Otherworlds 5: The Kennel
Vincent knew there wasn't supposed to be that little unpainted doghouse in the corner of his yard. He didn't even even own a dog. This should have made him cautious, but something drew him toward the plain structure.
He got down on his hands and knees to look inside it and saw that it was deep. Not deep as in it was over a hole, deep as in the back of the doghouse from the inside was several times farther away than should have been possible from the outside. There seemed to be light coming from an opening at the other end. This also didn't make sense, because the back of the doghouse from the outside was just plain wood.
Vincent crawled inside the dog house and found himself in what was essentially a wooden tunnel. Based on the size of the doghouse, he shouldn't be able to move, shouldn't even have enough space to turn around, but there it was.
It seemed that the thing to do now that he was already in here, was to find out what was on the other side. The ceiling was too low to stand, so Vincent continued forward, crawling on his hands and knees.
It was slow going, and the tunnel seemed to go on forever. It wasn't as dark as it should be; light was somehow shining in through the slats above, but after several minutes of crawling, the end of the tunnel didn't seem that much closer. If only I could stand up.
Finally he was approaching the end of the tunnel, and he saw that it actually went upward. Vincent stood up and found himself touching the ceiling, which lifted when he pushed on it. Apparently actually a hatch of some kind. Relieved to be able to escape the dim confines of the claustrophobic tunnel.
Vincent climbed out of the hatch onto the grey floor, which had some give to it. As the hatch swung closed, he noticed that at some point his t shirt and jeans had been replaced with black leather vest and a pair of shorts. Around his neck there was a chain necklace with a metal tag shaped like a dog bone.
The room was a long corridor lined with colored doors. Bizarrely, Vincent couldn't see the end of the corridor in either direction. The doors were shorter than normal; a person would have to duck down to pass through them. Each door had a placard over it with various pictograms. Most of them seemed to depict a dog doing something.
As Vincent looked at the dog plaques, he began to notice the sounds of the place. Unlike the silence of the tunnel, where he could only hear the movement of his body against the wooden floor, here there were the subtle sounds of panting, howls, and the occasional bark. All of them sounded distant, as if they were coming from some faraway room. Were there dogs here? Maybe that's what the signs implied.
Vincent walked back to where the hatch door had been in the floor. When he had let go of the hatch it had swung soundlessly shut. Now he could not find any sign of the seam in the floor where the hatch should be. The floors were covered with gray padded mats, like the kind that people put down when practicing gymnastics.
Vincent stated to wonder why he had felt so compelled to keep crawling through that tunnel. It was curiosity of course, but he was suddenly realizing that a strange impossible tunnel would be something he would normally avoid, but once he had stuck his head in that doghouse, he'd just started crawling as if he had no self preservation instinct.
Vincent started to feel the sense of oncoming panic. He'd heard about Otherworlds, and he had obviously stumbled into one. He knew that as soon as he'd stuck his head in that dog house, he'd probably put himself on an inevitable path to being here. He also knew that there was usually a way out for those willing to look for it. He'd slipped out of his world, now he just had to navigate this one and get back. No sense getting worked up about it.
It didn't seem like he could go back the way he came, so he would have to go through the doors. He picked one at random. The placard on top of it seemed to show a dog collar with a metal tag on it. Seemed as good as anything.
Vincent touched the doorknob and briefly his mind's eye saw a dog collar. It must have been on his mind because he'd just looked at the placard above the door. He turned the knob and walked through and came out into what appeared to be an identical corridor.
The chain and dog tag around his neck jingled briefly, as if it had been caught on something. While he was distracted by this, the door had swung shut behind him. When he turned around to look at the door, it had the same placard over it, a dog collar. The corridor looked exactly the same as where he'd come from, as if it was a parallel and identical to the one behind the wall.
Trying to see if the chain had been tangled somehow he held it up. Holding up the bone-shaped dog tag around his neck, he noticed it was no longer blank. He had been sure it was blank earlier, but somehow passing through the door had engraved the metal. One side said ROXAS, the other side had 5 little squares in a line. One of the squares had an X inside it, like some option had been selected on a form.
Who or what was Roxas? It wasn't his name, which was...wait, why couldn't he remember his own name? He put his hands on the sides of his head, this was impossible, he knew he had a name, but he just couldn't think of it, the shape of it, what letters were in it. He was sure it hadn't been Roxas, but instead of spiraling off into more panic that somehow a door had erased his memory, he realized he had to calm himself and get the lay of the land.
Roxas decided he would go back through the door and get back to the original corridor. Maybe he would be able to notice some difference or just peek through to determine if there were two corridors or if he had walked in a door and somehow decided to walk back out again with no memory of what had transpired within.
Roxas gripped the door under the dog collar placard and tried to turn the knob. It seemed locked. Maybe a door could only open once. That might be a key to getting out of this place, which was getting more menacing by the second. The sounds of dog howls in the distance had begun to feel eerie.
He decided that the most sensible thing would be to try a door on the opposite side. Roxas walked across the corridor, his feet slightly sinking into the grey mat, and selected another door.
The placard above this door had a pictogram of a dog with lines coming out of its mouth. It looked like the dog was supposed to be barking. Roxas hesitantly placed his hand on the knob and briefly had an image of himself in his mind's eye. Remembering that something similar had happened at the last door, instead of turning the knob he kept his hand on it and closed his eyes.
After a moment, he imagined himself standing in a room. His mouth was opening and closing. Roxas concentrated harder and started to realize that he could hear sounds that his mouth were making in the vision. He was imagining himself barking like a dog, and occasionally whimpering. He saw his hands go up to his own throat as if trying to unsuccessfully coax some other sound out.
He jerked his hand back from the knob and the vision immediately faded. He was certain if he ducked down and passed through that door, something would happen to him and he would not be able to speak when he came back out.
Yet, he had been able to see that vague vision of what would happen to him, maybe if he could find a placard that said EXIT or something it would be the way back. He scanned the doors in his immediate surroundings. All pictograms.
He walked over to another door and looked at the placard above it. It showed a dog with a drawing of a hand over it's head. Maybe if he went through this door he would just have to pet one of these dogs he kept hearing. That wouldn't be so bad.
Remembering the last door, he closed his eyes and gently touched the door knob, careful not to accidentally turn it. After a few moments another vision came to him. In this one he was on his hands and knees and some other person was standing next to him. The other person was hazy above waist level, he could mostly see their legs.
In the vision, the other person's hand came down to pat Roxas's head, ruffling his hair. The hand kept petting his head, and Roxas saw the facial expression on this version of himself indicated that the man's touch was a euphoric experience. Through a blissful smile, the imagined version of himself looked up to the man with eyes filled with total adoration.
