take-my-body-from-me

[take-my-body-from-me]

92%

I don’t think most people would peg me as the type of guy who’d want to be someone else.

Honestly, it probably looks like I have it all.

Growing up in Salzburg, then being sent to the French international school in the Alps—yeah, I was pretty privileged. My parents wanted the “best environment” for me, which mostly meant an endless carousel of uniforms, skiing weekends, and being reminded that I was the first-born son.

And I guess I’m not too hard on the eyes either. People have told me enough times: dark brown hair, olive skin, a lean build. Even my name —Lorenz—just kind of sounds hot. Thanks mom and dad for that one I guess.

But if I’m being honest, the pressure of being perfect all the time has been exhausting. .

That’s how I ended up on SwapService.

I’d heard about it a few years back from a classmate Nils. We’d gotten drunk together at a party and somewhere between our third and fourth drink, he leaned in and told me he wasn’t actually Nils.

I laughed at first, thought he was being drunk. But he went on to explain he’d swapped into that body. He’d grown up in Singapore, in some ridiculous wealthy family. Said he’d always wanted to be European, and that Nils' body—tall, blond, mode-like features—felt like his dream come true.

Nils just wanted to be muscular and tan and apparently this guy's old Singaporean body fit the bill exactly. They were both rich, both from the same private-school bubble, so I guess it worked out for them. No harm done.

That conversation stuck with me. And that’s how I find myself here tonight.

---

I’d been living on my own for a couple years now, post-uni in Vienna. My parents thought I’d go straight into consulting or law school, something respectable. Instead, I’ve been drifting—half working, half trying to figure out what I actually want. And the more time I spent alone, the more I realized how suffocating it had felt always being “the perfect son.”

So when I pulled up the SwapService site for the first time, it didn’t feel as crazy as it probably should have.

The homepage looked clinical—nothing flashy, just a clean form. Step one: enter your own stats.

Age range. Height. Weight. Ethnicity. Language. Region. Hairiness. I filled it out slowly, double-checking like it mattered whether I wrote “slim build” or “lean build.”

Then came the preferences section. There, the form basically asked: who do you want to be?

It asked all the same questions I'd fillled out about myself plus one about the duration of how long I’d like the swap to last. There was even a box for “permanent,” which made me pause for a second.

I shook my head. “Yeah, no thanks,” I muttered to myself.

I just needed a break, to step away from the version of myself everyone else expected me to be. But also… maybe a chance to see what being a real man was like.

So I put in my preference: 30+ years old , 170+ cm, 75+ kg, Latino/Hispanic, Spanish/English/French, Spain/Latin America, Hairy. I tried not to be too picky I just wanted someone different enough from me that I wouldn’t be thinking about my parents or home every time I looked in the mirror.

I sat back, staring at the form for a moment, heart beating faster than it should have.

Then I clicked submit.

---

About an hour later the email came through: “Your matches are ready."

My stomach did this weird flip. I hadn’t really thought about what it would feel like when the site actually came back with real people.

When I logged in, it showed me a list—about ten guys, each with a percentage score next to their names. The site didn’t explain what the score meant, just that the higher the number, the better the match. They also didn’t say which criteria lined up—so I guess it was on me to assume what the other person had put down about themselves.

The first few were exactly the kind of guys I had pictured. Latino, thirties, strong, built in a way I’d never been. Some with tattoos, some with heavy beards, all of them somewhere in that 70–80% criteria match range. They were hot, no doubt. I kept thinking, if this were Tinder, I’d swipe yes on every single one.

But then I scrolled down and saw the one the site had marked Best Match – 92%.

Rafael.

52 years old. Lived in Ibiza. Bald, hairy, muscular. The profile said he’d retired early after making millions from a construction company.

I just stared at his picture for a while. He looked nothing like me—older, rougher. Though he still had a flirty, kinda cocky glint in his eye. And apparently, out of everyone on the list, he was the closest fit for me.

I wasn’t really sure about it at first. I mean, 52 was a bit older than I was thinking. Yeah, I should probably just message one of the other younger, ripped guys.

I almost clicked back to this guy Arturo, my next highest match, but then a new message notification popped up.

Rafael: So, you’re my best match. I think we should swap now.

His style was straightforward—assertive but still, I was charmed. He already knew who he was and what he wanted. And apparently, that was me.

Rafael: Been trying for ages to get a match this high. You’d be perfect.

I stared at the screen, biting my lip.

Rafael: If you don’t want to swap, fine. But at least let me fly you to Ibiza so I can fuck you.

I laughed out loud when I read it, but I don't think he was kidding. Yeah, I had a feeling he meant it and I won’t lie... it turned me on.

I’d always fantasized about a daddy type, someone older and in control, but I’d never been brave enough to actually follow through. The thought of Rafael wanting me that badly made me sprout a partial.

I thought to myself, Rafael was hot enough. Older, sure, but powerful. Confident. He looked like someone who didn’t take no for an answer, in the best way.

And the idea of stepping into his life for a few months? Living as him, testing it out? That didn’t sound so bad.

So I typed back before I could overthink it:

Me: What the hell. Let’s do it.

When I woke up in Rafael’s body, it hit me all at once.

The hair on my chest and arms. The way my muscles felt thick and heavy even when I wasn’t flexing.

My head felt strangely light without hair, but in the mirror, the bald look worked, I felt great. And best of all, no more Mr. Perfect.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Rafael (in my body): Thank you. This is perfect. Already feels like home.

I frowned at the screen. That wording was a little odd. But I told myself he was just excited.

---

The first few weeks were surreal. I got used to being stared at in Ibiza—on the beach, at cafés, walking shirtless through my villa. I texted my old body constantly, just to check in.

Me: How’s everything? You holding up okay?

Him (as me): Yeah, it’s great. Your friends are fun. Everyone’s so easygoing.

But it was weird. Every time I reached out, he sounded surprised I was even asking. Like he hadn’t thought I’d bother. Still, he was always polite, always said things were going well.

Then two weeks went by without a single reply. My messages just sat there, unread.

By the time I finally called, my chest was tight with worry.

“Hello?” My voice—his voice—answered after a few rings.

“Hey,” I said quickly. “It’s me. You okay? I haven’t heard from you.”

There was a pause, then a slightly confused, cautious tone. “Oh… yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d want me to check in all the time.”

“I mean, I do,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “I want to make sure everything’s good.”

“It is,” he said, still sounding like he was trying to place why I’d even be asking. “Really good.”

I hesitated, then decided to test something. “Would you be alright if I used your money to fly you—well, me—to Ibiza? Just for a visit?”

He laughed lightly. “There’s no reason to ask me. Do whatever you want with it. But sure, I’d be happy to come.”

---

Rafael flew in a few days later, wearing my body like it had always been his. He looked comfortable, confident—more than I’d ever seen myself. Even just walking through the airport, he carried himself differently. Straighter back, more presence, like he knew people were watching him and he loved it.

That night we had dinner at a little seafood place by the marina. After a couple glasses of wine, Rafael loosened up and started talking.

He leaned back in his chair, grinning, my face flushed from the alcohol. “You know, man, I have to thank you. I really mean it. I’m so fucking excited to live in this body. I don’t know why you’d ever give it up.”

I blinked at him. “Live in it?”

He waved a hand, like it was obvious. “Yeah. I mean, come on. The Christmas trip to Fiji with the fam? That’s going to be unreal. And that Amsterdam thing with my mates in February—I cannot wait for that.” He chuckled, swirling his wine. “It's a good life dude. I plan to enjoy every minute of it.”

My stomach dropped. “What the hell are you talking about? We’ll be swapped back by then.”

He stopped mid-sip and frowned. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? This was temporary swap. Then we switch back. That was the deal.”

He set his glass down, staring at me like I’d just said something insane. “No, man. We agreed to permanent. That was the whole point.”

I nearly choked. “No the fuck we didn’t.”

His eyes widened in shock. “You’re kidding, right? I checked off permanent on my end. I assumed you did too.”

I shook my head furiously. “I would never have chosen that.”

He leaned back, suddenly serious, his expression tightening. “Shit. You think that’s the 8% difference? Ninety-two out of a hundred—we matched on everything else, but you didn’t check permanent. That's crazy.”

I landed my glass down harder than I meant to. “You’re full of shit, man. You see how good my life is. I wouldn’t want to give that up—I mean, look at me.” I gestured at his face, my face, across the table. “You think I’d just throw that away?”

Rafael raised his hands like he was innocent. “I swear, I didn’t know. I thought we were on the same page. That’s why I was confused when you kept checking in all the time. Honestly?” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I was surprised you wanted to give me my new body at all. But hey, I wasn’t gonna complain.”

The way he said my new body sent a chill through me. He lingered on it, almost savoring the phrase, like it turned him on to say it out loud.

“Well, I don’t,” I snapped. “And it’s not your body, it’s mine. We need to switch back.”

He leaned in, elbows on the table, voice low but steady. “Wait. Just—wait. I really thought… maybe you should just consider it. Consider staying.” His eyes roamed over me—over his old body now filled by me. “I mean, look at you now. You’ve been walking around Ibiza like a god. I know for a fact you’ve got a bigger cock now. And all day you’ve been saying how good it feels, how free you feel. What if that didn’t have to end?”

I stared at him, my chest tight. “But no—that’s my entire youth you’re asking me to give you. I don’t want to give that up.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “But you were fine giving a few months of it up? Come on, Lorenz. If it was really that perfect, you wouldn’t want to let any of it go. Maybe deep down, you wanted this more than you’re admitting.”

“That’s not the same thing,” I muttered.

“Besides,” he went on smoothly, “we don’t have to decide right now. Why rush? How long did you want the swap to last anyway?”

“Two months,” I said, my voice firmer.

He grinned then, slow and wolfish. “Two months? Then what are you even worried about? We’re only at a month and a half.” He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his wine with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Relax. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

---

Later, we walked back to Rafael’s flat, the luxurous one-bedroom I’d been calling home since the swap. The air was humid, clinging to my skin. Neither of us said much.

Inside, I kicked off my shoes and peeled my shirt over my head, tossing it on the chair. The place smelled faintly of cologne and laundry detergent. Without a word, I stretched out on the bed, flat on my back, trying to focus on the ceiling and not the thousand thoughts in my head.

A few minutes later, I felt the mattress dip. Rafael slid in beside me. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know he was naked—his warmth pressed against me, skin to skin.

We lay there in silence. I shut my eyes tighter, willing myself to relax. Then I felt his hand drift across my chest, fingers combing through the thick hair. Slow. Lazy. Like he was testing what he could get away with.

He let out a quiet moan, almost like he was savoring it.

I didn’t move. I didn’t push him away.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice was low, certain. “Just so you know… in case nobody’s telling you enough… you are so. fucking. sexy in your new body.”

Something in me flipped. My eyes snapped open.

In one move, I rolled over, grabbing his wrists and pinning him down against the mattress. His eyes went wide for a second, then his lips curled into a grin.

“You like that?” I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I expected.

He nodded quickly, biting his lip.

I spat on my fingers and shoved one between his cheeks, pressing inside. He arched his back, gasping, already opening up for me.

“Fuck, Rafael,” he groaned. “Yeah—just like that.”

I worked him with my finger, then two, and he was squirming under me, grinding against my hand like he couldn’t get enough.

When I finally pushed into him, he was more than ready. His hands grabbed at the sheets, pulling tight.

“God, you’re big,” he hissed, his voice cracking with pleasure.

I didn’t care that it was my old body I was fucking. Lying under me, he wasn’t me. He was just a needy twink, spread out and taking it, and I was in complete control. That was all that mattered.

I thrust hard, steady, holding his hips down. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, his moans spilling louder with every movement.

When I came, I stayed inside him, grinding deep, watching him writhe beneath me.

---

We fucked raw like that every night that week—sometimes twice. He’d climb on top of me, or bend over the edge of the bed, and I couldn’t resist. The way he moaned in my old voice, the way his face looked flushed and desperate beneath me—it was addictive. By the fourth night, I stopped thinking about anything except the pleasure. By the last night before his flight, I’d forgotten all about my insistence on swapping back.

When he packed his bag and headed for the door, though, the clarity returned like a jolt.

“Wait,” I said, leaning against the door frame. “We should talk about switching back soon.”

He paused. “Call me next week if you really still want that,” he said. “Maybe we can work something out.”

So, the next week, I called him.

“Rafael?”

“Yeah,” my voice answered on the other end, warm and teasing.

“I’m serious. I want to go back.”

He chuckled. “Lorenz, come on. You’re telling me you don’t love walking around Ibiza like you own the place? You didn’t love fucking in that body every night? Don’t lie. You’re thriving. Just give it a little longer.”

“I said two months,” I reminded him.

“Two months went by so fast. And what’s the rush?” His tone softened. “Trust me. If you go back now, you’ll regret it. Let yourself enjoy this while it lasts.”

By the time we hung up, he’d convinced me. Again.

But a few weeks later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The longer I stayed, the more it felt like I was becoming Rafael and he was becoming me. I didn’t want to lose my body forever. So, I booked a flight to Vienna without telling him.

When I told him I'd arrived in the city, only then did he agree to meet me at a bar near the center.

I got there early, chest tight with nerves. I sat at a corner table, sweating slightly in Rafael’s heavier body.

When the door opened, my breath caught. It wasn’t just Rafael who walked in wearing my skin. He was with Henry.

Henry. My old classmate, my crush for years, the one I never said anything to because I knew he didn't feel the same about me.

They spotted me. Rafael’s face lit up as if nothing was unusual. “Rafael!” he called, waving as though we were just casual friends meeting up. Then he clapped Henry on the shoulder. “And this is Henry. Thought you should meet him.”

Henry extended a hand to me, eyes lingering on my chest, then my arms. “Nice to meet you,” he said, smiling a little too much.

I forced a nod, heart pounding. “Yeah. You too.”

We sat together, ordered drinks. Rafael kept the conversation light, careful, steering away from anything that would expose the truth. Henry leaned in toward me every chance he got. His knee brushed mine under the table. He asked me about Ibiza, about Spain, about how I was liking Vienna so far.

Eventually, Rafael stretched and yawned. “I’m beat. Gotta get up early tomorrow. You two stay, though.” He patted Henry’s back. “Take care of him, yeah?”

Henry grinned at him. “Yeah, of course.”

When Rafael left, Henry turned fully confessed. “You know,” he said, voice low, “I don’t usually do this, but…” He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. “I want you bad.”

