapped between the boot leather and my skin, concentrated and inescapable. I flexed my fingers inside, feeling the damp insoles against my knuckles, the residue of Dean's sweat coating my skin.
I looked down at Dean, and something feral took over.
I pressed one booted hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the sole, through the leather, through my palm. The rubber tread caught on the compression fabric as I dragged it down his torso, leaving faint marks. I was marking him with his own boots, claiming territory that didn't belong to me.
Dean mumbled something in his sleep, shifting slightly, but he didn't wake.
I moved the boot lower, pressing it against his stomach, then his hip. The power I felt was intoxicating—Jake's strength combined with Dean's complete helplessness. I could crush him if I wanted to. I could do anything.
But I wanted more than dominance.
I wanted inside.
I shook off one boot, freeing my right hand. In the dim light, I stared at it—Jake's hand, so different from Miguel's. The fingers were thick as sausages, the knuckles scarred and swollen from years of fighting, the pads calloused and rough. This hand had slammed suspects against car hoods, pulled triggers, dominated.
Now it would dominate Dean.
I reached down between his legs, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. Dean was wearing those triathlon shorts, the fabric so thin and tight I could see everything. I hooked my fingers into the waistband and slowly, carefully, peeled them down just enough to expose him.
His ass was perfect. Two muscular globes, covered in a light dusting of hair that caught the light from the street outside. I spread him slightly, exposing his hole—pink, tight, guarded.
I spat into my palm—thick, viscous spit that tasted like the dirty sock still wedged in my mouth—and slicked up my fingers. The saliva was warm, mixing with the sweat on my hand, and I rubbed it against his entrance.
Dean's body tensed for a moment, some unconscious instinct trying to protect him, but then he relaxed again, his breathing evening out.
I pressed my thumb against him. The resistance was incredible—a tight ring of muscle that didn't want to let me in. I pushed harder, feeling the heat, feeling him slowly start to give.
And then I was inside.
Dean let out a sharp, guttural noise that made my cock jump. His back arched, pressing into my chest, but his eyes stayed closed. He was still unconscious, his body reacting on pure instinct.
I added a second finger, stretching him, feeling the velvety heat clamp down on my knuckles. The texture inside was unreal—hot, wet, alive. Miguel had never felt anything like this. Miguel had never felt anyone like this.
"Fuck," I mumbled around the sock, the word garbled and wet.
I curled my fingers, searching, and found it—his prostate, a swollen ridge of nerves that made Dean's whole body shudder when I touched it.
I pressed down, massaging it with those thick, calloused fingertips, and watched as Dean's cock—which had been soft and heavy against his thigh—began to fill with blood.
It was fucking magic.
I kept working him, curling my fingers in that "come here" motion, applying steady, relentless pressure to that spot. Dean started to pant in his sleep, his hips rolling back onto my hand, chasing the sensation. He was fucking himself on my fingers without even knowing it.
"That's it," I growled around the sock, my voice unrecognizable. "That's it, officer."
I pressed my face into the back of his neck, inhaling the scent of his scalp—pillow-warm, slightly oily, mixed with the sweat from the triathlon shirt. The short hairs at his hairline were stiff, scratching against my chin as I nuzzled into him. I rubbed my jaw against it, addicted to the texture, to the proof that this was real.
Dean's back hair—that light dusting I'd noticed before—brushed against my chest through the shirt I was wearing. Every breath created friction—synthetic fabric against coarse hair against sweat-slicked skin. It was a symphony of textures, of sensations, all of them screaming Dean.
I put the academy boot back on my left hand and wrapped it around his chest, holding him down, pinning him to the mattress with the weight of the leather. My right hand continued its work inside him, fingers moving faster now, more aggressive.
Dean's breathing turned into high-pitched whines. His cock was fully hard now, dark and flushed, leaking clear fluid that pooled on his stomach. He wasn't touching it. I wasn't touching it. This was pure internal stimulation, his body betraying him completely.
I could feel it building—the way his muscles tensed, the way his hole clenched around my fingers, the way his breathing hitched.
"Come on," I hissed, pressing harder on his prostate. "Come on, Dean. Give it to me."
I curled my fingers hard, hitting that spot again and again with brutal precision.
Dean's body went rigid. His toes curled. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and then—
"Uhhhhh—fuck!"
He erupted.