Roxas pulled back his hand and again, the vision faded. So if he went through this door, it would not be him who would pet a dog. He would be the dog if he went in there. It had looked like a very pleasant experience, but if this worked the same way the door with the collar had, he could walk out of there changed. Maybe he would crave people petting him? He wasn't quite sure exactly what would happen.
His thoughts went back to what had happened as he passed through the dog collar door. He held up the bone-shaped metal dog tag on the chain around his neck. On one side was his name, Roxas, but on the other were those five boxes in a line. One door passed through, one box crossed out.
Roxas understood. What he had to do to get out of here to fill up all five boxes. That meant four more doors. All things considered, this was going to be easy, he thought. Although on reflection, the act of walking through the doors seemed like it would be very easy, the decision of which doors to pass through would not be easy. If his understanding was correct and each door would inflict some permanent change upon him, he'd have to carefully choose which doors he wanted to try.
Roxas looked around at some of the placards above the other doors. A pictogram of a dog eating from a bowl, a dog on a leash, a bone, one of the placards simply had a pictogram of a dog with an empty thought bubble coming off of it's head.
He could touch the doors to get some understanding of what the confusing pictograms meant, but he doubted there was any opportunity for going back on something he didn't like. He had some decisions to make, but he was going to fill those boxes and get out of here.
He wondered what he would be like when he returned, if he would be the same person at all or if there were any limits to the ways this place could change him.
How about one where a burnt out 30 y/o is just trying to save extra cash by door dashing, when he picks up an order from a new local Mexican place and meets the owner. Considering they’re a new spot, they probably need the help, so the owner alleviates the man of his door dash responsibilities by turning him into the new young, handsome, Latino line cook just trying to save extra cash while home from college.
"Another night, another dollar." Kyle muttered under his breath as he approached the newly opened Mexican joint.
His eyes were heavy, his mind foggy from exhaustion. Door-dashing had become his second job, helping him keep afloat while he pursued his true passion: graphic design. But at thirty years old, he felt like he was barely keeping his head above water.
"Hello!" Anna called out as soon as Kyle entered, her voice light and bright, "Are you here for that Door Dash?"
Her eyes flickered over his face, lingering, before skimming down to his chest. He shifted under her gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how sweat had soaked through his T-shirt during the last few deliveries.
"God she's hot." Kyle thought, a small smile forming on his lips.
Anna was tiny—maybe five feet even. Black hair twisted into a messy bun, flour dusting her apron. Gorgeous tanned skin and a beautiful smile.
"Yeah," Kyle said, cheeks turning red, "Order number 4872."
Anna nodded, wiping her hands on her apron before grabbing a plastic bag from behind the counter. "Here you go. Careful, it’s hot."
She handed him the food, their fingers brushing for a moment too long. Kyle cleared his throat. "Thanks."
But instead of letting him leave, Anna bit her lip, looking nervous. "Listen… we’re super busy tonight. Could you maybe…" Her eyes darted to the kitchen, where pans clanged and someone shouted in Spanish. "…help me carry some boxes to the back?"
Kyle hesitated. This was his last delivery of the day- he'd be home in bed after this, "I guess I could spare a minute," he said finally.
Anna beamed, leading him past the bustling kitchen to a storage room filled with cardboard boxes. "Just stack these against the wall, okay?" She pointed to a pile near the back.
As Kyle lifted a box labeled Tortillas, he caught a whiff of spices—cinnamon, chili powder, something sweet and musky underneath. His stomach growled. Maybe he’d grab a burrito after his shift…
When he set the box down, Anna was right beside him, closer than necessary. "Thank you," she murmured, her hand brushing his arm. "It’s been crazy since we opened. We’ve got this big event tomorrow, and…"
Her voice trailed off as she looked up at him through thick lashes. Kyle swallowed hard. Was she flirting with him? Or was he imagining things because he’d gone three months without sex?
Kyle’s pulse quickened as Anna leaned in, "Actually," she whispered, her lips nearly touching his ear, "there’s something else I need help with."
Before he could respond, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him deeper into the storage room, "What are you—"
The words died in his throat as Anna pressed him against the wall. Her hand slid up his chest, fingertips tracing the outline of his hairy chest. "Shhh," she breathed, her dark eyes locked on his, "Just let it happen."
Kyle’s breath hitched as unfamiliar sensations prickled his skin—his beard fading away until his face was smooth. He gasped as he felt a similar sensation course through his chest and stomach, as wiry chest hairs receded until his pectorals were smooth and defined.
"What the fuck?" His voice came out higher, lighter, younger. The change traveled downward—abdominal muscles carving themselves across his midsection, thighs thickening. Even his clothes seemed to shrink slightly, conforming to the sculpted shape beneath.
His skin felt warm as color flooded it—not pale white anymore, but warm olive tones. His sandy brown locks darkened to rich black. His nose sloped subtly, cheekbones lifting. His hazel eyes deepened to brown, and though familiar—still undeniably his—the reflection staring back was younger, more angular, with plumper, sultry lips.
"¡Javier! ¡Apúrate!" Anna called out, snapping Kyle—no, Javier—out of his stunned reverie. She gestured impatiently towards the kitchen. "We need you on the line, pronto!"
Still reeling, Javier found his feet moving of their own accord, carrying him into the bustling kitchen. The heat was intense, the air thick with sizzling meat and fragrant spices. Cooks yelled orders in rapid-fire Spanish, and somehow, miraculously, Javier understood every word.
"What the hell is happening?" he muttered in accented English. How was this possible? What was going on? When did he learn Spanish?
Hours passed- cooking, cleaning, prepping for tomorrow. And finally, Javier stumbled through the front door of his apartment. The events of the night replaying through his mind—the transformation, the sudden fluency in Spanish, the long hours cooking.
He collapsed onto his unmade bed, his muscles aching pleasantly. Javier ran a hand over his chest, marveling at the definition that hadn't been there this morning. "What the actual fuck," he muttered, drinking in the sight of his newly toned arms.
His palm slid lower, over the ridged abs, then dipped below the waistband of his jeans. Javier groaned as he palmed himself through the fabric, already rock hard. He'd never felt so aroused, so… eager. Hastily, he shimmied out of his pants and boxers, kicking them aside.
"This is insane," Javier panted, wrapping a hand around his throbbing cock. It was bigger than he remembered, cut perfectly, the shaft flushed a deep pink. He stroked himself with long, firm pumps, moaning the whole time.
But as pleasure coursed through him, other thoughts bubbled up unbidden. Flashes of a twink's pouty lips wrapped around his cock, warm and wet and eager. Of muscular, hairless bodies entwined, slick with sweat as they rutted against each other…
"Holy shit," Javier choked out, fisting himself harder, faster. Where were these gay fantasies coming from? He wasn't… he wasn't, "Fuckkkk…"
Javier came with a strangled cry, spilling over his fist and onto his taut stomach. As the waves of pleasure crested, panic set in. What was happening to him? These urges, these foreign desires flooding his mind… Exhaustion dragged at him and Javier fell back onto the pillow, his mind reeling. Tomorrow. He'd figure this out tomorrow. Surely it was just a weird dream, a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and stress. Yeah. Just a dream.