Every rational thought screamed at me to walk away. To remember why I’d come. But this was Henry—finally, after all these years, wanting me.

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

We stumbled back to his place. The second the door shut, he pushed me against the wall and kissed me hard. His hands roamed over my hairy chest, down to my belt, fumbling it open.

“God, you’re built,” he said between kisses. “Exactly my type.”

I grabbed his ass, pulling him against me. I fucked him hard, raw, his moans filling the room. His fingers clawed at my back as I drove into him, finally getting what I’d fantasized about since I was a teenager.

Lying there after, sweaty and spent, I thought to myself maybe this swap wasn’t all bad after all.

I went back to Ibiza after that. But the weeks dragged on. I tried to enjoy the beaches, the villa, the easy confidence of this new body, but every morning I’d catch myself in the mirror and feel that ache in my chest. I missed my old face. I missed the way my friends knew me without introductions. I missed being me.

So I booked another flight. This time, I promised myself, I wouldn’t get distracted. I would corner Rafael and make him listen. No excuses. No stalling.

I walked into the same bar in Vienna, heart pounding with determination.

And there he was. My body. My smile. And next to him, perched close against his arm, was another guy.

This one was maybe mid-twenties. Dark hair, clean-shaven, dressed sharp in a designer button-down. His build was lean but toned, the kind of body that lived in gyms and rooftop pools. The second I approached the table, he turned his attention to me, eyes wide, lips curling into a grin.

“You must be Rafael,” he said, voice low and eager. He reached out, resting a hand on my arm as if we’d known each other for years. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

The way he said it, touch lingering on my bicep, I felt my cock stir instantly.

I glanced up, and there was Rafael. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk, as he’d set this up perfectly. He knew exactly what was happening to me.

I swallowed hard, pulse quickening, my earlier resolve slipping with every brush of contact.

I thought to myself: Fuck. Not again.

[take-my-body-from-me]

If I Had Your Body ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe both,” she said, dead serious.

I stared at her. “You’re not joking.”

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

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

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

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

“Why me?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think she might be right.

---

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

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

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

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

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

“What estate stuff?” I frowned.

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

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

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

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

The trip stretched from two months to four.

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

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

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

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

It was weird, but I let it go.

---

She eventually came back.

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

No sign of my old body.

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

Still nothing.

Finally, I called her.

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

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

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

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

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

And a man stood up.

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

She waved.

“Hey, stranger.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She opened up Instagram to show me.

I groaned. “Unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably hot,” she corrected.

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

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

I stared at her. “…Halfway?”

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

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

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

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

---

From then onward, Priya played a different game.

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

But this was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Arjun,” she said

I raised an eyebrow. “No one’s here.”

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

And for some reason, I obeyed.

---

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

Then one day, it just… stopped.

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

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

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

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

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

“Mm-hm.” She sipped her tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[take-my-body-from-me]

After A Long While

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darkness swallowed me whole.

---

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

Then a shadow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darkness took me again.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the doctor left.

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

“Who are you?” I rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blinked.

No.

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

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

The monitor behind me started to beep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes didn’t leave mine.

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

The words hit and just… hung there.

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

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

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

Twenty-three years.

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

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

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

---

The next day was endless.

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

It wasn’t me.

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

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

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

Then the door creaked open.

He stepped in—my father. In my body.

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

I sank deeper into the hospital bed.

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

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

I said nothing.

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

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

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

I stared at him.

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

He didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quiet.

“It’s not that simple.”

I waited.

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

He looked at me. Steady. Calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few of me at concerts.

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

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

He swiped again.

A new photo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smile faded a little, softened into something gentler. “You were young. You had time.”

I shook my head. “Apparently not.”

He didn’t argue. Just swiped again.

Another photo.

This one was more intimate.

My body again—bare-chested, laying out in the sun with Leo. He flicked past it, then paused. Tapped back. He looked at the image for a long time.

“That was the day he… the first time he really made love to me,” he said, voice low. “I’d never felt anything like it before. Not in my old life. Not in my old body.”

I felt my face heat.

He kept his eyes on the screen, but his voice thickened.

“I remember lying there afterward, feeling… whole. For the first time since the crash. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I wasn’t just wearing your skin, waiting to give it back. That night, I stopped feeling like an intruder. I felt like someone’s partner. Like a man with a life again. A real one.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes.

“That was when I knew. I couldn’t go back. Not really.”

I looked away, my breath catching in my throat.

He sat there, still holding the phone. Still looking at that photo.

“After that, I let myself believe you’d never wake up” he said.

His voice was steady now, clearer than it had been all day.

“I took your life, rebuilt it, made it completely mine.”

I turned back toward him. My mouth felt dry.

“But I’m awake now,” I said. “Dad… please. I want it back. Can’t you at least try?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“I’m sorry, sport. But you and I both know nobody would believe us. We’d sound crazy.”

I stared at him. “That’s it?”

He hesitated—then gave a soft, almost apologetic shrug.

“And… I don’t want to.”

I blinked, stunned.

“I want my life back,” I said, louder now. “I need it back.”

He exhaled, long and slow, as if he were tired. Then said, almost gently, “It’s not yours anymore.”

Silence.

It landed between us like a weight.

“I’ve made arrangements for your long-term care,” he added, voice calm, practiced. “Same facility. Private wing. You’ll have a full suite—meals, a therapist, a studio for art, if you want it. I even got them to approve wine with dinner.”

I stared at him. “But I’ll die in this body.”

He didn’t look away. “You were dying in it already.”

That made me flinch.

He stood slowly.

“I didn’t steal your life, Martín. I was gifted it. And the truth is… you were miserable back then. You hated yourself. Always sulking, always angry. Now—this body—this life—it’s something worth living in. I made it that way.”

He glanced down at his arms and flexed slightly. Admiring.

“And I’m not giving it back.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the door. Glanced back over his shoulder.

“Sorry, Dad,” he said quietly. “I’ll visit soon. I hope you’ll understand.”

And just like that, he left. Off to keep living his life.

[take-my-body-from-me]

The Window

The thirst wakes me first.

It’s the middle of the night, and my mouth is bone-dry, my skin fever-hot. I sit up in bed, heart pounding, and fumble for the glass of water on the nightstand. The first gulp is relief. The second is dread.

It’s time.

Every five years. Like clockwork. My body goes into what I call possession withdrawal—a high fever that won’t break until someone, anyone, takes control of me. And when they do, I’m still there, fully conscious, but powerless. Just a passenger in my own skin.

I glance at the clock—3:17 AM. Outside, the farm is silent except for the hum of crickets and the whisper of wind through the fields. My son, Theo, is asleep down the hall. He flew in from LA a week ago, all lanky limbs and city-boy skepticism, thinking this was just a summer visit with his old man.

God, I hope he says yes.

---

It started when I was 23, backpacking through Southeast Asia.

Some guy in a village in Laos—skinny, with a grin too wide for his face—kept pestering me. "What’s it like?" he asked, poking my bicep like I was a piece of meat. "So much muscle. So strong."

I laughed it off, tried to be polite. But when he started following me, whispering about "trying on a foreign body," I booked it. Didn’t even look back.

Big mistake.

The guy muttered something that sounded like an incantation. Next thing I knew, my skin was crawling, my vision flickering. Then—snap—I was shoved into the backseat of my own skull.

For two weeks, I watched through my own eyes as he haggled at markets, slurped noodles, even flirted with a German backpacker in Chiang Mai. All while I screamed silently behind the glass. He only jumped ship in Bangkok, dumping me back into control just in time to stumble onto my flight home.

I told myself it was heatstroke. Bad mushrooms.

Then, five years later, during a pickup football game, my buddy Mike tackled me hard. I was already burning up, but I’d promised I’d come. Didn’t want to flake.

The second he landed on top of me, knee in my ribs—whoosh. Like a vacuum seal breaking. Suddenly, Mike was in me, his panic ricocheting through my skull as I got shoved aside.

"Dude? DUDE?!" his voice echoed in my head.

"Fuck, not again," I thought back, weirdly calm.

After that, I figured it out: Every five years, the "window" opens. If I don’t let someone in, I’m stuck with a raging fever. But if I do? They get to enjoy being me, and I get relief.

Over the years, I learned to manage it. My buddies took turns. Some treated it like a party trick—flexing my arms in the mirror, marveling at my strength. Others didn’t last an hour, disturbed by my voice echoing inside their heads.

I never told my family. What was I supposed to say? Hey honey, want to hop into my body for a bit so I don’t feel like I’m dying? Yeah, no.

Maybe that secret was part of why Marissa left. Not the only reason, I’m sure. But it didn’t help.

Now, at 57, my options were slim. Mike moved to Australia. Dave died in a freak accident. Everyone else drifted away. That left Theo.

My son. Twenty-two, visiting the farm for the first time in three years. We got along fine, but fine wasn’t close. He’d inherited Marissa’s skepticism and my stubbornness—a hell of a combo. But he was old enough now.

And if he said no? Well, I’d sweat through my sheets alone.

---

I waited until breakfast. Pancakes—his favorite. Syrup pooled on the plate as I cleared my throat.

"Theo," I said. "There’s something I need to tell you."

He smirked, mouth full. "You’re dying?"

"Not quite." I laid it out—the fever, the window, the possession.

His fork clinked against the plate. "Bullshit."

"I wish."

"You’re either fucking with me, or you’ve finally lost it."

I stood up. "C’mere."

He followed me into the living room, wariness written all over his face. I took his wrist—long fingers, faint ink stains from his sketchbook—and pressed his palm to my chest.

"Push."

He raised an eyebrow but complied.

Nothing at first. Then—

His hand sank into me. Not bloody. Not gory. Like warm water. Like dipping into something alive.

Theo yanked back, staring at his hand like it had betrayed him. "Holy shit."

"Yeah."

He backed away, hands in his hair. "This is insane. This is—no. No way."

"You don’t have to decide now," I said. "The window’s open. Two weeks. If you don’t… well, I’ll be upstairs cooking in my own skin."

Theo didn’t respond. Just stared.

---

Days passed. The fever hit hard—chills, dry mouth, the whole miserable routine. I sweated through my sheets on the couch, blankets damp. Theo hovered like I was radioactive.

He’d sneak glances. Once, he sat beside me, hands clasped.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Not once they’re in," I rasped.

"And you’re just… there?"

"Yep. Watching. Front row."

He winced. "Jesus. That’s messed up."

"Tell me about it."

---

One morning, I woke up to movement.

Not mine.

My arms were already swinging my legs out of bed. My fingers rubbed sleep from my eyes. My lungs drew a deep, easy breath—no fever, no ache.

And in the back of my skull, faint but unmistakable: Oh my God. Oh my GOD.

Theo’s voice. Inside me.

He’d done it.

I settled back, a passenger again, as Theo took his first shaky steps toward the mirror.

He stared hard, mouth parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ran my hands down my chest, over the stubble on my jaw, the lines in my forehead. Then he grinned. Tilted my head. Flexed an arm and whistled softly.

"Shit, Dad," he said aloud, admiring my reflection. "You really don’t make ‘57’ look bad."

---

Theo dove into the experience. Worked the farm like he’d never left it—hauling hay, fixing fences, even wrestling with the tractor when it stalled. He’d pause to touch my chest hair, roll a shoulder, run a thumb over my calluses like they were foreign artifacts.

His own body had been wiry, smooth. This? This was armor. This was power.

Then came Friday.

He drove my truck into town, walked into the bar like he belonged there. A woman sat alone at the counter—late thirties, dark hair, tired eyes. He bought her a drink. They talked.

I kept quiet, listening. He was smoother than I expected—laughing at the right moments, leaning in just enough.

Two hours later, they were in my bed.

I’d seen buddies fumble through sex in my body. But Theo? He moved like he’d been waiting for this. Slow at first—my rough hands on her thighs, tracing lines with my thumbs. Then firmer. Confident.

"You good?" he asked her, breath warm against her neck.

She nodded, shy smile on her lips.

"Use your words."

"Yes."

He smirked—my smirk, sharper now—and flipped her onto her stomach. One hand on her wrist, the other tugging her hips back. She gasped, and I felt it—the thrill coursing through Theo as her body responded to his.

When he paused, breath ragged, and said, "Condom’s coming off," it wasn’t a question.

"Yeah?" she asked, flushed.

"Yeah. Unless you say no."

She didn’t.

Bare, he slid in again—and froze. Just breathed. Felt everything. Then he gripped her tighter, dragged her back against him, hand on her belly like he needed to feel every inch.

"Fuck," he growled, "you take it so good."

She whimpered, and Theo snapped. His pace brutal, the bed slamming the wall. Her cries muffled into pillows, my body groaning with every thrust.

When they came, he didn’t roll off. Just pulled her back against him, chest to her back, fingers splayed over her hip.

"You alright?" he whispered.

She nodded, breathless. Theo kissed her shoulder, soft. "You’re fucking incredible."

She laughed, kissed him back. I stayed quiet, stunned. Not by what he did. By how easy it was for him to be me. To own me.

---

By the last day, I could feel it—the window closing. Not fever. Just pressure. A door inching shut.

"You should get ready to jump," I told him.

He shrugged. "I’m good."

"Seriously, Theo. We don’t know what happens if you stay."

"So I get stuck a couple years. Big deal."

He sounded so casual. Too casual.

That evening, I begged. "Theo, now. Get out. Please."

Then his phone buzzed. The woman. Come over.

He grinned, pulling on jeans.

"You don’t have time!" I snapped.

He didn’t answer.

I panicked. Pushed—whatever part of me was still there. For a second, I felt him waver. Like he lost his footing.

Then he shoved back.

Hard.

It was like falling backward off a cliff—then, thud.

I hit the floor.

My floor. My house.

But not my body.

I looked up. My own face stared down at me. Eyes wide—then narrowing into a smirk. Theo flexed my arm, rolled my shoulder.

"Theo," I said. My voice too light, too high. "What the hell just happened? Am I—?"

"You?" he said, laughing. "Yeah. You are now."

I scrambled up and lunged at him. Hit solid muscle. No sinking. Just impact.

Theo didn’t budge. He adjusted my shirt, grabbed the keys.

"Wait—Theo!"

He paused at the door. "Relax, Dad. It’s only five years."

Then he was gone. The screen door slammed. The truck roared.

I stood there. In his body. Alone.