Completely hands-free. His cock pulsed, shooting thick ropes of cum that painted his stomach, his chest, the sheets beneath him. It kept coming, wave after wave, his body convulsing in my arms as I milked his prostate mercilessly. The compression shirt was soaked with it, the yellow fabric darkening.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I kept my fingers inside him through the aftershocks, feeling him clench and release, clench and release, until finally he went limp.
I pulled my fingers out slowly. The wet sound they made was obscene.
I spat the sock onto the pillow and leaned over him, breathing hard. The smell of fresh cum—bleach and salt and something uniquely Dean—filled the air, mixing with the boot leather and the sweat-soaked gear.
I looked at the mess on his stomach. Thick, white, abundant. The cum of a superior male, a man who worked out and ate right and had testosterone flooding his system.
I reached down with my bare hand and scooped it up. It was warm, almost hot, and stringy. I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked them clean.
The taste was sharp, bitter, alive. I sucked my own fingers, cleaning off every drop, swallowing Dean's essence while he twitched in the afterglow, unconscious and completely empty.
I wiped up the rest with my hand, licking my palm clean, then licking his stomach, his chest, anywhere I could find traces of him. I was consuming him, absorbing him, making him part of me.
When I was finished, I collapsed next to him, pulling the academy boot against his chest like a teddy bear. I pressed my face into his neck, into that sweaty hairline, and breathed him in.
"Good boy," I whispered against his skin. "Such a good fucking boy."
Outside, the city was waking up. Dawn was starting to break.
But I didn't care. I was lying next to Dean Cammarata, wearing Jake Delgado's body, covered in both of their scents, and I was dreading the moment it would come to an end.
Part VII: Possession
Dean lay there in the aftermath, his breathing ragged and uneven, his body completely loose and mostly spent, after I expended him in his slumber. The smell of him—that sharp, sweet scent of his cum mixed with the heavy musk of sweat-soaked triathlon gear—was making my head spin.
But I wasn't done. Not even close.
Jake's cock (technically my cock) was a strumming rock hard tool straining against the denim, so hard it hurt, leaking so much precum that my thigh was slick with it. I'd just made Dean cum without touching his dick, violated him with my fingers, and now every nerve in my body was screaming for release.
Miguel had fantasized about this moment for months. Years, maybe. Lying in his shitty studio apartment, jerking off to stolen Instagram photos of Dean at the beach, at the gym, in his uniform. Miguel had imagined what Dean would feel like, taste like, sound like.
But Miguel could never have this. Miguel was invisible, pathetic, unworthy.
Jake, though? Jake could take whatever he wanted.
I spat out the sock, letting it drop onto Dean's shoulder, and stood up on the bed. I towered over him—six-foot-four of muscle and aggression—and stripped off Jake's jeans and boxer briefs in one motion. My cock sprang free, thick and angry, the head dark purple and leaking.
I grabbed Dean by the hips—those narrow hips that I'd watched flex and shift under his uniform pants a thousand times—and flipped him onto his stomach with ease. He was heavier than Miguel's body had been, solid muscle, but in Jake's arms he felt manageable. Controllable.
Dean groaned into the pillow, a low, confused sound, but he didn't fight. He just lay there, face down, legs slightly spread, that perfect ass on display.
Dios mío.
Miguel's grandmother used to say that temptation was the devil's playground. If that was true, then I was standing at the gates of hell, and I couldn't wait to walk through.
I knelt behind Dean, my hands running up his thighs. He had hair there—not thick like Jake's, but present. A light dusting of golden-brown that caught the dim light from the window. It was so different from the smooth, hairless legs Miguel had. So masculine. So Dean.
I spread his cheeks, exposing his hole again. It was pink and slightly swollen from my earlier assault, still slick with his own cum that I'd used as lube. The sight made my mouth water.
I reached down and scooped up more of his release from where it had pooled on the sheets. It was still warm, thick and stringy between my fingers. I smeared it over his entrance, pushing some inside with my thumb, watching it disappear into him.
"Qué belleza," I whispered, more to myself than to him. What beauty.
I lined myself up. The head of Jake's cock pressed against Dean's entrance, and the heat radiating from him was incredible. I could feel his pulse there, rapid and strong.