_______
Kyle jolted awake, his heart pounding, sheets tangled around his legs. For a disoriented moment, he couldn't place where he was—or rather, who he was. Because instead of the sculpted, olive-skinned stranger from his fevered dreams, he was back in his own body. Pale skin, soft belly, scruff on his jaw. Normal.
"What the fuck…" he croaked, sitting up and running a hand over his face. Had it all been a vivid, sex-soaked fantasy? The transformation, the gay desires, the long shift at the restaurant… None of it could've been real. Right?
Kyle stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. In the mirror, his reflection stared back at him, haggard and confused. "Get it together, man," he muttered.
Still shaken, Kyle threw on some clothes and headed out, hoping a walk would clear his head.
"Must've been out cold." He thought as the cool evening air rustled his hair, "Or I'm just recovering from... that." He chucked- there was no way. Just his imagination. Just some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Right?
He found himself walking past the little Mexican place almost unconsciously. Through the window, he saw Anna behind the counter, looking harried but beautiful. Memories of the previous night flashed through his mind. Almost against his will, Kyle pushed open the door, the bell tinkling overhead. Anna looked up, surprise and recognition crossing her face.
"Hola, primo," she said with a smile. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
Kyle stared at her, almost at a loss for words, "Wait, I just want to know..."
"We could use your help again tonight." She rushed over to him and firmly grasped his arm, "I'm sure you won't mind."
As the now-familiar tingles spread across his skin, Kyle tried to resist, stumbling backwards. "Wait, no, stop! What are you doing to me?" His voice cracked, pitching higher as his features began to shift once more.
But even as he begged, he could feel his arousal growing, a dull ache between his legs. The urge to run his hands over his changing body, to admire the sleek lines and planes, was overwhelming. "Please, I don't… I'm not…" He trailed off, mouth agape as he watched his reflection transform.
Dark hair curled across his forehead, olive skin glistening. His lips plumped, eyes deepening to chocolate brown. The tight shirt stretched obscenely over new pecs and abs. "Oh god," Kyle whimpered, palming himself through his jeans.
In mere moments, Javier stood there once more, all youthful vigor and lean muscle. But this time, the shift in his psyche was even more pronounced.
"Mierda… I look good," Javier purred in accented English, running his hands appreciatively over his chest and abs. The urge to whip out his phone and snap a dozen selfies was almost irresistible.
But as much as he wanted to indulge, something felt… off. Awkward. Like putting on a costume that didn't quite fit. Javier shook his head, trying to clear the fog of vanity and lust clouding his mind.
"Come on, primo! We have work to do." Anna smiled and led him back to the kitchen.
"Oye, Javier!" Carlos, one of the line cooks, called out. "Back again? We missed you, hermano!" He smiled, "So what about school?!"
"Ah, si… I'm just home for a bit, ya know? Trying to earn some cash," Javier replied, falling easily into the conversational rhythm despite feeling like an imposter.
"And hey, I heard you're on the prowl for a new boyfriend," Miguel teased, elbowing Javier playfully. "Any lucky guys catch your eye yet?"
Javier felt his face flush, palms suddenly sweaty. He opened his mouth, unsure what to say. These casual references to his sexuality, to dating men—it should have felt natural, but instead everything inside him screamed that this wasn't right, wasn't him.
"I, uh… no, not really," Javier mumbled, averting his eyes. He busied himself with chopping vegetables, the knife feeling clumsy in his hand. Every joke, every innuendo from his coworkers sent a jolt of confusion and discomfort through him.
This wasn't him. He wasn't this flirty, openly gay Latino college student. The desires, the ease with which he slipped into this persona—it was all so wrong. And yet, his body thrummed with a strange energy, like it knew exactly what to do even as his mind rebelled. He loved the way his bicep bulged when he moved his arm, loved the feel of his tight shirt against his firm pecs. It all felt so… good.
"Earth to Javier!" Anna's voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. " Orders are piling up. Focus, primo!"
Javier jumped, nearly slicing his finger. "Lo siento, I'm on it!" He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, pushing down the rising panic.
And as the night came to a close, Javier stumbled into his apartment, his mind reeling. The events of the night played on repeat—the transformation, the confusing conversations, the persistent hum of desire under his skin.
Mechanically, he grabbed his phone, angling it to capture his best side. The camera flash illuminated his chiseled features.
"No... not right..." he murmured, examining the result.
This wasn't him. These poses, this obsession with his appearance—it was all so foreign, so wrong. And his selfies- he looked uncomfortable, yet admittedly sexy. His selfies seemed to capture his inability to embrace this new persona. This new obsession.
"What am I doing?" Javier whispered, his thumb hovering over the delete button.
With a shudder, Javier deleted the photos, tossing his phone aside. He paced the small living room, running trembling hands through his dark curls.
"This isn't me," he chanted, as if saying it aloud would make it true. "I'm not… I don't want… " He trailed off, unable to even articulate the foreign desires plaguing him.
Javier collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality, on his very identity. One minute he was a tired, straight 30-year-old, the next a horny, self-obsessed Latino jock. And as exhaustion dragged at him, Javier's thoughts grew increasingly frantic. What if this was permanent? What if he woke up tomorrow, still trapped in this alien body, with these unsettling desires? Panic clawed at his throat.
"No, no, no," he whimpered, rocking slightly. "I just want to be myself again. Please, let this be a dream. I'll do anything…"
-------
Kyle jolted awake, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a blessed moment, relief crashed over him as he took in his familiar surroundings, his familiar body. The nightmare was over. But as the initial shock faded, memories of his time as Javier came rushing back. The feelings, the desires, the easy way he'd slipped into that new skin… it sent a chill down his spine.
Because even now, he could feel it—a phantom echo of Javier's hunger, his vanity, his newfound gay desires. Like a second consciousness lurking in the back of his mind, whispering seductive promises.
"No," Kyle choked out, clutching at his head. "Not again. I won't let it happen again."
But even as he vowed to resist, Kyle could feel the tendrils of Javier's persona wrap around him. The urge to run his hands over his body, to admire his reflection, to seek out validation—it was all still there, simmering beneath the surface.
"I can't… I won't…" Kyle panted. He stumbled out of bed, needing to move, to distract himself. If he could just stay focused, stay grounded in his own identity… surely he could overcome this.