Breath shaking, I stumbled into the hallway mirror. My reflection stared back—wide, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, mussed dark hair Young. So young.

"Theo is me," I whispered.

"And I… I get to be Theo now?"

The words left my mouth before I could stop them. My mouth. His voice.

I froze.

A slow, involuntary smirk curled across my face.

I raised a hand—long, smooth, uncalloused fingers—and ran it over my chest, down my sides. My torso was lean and firm beneath my T-shirt. No paunch, no scars. No aches in the joints. My skin buzzed under my touch like it had just woken up.

I couldn’t help it. I pulled off the shirt and stared.

Toned, smooth, hairless. Tight abs. Small nipples. Clean lines.

I turned, admiring the definition in my arms, the graceful slope of my back, the taut curve of my ass beneath the waistband of borrowed boxer briefs.

Tingles of something—panic? relief? excitement?—rippled through me, settling low in my gut.

I took a breath. Grinned wider.

"Fuck," I whispered. "I’m Theo now."

And God help me, I liked it.

[take-my-body-from-me]

Julian's Bargain (Pt. 3)

Week 11

I don't even know that I care about keeping the necklace on anymore.

At first, I told myself it was just for the shoots—just for the art, just for the work. But the more I took it off, the less I wanted to put it back on. It started feeling heavy. Restrictive. Like a leash.

So I stopped.

Julian messaged me again last week, freaking out over some new campaign he saw online—some black-and-white editorial where I was shirtless, the cross conspicuously absent. I lied straight to his face. “Those were old shots, dude. From before you lost your shit the first time.” He bought it. Or at least, he didn’t push.

Meanwhile, my career is taking off.

A contact at the agency hooked me up with some art students in Milan—private figure modeling, cash in hand, no questions asked. The first time, I kept the cross on, tucked under my wrist where it wouldn’t show in the sketches. The second time? I left it in my bag. The third? I didn’t even bring it.

It’s been… liberating.

The longer I go without it, the more this body feels like mine. Not Julian’s. Not borrowed. Mine. The way the students stare, the way their pencils trace every line of me—it’s intoxicating. I’ve started recognizing myself in their work, in the way they exaggerate my jaw, my shoulders, the curve of my spine. This is who I am now.

A couple of times, I’ve gone days without wearing it. Just to see. Just to feel. And nothing’s happened. No sudden shift back, no warning twinge. Just… me.

But then Julian will text me, ask how it’s going, if I’m “being careful.” I tell him what he wants to hear, feel guilty, and put it back on for a while. Then I'll post a sluty picture wearing the necklace to back it up.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a flight back to Nice tomorrow, then another shoot in Marseille—one where the stylist specifically requested “no jewelry.”

I’ll pack the cross.

But I don’t think I’ll wear it.

Week 13

Porto was a fever dream.

The shoot wrapped late—golden hour dissolving into violet, the Douro River rippling behind us like molten silver. The crew scattered, but Nuno lingered. Portuguese-Angolan, all muscle and effortless arrogance, the kind of man who moved like the world owed him pleasure. We’d been trading glances all day, charged and deliberate.

“You’re staying at the Palacio, right?” He lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in his dark eyes. “Me too. Come have a drink.”

I did.

One drink became two, became his hands gripping my waist in the elevator, his teeth grazing my neck as I fumbled with the keycard. The door barely clicked shut before he shoved me against it, grinding against me, his breath hot in my ear. “You’ve been driving me fucking crazy all day.”

I laughed, already tugging at his belt. “Yeah? Prove it.”

He did.

But when he was naked above me, impatient, his cock heavy against my thigh, I stopped him. “Wait—put this on.”

Nuno raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, letting me fasten the chain behind his neck. “Superstition?” he teased, rolling his hips.

I grinned. “Something like that.”

The cross bounced between us as he fucked me, catching the light with every thrust. It was electric—the weight of it swinging, the absurd, secret thrill of pretending, just for a moment, that he was part of the game too. That he wasn’t really this beautiful. That we were both borrowed.

(He wasn’t. He had always been this perfect. But he didn’t know I hadn’t.)

He came inside me, the metal pressed between our sweat-slick chests, warm from skin and friction. We fell asleep tangled together, his arm slung possessively over my waist.

When I woke, he was gone.

No note. No text. Just the ghost of his cologne on the sheets and the dull ache of his absence between my legs.

Then I opened Instagram.

There he was, the sexiest mirror selife I'd ever seen. And there, resting against his collarbones like it had always belonged to him: my cross.

I should’ve panicked. He was definitely already halfway to Angola by now.

I didn’t.

The truth? It looked good on him. Better than good. Right.

I should text him. Demand he send it back. Beg, if I had to.

But my thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating.

Part of me doesn’t want to.

Part of me wants to see what happens when the chain stays gone.

I double-tapped the photo. Closed the app. Rolled over in the empty bed.

And for the first time since the swap, I let myself truly believe that I could stay like this forever.

[take-my-body-from-me]

Julian's Bargain (Pt. 2)

Week 5

"Non, non—turn your chin down. Just a little. Like you’re bored of how hot you are."

Léa’s fingers pressed lightly against my jaw, tilting my face with the precision of an artist. Behind her, Théo held up his phone, the screen’s glow catching the sharp line of my collarbone, the curve of my pec.

"Tu es un naturel," Théo said, grinning. He’d done some modeling work himself back in Geneva, so I guess he’d know.

I snorted. "Bullshit."

But the photos didn’t lie.

With their help, I’d started curating Julian’s Instagram—for his future career, I told myself. Really, though? It was just fun to look like this. To experiment with angles, to see what happened when I tilted my head just so, let my shirt ride up a little, smirked like I knew something the camera didn’t.

The first few posts blew up overnight.

26K likes.

I scrolled through the DMs, thumb hovering over the flood of notifications—brand offers, thirsty nonsense, a couple of actual modeling scouts sliding into my inbox with "We should talk" and "Ever considered working in Milan?"

Huh. Maybe Julian did have a future in this.

Week 8

Well. I’m a model now.

I responded to that scout from Milan on a whim—figured, why not?—and suddenly I’m signed, styled, and standing in front of a camera like I was born to do it. The agency loves my look, loves my vibe, and most importantly, loves how quickly I’m gaining traction. The money’s real, the work’s stupidly easy, and the perks? Yeah, I could get used to this.

Today’s shoot was for some high-end underwear brand. The photographer—a sharp-eyed Italian woman who barely smiled—tilted her head at me halfway through and said, “Take off the necklace. We want clean lines.”

I hesitated. Just for a second.

But then I shrugged, unclasped the chain, and let it drop into my palm. The cross felt warm, like it always did, but I tucked it into my bag without thinking too much about it.

The shots came out perfect. My bare chest, the way the fabric clung—everyone was thrilled. The agency posted the photos within hours.

Then Julian called.

I hadn’t heard his voice in weeks. Not really. I’d been busy, and besides, he could see I was fine—alive, thriving, racking up followers by the thousands. But the second I answered, his tone was all tight panic.

“You took it off.”

I rolled my eyes, leaning back on the balcony of my new (much nicer) apartment. “Relax, it was just for the shoot. It’s back on now.”

“No, you don’t—fuck, you don’t get it.” His breath was ragged, like he’d been running. “The longer it’s off, the weaker the magic gets. The harder it’ll be to swap back.”

That gave me pause.

“…What?”

“The necklace isn’t just a rule, it’s part of the spell. Every minute it’s not on you, the connection frays. If it’s off too long, the swap could—” He cut himself off. “Just keep it on. No exceptions.”

I glanced down at the cross, now resting against my chest again. It felt heavier suddenly.

“Fine,” I said, but my voice didn’t sound as casual as I wanted it to. “But, like… how long is ‘too long’?”

A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “I don’t know.”

I swallowed.

The agency already has three more shoots lined up. All of them want me bare-chested.

I should tell them no.

…Shouldn't I?

[take-my-body-from-me]

Julian's Bargain (Pt. 1)

The apartment smelled like stale coffee and dirty, sweaty laundry—Julian’s place, not The apartment reeked of stale coffee grounds and the sour tang of forgotten laundry—Julian’s signature musk, not mine. The air clung to my tongue, thick enough to taste. He’d lured me over with his usual vague bullshit about “needing advice,” which, in Julian-speak, translated to: I’m about to hit you up for cash. Again.

I sank into his thrift-store couch, springs groaning under me, and cracked open a beer. “Alright, kid. What’s the damage this time?”

Julian rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tension there. His gaze darted everywhere but my face. That stupid gold cross necklace glinted under the flickering overhead light—the one he’d started wearing religiously (ha) a few months back. “Okay, so. Before you say no—”

“I haven’t said no yet.”

“Right. But this is…” He chewed his lip, thumb tracing the edges of the pendant like a worry stone. “Kinda out there. You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

I took a slow swig, foam bitter on my tongue. “Try me.”

He exhaled, sharp and jagged, like he was tearing off duct tape. “This thing can swap bodies.”

The beer nearly went down wrong. “The necklace?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you got at that stupid flea market?

Julian rolled his eyes. “Yes, that one. Look, I know how it sounds, but it’s real. Liam and I tested it a few weeks ago. Swapped for, like, two days. Freaked his girlfriend the hell out.”

I stared. “You’re telling me you and Liam just… swapped?”

“Yes.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face hard enough to smudge his stubble. “I know it sounds insane. But it works.”

I leaned back, studying him. The kid’s knuckles were white around the beer bottle. His knee bounced like a live wire. Dead fucking serious.

“Okay.” I let the word hang, just to watch him squirm. “Let’s say I believe you—which I don’t, by the way—why the hell are you telling me?”

Julian hesitated. Then, quieter: “I wanna make a deal. You take my body for the summer. In exchange, you give me some cash. Then in the fall, I move to LA. Try modeling.”

I barked a laugh. “Modeling?”

“What?” He scowled, shoulders tensing. “I could do it.”

I didn’t argue. The kid was built like a Renaissance painting—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, the kind of face that made bartenders card him twice just to stare. But his wardrobe was a crime against humanity, and his selfies looked like hostage photos.

“And what do I get out of this trade?” I asked, still dripping sarcasm.

Julian grinned, all teeth. “Besides the joy of funding my dreams? You’re, what, forty-five?”

“Forty-two, asshole.”

“Right. So. Three months as a twenty-six-year-old gym rat with a face like this?” He gestured to himself like a game-show prize. “Seems like a fair trade.”

It couldn’t be real. But if it was—

My pulse kicked. Not just the youth (though fuck, yeah, that was part of it), but the body. The one I’d never gotten to have. I was fit now, sure, but in my 20s? Skinny, soft, all wrong. I didn’t come out until 29. Didn’t get top surgery until my late 30s. To step into Julian’s skin—no scars, no dysphoria, a body that matched without a single fight? To be tall for once, instead of 5’6” on a good day?

It hit me like a live wire, heat pooling low in my gut. And judging by Julian’s smirk, he knew exactly how good his offer was.

Still, I let him sweat before nodding at the necklace. “Prove it.”

Julian blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Show me it’s real.”

He hesitated, then slipped the chain over his head. The gold glinted, warm against his palm. “Okay. But just for, like, a minute.”

He said a quick incantation. Then—

Oh.

I was looking up at Julian. Or rather, at myself, from the outside. My own face stared back, wide-eyed.

“Holy shit,” Julian—my voice, my mouth—breathed.

I looked down. Julian’s hands—my hands now—flexed, tendons shifting under smooth skin. I rolled my shoulders, felt the ripple of muscle.

Fuck.

He said another incantation. The world tilted again, and suddenly I was back in my own body, heart hammering against my ribs.

Julian grinned, shaky but triumphant. “Convinced?”

I exhaled, slow. “Jesus Christ.”

“So? Deal?”

I pretended to think about it. Like I hadn’t already decided the second I felt what it was like to breathe in that body.

“One condition,” I said.

Julian groaned. “What?”

“I’m taking your ass to France.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to learn the language, and I can’t think of a better place to be you than on the Côte d'Azur.” I smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll post plenty of pics. You’ll be so jealous.”

Julian scowled. “You’re such a dick.”

“And yet you’re still asking for my help.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “regretting it already,” then sighed. “Fine. But if you fuck up my—”

“Yeah, yeah.” I held out my hand. “Deal?”

He hesitated, then gripped it, his palm was warm. “Deal.”

Week 3

God, taking this deal was such a great decision. The evening Julian swapped us, I bought a one-way ticket to France—literally, for the next day. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just me, this stupidly hot body, and a whole new life waiting on the other side of the Atlantic.

It took less time than you’d think to get used to it all—maybe only a few days if we’re being honest. But I still catch myself staring in the mirror sometimes, running my hands up my smooth, hairless chest, down my flat abs. You’d think I’d hate the twunky vibe after years of T and building up my hairy bear body, but… nope. Not even a little. There’s something fun about this.

I've especially started to get a bit addicted to taking selfies now too. Here's a few of my favorites:

I sublet a room in this fancy apartment in Nice—living with two French girls, Camille and Léa, and a Swiss-French guy, Théo. When we were messaging, they were so reluctant to take in an American (especially one with my shitty, stumbling French), but the second I showed up in person? Oof. Camille actually blushed when she opened the door. Théo clapped me on the back like we were old friends, and Léa—cool, aloof Léa—suddenly found reasons to linger in the kitchen whenever I was around.

“Ton français n’est pas si terrible,” she told me the other night, leaning against the counter while I made coffee. Her eyes flicked over my bare shoulders. (I may or may not have been shirtless. For the heat. Obviously.)

“Merci,” I said, grinning. “But I think you’re just being nice.”

“Non,” she said, tilting her head. “You have a… charming accent.”

Yeah. Charming. That’s one word for it.

I’ve been throwing myself into the language, into the city, into not being another clueless tourist. My roommates drag me to these little local beachside parties—no overpriced cocktails, no tacky souvenirs, just good music, better wine, and people who actually live here. Last weekend, Théo introduced me to some of his friends, and this guy, Mathis, spent half the night very casually finding excuses to touch my arm.

“You’re not like most Americans,” he said, smirking, as he handed me another drink.

“Oh yeah?” I took the glass, letting my fingers brush his. “What are most Americans like?”

“Loud,” he said. “Obvious.”

I leaned in just a little. “And I’m not?”

He laughed, low and warm. “Non. You’re… interesting.”