With my left hand—still encased in that heavy academy boot—I pressed down on the back of Dean's neck, pinning him to the mattress. The leather creaked as I adjusted my grip. With my right hand, I gripped his hip, my fingers digging into the muscle hard enough to leave marks.
I pushed.
"Fuck—" The curse slipped out as I felt the resistance, the incredible tightness. Dean's body was fighting me, that ring of muscle clenching, trying to keep me out.
But I pushed harder.
Dean let out a sharp, high whine into the pillow—nothing like his usual confident baritone. It was vulnerable, helpless, and it made my cock twitch.
I sank in another inch. Then another. The sensation was overwhelming—velvet heat wrapped around me, squeezing, pulling me deeper. Every ridge, every vein of Jake's cock was being massaged by Dean's internal muscles.
"Eso es," I growled. "That's it. Take it."
I drove my hips forward with a snap, burying myself to the hilt. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the room, and I felt Dean's whole body shudder beneath me.
I stayed there for a moment, fully seated, just feeling him. The pulse of his heartbeat around my cock. The heat. The way his back was rising and falling with labored breaths beneath that yellow compression shirt.
Then I started to move.
I pulled out slowly, watching my cock emerge slick and glistening, then slammed back in. Dean's body jolted forward, his fingers clutching at the sheets.
And then I heard it.
A moan. Deep, resonant, masculine. Dean's voice, that beautiful baritone that I'd only ever heard giving orders or making small talk, was now making sounds of pure sensation.
I breathed, my rhythm faltering for a second. “Fuck.” That voice. That fucking voice.
I leaned forward, wrapping my right arm around his chest to pull him up slightly. I wanted to feel all of him—his back against my chest, his ass against my hips. I hooked my arm under his shoulder, holding him in place as I thrust.
My face pressed into his neck, and I inhaled deeply. The scent was concentrated here—sweat from his scalp, the natural oil of his skin, the faint trace of his shampoo from hours ago. I dragged my nose up to his hairline, feeling those short hairs prickle against my skin.
I looked down at where we were connected. Dean's back had a light scattering of hair—not much, but enough. It caught the sweat, creating texture. My own chest—Jake's chest, covered in dark hair—was pressed against it, and the friction was incredible.
I adjusted my angle, grabbing Dean's right leg and pulling it up toward his chest. His flexibility surprised me—all those triathlons, all that training—and suddenly I had access to everything.
I grabbed his ankle with my bare hand and pushed it toward his head, folding him in half. His leg was strong, muscular, covered in that light dusting of hair that looked gold in the dim light. I ran my hand down his calf, feeling the hair, the solid muscle underneath, the heat of his skin.
"Tan perfecto," I murmured. So perfect.
I grabbed his other ankle with my booted hand, the leather of the boot sliding against his skin. I held both his legs up by his head, spreading him wide, and the new angle let me sink even deeper.
Dean moaned again—that deep, baritone sound that resonated in my chest. "Uhhhhh—"
"That's it," I said, my voice shaking. "Let me hear you."
I thrust harder, faster, watching his face. His eyes were still closed, but his mouth was open, his brow furrowed. He was feeling everything, even through the alcohol haze.
I looked down at his chest. The compression shirt had ridden up, exposing his pecs, his abs. There was hair there—a light dusting across his chest, darker around his nipples. I watched the way his muscles flexed with each impact, the way his cock—still half-hard—bounced against his stomach.
I was inside Dean Cammarata. I was holding his legs by his head, staring at every perfect inch of him, listening to him make sounds he probably didn't even know he was capable of making.
Miguel would have died for this. Miguel had died for this, in a way. Disappeared into Jake's body just for this moment.
"Look," I growled, even though I knew he wouldn't wake. Look at me. "Look what I'm doing to you."
I drove into him with brutal force, over and over, the bed frame slamming against the wall. My balls slapped against his ass with each thrust, heavy and full. The boot on my hand was making his leg sweat, the leather growing slick.
Dean's moans grew louder, deeper, more desperate. "Ah—ah—fuck—"
That voice. That incredible, masculine voice, reduced to incoherent sounds of pleasure.
I could feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my balls tightening. I was close. So fucking close.
I released his ankles and fell forward, pressing my full weight onto him, pinning him to the mattress. I wrapped both arms around his chest, my face buried in his neck, and pumped my hips with abandon.
"I'm gonna—voy a—" I couldn't even finish the sentence.