But doubt gnawed at him. And that's how he found himself outside Anna's restaurant once again. And again. And again... Night after night, the cycle repeated: Kyle would enter himself, and leave as Javier. Each time his body morphs, it happens a little easier, a little quicker, until finally, he barely even resists.
At the restaurant, Javier thrives—the perfect kitchen cutie, trading flirtatious glances and innuendos with colleagues and customers alike. His laughter rings out, musical and unrestrained.
Late nights alone in his apartment see Javier blossoming into something new. Selfies from every angle, his face tilted just so, shirt unbuttoned to show off more. The sound of his own pleasured cries echoes off the walls as he explores the limits of his sexy new body. Guys he meets, numbers exchanged, bodies pressed together…
Morning after morning, Kyle wakes up, disoriented and horrified. His body aches in unfamiliar places, the taste of strange cologne lingers on his tongue. Text messages from unknown numbers clutter his phone screen. Each day, he vows to break free, to reclaim his identity. But the pull of Javier grows stronger with each passing night. The confidence, the freedom, the sheer erotic charge of being him… it's intoxicating.
"I'm losing myself," Kyle whispers to his reflection, watching as his eyes darken with unwanted lust. "This isn't me. I'm not… I don't want…" But even as he protests, he can feel Javier stirring within him, ready for another night.
-------
Kyle's heart raced as he pushed open the door to the restaurant, the familiar scent of spices and sizzling meat washing over him. He makes his way to the back room, searching for Anna.
"There you are, Kyle." she calls out from behind the counter, "I have some news. Good news." She smiles, "We just hired some more people and the kitchen is full."
Kyle's blood ran cold. No. This couldn't be happening. Not now, not when he needed it most. Panic gripped his throat as he stepped closer, eyes wild.
"A-Anything I can do? Maybe wash dishes or prep ingredients?" He hated the desperation in his voice, but he couldn't let this chance slip away. His heart sunk as she shook her head, "Please, Anna. I… I need this. Need to be…" He trailed off.
"Need to be who, Kyle?" Anna asked, a knowing smirk played at the corners of her mouth.
"I need to be Javier," Kyle blurted out, mortified by the admission but unable to hold back any longer. "Please. I'm begging you. Change me back. Let me feel that way again." To his shame, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. "I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just… please. Make me Javier again."
Anna's eyes glittered with mischief and something darker as she circled Kyle. Her fingertips ghosted along his shoulders, down his arms, leaving trails of tingling warmth in their wake. Kyle shuddered, his skin already beginning to heat, to change.
"Fuck… please…," he panted, arching into her touch. "I want it. Want to be him. Want to feel…" Words dissolved into a low moan as the transformation started, pleasure sparking through every nerve ending.
Olive skin bloomed across his body, rich and glowing. Dark hair sprouted from his scalp, curling into a tousled mop. Muscles rippled and defined beneath his shirt, straining against the fabric. Kyle cried out as the changes intensified, pleasure bordering on pain. His hands raked down his chest, marveling at the new contours, the sensitive peaks of his nipples.
"Yes… fuck, yes…" His accent thicker as he slipped into a native Spanish lilt. "More… want more…"
Through hazy eyes, Kyle caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirrored glass case nearby. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. The desire to worship his new body surged through him.
"Ah fuck yes..." Kyle moaned brokenly as the changes reached a crescendo, pleasure overwhelming his senses, "It's so much… oh fuck… I…can't…" Kyle moaned, dizzy with sensation.
Was he really surrendering to this? Was he really begging to become some gay Latino jock, drunk on his own looks and drowning in horny desires?
"God, yes, take me… take all of me…" Kyle screamed again.
He could hear Javier's laughter echoing in the back of his mind, cruel and taunting. "Finally gave in, haven't you? Admit it—you knew I was better. Stronger. Sexier." The words dripped with self-satisfaction, with relish for Kyle's dissolution.
"Yes! Fuck yes!" Kyle agreed.
Waves of bliss washed over him as he surrendered completely, drowning himself, losing himself—all of his resistance, his sense of self. Only pleasure remained as Javier asserted dominance, consumed him utterly. There was no more him, only Javier. Now and forever.
______
Javier stepped into his apartment, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Glancing around, he mused on how bland and boring everything looked—clearly a product of Kyle's taste, not his own. Someday soon, he'd give this space a real facelift.
For now though, Javier sauntered to the bathroom, admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror. Tanned skin glistened under the lights, each ab clearly defined, arms thick and toned. What a view.
Without hesitation, he struck a pose- confident, sexy. No more hesitation. No more discomfort. Just him. Only him.
Jake had always been better at imagining rooms than entering them. That was what architecture school had taught him, or maybe what it had exposed about him.
He could spend hours thinking about how a hallway narrowed before opening into light, how a ceiling height changed the feeling of a room, how brick looked different at dusk than it did at noon.
For fun he liked to paint. He could paint until three in the morning with a podcast playing and a half-finished video game paused beside him. He could present a model and explain, carefully, why a wall bent the way it did.
But walking into a bar alone? Holding eye contact with a man with a thick beard and cowboy boots? Taking up space around the kinds of guys who seemed born knowing how to lean, laugh, lift, flirt, and fill a room? That was harder.
Texas was full of them. Frat boys in athletic shorts and backward caps crowding the coffee shop near campus. Fitness bros with damp hair and enormous gym bags crossing the street like traffic had agreed to wait for them just to see them cross in short shorts and tank tops. Cowboys who were mostly just men with good genes, expensive jeans and undeserved confidence, but who all seemed to possess the same relaxed certainty in their bodies.
Jake watched them more than he meant to. He watched their shoulders. Their forearms. The way chest hair curled out of an unbuttoned flannel. The way a mustache could make a man look older, rougher, more decisive. He watched the men who approached other men without the nervous pause Jake always felt in his stomach.
He wanted them - that part was obvious and easy to admit. The harder part was admitting he wanted to be them. Not literally them - but rather a version of himself more like them. And not forever - at least this is what he told himself. Just for long enough to know what it felt like to walk through the world with that kind of weight. Enough to know what it felt like for other men to look at him first. Enough to stop feeling like the thoughtful, slim, average grad student standing just outside the fantasy, with his sketchbook pressed to his chest, like a lost Disney princess before the inevitable glow-up and the arrival of the romantic prince.
Late one Thursday night, after a studio critique that had gone badly enough to make him skip dinner, Jake ended up on Tumblr. He had been following hairy-bothered for months.
The blog was exactly what the name promised: hairy men, transformations, captions about masculinity, frat boys, gym daddies, “before and after” edits that were just plausible enough to make Jake stare too long. The blog posted in a voice that felt teasing and patient at the same time. Daddy-ish, Jake thought once, then closed the app as if someone could see the word in his head.
That night, exhausted and irritated, he opened a message box to the author of the blog.