I could get used to this. No grinding through shitty work shifts, no stressing over every calorie. Just long days in the sun, late nights with even better company, and this body—my body—drawing eyes wherever I go.

Best. Decision. Ever.

[take-my-body-from-me]

Enough Credits (Pt. 2)

After that, I decided Max was getting a bit obsessed and so I decided the best thing to do was to put some distance between us.

I had enough credits from all my previous swaps—including the ones with Max—to stay out of my body for a little over two months. I figured that if I kept moving direclty between bodies, I wouldn't give him an opening and maybe he would just get obsessed with someone else.

My first stop was Madrid.

I’d picked Mateo, a bartender with sun-kissed skin, a sharp jawline, a sexy beard, and glasses that perfectly framed his face. His profile picture screamed 'take me.' How his body was available I won't understand.

One second, I was in my dim apartment, staring at the ceiling, and the next—bam—I was behind a polished oak bar, my fingers deftly twisting a lime wedge onto the rim of a glass. The air was thick with the tang of citrus and spilled beer, laughter and clinking glasses layering over the hum of conversation.

A group of British tourists crowded the counter, three drinks deep and radiating boozy confidence. One of them, a blond with tousled hair and a smirk that screamed trouble, caught my eye.

"¿Qué quieres, guapo?" I asked, leaning in just enough to watch his cheeks flush.

He barked a laugh. "Christ, mate, don’t start with the Spanish. Absolute shite at it."

I switched to thickly accented English, grinning. "Is okay. I understand what I need to. What can I get you?"

He talked like a lad—all banter and bravado—and honestly, I wouldn’t have pegged him as gay if he wasn’t aggressively flirting back. Meanwhile, the brunette beside him kept “accidentally” brushing her fingers against mine every time I passed her a drink.

So I played along.

By last call, I had them both hooked—leaning into Mateo’s natural charm, lingering touches, teasing words. The guy was practically vibrating when I whispered, "You’re trouble," in his ear. The girl? She hated it.

"Guess I’m walking you home tonight," I told him, loud enough for her to hear. Then I shot her a look—slow, deliberate, the kind of grin that said, You wish it was you.

The glare she fired back was priceless.

---

Ten days in Madrid had been glorious. But before the swap could expire, I initiated another—no hesitation, no looking back.

One blink, and the sun-soaked streets of Spain vanished. The next, I was in the steam-clouded kitchen of a Parisian bistro, my hands moving with practiced precision as I diced shallots into paper-thin crescents. Around me, the chaos of dinner service roared: the hiss of seared duck, the clang of pans, the sous chef’s barked orders in rapid-fire French.

Mathieu.

His life was all sharp knives and hotter tempers, a world of reduced wines and rare meats, of calloused fingers and a permanent burn mark on his left forearm. I loved it instantly.

But the best part? Christophe.

Mathieu’s boyfriend was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of effortless dominance that made my—his—body react before my brain could catch up. The first night, Christophe didn’t even wait until we were fully inside their apartment. The door had barely shut behind us before he shoved me against it, his mouth crashing onto mine, his hands already working open the buttons of Mathieu’s stained chef’s jacket.

"Tu me manquait aujourd'hui," he growled against my throat.

A shiver tore through me. My back arched, pressing into him as his grip tightened on my hips. He knew exactly how to touch this body—where to bite, how hard to press, when to let his fingers dig in just shy of pain. Every flick of his tongue, every possessive drag of his palms over Mathieu’s skin was a lesson in control.

And the best part? He had no idea.

No idea Mathieu had signed up for Metamorph. No idea the man he was pinning to the mattress, the throat he was marking, the body he worshiped with rough, knowing hands—wasn’t his boyfriend at all.

That made it even hotter.

I spent days in their sunlit apartment, letting Christophe map every inch of Mathieu’s skin like he owned it. Mornings started with his mouth between my thighs, evenings ended with my back against the shower tiles, steam and sweat and Christophe’s voice in my ear: "T’es à moi."

And for a while, I let myself believe this was my real life.

Then, one morning, as I lay tangled in their rumpled sheets, Christophe’s arm slung heavy over my waist, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Max:

Max: Hey. Your body hasn’t been available in a few weeks. You avoiding me?

My stomach twisted. I deleted it without responding.

---

After Paris, I decided to switch things up. No more tangled sheets, no more possessive boyfriends (as hot as that was). This time? A straight guy.

I chose Bangkok.

Kiet's body was a fucking masterpiece. Broad shoulders that strained against his tank top, abs carved like a Roman statue, thighs thick from years of Muay Thai squats. And then there was that—the kind of natural endowment that made even loose gym shorts look like a sin.

The first time I caught my reflection in the gym mirror, mid-pull-up, I nearly laughed out loud. Jesus Christ. No wonder people stared.

I dropped from the bar, rolling my shoulders, and caught my sparring partner—Ton—watching me. Again.

He was leaner than Kiet, all wiry muscle and sharp elbows, but quick as a viper in the ring. And the way his gaze kept flicking to my chest, my arms, my—

Yeah. He’s into me.

Which was hilarious, because Kiet’s profile had been very clear: 100% straight.

That didn’t stop me from having a little fun.

I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long drink just to watch Ton’s throat work as he watched me swallow.

"You’ve been getting stronger," I said, clapping him on the shoulder, letting my thumb brush the damp skin of his collarbone. "Looking good lately."

He stiffened, then shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just training hard."

"Must be," I mused, stepping closer to adjust his stance—close enough that he could feel my breath on his neck. "Girls must be noticing, huh?"

His jaw tightened. "Yeah. Maybe."

I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. "Wish I had your luck. My girl’s been so distant lately…"

A lie. Kiet was single. But Ton’s eyes darkened, conflicted—caught between concern, jealousy, and something far more interesting.

I let the tension simmer for days. Lingering touches. Compliments that walked the line between friendly and too friendly. The way Ton’s breath hitched when I wiped sweat off his brow after a brutal round. The way he’d stare at my mouth when I laughed.

And then—on my last day in Kiet’s body—I decided to give him exactly what he wanted.

The locker room was empty except for us, steam curling in the air as Ton toweled off. I leaned against the lockers, watching.

"You ever think about trying something new?" I asked, voice low.

He froze. "Like what?"

I pushed off the lockers, closing the distance between us in two strides. His breath caught as I caged him against the bench, close enough to feel his pulse racing.

"Like this," I murmured.

And then I kissed him.

Just once. Just enough to feel him melt against me for half a second before he jerked back, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.

I grinned, stepping away. "See you around, Ton."

And then I left him there—flushed, breathless, and utterly ruined.

---

After Bangkok’s sweat and adrenaline, I craved something decadent. So I chose Mo.

One moment, I was in a humid gym locker room; the next, I was standing on a private balcony, the dry desert wind tousling my hair as Dubai’s skyline glittered below like scattered diamonds. The air smelled of expensive cologne and the faint, briny tang of the Persian Gulf.

I closed my eyes and rifled through Mo’s memories.

By day, I was the polished heir to a Bahraini business empire—custom suits, boardroom smiles, a family name that opened doors with a whisper. By night? A closeted hurricane, fucking my way through the diplomatic corps with the kind of reckless hunger that came from a lifetime of restraint.

I grinned, running a hand down my chest—Mo’s chest, lean and toned from private trainers and rooftop yoga. This was going to be fun.

For the first time since Max, I got a notification from the resident of my body.

It was Mo.

He’d sent a selfie: my body—his body now—wearing a croppedtop, my (his?) hips cocked in a way I’d never dared in public.

Mo: Turns out your closet was full of boring clothes for an out guy. Fixed that 😘

I barked a laugh. I’d never wear that—too bold, too femme—but something warm curled in my chest. He was out there, living freely in my skin, good for him.

Then my phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a text from Niklas—Mo’s very German, very blond fuckbuddy with the shoulders of a Olympian swimmer:

“You’ve been quiet. I’m in town. You down to meet up tonight?”

I bit my lip. Honestly, I might be the lucky one in this dynamic.

And I know, I know—the gay community would have me burned at the stake for saying it, but there was something thrilling about stepping back into the closet.

The stolen glances across gilded hotel lobbies. The way Niklas’s hand “accidentally” brushed mine under the table at dinner. The risk of it—the way Mo’s pulse would jump when a colleague mentioned seeing him at a certain bar, the way his breath hitched when he had to lie flawlessly to his father’s friends.

It was a game. A performance. And I’d always been a damn good actor.

By the end of ten days, Niklas had me pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mo’s penthouse, his teeth in my shoulder, the city lights blurring below us as I gasped something halfway between Arabic and German.

But all good things end.

I opened the app, scrolling through potential hosts, but the credits were dwindling. I'd only have enough left for one more swap

---

That’s when I found Ryan.

His profile popped up late one night as I scrolled through the app, the glow of the screen casting sharp shadows across my borrowed Dubai penthouse. Toronto. My hometown. And his body—Jesus Christ—almost as defined as Kiet’s, but leaner, more compact. Like a swimmer’s build dialed up to eleven. His face was softer too, boyish in a way that made his sharp jawline even more striking. Early twenties, probably.

The swap hit like a punch of crisp Canadian air. One second, I was surrounded by desert heat and the weight of Mo’s secrets; the next, I stood in a dimly lit Toronto bedroom, rolling Ryan’s shoulders, flexing his arms, marveling at the way his muscles moved under smooth, pale skin. The guy was built—not just gym-strong, but gymnast-strong, every line of him taut and efficient.

And yet.

I opened his closet and nearly groaned. Oversized band tees. Baggy joggers. A hoodie that could’ve housed a family of four. It was a crime.

I remedied that immediately.

One trip to the mall later and Ryan’s wardrobe had been… optimized. Graphic tees that clung just right (subtle nerd references, because his browsing history betrayed him). A few button downs that I would leave one too many buttons undone on. Dark jeans that hugged his thighs. A thin silver chain with dog tags that rested perfectly against his collarbones.

There. Now he looked like someone who knew what he was working with.

We’d agreed to meet—him in my body, me in his—at a bar near his place. The irony wasn’t lost on me: two strangers, each wearing the other’s skin, about to critique the fit.

I spotted him the second I walked in.

There I was—me—slouched at the bar in one of Ryan’s tragic hoodies, fingers drumming against a beer bottle. He turned, caught sight of his own body striding toward him, and holy shit, the way his eyes darkened—like he’d just walked in on himself naked.

He whistled low. “So,” he said, nodding at me—at himself, “you’re the guy squatting in my skin.”

I laughed, sliding onto the stool beside him. “And you’re the guy who dresses like a monk despite having a god-tier physique.”

Ryan—my Ryan, in my body—flushed, rubbing the back of his neck (my neck). “Yeah, well. I didn’t always look like this. Kinda hard to shake the habit of hiding.”

“You should try it sometime.” I leaned in, close enough to watch his pupils dilate. “I went for a shirtless run yesterday. Nearly caused a traffic accident.”

He choked on his beer.

We ended up back at his place, sprawled across his bed, fingers tracing the lines of his—my—body with a kind of awed frustration. His hands lingered on his own abs, now mine, his brow furrowed. “It’s weird,” he muttered. “Seeing it from the outside. Like it’s not even real.”

I caught his wrist, pressed his palm flat against the ridges of muscle. “It’s real. And this is how people see you all the time. You just never let yourself believe it.”

He huffed a laugh, but his fingers flexed, greedy. “And you? This body has been getting stares all day. People really check you out like this?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I smirked, sliding my hands down my—his—waist, admiring the way the muscles tensed under my touch. “I mean, I’m checking me out right now.”

Our chemistry was stupid. Electric. By the time our initial swap period ended, Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Let’s stay like this,” he said, his voice rough. “Another week.”

I agreed.

It was intoxicating, watching him come alive in my skin—louder, brighter, freer—while simultaneously craving the way he yielded to me in his own body. The way he’d arch into my touch, like he was rediscovering himself through my hands.

And then, one night, his lips against my ear: “What do you say to making this permanent?”

My breath hitched.

“I want to be you,” he murmured, fingers laced through mine. “And more importantly, I want you to be me.”

I should’ve said yes. We fit. I loved this body—the strength of it, the way it moved—and the idea of keeping my old life close, just… reshuffled. My family, my friends, but through new eyes. A fresh start without the goodbyes.

But something itched under my skin. The rush of the past months—Madrid, Paris, Bangkok, Dubai—the thrill of slipping into someone else’s life, just for a taste.

“I want to try a few more people first,” I admitted.

Ryan didn’t push. Just nodded, kissed me slow and deep, and whispered, “Of course. I’ll be here.” A pause. Then, with a grin that sent heat straight to my borrowed bones: “But don’t wait too long.”

--

That turned out to be the dumbest mistake I could’ve made.

The second the 48-hour grace period ended after my swap with Ryan, the world lurched—like a roller coaster dropping out from under me—and then I was back in Max’s body.

Fuck.

I screamed, slamming his fists against the bathroom counter. The reflection staring back at me was all soft edges and tired eyes, that same patchy stubble, that same defeated slump I’d seen a dozen times before. My stomach twisted. No. No no no—

I grabbed his phone.

A DM pinged immediately.

Max: You’ve been holding out on me, gorgeous. I’ve been swapping nonstop, trying to forget how good you felt—but the second I saw your body was available again? I knew had to do something about it.

He sent with it a few pictures of my body shirtless, as if to taunt me.

My blood turned to ice.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve known he’d been watching. Waiting. That he’d pounce the second my guard was down.

I was a fucking idiot.

Damn right I’ll be taking Ryan’s offer as soon as I’m back in my body.

I opened the app, fingers shaking, and checked the countdown.

Expecting 10 days.

Expecting anything but what I saw.

Permanent.

No.

No no no no no—

That wasn’t supposed to be possible. I didn’t accept that.

What the fuck did he do?!

[take-my-body-from-me]

Enough Credits

The first time I found Metamorph, I thought it was a prank—some elaborate role-playing scam or a dark web trap for the desperate. But the testimonials were too raw, the credit system too brutally efficient, the rules too meticulously structured to be fake.

Metamorph was a body-swapping marketplace.

The setup was simple, almost deceptively so. You signed up, submitted to a biometric scan to register your "profile," and got a handful of starter credits. Then—if you had the points—you could slip into someone else’s skin. Every swap you initiated cost credits. But if someone else chose your body, you’d be paid in theirs.

There were two kinds of swaps: temporary and permanent.