The orgasm hit me like a lightning strike. My vision whited out. Every muscle in Jake's body locked up, and I buried myself as deep as humanly possible.
I came.
Wave after wave of hot release flooded into him, filling him, marking him from the inside. I bit down on his shoulder to muffle my own roar, tasting salt and sweat and Dean. My cock pulsed over and over, emptying everything I had into him.
"Dean—Dios—" I gasped against his skin, my hips still twitching with aftershocks.
It felt like it lasted forever. Like I was pouring years of obsession, months of longing, into him with every pulse.
When it finally subsided, I collapsed on top of him, my weight pressing him into the mattress. We were both breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat. I could feel my cum leaking out around my cock, still buried inside him.
I stayed there, my face in his neck, my hands still roaming over his chest, his arms, his hair. Cataloging every detail. Every texture.
"Mine," I whispered into his skin. Mine. "Todo mío." All mine.
I finally pulled out slowly, watching as my cum spilled out of him, running down his thighs, soaking into those expensive sheets. Evidence of what I'd done. Of what he'd let me do, even unknowingly.
I rolled onto my back next to him, one hand still on his body, unable to break contact. Dean shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent, and curled into a ball.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, Jake's heart still racing, Jake's cock still twitching with sensitivity.
Miguel Coronado had just fucked Dean Cammarata. And god help me, I was going to do it again.
Part VIII: Our Morning After
Sunlight sliced through the blinds—the same blinds I'd stared at obsessively from my shitty studio across the alley, night after night, imagining what Dean's life looked like inside. Now that light hit me right in Jake's face, and I woke up harder than steel.
Not just morning wood—this was a deep, throbbing ache, Jake's thick cock tenting the sheets like it had a mind of its own. Heavy. Powerful. Ready.
And I wasn't alone.
Dean Cammarata was the big spoon. His massive arm was slung heavy across my chest, dead weight and solid muscle. His face was buried in the crook of my neck, breath hot and boozy against my skin—stale tequila mixed with that natural morning mouth that somehow still smelled like him. Like musk and sleep.
I lay perfectly still, paralyzed by the perfection of it.
His hairy thigh was draped over my hip, the coarse hair creating friction against my skin. I could feel the heat of his cock—soft but substantial, heavy against the small of my back.
I shifted slightly, just enough to run my hand down his arm. I traced the thick veins in his forearm, the calluses on his palm, the light dusting of golden hair on his knuckles. This was trust. Pure, complete trust. Dean didn't cuddle like this with anyone. Not with bar hookups, not with ex-girlfriends. Probably only with Jake—his partner, his brother-in-arms. And now I was that man.
The room reeked like victory—dried cum sharp as bleach, sweat-soaked triathlon gear, boot leather, and the underlying musk of two alpha males who'd gone to war on these sheets. It was the smell of conquest. I inhaled deeply, letting it coat my lungs. Mi tesoro. My treasure.
Dean shifted, grumbling something into my neck, and rolled onto his back.
The sheet slipped down to his waist, revealing the masterpiece. His chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy rhythm. His pecs were relaxed, dusted with that light brown hair that tapered down his sternum. My eyes devoured him—the definition of his obliques, the deep navel, the treasure trail of darker hair disappearing into the waistband of the sheets.
Madre de Dios. He was edible.
I needed to secure the assets before he woke up. Quietly, I gathered the souvenirs—the cum-crusted compression shirt, the socks stiff with our mixed fluids, Jake's academy boot I'd used to pin him. I licked the tread one last time, tasting grit and Dean's foot sweat, then hid them deep in Jake's jeans pocket.
"Ughhh..."
A deep groan from the bed. Baritone perfection, even hungover.
Dean cracked his eyes, throwing a heavy arm over his face to block the sun. "Fuck... Jake? What the hell time is it?"
"Almost ten," I said, channeling Jake's casual rumble as I sat on the bed's edge, fully dressed now. "You were sawing logs, hermano."
He squinted at me, bloodshot eyes taking in the room. His hair was a glorious mess—short spikes sticking up everywhere, stiff with sweat. Faint bite marks purpled his neck where I’d marked him.
"My head... feels like a truck hit it," he rasped. He tried to sit up and winced, freezing halfway. "And my ass—fuck. Why does my lower back hurt?"