Jake: Weird question. Do you ever feel like you’re attracted to a type of guy because you wish you were that type of guy?
The answer came back fast enough to make him sit up.
hairy-bothered: Not weird, pup. That’s usually where it starts.
Jake stared at the word pup for a while before replying.
Jake: I’m not a pup.
hairy-bothered: Sure, if you say so. ;)
Jake laughed despite himself, embarrassed alone in his apartment. The conversation stretched past midnight. Jake told him more than he meant to. That he was twenty-five. That he studied architecture. That he painted, gamed, worked too much, hooked up too little, and lived mostly inside his own head. That he was single and tired of being nervous. That he liked frat boys and cowboys and men who looked like they knew what they wanted. Then, finally, after a long pause, he typed the thing he had not said out loud.
Jake: I wish I were hairier. Bigger, too, I guess. More masculine. More dominant. Like I could walk into a bar and actually do something instead of just hoping someone notices me and makes the first move.
There was no answer for almost a minute. Then:
hairy-bothered: Careful, Jake. Some boys get what they ask for and realize they were thinking too small.
Jake’s face warmed.
Jake: That sounds like a caption for one of your stories.
hairy-bothered: Maybe it was, maybe it will be, or maybe - just maybe - it’s advice you should listen to.
Three days later, the package arrived. It was small, plain, and addressed to Jake in blocky black handwriting. No return address. Jake opened it at his kitchen counter with his backpack still on one shoulder.
Inside was a padded black box and a folded note. The box held four glass vials, each nestled in dark foam. Two were filled with clear liquid and labeled RETURN. One held amber liquid and was labeled YEEHAW. The last one was cloudy pale blue and labeled BRO. Jake actually laughed out loud.
The note read:
Try one when you’re tired of imagining.
Return when you’re done pretending.
But don’t waste the version of yourself that finally fits.
He took a picture and sent it to Hairy-Bothered.
Jake: Okay, very funny.
hairy-bothered: You got them, I see.
Jake: Are these colored vodka shots? Am I supposed to drink mystery Tumblr alcohol from a stranger?
hairy-bothered: You wanted to know how it felt.
Jake: To be poisoned?
hairy-bothered: Drink the cowboy first. You’ve been staring at boots too long. Wouldn’t you like to fit into a pair of your own?
Jake put down his phone and closed the box.
For two days, he left it on his desk beside a stack of trace paper and pretended he was not looking at it every time he entered the room.
Then came Monday. His studio professor hated his revised concept. One of his basswood models snapped in his hands five minutes before review. A guy in his cohort, the kind of square-jawed ex-frat guy who called everyone “man” and somehow made it sound natural, offered help in a tone that made Jake feel twelve.
By the time Jake got home, he was hot with humiliation. He stood in his bathroom under the flat light, shirtless in loose shorts, staring at himself. Slim. Lightly cut. A little chest hair. A beard that was…fine, maybe even good, but not enough to change the shape of his face. He looked young in a way that irritated him.
On his phone, a message waited.
hairy-bothered: Bad day, cowboy?
Jake exhaled through his nose. He went to the desk, opened the black box, and picked up the amber vial.
“Not real,” he said to the room so that when nothing happened he’d feel less foolish. “Bottoms up…” he muttered to himself.
Then he drank YEEHAW.
It tasted smokey, with hints of honey, and lavender. For ten seconds, nothing happened. Jake sighed and let out a frustrated “of course not…”
Then heat gathered under his skin. Jake gripped the edge of the desk. “Oh,” he said, because it was the only word available.
The heat moved outward in waves. His shoulders ached first, a deep pressure pushing from inside the joints. The bones did not crack so much as settle into a wider arrangement, as if his body had been waiting for permission to take up more room. Muscle packed itself across his upper back and chest, not inflated or cartoonish, but dense and practical. His torso thickened. His waist stayed firm but sturdier, built less like a grad student who forgot meals and workouts and more like a man who carried heavy things because he could.
His shorts tightened at the hips. His thighs pressed against the fabric. His hands clenched on the desk, and Jake stared as they changed: broader palms, thicker fingers, veins rising, skin roughening faintly across the knuckles. They looked like hands that knew rope, tools, steering wheels, the feel of other men’s collars.
The thought made him swallow. The pain subsided enough for him to move to the bathroom - eager to see the changes he felt rippling through his body.
Hair spread next. It started as prickling across his sternum, then became an almost unbearable tickle. His light chest hair darkened and multiplied, filling outward across his pecs in a dense, natural mat. A thick line ran down the center of his torso where the hair was most dense, darker and heavier, pulling toward his navel and below.
Hair climbed his shoulders, dusted his upper arms, thickened on his forearms. He twisted toward the mirror and saw it wrapping around the tops of his shoulders, hinting at a back that was no longer smooth or boyish.
His skin deepened, taking on a sun-touched tan as if he had spent years outside instead of under fluorescent studio lights. His posture changed without his permission. His shoulders eased back. His stance widened. He stopped hovering over himself.
Then his face shifted. Jake felt it in the jaw first: a heavier set, a firmer line. His cheeks matured. The soft uncertainty around his eyes sharpened into something calmer. Lines etched lightly at the corners, crow’s feet that did not make him old so much as experienced. Laugh lines bracketed his mouth. His beard pulled back into rough stubble along his jaw while his mustache thickened, darkened, and settled heavily over his upper lip. His hair receded slightly at the front, sides tidying, top remaining short.
When it was done, Jake stood frozen in front of the mirror. The man staring back was him - sorta. That was the terrifying part.
He was still Jake in the softness around his eyes, still Jake in the angle of the mouth, still Jake somewhere under the stronger jaw and weathered skin. But he was Jake at thirty-five, maybe thirty-six. Jake after sun, work, confidence, years of being heard and seen. Shirtless, hairy, tanned, broad, with a thick mustache and hands that looked dangerous even resting at his sides.
“Cowboy Jake” he whispered in a deeper voice with a Texas drawl - flexing a swollen bicep.
He should have panicked. He did panic, technically. His heart hammered. His mouth went dry. He backed away from the mirror, then stepped forward again because he could not stop looking.
His phone buzzed.
hairy-bothered: Well?
Jake picked it up with his new massive hairy hand. The phone looked smaller.
Jake: What did you do to me?
hairy-bothered: I mailed you a choice. You drank it.
Jake: You didn’t say it would change my age! I look thirty-five!
hairy-bothered: You look like a man who doesn’t stand in the corner of bars watching the world dance by.
Jake looked back at the mirror. His mustache moved when he smiled.