Temporary swaps were the most common—brief trades lasting anywhere from an hour to ten days. The catch? You couldn’t refuse them. If someone had the credits and wanted your body, they took it. No warning, no consent. Just a sudden, violent lurch—your consciousness torn from your flesh and dumped into theirs, no matter how unfamiliar or unwelcome. Some users described it like blacking out mid-breath: one second you’re yourself, the next you’re choking awake in a stranger’s life, their pulse hammering in your throat.

Permanent swaps were rarer, more deliberate. Unlike temporary trades, they didn’t cost the initiator credits. Instead, they could offer to take your body outright. If you accepted—and this time, you did have a choice—Metamorph would deposit enough credits into your account for three years of temporary swaps. Three years of bouncing between models, athletes, even the occasional washed-up celebrity. Three years of borrowed lives, no regrets. That’s because once you agreed, your old body was no longer your home—and the person who took it was locked out of Metamorph forever.

As I scrolled through the catalog of profiles—each tagged with vitals, photos, even user ratings—my pulse spiked. Damn. So many hotties. Sharp jawlines, gym-sculpted arms, guys who looked like they’d walked straight off a billboard. And I knew my own worth. My body was lean, angular, the kind that turned heads in a club. Some of these high-credit users would absolutely burn points to step into me for a night. I mean look at me:

At first, I was right. It was electric. I woke up in lawyers, musicians, a guy who owned a yacht in Miami. I racked up credits fast, riding the thrill of each new swap. Sure, none were keepers—one guy had a nicotine habit that left me wheezing, another had a wife who side-eyed "his" sudden indifference—but it was fun. Until it wasn’t.

Max was easily the worst body I’d been dumped into yet.

Not some wealthy muscle god, not even a guy with decent charm. He was soft around the middle, patchy stubble, the kind of face that made waitresses forget to refill his water. I groaned, rolling off the sagging mattress and stumbling into his dingy bathroom. The mirror confirmed it: dull brown eyes, thinning hair, a nose that had clearly lost a fight with a door frame.

What the hell?

I grabbed his phone, swiping to the Metamorph widget. 10 days. The max lockout period. My stomach dropped. Ten days in this?

Then I saw his credit balance.

My breath stalled.

87,430 credits.

An obscene amount. More than I’d ever seen—enough to live in other bodies nonstop for decades.

A note sat on the counter, scrawled in messy handwriting:

Hey, If you’re reading this, congrats—you’re my first pleasure swap in 10 years. I’ve been playing the long game. Take an ugly body, train it up, swap it permanently for another ugly one, stack credits. Rinse and repeat. Twelve times. This body (Max) is my home now. But I saved all these credits for one reason: to finally have fun. Yours was the first body that tempted me in years. Enjoy the credits! —M

I stared at the note, then back at the phone.

A weird mix of flattery and dread coiled in my chest.

Ten days later, I snapped back into my own body like a rubber band. My skin hummed with familiarity—the lean muscles, the sharp jaw, the way my shirt draped just right. I exhaled, running my hands over my face like I was checking for damage.

Home.

Another note waited on my desk.

Thank you. —M

I thought that was the end of it. And hey, now I had credits to burn, right? Wrong.

Two days later, I was brushing my teeth when the world tilted sideways.

I was back in Max’s bathroom, staring into his tired eyes, my hands gripping his chipped sink.

“What the—?!”

His phone buzzed. This time a DM:

Max: Hey, gorgeous. Miss me? Sorry for the surprise. Cut my Rio trip short—some Brazilian adonis is gonna wake up very confuse (and probably very relieved). You’re just… different.

I hurled the phone onto his unmade bed.

The next ten days crawled. Max’s body was a wreck—aching knees, a back that popped when he stretched, a fridge full of microwave meals. I barely left his apartment, counting down the hours like a prisoner.

When I finally snapped back into my own skin, I collapsed onto my floor, kissing the familiar creaks of my hardwood.

Four days of freedom. Then—wrench. Back to Max’s sagging couch and doughy love handles.

Another DM:

Max: Okay, hear me out. I tried to resist taking you again. But then I took over some hedge-fund bro’s body (6’2”, abs, yawn) and all I could think about was your biceps and the curve of your hips. Pathetic, right? Anyway. Ten more days. Try not to hate me. (Or do. That’s kinda hot now that I think about it.)

“You creep,” I muttered.

Enough. I opened a support ticket, fingers jittering:

"How do I block a user from repeatedly swapping into my body?"

The reply came fast:

Metamorph Support: "User blocking is not currently supported. If a participant has sufficient credits and respects the 48-hour cooldown, swaps are permitted. Adjust profile visibility or spend credits to remain in other bodies longer to avoid unwanted exchanges."*

I stared at the screen. Adjust visibility? Useless—he already knew my ID. Spend credits to hide? A temporary fix.

I was trapped.

I waited out the ten days in Max’s body, scrambling for a solution. Nothing. Maybe he’d get bored. Finally, I was back in my own skin—my hands, my apartment, my reflection—when the app chimed.

A notification:

PERMANENT SWAP REQUEST User ID#4492-LL would like to swap bodies with you. Max: I feel so right as you.

My stomach lurched. I smashed REJECT so fast.

“Fuck no.”

The app blinked. Request denied.

He wanted to be me?

Another DM popped up:

Max: Worth a shot. ;)

[take-my-body-from-me]

Raj's Break

I adjusted my sunglasses as I stepped out of the taxi, the warm tropical breeze ruffling my shirt. Before me, the Azure Sands Resort loomed—a sprawling paradise of palm trees, infinity pools, and cabanas dotting the shoreline. I smirked, rolling my shoulders. Finally. After months of nonstop training, I deserved this: a week of sun, expensive drinks, and maybe a little harmless flirting.

The lobby was sleek and airy, all white marble and soft ocean hues. A cheerful attendant beamed at me from behind the desk.

"Welcome to Azure Sands, Mr. Desai!" she said, sliding a keycard toward me. "Your orientation starts in thirty minutes at the Sapphire Lounge. Mandatory for all guests!"

I frowned. "Orientation?"

She blinked. "Oh! Did your booking agent not mention? Azure Sands is famous for our Body Harmony Experience."

"The what?"

"It’s our core policy!" she said brightly. "Everyone swaps bodies for the duration of their stay. Temporary, of course—unless…" She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Well, if you get intimate with your old body before the swap reverses, the change becomes permanent. But that’s very rare." She winked.

I exhaled sharply. What the hell had I signed up for? But a quick glance around the lobby reassured me—most guests were in peak physical shape, just like me. If I ended up in some other fit guy’s body for a week, so be it. I could still relax.

The Sapphire Lounge was packed, guests murmuring with excitement as a staff member explained the process. I slouched in my seat, arms crossed, until—

"Raj Desai, you’ll be paired with… Charlie Mercer!"

A petite woman with short, tousled brown hair shot up from her seat. "What?"

The staffer paled, tapping frantically at their tablet. "Oh—oh no. There’s been a mistake. Charlie was marked male in the system—this has never happened before!"

My pulse spiked. "You’re joking."

Charlie crossed her arms. "Yeah, no. I didn’t sign up to be some guy."

The staffer stammered apologies—the system couldn’t be reversed. The swap would happen automatically at dawn. As compensation, our drink packages were comped.

Great. Just great.

The next morning, I blinked awake—and immediately registered two unfamiliar weights on my chest.

No. Not weights.

Breasts.

I groaned, sitting up and running a hand through long, silky hair that definitely wasn’t mine. My hips were narrower, my frame lighter. My fingers—smaller, manicured—flexed in front of my face.

Okay. This was happening.

By the time I made it to the pool, I’d adjusted. Mostly.

The way people looked at me now was different. Men’s eyes lingered. Their smiles came easier. And I, despite myself, leaned into it.

"That’s a strong swimmer’s build you’ve got there," I teased a guy doing laps, resting my chin on my palm.

The man—tall, broad-shouldered, clearly relishing his borrowed form—grinned back. "Thanks. First time I’ve ever had the stamina for it." He flexed slightly, and I laughed.

"Enjoy it while it lasts."

I still felt weird about the flirting, though. I was straight. Wasn’t I?

Then—I saw myself.

Or rather, I saw Charlie.

My own body—my face, my dark hair, my lean but toned frame—was lounging by the pool, surrounded by a group of fit guys. But the way Charlie carried himself was… different. I had always been quick to laugh, to gesture, to fill silence. Charlie, though? She was relaxed. Quiet. A small smirk played on her lips as she listened to the others, her arms crossed behind her head, biceps flexing under the sun.

Damn. I look good.

Then a woman approached—tall, confident, her fingers brushing Charlie’s arm as she laughed at something she said. Charlie didn’t lean into it, but she didn’t pull away either. Just gave her that same calm, knowing smile.

My stomach twisted.

Oh, this is weird.

The woman’s hand lingered on Charlie’s bicep, her thumb tracing the curve of muscle. Charlie’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way she held herself—like she was savoring it.

I should’ve looked away.

I didn’t.

Over the next week, I tried to relax.

It wasn’t easy.

Sure, Charlie’s body was in great shape—lean, toned, with an effortless grace that turned heads—but I missed the solid weight of my own muscles, the familiar strength in my limbs. Worse, I missed the way people looked at me before. Now, the attention was different.

I’d attempted flirting a few times—testing the waters—but every interaction left me unsettled.

At the bar, a guy with sun-bleached hair and a lazy smirk had leaned in, eyes flicking over my borrowed form. "You here alone?"

I had stiffened. "Uh. Yeah."

"You look like you could use some company." The guy’s fingers brushed my wrist.

I had yanked my hand back like I’d been burned. "Not—not into guys."

The stranger had laughed, not unkindly. "Could’ve fooled me."

That was the problem.

I was fooling them.

Because Charlie’s body was attractive—just not in the way I knew how to work with. And the few women I’d tried talking to either weren’t interested or weren’t gay. Not that that mattered, I wouldn’t have known what to do without my equipment anyway.

So I waited. Counted the days. Tried not to think about the fact that my own body was becoming something of a legend. But everywhere I went, whispers about my old body followed.

"That’s the girl in Raj’s body. Holy shit, have you seen her move? Like she was born in it."

"How the hell does someone get arms like that? Dude’s carved out of marble."

"Whoever’s in there now? They’re owning it."

Flattering. Annoying, but flattering.

Then, a few days later, I heard something new.

Two guys at the poolside bar, voices low but carrying.

"You hear about that girl in Raj’s body? Word is she fucked her old self to lock in the swap."

I choked on my cocktail.

"No way," the other guy snorted. "Why would the original owner agree to that?"

"I dunno, man. Look at her." A nod toward the pool deck, where Charlie—my body—lounged like a king, a half-circle of admirers around her. "I’d do what she wanted, and I’m not even gay. Besides…" A pause, loaded. "You really think whoever’s in there is giving that body back?"

My stomach twisted.

I looked across the water.

Charlie—my body—was stretched out on a lounge chair, biceps flexing as she reached for a drink. She laughed at something a woman said, the sound deep and effortless. The way she moved… it wasn’t just comfort.

It was ownership.

And for the first time, I wondered—

What if she doesn’t want to switch back?

The rest of the week passed in a strange, suspended tension.

Charlie and I never spoke—never even came close. But our eyes met sometimes, across the pool or in the dim glow of the resort’s evening parties. Every time, it sent an odd flutter through my stomach, a sensation I couldn’t name.

Why did it feel like this?

It wasn’t attraction—at least, not the kind I recognized. Maybe it was just the surrealism of seeing myself from the outside, watching my own body move with a confidence I’d never quite had.

Charlie would smirk, slow and knowing, like she was privy to some joke I didn’t get.

And every time, I was the one to look away first.

Meanwhile, if I was struggling, Charlie was thriving.

She’d abandoned shirts entirely, strutting around the resort in borrowed swim trunks—first board shorts, then, by midweek, a tight navy speedo some guy had lent her ("Lost a bet," the guy had muttered, eyes glued to Charlie’s thighs).

My body had always turned heads, but Charlie wielded it like a weapon. She lounged poolside, biceps flexed behind her head, abs on full display. She laughed louder, moved smoother, drew crowds without even trying.

And the women—god, the women.

I lost count of how many times I saw Charlie slip away with someone different: a brunette with a sharp laugh one night, a redhead who bit her lip when she looked at her the next. Each time, my jaw tightened.

Was she using protection?

The thought lodged in my brain like a splinter. It shouldn’t matter—it wasn’t my body right now, technically—but the idea of Charlie carelessly risking… me… made my skin prickle.

On the last night, the farewell party was in full swing, the air thick with salt and the scent of rum cocktails. I leaned against the bar, nursing a mojito and watching the crowd. A redheaded guy—some finance bro who’d clearly never been this jacked before—was mid-rant to me about how unfair it was that the swap was ending.

"I mean, I’ve been hitting the gym in this thing every day," the redhead said, flexing an arm that looked like it could crush coconuts. "I can’t just go back to being… me."

I smirked. "Yeah, well, tough luck."

"Maybe I should try and convince the guy in my body to stay swapped. I mean, I’m rich—I’m not gay, but I think I could do with one night to keep this," the guy grumbled, then perked up as his gaze flicked over my shoulder. "Oh damn. Speaking of unfair…"

A shadow fell across the bar. I turned—and there she was.

Charlie—wearing my body like it had always been hers—stood there in a fitted black tank top, shoulders broad, biceps flexing as she rested a hand on the bar. She didn’t say anything at first, just gave the redhead a slow, knowing look.

"Mind if I steal her?" she asked, voice smooth.

The redhead blinked, then grinned. "Oh, hell no. Go for it."

Before I could protest, Charlie’s fingers—my fingers—closed gently around my wrist. "Come on," she murmured, leading me away from the bar with effortless authority.

My pulse jumped. This is weird. This is so weird.

We stopped near a quieter stretch of the pool, the water reflecting torchlight in rippling gold. Charlie leaned against a palm tree, arms crossed, studying me with an amused tilt to her mouth.

"So," she said. "Charlie, right?"

I exhaled. Okay, we’re still keeping this up.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a casual shrug. "And you’re… Raj."

Charlie grinned—my grin, calm and confident. "Nice to meet you, Charlie." She let her gaze drag over me, slow and appreciative. "You’re cute."

My face warmed. Jesus.

"Uh. Thanks," I muttered, taking a sip of my drink just to have something to do.