I bit back a wolfish grin. Because I owned you, Dean. Because I folded you like a lawn chair and filled you till you leaked.
"Rough night at Murphy's," I lied smoothly. "Tequila kicked your ass. You were slurring about gym soreness before you passed out. I carried you up—dead weight, man."
Dean rubbed his face, groaning that sexy baritone again. He sat up slow, wincing, hand hovering near his lower back, then lower, toward his glutes.
Suddenly, he froze.
A trickle leaked down his inner thigh—my cum, forcing its way out after hours inside him. He touched it, pulled his hand away, and stared at his wet fingers. Confusion flickered in his eyes.
My heart pounded. This was it.
"Hangover leak, bro," I said, leaning in, voice low and confident. "Happens when you're that fucked up. Your prostate takes a hit from the booze." I clapped his shoulder, squeezing the solid deltoid. "But I got a cure that'll fix that pounding head and the ache. Trust me?"
He blinked, head throbbing too hard to argue, looking at me with total, pathetic reliance. "Yeah... whatever. Just make it stop."
Perfecto.
I slid off the bed and knelt between his spread legs.
His cock hung there—thick, heavy, half-soft but nestled in a bush of light brown hair. His thighs were massive, the adductor muscles clearly defined even in relaxation.
"Lay back," I commanded softly. "Bro job—morning special. Relaxes everything, clears the fog. Feels good, right?"
Dean hesitated for a split second, but the pain and the fog—and the fact that it was Jake—won out. "Uh... yeah. Okay. Quick though."
I didn't waste a second.
I wrapped my huge hand—Jake's hand—around his shaft. It thickened instantly in my grip, responding to the touch before his brain even registered it. It was warm, veiny, pulsing alive against my calloused palm.
I stroked slow, thumb circling the weeping slit at the head. A bead of clear precum welled up—salty, musk-heavy. I smeared it over the head.
Dean sighed deep, his head falling back against the headboard. "Uhhnnn... fuck, yeah."
I leaned in, burying my nose in his pubic hair first. I inhaled his crotch musk—pure Dean, concentrated morning funk mixed with the phantom scent of my own cum leaking out of him just inches away.
Then my mouth closed over the head.
He tasted like salt and power. His cock filled my mouth completely, hitting the back of my throat. I bobbed my head, sucking deep, my tongue swirling around the ridge.
His hand found my buzzed hair, gripping those stiff bristles. "Shit, Jake... mierda? Since when you say that?"
I hummed around him—the vibration making his hips buck—ignoring the slip. His head was too foggy, trust too deep. "Hangover talk, man. Relax."
I worked him harder. I used two hands now—one stroking the base, fondling his heavy balls, the other gripping his thigh, digging into the muscle. I worshiped him. I licked the underside of the shaft, the frenulum, treating it like the holy grail.
Dean’s moans deepened, turning into that guttural baritone thunder that vibrated through the mattress.
"Fuuuuck... don't stop... oh god, Jake..."
His hips rolled up, feeding me more. His chest hair rose and fell with rapid breaths. His legs flexed, calves hard and hairy against the sheets. I savored it all—his trust, his taste, the way he surrendered completely because he thought I was his best friend.
"Ahhh... yeah... gonna—"
He erupted.
It was violent. Thick ropes of semen hit the back of my throat, hot and endless. The taste was bitter, salty, potent—tinged with consensual release for a change. I swallowed every drop, milking him dry, draining him of everything he had.
He collapsed back, chest heaving, gasping for air. "Jesus... best cure ever."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, grinning as I stood up. I looked down at him—sated, used, mine.
"Told you," I said. "Anytime, partner."
He groaned, swinging his legs out of bed. He hobbled toward the bathroom, walking stiff-legged, cowboy-style, still leaking the rest of me onto the carpet.
"Thanks, Jake. You're the best."
The door shut. The shower turned on.
I stood there in the silence, patting the pocket with his stolen gear. Across the alley, through the open blinds, my old apartment looked pathetic. Small. Dead.
Miguel was dead. Jake Delgado owned Dean now—body, trust, everything.
Part IX: Re-Armoring
The bathroom door creaked open, breathing out a cloud of steam that smelled like him—cheap green soap, hot skin, and the faint ghost of last night’s sin clinging to the humidity. Dean stepped out with a towel riding low on his hips, steam haloing his broad shoulders, hair darkened and spiked from the shower.