He put down his phone and took a deep breath. “Moment of truth” he thought as he stretched the elastic of his grey shorts to see what had changed below his belt - hoping hairy-bothered had worked some magic on his average 5” cut dick. Jake peaked over his new pecs to see a massive bush of pubes and nestled within, like a snake in the grass, was an 8” semi-hard cock in his shorts. “Whoa…” was all he could mutter.
He picked up his phone.
Jake: BTW - thanks for the new 🍆
hairy-bothered: Don’t mention it. ;) Have fun! 🍆💦💦
Jake put down his phone, and as he pulled his shorts over his hairy bush his dick, slowly becoming visible, flopped out. “Yes…” Jake thought at the sight of his new member on full display. He reached a thick hairy hand down and gave his new dick a little tug, which coaxed his dick into a full erection at 9", thick, veiny with dense hair on the base.
He inspected how the weight of his new rod shifted, the way it responded. He reached behind and felt two golf ball sized nuts in a long dangling sack. He thought about how his new nuts were perfectly situated to slap against another man’s ass as he fucked them.
Jake grabbed his cock with one hand and started to pump his shaft. Softly, at first, but before long his pace shifted into a higher gear and he moved up to the head - sliding his new foreskin over his glans. It felt sensitive in a way his cut cock never did.
He looked at himself in the mirror. At his new muscles, at the hair coating his body, at the thick mustache above his lip that tickled when he pursed his lips. Gradually his pace quickened and he started thrusting into his hand.
He started visualizing the type of men he could dominate in this upgraded body. How they would worship his hairy pecs, dwell a moment longer sniffing his hairy pits, moan under the pressure of his new cock deep inside them.
After a couple of minutes visualizing himself fucking a twenty three year old frat boy from his design studio with a tight body and thick stubble, Jake felt the heat build up across his body and release in an instant with a deep moan as he ejaculated ropes of thick creamy cum on the bathroom mirror. “Whoa…” he muttered again before cleaning up.
For the next few days, nobody noticed anything was wrong. That was almost worse than if they had screamed at the sight of him. Jake’s classmates greeted him like always. His professor called on him without hesitation. The barista wrote Jake on his coffee cup and did not blink at the fact that Jake’s wrist looked twice as thick and his mustache could have belonged on a rancher in a beer commercial. The world had edited itself around him.
His driver’s license and student ID showed his new face - and birthdate - July 12, 1990 putting him at nearly 36 years old. Photos on his phone had changed, too. There he was at a gallery opening with the mustache. There he was in a group project photo, broad-shouldered in a denim shirt. There he was on his couch holding a controller, looking like somebody’s hot older brother who had wandered into grad school by mistake.
Only Jake - and hairy-bothered - remembered him being smaller. Only they knew who Jake was in his core.
In studio, this new version of Jake was a problem. He did not fit at the narrow desks the same way - his knees bumped the underside. His fingers were thicker around the delicate knife he used to cut chipboard. His classmates looked briefly confused when he leaned over their models, not because they remembered him differently, but because the shirt stretched over his chest and forearms made him impossible not to notice.
Despite the litany of physical changes, the real change was Jake's voice - and not just his new drawl. He stopped apologizing for himself. He spoke with intention and confidence. He took space and started going after what he wanted.
When his professor questioned his structural logic for a project, Jake heard himself say, “No, that’s not the point of the load path,” and then calmly walked the room through it. His voice came out lower, slower, with no upward nervousness at the end. People listened. The ex-frat guy in his cohort nodded. His professor paused, then said, “That’s stronger.”
Jake should have been horrified. Instead, he wanted to laugh. He nailed the review. That night to celebrate he went to a bar. He told himself it was research. He told himself he needed to know how his new body moved in public, how people responded, whether the change held under pressure. Whether this was worth it. He put on jeans, boots, a white undershirt under an open plaid shirt, then stared at himself so long he forgot the excuse.
The shirt did not hide him. Muscles bulged. Hair showed at the collar. The mustache changed the weight and gravity of every expression. The jeans fit his hairy thighs in a way that made him understand why men leaned against bar counters.
At the bar - a gay western themed affair called the Rainbow Pony - he did not wait. He saw a man near the jukebox looking at him. Not glancing. Looking. Old Jake would have looked away and built an entire alternate life in his head. Cowboy Jake walked over.
“Evening,” Jake said.
The man smiled before answering. “Hi, I’m Dan.”
“Good to meet you, Dan. You here alone?”
“Yes,” he spit out before Jake even finished his thought, “Well...no. I’m here with some friends” he said pointing to a group of men at the other side of the bar.
“Ahh,” Jake replied. “Maybe I’ll catch you later his evening then?” And he made his way through the crowd.
That was new. Everything about the night felt new. Men moved around him differently. Some gave him space. Some stepped closer. He flirted without rehearsing. He made choices. He let his gaze linger and watched men react to being seen by him. His body seemed to know the timing of a slow smile, the weight of silence, the exact angle to lean so the hair at his open collar showed just enough to have men’s eyes linger.
The man from the jukebox had stayed close all night, laughing into his beer, glancing at Jake’s mouth whenever the mustache shifted with a smile. Old Jake would have spent the entire ride home wondering whether he was reading the signals correctly. This Jake did not wonder. When the Uber pulled up, he opened the door, gave the man one slow look, and said, “Get in, we're going to your place.”
The back seat was dark except for the passing streetlights. The second the door shut, the man turned toward him, still wearing that amused, challenging expression. Jake caught him by the front of his shirt and pulled him in. The kiss was not careful. It was warm, rough, confident — the kind of kiss Jake used to imagine other men giving. Now it came out of him naturally, like the new body had brought its own instructions.
The man made a small surprised sound against his mouth, then kissed him back harder. That was all the permission Jake needed. He shifted closer, one broad hand firm at the man’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his beard while the other settled against his waist, holding him there like Jake had already decided where the night was going. The man’s hat bumped the car window. Jake smiled into the kiss, not apologizing.
For a moment, the old Jake flickered somewhere under the heat of it — shocked by his own certainty, by the weight of his hands, by how easily he took control. Then the man’s fingers tightened in his open plaid shirt, pulling at the white undershirt beneath, and the cowboy in him pushed forward again. Jake broke the kiss only long enough to murmur, low and close, “You’ve been looking at me all night.”
The man swallowed, eyes bright in the passing neon. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re hard to miss.” Jake’s mustache lifted with a slow grin of self-satisfaction.
“Good,” he said, and kissed him again before the car had made it three blocks.
Dan lived on the third floor of an older apartment building above a quiet street, the kind with narrow stairs, fluorescent hallway light, and doors that looked like they had been painted too many times over the years. Jake followed him up without saying much. He didn’t need to. The whole way, Dan kept glancing back over his shoulder, smiling like he was daring Jake to do something before they even made it inside.
Jake waited until the apartment door shut. Then he moved. Dan barely had time to set his keys on the table before Jake crowded him back against the wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other catching him firmly at the waist. He kissed him again, deeper this time, slower but no less certain.