Charlie didn’t seem bothered by the awkwardness. She just shifted closer, closing the space between us with an easy confidence that left no room for protest. "So," she said, voice low. "How’ve you been enjoying your vacation?"

I shrugged. "Fine. Relaxing."

"Just fine?" Charlie arched a brow—my brow—and smirked. "Come on. You’ve been here a week. What’d you do? Lounge by the pool? Flirt with strangers?"

I snorted. "Maybe a little."

Charlie’s hand brushed my waist, casual but deliberate, fingers warm against the thin fabric of my sundress. "Good. That’s what this place is for."

I swallowed. The way she touched me—like she knew she could, like it was the most natural thing in the world—was doing things to my head.

"What about you?" I asked, desperate to shift the focus. "How’s… Raj’s body treating you?"

Charlie chuckled, low and rich. "Oh, you have no idea." She rolled my shoulders, the muscles shifting under smooth, sun-kissed skin. "The ladies? Wild for it."

I watched, transfixed, as she flexed an arm—just slightly, just enough to make the veins stand out.

"I mean," Charlie continued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "can you blame them?"

My mouth went dry.

No.

No, I couldn’t.

I took a slow sip of my drink, watching Charlie over the rim of the glass. The music pulsed around us, laughter and whispered conversations blending into the humid night air. I hesitated, then decided to just say it.

"So." I said. "Heard a rumor about you."

Charlie tilted her head, the corner of her mouth quirking. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice. "Word is, you got so comfortable in that body, you decided to make it permanent. Had a little... encounter with your old self."

Charlie let out a laugh—deep, rich, my own damn laugh—and shook her head. "Please. As if the original owner would ever let this go."

Charlie shifted closer, her arm brushing against my shoulder. "You cold?"

I blinked. "What? No. It’s like eighty degrees out."

"Hm." Charlie’s hand slid around my waist anyway, pulling me in with an effortless confidence that left no room for protest. "Just making sure."

I should’ve pushed her away. Should’ve laughed it off, made a joke, something. But the warmth of my own body—the solid weight of muscle, the familiar scent of my cologne—was weirdly intoxicating.

Before I knew it, we were back in Charlie’s villa (my villa, technically), the balcony doors open to let in the ocean breeze. Charlie stretched out on the bed, arms behind her head, watching me with that same confident smirk.

"You’re staring," I said, crossing my arms.

"Am I?" Charlie’s gaze didn’t waver. "Just appreciating the view."

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t leave.

Somehow, I ended up beside her on the mattress, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Charlie’s fingers traced idle patterns along my arm—light, teasing, possessive in a way that made my breath hitch.

"What are you doing?" I asked, voice dry.

Charlie just smiled. "Enjoying my last night in this body." A pause. Then, softer: "Wanna wake up still feeling close to it."

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t move away either.

Damn, my body wasn’t even registering as mine anymore.

And right now, that woman was spooning me, her—my—thick arms wrapped possessively around my waist. Her chest pressed against my back, the light dusting of hair tickling where the silk of my bra didn’t cover. I should’ve been tense, should’ve been fighting this, but her hands were too good at melting my resistance.

For an hour, she’d been lazily dragging her palm up and down my side, slow, hypnotic strokes that made my breath deepen. Then, without warning, her grip shifted. A firm, knowing squeeze around my breast, her thumb brushing over the peak until it stiffened beneath the fabric. A soft noise escaped me—her—and she pulled me closer, lips grazing my neck in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.

Her hand drifted lower, teasing the waistband of my panties, tracing the lace edge with a maddening lightness. I held my breath, thighs tensing, until—

There.

A single finger slipped inside, pausing as if savoring the warmth before moving with deliberate, torturous slowness. In. Out. Then her thumb found my clit, circling with an expertise that made my toes curl. It was effortless for her. Natural. Like she’d been touching this body her whole life.

I came with a gasp, hips jerking against her hand, but she didn’t stop. Just kissed my shoulder and kept going, working me through the aftershocks before peeling my panties down and replacing her fingers with her mouth.

By the time she was done, I was a trembling mess, sweat-slick and boneless against the sheets. She left me there, dazed, while she stood and walked to the bathroom. When she returned, she was naked—my body, tall and lean, but the way she carried herself was all her.

She climbed back onto the bed, her gaze steady, voice low.

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

No question. No hesitation. Just fact.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve pushed her away, reminded her—reminded myself—that if we did this, the swap would be permanent. But the words died in my throat. There was something about the way she looked at me, the absolute certainty in her touch, that unraveled every last thread of resistance.

When she pushed inside, it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was controlled. Dominant. Every thrust deliberate, like she was savoring the way my pussy clenched around her cock. And when her rhythm stuttered, her breath hot against my ear, she murmured, “I’m going to cum, ” calm and confident, like it was a promise.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, gentle but firm, as her hips snapped forward one last time. I felt it—the pulse of her cock, the heat spilling inside me—and with it, the finality.

This was it.

No going back.

[take-my-body-from-me]

Dormant Power

I was always quite clear in my Grindr profile—never shy about my age. Yeah, 57 was a bit older to be on here, but I kept myself in nice shape these days. Look at these abs. Not bad for a man pushing sixty.

It wasn’t always like this. Back when I was younger, I was out of shape, awkward, and kind of a loser. That was even with my power.

You see, I was 18 when I first realized I could swap bodies with people if we had sex without a condom. It wasn’t automatic; I had to choose to do it. If I focused just right on their body and let my energy flow, I could transfer myself into their head and push them back out into mine.

Over the years, I’d swapped with a few boyfriends—just for fun, just to see what it was like as them. I never asked first, and would always just explain myself afterward. I don't think any of them would have been super eager to try. In the end, we always switched back. None of them ever wanted to stay in my body, and honestly? I couldn’t blame them.

Then came John.

I’ll never forget that day. I was 22, freshly dumped, sulking on the rooftop bar of some grimy gay bar, drowning my sorrows in overpriced vodka. That’s when he walked up—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of confident swagger that only comes with being 37 and knowing exactly who you are.

"Rough day?" he’d asked, sliding into the seat beside me.

I sniffled into my drink. "You could say that."

He chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Kid, trust me—this ain’t the end. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you."

I remember staring at him, at the way his shirt clung to his chest, at the stubble along his jaw. "I just wish I could fast-forward to the part where I look like you," I muttered.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Hell, I’d switch with you in a heartbeat. Be young again? Sign me up."

That’s when I told him about my power.

He scoffed at first, of course. Who wouldn’t? But then he shrugged, that same easy grin on his face. "Sure, why not, kid? I’d love to do my 20s over again."

We slipped into the club bathroom, locked the stall, and—well.

We never switched back.

Twenty years later, and I still don’t think it was a bad deal. John’s body was hot back then, and now? It’s mine, still strong, still fucking sexy if I do say so myself. But it still seemed that John fared better. In my old body, he got into fantastic shape, met the love of his life, and settled down. Last I checked, he didn’t look a day over 35, even though technically he’s in a 42-year-old body now. Honestly, I’m happy for him, but it kind of sucks to see what could’ve been for me.

Meanwhile, I’m still on Grindr.

I’d gotten used to the rhythm of it—the flirty openers, the half-hearted conversations, the way so many guys lost interest the second they remembered they were talking to a man pushing sixty. Sure, I still had my abs, my confidence, my charm, but let’s be real: most of the younger ones just wanted the idea of a daddy. A fantasy. Something to get off to, but not actually someone to ever meet up with.

Not that it bothered me much. I’d had my fun with men closer to my age—guys who knew what they wanted, who weren’t afraid of a silver fox in their bed. But still.

And that brings me to tonight, to Charlie.

God, Charlie.

His profile is everything I’d ever wished I could be at his age. Toned but not overly muscular, sun-kissed skin, a smile that could melt steel.

And somehow, against all odds, he was into me. The only problem. He was 24.

I’d never pulled someone that young before—not in this body, anyway. I was old enough to be his father. Hell, his grandfather, if we were being generous.

But then his message popped up, and my doubts evaporated.

Charlie: "You’re way more interesting than anyone else on here. Drinks this weekend?"

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Was this a bad idea? Probably. Did I care? Not even a little.

Me: "Only if you promise not to bail when you realize how old I actually am in person."

Charlie: "Pfft. I’ve got a thing for guys who know what they’re doing."

I smirked. Cheeky little shit.

Me: "Dangerous thing to say to me."

Charlie: "Good, I meant it."

Well.

How could I say no to that?

---

Charlie picked a bar just a few blocks from my place—a dimly lit spot with leather booths and cocktails strong enough to make you forget your own name. Smart kid. Close enough that if things went well, neither of us would have far to go.

He was already there when I walked in, lounging at the bar with a whiskey neat in front of him. Fitted black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, dark hair slightly tousled like he’d just run a hand through it. Then he turned, saw me, and his smile hit like a punch to the gut.

Damn.

"You’re even hotter in real life," he said, sliding off the stool.

I laughed. "Laying it on thick already."

"Only if it’s working." Sharp grin.

And fuck, it was.

The age difference should’ve been obvious—me with my salt-and-pepper stubble, him with that effortless youth. But Charlie had this way about him, this easy confidence that made the years between us feel irrelevant. He asked about my career, my travels, the things I’d learned—not in that fake, polite way people humour an old man, but like he actually wanted to know.

And the flirting? Relentless.

A brush of fingers when he handed me a drink. A slow bite of his lip when I mentioned the gym. Leaning in too close when he laughed, thigh pressing against mine under the table. Then, finally, his hand sliding up my thigh as I talked about my dating life.

By the third round, I was done pretending.

"My place is five minutes away," I said, voice rough.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. "Lead the way."

The walk back was a blur—his fingers hooking into my belt loop, the hitch in his breath when I crowded him against my front door, fumbling with the keys.

"You sure about this?" I had to ask. Even with all those cheeky smiles and hungry eyes, he was still twenty-four.

Charlie answered by grabbing my collar and dragging me into a kiss that tasted like whiskey and bad decisions.

"Of course, sir," he murmured against my mouth.

---

Damn, he felt good.

I moved with slow, deep strokes, savouring every inch of him. Charlie’s eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, but his hands wandered over my biceps, his touch light and teasing. I flexed for him, smirking to myself, then guided his palms to my chest. His fingers traced my pecs before circling my nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through me. My hips stuttered in response, my rhythm faltering for just a second before I steadied myself.

Then his hands drifted lower, skimming the sharp V of my waist before settling at the base of my cock—right where the condom clung.

His voice was a breathless whine. “Take it off.”

I froze. “What?”

“I want to feel you.” His pupils were blown black, his chest heaving. “Please. I’m clean, I’m on Prep—fuck, just give it to me raw, sir.”

That last word sent a shiver down my spine.

I hadn’t done this in years. Not without protection. I should’ve been on Prep myself, but I just never got around to it. But Charlie—god, Charlie—was already a wreck beneath me, his legs locked around my waist, his rock hard uncut cock at attention against his stomach.

“You sure?” I growled, gently, but firmly stroking his lubed up cock.

His answer? A sharp gasp as he ripped the condom off himself.

I hesitated before slowly sliding myself back in.

“Fuck—”

Then I was inside him again, bare this time, and—Christ. The heat. The tight, velvety clutch of him. I’d forgotten how good it felt. How primal.

“That’s it,” Charlie moaned, head thrown back. “Fuck me just like that, sir.”

I lost myself in the rhythm, in the way his body moved under mine, in the filthy, desperate sounds spilling from his lips. He was perfect. Young. Gorgeous.

And then, a thought...

I could take this.

I could.

The condom was off. The power hummed under my skin, electric, waiting. All I had to do was want it.

Charlie’s hips stuttered. “I’m close—I’m so close—”

Then, trembling: “Take me, daddy. Take me.”

There it was. The universe had given me a sign.

I felt the shift before I even realized I’d made the choice—my consciousness unravelling, slipping—

And then—

I was looking up at my own body.

My old face twisted in pleasure above me, thrusts turning erratic as my new body clenched around him. The orgasm hit like a freight train, white-hot, all-consuming. Charlie’s—no, mine—back arched off the bed as I came all over my new chest.

“Fuuuuck,” my old voice groaned, hips jerking as he spilled inside me.

And just like that—

It was done.

I was him. I was 24 again.

[take-my-body-from-me]

What's Done Is Done

Matthias's POV

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

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

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

"I need a loan."

His eyebrows shot up. "For what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

"Dead serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

---

Day 1:

I got a text from my own number:

"You didn’t tell me he was here."

I smirked. "Surprise."

"This is cheating."

"Nope. Just reality."

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

By day three, the texts got terser.

"He keeps touching me."

"Yeah, that’s what boyfriends do."

"It’s inappropriate."

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

A pause. Then:

"He’s… very good looking."

I grinned. "Told you."

---

Day 4

My Instagram notifications were blowing up.

Granddad—my Granddad—had posted a selfie.

My jaw dropped.

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

The caption? "Feeling fresh."

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

Scrolling through the comments was surreal:

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

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

---

Day 10

Another Instagram post.

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

The comments were a mess.

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

I texted Granddad: "You’re flirting."

"No I’m not."

"You literally are."

A pause. Then:

"It’s just clothes."

"It’s Morgan’s clothes."

No reply.

---

Day 12

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

"I stopped pushing him away."

I blinked. "What?"

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

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

"And?"

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

"Uh-huh."

"Don’t make it weird."

"You’re the one cuddling my boyfriend."

He didn’t respond.

---

Day 16

This time, it was a photo.

My breath caught.

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

The caption

"You win. I’ll give you the money."

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

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

"Took you long enough," I replied.

"Shut up."

"So. You admit it?"

A pause. Then:

"It’s not a choice."

Victory.

But we still had two weeks left on the bet.

I chewed my lip for a second before typing:

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

"…Seriously?"

"Yeah. Consider it a free trial."

"Hmph."

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

---

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

Except… we didn’t.

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

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

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

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

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

Silence.

I looked up at him slowly.

He stared back.

Then, very quietly, he said, “…Oh.”

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

He hesitated. Glanced away. Cleared his throat.

“…Yesterday.”

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

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

“I don’t! That’s the whole point!”

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

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

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

---

Granddad POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[take-my-body-from-me]

Serbian Exchange Program

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."