He moved like he’d been in a wreck.
One hand caught the doorframe, fingers digging in as he shifted his weight. His jaw tightened, a quick wince crossing his face before he swallowed it down.
"Christ," he muttered, voice shredded and baritone-deep. "I seriously feel like I got hit by a bus."
Por mí, I thought. By me.
I sat on the edge of his bed in nothing but Jake’s boxer briefs, legs spread, pretending at lazy, hungover calm. In reality, every cell in my stolen body was coiled like a spring.
While he was in the shower, I’d already done my own quiet ritual. I had pulled on his cum-stained boxer briefs from last night, the fabric still stiff and sour with him, then the undershirt he’d peeled off before we hit Murphy’s. His scent clung to the cotton: deodorant, sweat, a trace of detergent. Over that, I’d slid on a pair of his black socks I’d “returned” from the precinct locker room. My toes flexed in them now, warm and damp, soaking more of him into me.
He dropped the towel.
For a moment, he just stood there in the morning light, naked and unarmored. Broad shoulders, chest dusted with hair, nipples dark, abs carved from work, not vanity. The V of his hips pointed down to that thick cock I’d swallowed not an hour ago. My eyes were greedy, cataloging everything.
Faint red chafe on his inner thighs where my jeans had rubbed him while I held his legs by his head. A subtle tremor in his quads when he shifted his weight. The way his ass clenched when he took a slightly too-long breath.
Clean, yeah. But not restored. I’d left fingerprints inside him.
He turned toward the closet, and the ritual began.
The uniform looked almost holy, hanging there. Tan shirt, pressed pants, neatly rolled socks, boots lined like soldiers underneath. I watched with devout attention as he reached for each piece.
First: underwear. Fresh black boxer briefs, folded on the dresser.
"Need a hand, viejo?" I asked, Jake’s lazy drawl wrapped around Miguel’s hunger.
"I got it," he grunted.
He bent to step into them and hissed through his teeth, one hand shooting to the dresser for balance. His face tightened, that jaw clenching so hard I could see the muscle pop. He eased the fabric up over his thighs, over the ass I’d hammered into, adjusting them carefully around sore flesh.
My cock pressed against the inside of his stolen underwear—a hot, sticky secret.
Next came the undershirt. He lifted his arms, shoulders rolling, and even that made him wince. I could almost feel the ghost of my grip on his traps, my teeth on his neck. The white cotton slid down over his chest hair, smoothing everything out, hiding what I’d marked.
"Te duele mucho?" I asked softly. Hurts a lot?
He glanced at me, eyes narrowing for a second. "Since when do you toss Spanish around, man?"
My heart kicked, but Jake’s face only smirked. "Tequila makes me bilingual, I guess," I joked, shrugging those big hairy shoulders.
He snorted, then regretted it, hand going to his head. "Jesus. Don’t make me laugh."
He turned back to the closet. Pants next.
He stepped into the tan uniform trousers and hauled them up his thighs, the fabric stretching tight over the muscle. Watching him shimmy them over his ass was almost religious. He had to suck in air to button them, the waistband digging into bruised hips, and I knew—knew—that every brush of that fabric over his backside was a muted echo of my cock.
"Coffee’s gonna taste better after we patrol," I said, just to hear his tired baritone answer.
"If I survive sitting down," he muttered.
He reached for socks—fresh black tactical ones, still folded in the drawer. Mine were on my feet, stolen from the station, soaked now with the sweat of the man who’d stolen his body. I watched his fingers brush the cotton, envied his own feet for the hundredth time.
"Hey," I said, standing up, stretching big and slow. "Mind if I use your toothbrush? Mouth tastes like ass."
Dean laughed, then winced. "Yeah, top drawer. Help yourself. Just don’t swap it with mine, freak."
"Qué confiado eres," I murmured as I passed him. How trusting you are.
In the bathroom, I opened the drawer and found it—his toothbrush. Blue handle, worn bristles, still damp from his shower. I picked it up reverently, pressing it to my nose first. It smelled like mint and Dean, the faint tang of his saliva still clinging to it. I ran my tongue along the bristles before loading it with his toothpaste and sliding it into my mouth.