The old Jake might have asked if this was okay in a nervous voice that made the question smaller than it needed to be. Cowboy Jake asked differently. He paused just long enough to look Dan in the eyes - seeing them screaming for attention and the touch of Jake’s hands.
The apartment was dim except for a lamp near the couch. Jake walked him backward through it, kissing him between steps, making Dan laugh once when he bumped into the edge of a chair. The laugh died quickly when Jake’s hands settled on him again, confident and possessive, guiding instead of asking. He liked the way Dan responded to that — the way the teasing smile slipped, the way his breath changed, the way he stopped performing and started following.
Dan reached to pull off Jake’s plaid shirt, but Jake caught his wrist and pinned it gently against the wall. Dan’s eyes lifted.
Jake smiled under the mustache. “Not yet, cowboy.”
The words should have embarrassed him. Instead, they came out low and natural, like he had always been the kind of man who could say them and be obeyed.
Dan swallowed, then nodded.
Jake let go of his wrist and took his time with the shirt himself, sliding his outer shirt off leaving his white undershirt for Dan to see the dark hair at the collar, the new breadth of his chest and shoulders. Dan stared, and Jake felt that look move through him like confirmation. This was what he had wanted in the bar. This was what he had wanted on campus, in the mirror, in every late-night fantasy he had pretended was only attraction…to be the man someone else could not stop looking at.
He stepped closer again and kissed Dan until the back of Dan’s head touched the wall. Then he leaned near his ear and said, “Bedroom, now.”
Dan laughed once, breathless. “You always this bossy?”
Jake pulled back just enough for Dan to see his grin. “No,” he said honestly. Then, after a beat, he added, “But I’m learning fast.”
Dan took his hand and led him down the short hallway. Jake followed, but only because he chose to. At the bedroom door, he turned Dan around, kissed him again, and shut the door behind them with one broad hand.
Dan’s bedroom was tidy and organized, with a queen sized bed pushed against the window, two nightstand and some photos on the wall. Jake removed Dan’s cowboy hat and put it on his head. “Mind if I borrow this tonight, partner?” he grinned.
He then proceeded to unbutton Dan’s shirt. While Dan returned the favor by pulling off Jake’s undershirt - leaving him in jeans and the borrowed cowboy hat.
Dan gave Jake a good look and said “Wow, I love how hairy you are. It’s so hot.”
Old Jake was beaming on the inside. Cowboy Jake took the compliment in stride by simply pulling Dan towards him and whispering “I know you do” in his ear while simultaneously unbuttoning Dan's jeans and pushing him onto the bed.
Jake unbuttoned his own pants and climbed on top of Dan - grinding their eager cocks against their thigh-tight denim. They kissed heavily while dry humping before Dan reached into his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube.
“I want you to fuck me, cowboy” he whispered to Jake between heavy kisses with tongues intertwined.
“I was waiting for you to say that.”
Jake then pulled down his jeans and underwear releasing his dick, while Dan reciprocated by removing his pants and underwear.
“Hairy and hung” my favorite combination, Dan said.
Jake gave a little chuckle - remembering his former smaller dick and less hirsute body. He then lifted Dan’s legs and spit on his asshole before going in with his tongue - prepping him to take his 9" thick dick. Dan began to moan and writhe at the feeling of Jake lapping in and around his asshole - the bristles of his mustache teasing him.
Jake took the bottle of lube and rubbed some into Dan’s yearning hole with two then three fingers before smearing some over his own dick. He then pressed his cock again Dan’s asshole and slowly pushed in, the two men interlocked in missionary style, face-to-face.
“Mmm…” Dan moaned as Jake’s dick slide in further, stretching him out. "It's been a while since I've taken such a big dick."
"That's a boy, you're taking it like a champ" Jake whispered as he slide his dick further with each slow thrust.
Dan reached up and felt Jake’s hairy chest, kissed his mustached face, and then dug his hands into Jake’s hairy back - pulling him deeper into his ass. The attention drove Jake wild as he began to pump hungrily into Dan’s tight hole.
Jake began to lose himself in thought - here he was doing something old Jake would never have dared - fucking a stranger he met in a bar, being worshiped for his hairy body, stern broad face, and massive new cock.
Jake snapped back into the moment when he heard the tone of Dan’s moans shift. He felt Dan's tight hole begin to spasm around his cock as he came from the intensity of Jake's dick in his ass - cum splattering up on Jake’s hairy chest. Jake pulled his dick out, and pulled Dan to the edge of the bed - rising to his feet and reinserting his dick to get a deeper angle. He then rubbed his hand through cum-soaked chest and lifted it to his mouth - tasting it while increasing his pace.
“Where do you want me to cum?” he whispered to Dan.
“On me” Dan replied, still reeling from his orgasm and the feeling of Jake's dick still inside him.
Jake pumped a few more times into Dan then pulled out and jerked his rock-hard dick until he exploded all over Dan’s chest - with ropes of cum splattering all the way up to the man's face. Jake then collapsed onto Dan, his dick softening pressed against Dan’s cum-coated chest.
After wiping up the cum, Jake snuggled up next to Dan waiting for him to fall asleep so he could slip out before dawn. He did not become cruel. He did not become a caricature. He simply stopped asking permission to exist. He loved it - and that was the problem.
He loved the body. He loved the heft of it, the roughness, the way desire seemed to travel outward from him instead of trapping itself under his ribs. He loved how his own reflection every time he passed a mirror startled him and then satisfied him. He loved the mustache. He loved the hairy chest and shoulders. He loved being the man who approached what he wanted and took it.
But by the ninth day, unease crept in. At school, a first-year student called him “sir” and then flushed. Jake laughed it off, but it stuck. In the grocery store, a cashier guessed he was married. A guy at the gym asked if he had “been this built since he was a young man,” and Jake almost answered honestly.
At night, alone, he studied his face. Thirty-five looked good on him. Too good. But he was twenty-five. He had not earned those lines. He had not lived that decade. Somewhere under the tan, chest hair and steady gaze, the original Jake felt like he had borrowed a truck he did not know how to park.
He messaged Hairy-Bothered.
Jake: I like it.
hairy-bothered: I know, cowboy.
Jake: But it’s weird being this much older.
hairy-bothered: Older bothers you?
Jake: A little.
hairy-bothered: You wanted masculine. You didn’t say young. How many young men do you think are really that masculine? How many exude the confidence you now possess?
Jake looked at the black box. Two return vials. One blue vial.
Jake: The bro one makes me younger?
hairy-bothered: Younger. Louder. Fratty. Hairier than ever. Easier.
Jake: Easier - in what way?
The reply took longer this time.
hairy-bothered: Easier to stop overthinking.