[take-my-body-from-me]

The Open Vessel

I never believed in my dad’s occult nonsense. Not really. Sure, I’d seen him chant over candles, mumble to himself in languages that sounded like they belonged in a horror movie, and fill our house with weird-smelling herbs. But it was just his thing—his manic obsession. Victor was always chasing something: immortality, power, a second chance. And, like always, he decided I was his ticket to getting it.

It started with the potion.

I came home late one night, the smell of sweat and beer still clinging to me from the party I’d been at. The house was dark except for the flickering light from the basement. I should’ve known something was wrong then, but I was too buzzed to care. I stumbled down the steps, calling out for him.

“Pato,” his voice slithered through the shadows before I saw him. He was crouched in the middle of a chalk circle, his eyes wild, his fingers stained with something dark. “Perfect timing.”

I scoffed. “What are you doing down here?”

“Very important work.” He grinned.

Then, before I could move, he lunged, his fingers smearing something wet and sticky across my forehead. The world tilted. My skin burned. And then—

I was still me. But I wasn’t alone.

At first, I thought I was going insane. Hearing whispers in my head, feeling impulses that weren’t mine. Then I realized—he was inside me. Victor. His spirit had crawled into my body like a parasite, wrapping around my mind, pressing against my thoughts.

Mine now, his voice echoed in my skull. Young again. Strong again.

For weeks, I was trapped inside my own body, forced to watch as he lived my life. He went to my classes, hung out with my friends, even hooked up with my girlfriend—all while I screamed silently, helplessly, inside. He loved it. The freedom, the energy, the control.

But then something went wrong.

I felt it before he did—a tearing, a burning, like his very essence was unraveling. He panicked, clawing at the edges of my mind, desperate to hold on. But it was too late.

His spirit came apart violently, screaming as it dissolved into nothing. I could feel every second of it—his terror, his rage, the way his consciousness frayed like rotten thread before vanishing completely.

And just like that, I was free.

Or so I thought.

The next possession happened a month later.

I was in the shower when the air turned cold, when I felt something slither into me like smoke filling my lungs. A stranger’s voice laughed in my head, giddy with disbelief.

No way. An open vessel?

This one was different from Victor. Younger. Hungrier. He didn’t just take over—he made me his. Got a bunch of tattoos, pierced my ears, dressed me in clothes I’d never wear. He partied, fucked, lived hard. And then, like my father, he burned out.

It kept happening.

Spirits found me. They didn’t know how or why, but my body was a door left wide open, and they walked right in. Some were cruel, some were desperate, but they all wanted the same thing—to be young again. To feel alive.

And they all left their mark.

Tattoos snaked across my skin. Piercings glinted in places I’d never have chosen. My hair grew long, then short, then wild with random colors. My body wasn’t my own anymore—it was a canvas for dead men’s fantasies.

I tried everything to stop it. Salt circles, prayers, even an exorcism. Nothing worked.

Then I found him.

The occultist called himself Elias. He was different from the other help I’d sought out—calm, calculating. When I told him what was happening, he didn’t look at me with pity or fear. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“Your father’s spell left you vulnerable,” he said, fingers tracing the air around me like he could see the damage. “But I can close the door.”

“How?” I was desperate. Willing to try anything.

His eyes gleamed. “I need to enter you.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“Not like them,” he said smoothly. “I’ll go in, repair the damage from the inside, then leave. You’ll be free.”

I should’ve known better. But after years of being violated, of losing myself over and over, I was willing to risk it.

I let him in.

The moment his spirit slipped inside me, I knew I’d made a mistake.

His presence wasn’t like the others—it wasn’t chaotic or desperate. It was methodical. Dominant. He didn’t just settle into my body—he claimed it.

Oh, his voice purred in my mind. This is… exquisite.

I felt him rooting through my thoughts, my memories, savoring them like a fine wine. Then, to my horror, I felt something else—a slow, deliberate pulse of pleasure as his control seeped into my limbs. My hand moved on its own, sliding down my stomach, past the waistband of my pants.

What the hell are you doing? I demanded, panic rising.

Relax, Elias murmured, his presence curling around my thoughts like smoke. Just testing the connection.

But it wasn’t just a test. My fingers wrapped around my cock, stroking with a rhythm that wasn’t mine, pleasure building in tight, relentless waves. I tried to resist, but my body wasn’t mine anymore—it was his. And he was enjoying himself.

Is this—is this part of the process? I asked, my voice strained.

Not really, Elias admitted, his mental voice thick with satisfaction. But this feels too good to give up. He let out a low, dark laugh. That’s why I’m taking it. Taking you.

The orgasm hit like a punch, white-hot and involuntary, my body shuddering under his control. And as the pleasure faded, so did my resistance.

With a cold, clinical precision, he began pushing me out.

Wait— I tried to fight, but it was like holding back a tide. His will crushed mine effortlessly.

You don’t understand, he murmured, almost apologetic. I’ve never had a vessel so perfect. So… willing to let me in.

The last thing I felt before the darkness took me was the finality of it—the click of a lock, the sealing of a door.

And then I was outside.

Not just pushed aside—evicted.

I watched, helpless, as he stretched my limbs, as he admired the tattoos and piercings left by the others. He laughed, low and satisfied.

Don’t worry, he didn’t like you anyway, he whispered, talking to my body itself as if it had a mind of its own. But I’ll take good care of us. I'll be the best owner you could ever ask for and put you to great use.

[take-my-body-from-me]

Swap Clinic: Dad's New Bod Part 3

Read Parts 1 and 2 by vice versa here.

I woke up with a pounding headache, the kind that makes you regret every decision from the night before. But as I lay there, the memories started flooding back—Tyler’s hands on me, the way he’d kissed me, the way he’d moaned when I touched him. A slow, satisfied smile spread across my face. Damn, that was hot.

Last night had been… incredible. Telling Tyler I was Arthur, letting him believe it, just giving in to the moment—it had felt so right. The way he’d looked at me, like I was everything he’d ever wanted… I hadn’t felt that kind of desire in years. Decades, maybe. And now, lying here with him curled up against me, his breath warm on my chest, I couldn’t help but want more.

But reality was starting to creep in. The alcohol haze was fading, and I knew Tyler would wake up soon. What then? Last night, he’d been able to suspend disbelief, to pretend I was Arthur. But in the cold light of day, that fantasy wouldn’t hold.

I needed a plan. Something to keep the illusion alive, just a little longer. If I could convince him I was still Arthur, maybe we could… well, maybe we could do it again. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I hadn’t felt this alive in years.

Tyler stirred beside me, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he just blinked up at me, confused. Then it all came rushing back—the realization hitting him like a freight train. He sat up abruptly, pulling the sheet around him, his face a mix of horror and disbelief.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “What did we… I mean, you’re… oh my god.”

I propped myself up on one elbow, trying to look casual. “Morning, Ty,” I said, my voice still rough from sleep. “Sleep okay?”

He stared at me, his eyes wide. “Dad, we… last night, we… I thought you were Arthur. I thought—”

I cut him off with a laugh, shaking my head. “Ty, what are you talking about? I’m Arthur. Your dad and I swapped back a week ago, remember?”

He froze, his brow furrowing. “What? No, we didn’t. You’re still… you’re still in Arthur’s body. You’re my dad.”

I raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “Dude, are you okay? No, I’m not.”

He shook his head, his voice rising. “No, that’s not possible.”

I smirked, leaning closer. “Oh, so what you’re telling me is… you let your dad suck you off last night? Gross, dude. Haha.”

His face turned bright red, and he looked like he was about to bolt. “I… I didn’t… I thought you were Arthur!”

I shrugged, still grinning. “Well, I am. So I guess you’re in the clear.”

He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing. I could see the gears turning in his head, the doubt creeping in. He wanted to believe me. He needed to believe me. And I was going to make sure he did.

“Look,” I said, my tone softening. “I get it. That whole body swap thing was a lot to process. But we swapped back already dude. And last night… well, last night was amazing. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”

He hesitated, his eyes searching mine. “I… I don’t know. This is so messed up.”

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “It doesn’t have to be. Just… let go, Ty. You know you want to.”

For a long moment, he just stared at me, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay. But… you’re really Arthur, right?”

I smiled, leaning in to kiss him. “Of course I am.”

Tyler groaned, rubbing his temples as he sat up in bed. “Ugh, my head is killing me. I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

I smirked, sitting up beside him. “Well I've got just the thing to make you feel better.”

I leaned in, kissing him deeply. He hesitated for a moment, but then he melted into it, his hands finding their way to my shoulders. I could feel the tension in his body, the way he was still trying to reconcile what was happening. But I wasn’t going to give him time to think. Not now.

I pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him. His eyes widened as I positioned myself between his legs, my hands sliding down his chest. “Relax,” I murmured, my voice low and teasing. “I’ll take care of you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but I didn’t give him the chance. I kissed him again, harder this time, my hands roaming over his body. He moaned into my mouth, his resistance crumbling.

I reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicking myself up quickly. He gasped as I pressed against him, his hands gripping the sheets. “Wait, I—”

“Shh,” I interrupted, kissing him again. “Trust me.”

He hesitated, but then he nodded, his body slowly relaxing under mine. I pushed in slowly, giving him time to adjust, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The way he felt around me, the way he moaned my name—Arthur’s name—it was intoxicating.

“God, Ty,” I breathed, my voice rough with desire. “I wish you’d told me about your little crush on me sooner. We could’ve been doing this so much earlier.” I said, thrusting my lubed up cock back and forth in his hole.

He moaned, his hips lifting to meet mine. “I… I didn’t think you’d… oh god…”

I chuckled, thrusting deeper. “Yeah, well, you thought wrong. You’re mine now, Ty. And I’m not letting you go.”

His hands clawed at my back, pulling me closer as I picked up the pace. The room was filled with the sound of our breathing, the slick slide of our bodies moving together. It was raw, primal, and so damn good.

I could feel him tightening around me, his moans growing louder, more desperate. “Arthur, I’m… I’m close…”

“Me too,” I growled, my own release building fast. “Come on, Ty. Let go.”

With a cry, he came, his body shuddering beneath me. The sight of him, the feel of him, pushed me over the edge, and I followed him with a groan, burying myself deep inside him as I spilled.

For a moment, we just lay there, our bodies tangled together, our breathing ragged. Then, slowly, I pulled out, collapsing beside him. He turned to look at me, his eyes wide, his face flushed.

“That… that was…” he started, but he couldn’t seem to find the words.

I smirked, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Amazing? Incredible? Life-changing?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I was going to say ‘insane,’ but yeah. All of the above.”

I leaned in, kissing him softly. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

[take-my-body-from-me]

(Wet) Dream Come True (Frank's POV) Part 2

Read the original by @immortalmrwavell here.

The bar seemed to fade into the background as his words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. My mind raced, torn between disbelief and a growing, undeniable attraction. This was Max—or Frank, as he now insisted—but it was also me. Or at least, it used to be. The lines were so blurred I couldn’t even begin to untangle them. And yet, here I was, my pulse quickening under his touch, my body betraying me in ways I hadn’t expected.

“You’re serious,” I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned back slightly, his smirk never wavering, but his hand stayed firmly on my thigh. “Dead serious,” he replied, his tone dripping with confidence.

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “This is… insane,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. But even as I said it, I couldn’t deny the heat pooling in my stomach, the way my body was responding to his proximity. It was like some twisted version of self-love, and I hated how much I was into it.

Frank chuckled, low and deep, and finally released his grip on my thigh. “Relax,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m not gonna jump you in the middle of a dive bar. But if you’re interested…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to laugh it off, to pretend this was all some bizarre joke. But another part—a louder, more insistent part—was already imagining what it would be like to give in. To let him take control, to feel what it was like to be with someone who knew my body better than I did. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

We stayed at the bar for another hour, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. Frank told me more about his life, his work, and the online persona he’d built. He was surprisingly open, and I found myself genuinely enjoying his company. There was a charisma to him, a magnetic confidence that made it impossible not to be drawn in. And the more we talked, the more I realized how much he’d changed. This wasn’t the awkward, unsure Max I’d left behind five years ago. This was someone entirely new—someone who had taken my old life and made it his own in ways I never could have imagined.

By the time we left the bar, the tension between us was palpable. We walked side by side down the dimly lit street, the silence heavy with unspoken words. I could feel his eyes on me, and every time I glanced his way, I caught that same knowing smirk. It was maddening, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

When we reached his apartment building, he stopped and turned to me. “You coming up?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes intense.

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it—the moment of no return. If I said yes, there was no going back. If I said no… well, I wasn’t sure I could.

“I…” I started, but the words caught in my throat.

Frank stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Look,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “I get it. This is weird. Hell, it’s probably the weirdest thing either of us has ever done. But life’s too short to overthink everything, don’t you think?”

I stared at him, my mind racing. He was right—this was insane, ridiculous, completely absurd. And yet… it also felt inevitable, like we’d been heading toward this moment from the second I walked out that door five years ago.

“Okay,” I finally said, my voice barely audible. “I’ll come up.”

His smirk widened, and he reached out to squeeze my shoulder. “Good choice.”

The elevator ride up to his apartment was agonizingly slow. I could feel the heat radiating off him, his body so close to mine that it was impossible not to be hyper-aware of every movement. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it, and my palms were slick with sweat. I kept telling myself this was a mistake, that I should turn around and leave before things went too far. But every time I glanced at him, that same magnetic pull drew me back in.

When we finally reached his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for me. I followed him in, my nerves on edge as I took in the space. It was surprisingly tidy, with a minimalist aesthetic that felt both familiar and foreign. There were a few personal touches—a framed photo of him at the gym, a shelf filled with books on fitness and mechanics—but otherwise, it was clean and uncluttered.

Frank closed the door behind us and turned to face me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, we just stood there, the air between us crackling with tension. Then, without a word, he stepped closer, his hand reaching up to cup my cheek.

“You’re nervous,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Don’t be.”

I swallowed hard, my breath hitching as his thumb brushed against my skin. “This is… a lot,” I admitted, my voice trembling.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “I know. But you don’t have to overthink it. Just… let go.”

And then, before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was slow at first, tentative, as if he was giving me the chance to pull away. But I didn’t. Instead, I found myself leaning into him, my hands gripping his shoulders as the kiss deepened. His lips were warm and insistent, and the taste of him was intoxicating. It was like kissing a stranger and an old friend all at once, and the contradiction only made it more thrilling.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathless, my head spinning. Frank’s smirk was back, but there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“See?” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Not so bad, right?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded, my heart still racing. He chuckled and took my hand, leading me further into the apartment.