It was intimate in a way he’d never understand—Miguel finally tasting the mundane parts of his life, brushing our teeth with his brush, staring at Jake’s face in Dean’s mirror.
"Feels good, right?" Dean called from the bedroom.
"Riquísimo," I called back, foam at my lips. Delicious.
When I came back out, wiping my mouth on the back of Jake’s hairy hand, he was sitting on the edge of the bed with one boot on, one off. Today’s pair was fresh, polished, but identical to the ones I’d worshipped: black leather, thick soles, authority from the ground up. He pulled on a new sock, snugged it over his foot, and slid it into the boot. As he stomped his heel down, pain flashed across his face like lightning. His spine straightened, then he let the breath out slowly.
"You sure you don’t need help?" I asked, standing close enough to smell the leather and the clean cotton of his uniform. "You look like you’re about to make that boot file a complaint, hermano."
"I said I got it," he muttered, but there wasn’t much bite to it. He grabbed the second boot, wedged his foot in, and laced them both tight, sealing his sore feet away from my mouth, my hands, my tongue—for now.
Then came the armor.
He stood and shrugged into the tan shirt, buttoning it up carefully over the chest I’d pinned beneath my weight. Each button closed off another piece of what I’d seen. The bite marks at his collarbone disappeared under the fabric. The red scratches on his ribs, from my belt buckle and desperate grip, vanished.
Badge. Nameplate. Radio mic. The weight returned to his posture with each piece.
He threaded the duty belt through the loops—gun, taser, cuffs, baton. The leather creaked, the metal clinked. He lifted it with a small groan, settling it on his hips with a practiced motion that still made him flinch.
Finally, he faced the mirror.
Officer Dean Cammarata stared back. Square jaw, clean shave, uniform crisp, boots shining. He looked like he could crush a man with one hand and write a speeding ticket with the other, all without breaking stride.
But I watched his eyes.
For just a second, the mask slipped. A flash of uncertainty. A flicker of something raw—like he could feel the emptiness inside, the soreness, the stretched, pulsing ache that had nothing to do with tequila and everything to do with me. His weight shifted, just barely, onto his right leg. His left foot twitched in the boot, adjusting to a pressure deep in his core.
Under that uniform, his ass remembered my grip. His prostate remembered my fingers. His throat remembered my cock. His feet—God, those perfect feet—remembered my hands, my tongue, how I’d held his ankles by his head like handles.
"Ready to roll?" he asked finally, squaring his shoulders, voice rough but trying to sound normal. That baritone was back, but softer at the edges.
I stepped up behind him, close enough that my chest almost brushed his back. Jake’s height, Jake’s bulk, Miguel’s obsession. I clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, feeling the dense muscle jump under my palm.
"Claro," I said, giving his trap a squeeze just shy of painful. "Let’s go make the world safe, huh? Tengo un presentimiento—it’s gonna be a very good day."
He flinched, just a hair, at the pressure. His eyes flicked to mine in the mirror—questioning the Spanish again, maybe—but the trust was stronger than the doubt. I saw him file it away under “weird hangover shit” and move on.
"Yeah," he said, rolling his neck, trying to settle into the armor. "Let’s go."
He walked out first, and I let him, watching every step. The tight tan pants clung to his ass, outlining the muscles I’d rearranged. There was the slightest hitch in his gait, a carefulness when he lifted his left leg, like he was guarding something precious and sore.
He didn’t know the way his boots sounded different to me now—every thud a reminder that those feet had been mine to lift, to hold, to press to my chest. That I’d folded him so far back his toes almost brushed the headboard.
I followed, Jake’s body moving with easy, predatory confidence. In my pocket, his stolen socks and that ruined compression shirt sat warm against my thigh, a damp, secret shrine.
The uniform had done its job: to the world, he looked untouched. Untouchable.
But every time he winced sliding into the cruiser, every time he adjusted his belt so it didn’t dig into his sore hips, every low, unconscious groan that slipped out when he shifted in the seat—each one would be a silent confession. Sitting next to him, hands on his steering wheel, wearing his socks, breathing in his lingering scent, I’d be the only one who understood what they meant.
I was never one to go out and exercise. Especially not when I was on vacation at a nice resort.
But when I met Jack that one morning on the way to the lounge, I changed my mind. That bright smile of his was so hard to shake off. And I’d only just bumped into him by accident by the door.