Jake should have noticed the wording.
Instead, he thought about being younger, hairier and built. "Hairier than ever" - whatever that meant exactly. Hot in the way frat boys were hot: careless, physical, energetic, wanted. Maybe he could have the body and the confidence without feeling like he had jumped ahead ten years.
On Sunday morning, Jake drank one RETURN vial. The cowboy left him in reverse. His shoulders narrowed. His hands smoothed. The tan faded. The hair thinned and retreated from his shoulders, his arms, his stomach, his chest, leaving him with the familiar lighter pattern of pre-change Jake. His mustache softened back into his regular beard. The lines at his eyes vanished. His face became twenty-five again.
When it finished, Jake stood in the bathroom mirror looking exactly like himself. He should have felt saved. Instead, he felt reduced.
The bathroom looked bigger. His shorts hung looser. His hands looked delicate around the sink. Even his thoughts seemed quieter, less confident, less rooted in his body. Normal fit, but not comfortably.
His phone buzzed.
hairy-bothered: How’s normal feel?
Jake stared at himself then thought for a moment before replying:
Jake: Smaller.
A minute later:
hairy-bothered: Then maybe normal was never the goal.
If you don’t mind me asking, how did you discover the body swap fetish?
Short answer: It was really random and sudden. It just came with my puberty as a 2 for 1 deal I guess
Long answer: There’s like 3 clips from youtube that I saw when I was like 12 and I was hooked.
The Supernatural body swap episode
This random movie clip
And this Eureka body swap that seemingly has disappeared from existence. I can only find this episode trailer (if you have it. please dm i’d be so grateful)
(Notice how they’re all swaps into muscular guys. I guess I’ve had this muscle growth fetish for a while too)
I eventually ended up on tumblr in high school and was so obsessed with accounts like thebodyswapclique, collegenerdtojock, the-golden-opportunity, and makingrealaplhas just to name a few.
🇮🇹 "Se sei un twink a caccia di giochi erotici, attento a non farti ipnotizzare dal primo daddy affascinante che capita. Rischieresti di farti rubare l'identità e di perdere ogni ricordo del tuo passato. E indovina un po'? Ora sei tu quel daddy affamato di twink."
🇬🇧 "If you're a twink looking for erotic games, watch out you don't get hypnotized by the first charming daddy who comes along. You'd risk having your identity stolen and losing every memory of your past. And guess what? Now you’re that twink-hungry daddy."
Jake had the perfect plan to get inside Alfred Pantoni's house; go right through the dog store. Jake was a reporter who had been trying to get to the bottom of Pantoni's strike breaking actions at the mining company. He knew Pantoni was meeting with the chief of police tonight, but there was no way an award-winning investigative reporter was going to be allowed anywhere near the place. But a neighborhood dog...
Jake had obtained the ability to turn into a dog under certain circumstances. He made the discovery totally by accident. A small pet supply store called Whiskers and Wonders made their own dog collars and he didn't know if they were made out of magic materials, or somehow changed all reality around them, but if a human put on one of those dog collars, they could transform into a dog.
Jake had bought a replacement collar for a friend's dog a few months back and he'd wondered what the collar would feel like on his neck. It was an odd thought, but he figured what the heck, no one would know and since he didn't own a job this was really his only chance.
He'd felt silly putting the collar onto his neck in front of the mirror, but as soon as he closed the clasp he was suddenly a dog. Once the initial panic subsided, he spend the next few hours as a dog trying to get the collar off. Without thumbs, it took several hours to get it off without hurting himself. Once it came off, he was immediately himself again, albeit a very tired version of himself.
He'd quickly found out that it didn't work with any collar, just ones from Whiskers and Wonders. He wasn't sure if it would work for anyone else; at least the collar didn't seem to do anything to people's pets. He also knew that the transformation also gave him dog instincts, he knew how to walk around and bark intuitively, so he could pass as a normal dog to bystanders.
Jake's first idea had been to build something that could easily remove a collar without hands. It was hard to figure out something that could do that without wringing his dog neck, but Jake had rigged up something where as long as the collar was not too tight he could slip it into a little groove and wiggle it against a concealed blade. He hadn't tested the device as a dog, but it was able to cut the nylon on a collar fairly easily without slicing anything thicker than a collar.
He also had Plan B, which was an envelope tucked under his door mat that had a note saying "Hello, I am a trained dog seeking help. Please take off my collar if you understand and are willing to help."
Jake figured he could reveal his secret to one of his friends in an emergency, but hoped he wouldn't have to. It was an incredible asset if he could figure out how to use it. He'd been waiting for it to come in handy and it seemed like it just might do to get some leads on this story about Alfred Pantoni's mining company.
So that's why Jake was sitting in the grass across the street from Pantoni's house, as a dog, wearing a locally made dog collar. His plan was to wait until the chief of police arrived, then wander across the street. No one would be too suspicious of a neighborhood dog confidently walking home. Then Jake could tuck himself behind the bushes under a window and use his keen dog hearing to get some leads on what Pantoni's next move was going to be.
As Jake stood on the grass waiting for the police chief to arrive and go in, an older Buick pulled up and parked nearby. Jake glanced over, but it was not the police chief, it just appeared to be some older women who appeared to be dressed up for some event. Pastel dresses and matching hats.
Jake had been intending on ignoring the women and hoped they would do the same to him. His tail sagged slightly in disappointment when he heard one of the women remark "Oh look at that cute little dog!"
Why can't you just mind your own business, I'm on a stakeout here. As the women approached, Jake thought he'd best not appear threatening, and sat down on the grass. The last thing he needed was someone calling animal control or something like that.
The women reached him and started cooing and reaching down to pet him. Did these women have no self-preservation instinct? Apparently they had no fear of strange dogs and they reached down to stroke and straighten his fur. He figured he'd better go along with it; it might draw attention but for anyone watching it might add him the legitimacy of not looking like a stray.
Besides, it didn't feel bad to be petted by these seemingly very nice ladies. Jake was starting to understand why dogs liked it to much, it did feel quite nice and it was pleasant to be getting positive attention with no expectation that he would actually do anything impressive.
Jake was starting to have fun with it, flashing the women looks that he knew would be cute, his tongue lolling out. They seemed delighted to encounter such a friendly dog. Jake rolled onto his back and the women started petting is belly and stroking his ears. Oh my, this is...very nice, thought Jake.
Jake suddenly remembered he was supposed to be keeping a close eye on Pantoni's house. He had to get close enough to hear, but these ladies were so nice...he didn't want to disappoint them. Wait, why was he worried about these old ladies wanted?
Something odd is going on here..., Jake began to think, but the thought faded away as his rear leg started kicking in the air, the way many dogs will when they are enjoying attention and affection.
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