“I just got off of the bike trail this morning.” He said. “The next part of the resort excursion was the berry picking. Do you know where it is?”
Luckily, I did. If only because the resort’s farm was next to the pool.
“I can take you there.” I said. “I was meaning to take a look anyway.”
A lie.
“What’s your name by the way?”
“Ryan.” He smiled that deadly sweet smile again.
“If you’re not busy, we could hang out a bit. It’s pretty lonely being on a hotel vacation by myself.”
I didn’t give a rats ass about berries or his little stories about his hikes and treks. I was completely mezmerised by his face and his body.
It all broke loose when I convinced him to go to the pool with me after.
I only really wanted to see this man’s chest but…
What a man of pure beauty he was.
I was always satisfied with just looking, but I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I needed him.
I need to be him.
His face. His smile. His all unadulterated body of pure goodness.
I’ll have it.
“I need to go grab something from my room.” Not a lie. Technically.
“You go shower up first before we dip into tbe pool.”
He was none the wiser.
See, a friend of mine had supplied me a prototype of something from a company called the VK Group. I was told they did something related to nodes but were playing around with changing methods.
How my friend got his hands on these, I can’t say,
But I was more than willing to try anything, as absurd as it sounded.
After all, who would believe in body swapping candy?
See, I didn’t just come to this hotel to take a vacation. I wanted to see if I can trade my quiet life with someone.
And Jack was that someone.
I had rushed back down to the pool, hoping he hadn’t finished showering yet.
To my absolute relief, he was still in the bathroom showering. Admiring his body. Most likely for the last time as himself.
I took off my clothes, pop the candy in my mouth, and began walking towards the one active shower stall.
“Ryan?” He asked out loud. I peeled back the shower curtain, stunning him.
“Hey, what-“ I didn’t give him a chance to react further and pushed myself into the stall with him.
I quickly grabbed his head with one arm and mashed my mouth onto his.
He grunted in surprised as my tongue and the candy swirled with his.
He closed his eyes and tried to pull away, but in an instant, I felt his control wain.
His eyes seemed to gloss over as his body gave in, my kiss and tongue absolutely enrapturing him.
Suddenly, his right hand reached to my head as if pulling me closer. I moved in, as did he. Our cold, rigid bodies rubbing against each other in the wet shower. I realized quickly he was mirroring my every move as my kiss continued.
Our tongues felt even more connected with the candy still holding us.
My rock hard cock collided with his and we both moaned asour free hands grabbed one anothers eager dicks.
We closed our eyes, vision blurring slightly as we rubbed faster and faster. Breaths hitched, groans growing louder.
It was a good thing the pool showers were empty.
It felt like our rubbing lasted for a while. It was like our minds and hearts were in complete sync.
Then I saw it.
Into his mind.
Moments of his life flashing. The moment we met,
The fact that he thought I was cute. The fear he felt as this frothing between bodies began.
I felt his eyes shut as mine did and our strokes intensified.
Then it happened.
The candy completely melted in our mouths as out Minds were in complete sync.
We came. I felt it twice as hard as normal.
As if I came first, and then came again with another cock.
When I opened my eyes, i felt our mouths finslly release. And there he was.
In front of me was my former body, panting heavily. Cum splashing my former chest
“What-“ Jack… Ryan started rubbing his face and his arms. He looked at me, seeing me grin ad I watched hid panic. His hands reach his cum stained chest as his face turned to despair. “What did you do to me?!”
“I see why you thought I was cute.” I scoop s bit of my old cum from my new chest and give it a taste. “The bewildered look fits you.”
“Give me back my body!”
i respond by slamming him against the wall and mashing our lips together once more. “Is that really what you want?”
“I-“ his hard cock poking my new body once more answered my question,
“Didn’t think so.”
The screams in that bathroom as I rammed my new 8 inch cock into my former ass were nothing short of operatic. i have never in my life squealed that high as I had my ass plowed.
Clearly Jack had never experienced this.
By the end of it, he was collapsed by the cabana after we exited the showers.
I couldnt stop stretching and flexing my new body. To see how much it dominated on the first instance I had control just means this was always meant to be
With this delicious new life and Ryan right beside me, there’s nothing I can’t do.
~~~
Etoile Cyber here. Hope you all enjoyed this new story I cooked up as a quickie!