“Come on,” he said, his tone light but his grip firm.

The tension between us was electric as Frank led me to his bedroom, his grip on my hand firm but not unkind. My heart was pounding, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, but I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward him. When we reached the bed, he turned to face me, his smirk widening as he took in my nervous expression. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “I’ll take care of you.”

Before I could respond, he closed the distance between us, his hands sliding up my chest to push my shirt off my shoulders. I shivered as the cool air hit my skin, but his touch was warm, grounding. He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “You’re gonna love this.”

I didn’t have time to process his words before he was kissing me again, his hands roaming over my body with a practiced ease that left me breathless. He knew exactly how to touch me, how to make me melt under his fingers, and it was both thrilling and unnerving. This was my body, after all—or at least, it used to be—and yet he seemed to know it better than I ever had.

When he finally pulled away, I was panting, my head spinning. He stepped back, his eyes dark with desire as he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate. I couldn’t look away as he revealed himself, his body a masterpiece of muscle and power. My mouth went dry at the sight of him, his cock already hard and straining against his stomach.

“Like what you see?” he asked, his tone cocky but his eyes soft.

I nodded, unable to form words. He chuckled and closed the distance between us, his hands sliding down to my waist to undo my pants. I stepped out of them clumsily, my legs trembling as he pushed me back onto the bed.

“Good,” he said, his smirk returning as he climbed over me. “Now let’s see how much you can take.”

Frank’s hands were firm on my hips, his body pressed against mine as he guided himself into position. I could feel the heat of him, the hardness of his cock against my ass, and my breath hitched as he began to move.

He rubbed himself against me, back and forth, the friction sending shivers up my spine. His movements were slow, deliberate, teasing. I could feel the pressure building, the anticipation making my heart race. His hands tightened on my hips, and I could hear the faintest hitch in his breath as he pressed closer.

“Frank,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.”

He paused, his body stilling for a moment. Then, in a voice that was low and reassuring, he said, “Okay. Just the tip, then. Just to see how it feels.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. He shifted slightly, and I felt the blunt pressure of him against me. My body tensed, but he was patient, his hands gentle as he guided himself in. Just the tip, just enough to make me gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Just the tip,” I repeated, more to myself than to him. “Right?”

“Right,” he murmured, his voice smooth and calm. “Just the tip.”

But then he moved, a slow, deliberate thrust that pushed him deeper than I expected. I stiffened, my hands gripping the sheets beneath me. “Frank—” I started, but he cut me off with a soft shush.

“Relax,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve got you.”

I wanted to protest, to tell him to stop, but the words caught in my throat. His hands were warm on my hips, his body solid and unyielding behind me. He moved again, another slow thrust that sent a jolt of sensation through me. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was overwhelming, the stretch and the pressure unlike anything I’d felt before.

“Frank,” I said again, my voice shaky. “You said just the tip.”

“I know,” he replied, his tone calm but firm. “But you feel so good. Just a little more, okay?”

I didn’t answer, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Part of me wanted to tell him to stop, to pull away and put an end to this. But another part—a deeper, more primal part—was curious, eager to see where this would lead. My body was betraying me, responding to his touch in ways I couldn’t control.

He thrust again, deeper this time, and I gasped, my fingers clutching the sheets tighter. He was inside me now, fully, and the sensation was overwhelming. I could feel every inch of him, the heat and the weight of him filling me in a way that was both foreign and intoxicating.

“Frank,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You lied.”

He chuckled, low and dark, his hands tightening on my hips. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But you’re doing so well. Just relax and let me take care of you.”

He moved again, a slow, deliberate thrust that sent a wave of pleasure through me. My breath hitched, and I felt myself opening up to him, my body adjusting to his size.

He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back as he whispered in my ear. “You feel amazing,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “So tight, so perfect. Let me make you feel good.”

“Frank,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I—”

But he cut me off with another thrust, deeper this time, and I moaned, the sound escaping before I could stop it. He chuckled, low and dark, and I could feel the smirk on his lips as he pressed them to my neck.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And then, without warning, he began to move, his hips driving forward with a hunger that took my breath away. His cock slid in and out of me with a rhythm that was both relentless and greedy, each thrust deeper than the last. I could feel the intensity of his focus, the way he was lost in his own pleasure, and yet his hands never stopped moving.

With one arm, he pinned my wrist above my head, his grip firm but not painful. The other hand wrapped around my cock, stroking me in time with his thrusts. It was clear, though, that his focus was on his own pleasure. His movements were selfish, almost frantic, as if he couldn’t get enough of me. The sound of his breathing—heavy and ragged—filled the room, mingling with the slick, rhythmic sounds of our bodies moving together.

I tried to hold on, to keep some semblance of control, but it was impossible. The way he touched me, the way he moved inside me, it was too much. My body responded on its own, arching into his touch, my moans escaping in broken gasps. He was relentless, driving into me with a pace that left no room for thought, only sensation.

When I came, it was sudden and intense, my body shuddering as I spilled into his hand. He didn’t stop, though. If anything, he seemed to grow even more focused, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. I was still trembling from my own climax when he pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He tasted me, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he licked my cum from his fingers.

“It tastes better than I remember, kid,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Glad to see you’re taking better care of that body than I did.”

The words sent a strange shiver through me, a mix of pride and something else I couldn’t quite name. Before I could respond, he groaned, his body tensing as he finally reached his own climax. He buried himself deep inside me, his release hot and overwhelming. I could feel every pulse, every shudder of his body as he came, his hands roaming over my skin as if memorizing every inch of me.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he stayed close, his breath warm against my neck as he slowly softened inside me. His hands continued to move over my body, gentle now, almost soothing. He ran his fingers along my sides, up my chest, down my arms, as if trying to calm me, to ground me after the storm.

Eventually, he pulled out, but he didn’t go far. He shifted beside me, pulling me into his arms and holding me close. His body was so much larger than mine, his muscles solid and unyielding, his chest broad and warm. I could feel the roughness of his body hair against my skin, the scratch of his beard as he nuzzled into my neck. It was strange, how safe I felt in that moment, wrapped in his strength, surrounded by his presence.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice soft now, almost tender. “You’re okay.”

I didn’t argue. My body felt heavy, my mind blissfully empty. The tension that had been coiled inside me for so long was gone, replaced by a deep, almost overwhelming sense of calm. I let myself sink into him, my eyes drifting shut as his hands continued to move over me, slow and steady.

I don’t know when I fell asleep, but it was the deepest, most restful sleep I’d had in years.

---

When I woke the next morning, the sunlight streaming through the windows, I was alone in the bed. For a moment, I wondered if it had all been a dream, but the ache in my body told me otherwise. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and that’s when I heard him.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Frank called from the kitchen, his voice cheerful. “Coffee?”

I blinked, still trying to process everything that had happened, and nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

I grabbed my clothes from the floor and dressed quickly before joining him in the kitchen. He was shirtless, his muscles on full display as he poured two cups of coffee. He handed one to me with a smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“So,” I said, taking a sip of the coffee, “last night was… something.”

He chuckled, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, it was. You’re not bad, kid.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling. “Look, Frank… if you ever want to swap back, just say the word. I mean, I know this wasn’t exactly… planned.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Swap back? What are you talking about? We just met last night, remember?” His tone was serious but also playful. A glint in his eye told me he knew exactly what I was talking about.

He laughed, flexing his biceps as he took a sip of his coffee. “Besides, why would I ever want to give this up? I mean, look at me.” He gestured to his body, his confidence radiating off him.

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, you’re one hot dude.”

He set his coffee down and stepped closer, his expression softening. “But seriously… you’re cute. I like you. And I’m here in San Diego for the long haul. So we should do this again… maybe even go on a date sometime.”

I felt a warmth spread through my chest, and I nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He grinned, his cocky smirk returning. “Good.”

[take-my-body-from-me]

(Wet) Dream Come True (Frank's POV)

Read the original by @immortalmrwavell here.

You might be wondering why I decided to take Max’s body from him. Trust me, I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times since it happened. Was it selfish? Absolutely. Do I regret it? Well… not as much as you’d think.

When Max’s mom and I first got together, being a father figure wasn’t exactly in my plans. Sure, I cared for Max, but I was stepping into some big shoes. A stepdad is supposed to guide, support, and be there when things get tough, right? Well, how the hell do you guide someone through something like losing their mom? I wasn’t prepared for that. And Max—he may have been old enough to fend for himself at 20, but he wasn’t ready to face the world alone. I did my best, but the truth was, I didn’t know if I could keep holding everything together.

As the months went on, my mind started wandering to the past. What would it be like to be in my twenties again? To have that energy, that freedom? To feel like the world was yours for the taking? At first, it was just a fantasy I’d entertain when life got too heavy. A little daydream to escape reality. But then… something changed.

I came across this weird little magic shop while I was running errands. The kind of place you’d almost walk past without noticing, tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. I don’t even know what drew me in, but once I stepped inside, I found something I couldn’t ignore: a remedy that could swap bodies. The old man behind the counter explained it to me in hushed tones, like he was letting me in on some ancient secret. There was one catch, though—it had to be a mutual swap. Both parties had to, at least on some level, want to know what it’d be like to live in the other’s shoes. After that, all bets were off.

Now, let’s be real—what 20-something would actually agree to give up their youth, even for a little while? Sure, I was attractive and muscular. I’ve kept myself in good shape over the years, but still, I was in my mid-thirties. Most young guys wouldn’t see that as a fair trade. That’s when I started thinking about Max.

I’d caught the way he looked at me, those lingering glances when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. The way his cheeks would flush when I caught him staring, the awkward way he’d quickly change the subject. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he had a thing for me. I mean, hell, I’m flattered. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could use that. Max wouldn’t just agree to the idea; he’d probably jump at the chance.

So, I decided to test the waters. One morning, over breakfast, I threw the idea out there casually, like it was just some funny hypothetical.

“This is gonna sound like a funny question,” I said, piercing a sausage with my fork, “but if you could choose to switch lives with me and have my body for however long, would you wanna do it?”

I kept my tone light, but I was watching him closely. The way he fidgeted in his seat, the way his cheeks turned pink as he tried to hide his reaction—it was all the confirmation I needed. His sheepish response, something about how it’d be “weird but interesting,” sealed the deal. I could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t just curious; he wanted it. Maybe not consciously, but deep down, he wanted to know what it’d be like to be me.

That was all I needed to make it happen.

When the time came, I added the remedy to our coffee, making sure Max drank every last drop. Watching his body slump as the effects kicked in was surreal, but when I opened my eyes and saw myself sitting across from me, I knew it had worked. My plan had actually worked.

I wasted no time. I’d already packed a bag with everything I’d need to start fresh—clothes, cash, important documents, a few personal items. I didn’t even wait for Max to wake up. I just grabbed my stuff and walked out the door, not looking back.

---

That was five years ago. Five years since I walked out the door, leaving my old life—and my old body—behind.

Now, this sexy body I’m in, Max’s body—no, my body—is 26. And let me tell you, I’ve made the absolute most of it. It wasn’t always easy; the first few months were an adjustment. I had to figure out how to carry myself as a younger man, and I won’t lie, it took some time to get used to seeing my reflection. But as the years went on, I really leaned into it. I started growing out my hair, experimenting with different looks. These days, I like to dress a little more feminine now and then—just enough to turn a few heads. And honestly? I love spending as much time shirtless as possible. This body deserves to be shown off, and I’ve been having an all-around good time doing just that.

Of course, that means my old body—the one I left Max in—would now be about 41. I never bothered to reach out to him after the swap, and, frankly, I hadn’t heard anything from him either. Part of me assumed he was mad, which would make sense. I mean, I did steal his youth, his twenties—arguably some of the best years of his life. Maybe he couldn’t confront me because of that. Not that I spent much time thinking about him these days. My life was too good, and honestly, I didn’t have any regrets. I had the life I wanted.

At least, that was the case until today.

I was at the gym, doing my usual workout. It’s a gym known for its gay clientele—big, muscular guys who weren’t shy about flaunting what they had. My kind of place. I’d just finished a grueling set at the squat rack, sweat dripping down my chest as I racked the barbell. I grabbed a towel and started wiping myself down when this super muscular, hot guy walked up to me.

“Hey, man,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, “mind if I work in with you?” He had this knowing smirk on his face.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I was too busy eyeing him up. Thick, powerful arms, a wide chest, and legs that could probably crush a watermelon. He was older, but he had this ageless energy about him. Then, it clicked.

It was Max. In my old body.

My jaw practically hit the floor as I stared at him. “Max?” I said, disbelief dripping from my voice. “Is that you? You look… amazing.”

And he did. My old body hadn’t aged a day. In fact, it looked better than ever. He’d clearly been putting in work at the gym. My old body was practically glowing.

Max—or rather, my old body—grinned and crossed his arms over that broad chest. “It’s Frank,” he corrected, his tone smooth and confident. Then he flexed one of those massive biceps, his smirk growing. “But you’re damn right I look amazing.”

I stared at him, still a little stunned by how… okay he looked. Actually, not just okay—thriving. “I thought you’d be mad,” I said after a moment. “I mean, I kind of stole your youth. I figured you’d hate me for it.”

He let out a deep laugh, throwing his head back. Then, with that same cocky smirk, he raised one of those thick, muscular arms and took an exaggerated whiff of his armpit. “I was mad,” he admitted, “for maybe the first hour. But this…” He sniffed again, clearly enjoying his own musk. “…this helped me get over it.”

Before I could say anything, he casually ran a hand down to his crotch, grabbing his impressive bulge. “And this doesn’t hurt either,” he added with a wink, his tone dripping with smugness.

I couldn’t help but laugh, a mix of relief and disbelief washing over me. “So, uh,” I began, trying to steer the conversation before I got too distracted, “I wasn’t exactly expecting to see you in San Diego. Is this where you’ve been all these years?”

Frank shrugged, his body language as relaxed and confident as ever. “Just moved to town, actually. Needed a change of scenery. Figured this would be a good place to start.” He looked me up and down, clearly taking in how much I’d changed. “And now I know why this gym has such a reputation,” he teased.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah, well, I’ve been here a while. It’s a good spot.”

“Seems like it,” he said, his tone a little too casual, like he knew exactly how good he looked. “Anyway,” he continued, “we should grab a drink later, catch up. It’s been too long.”

I nodded, still trying to wrap my head around the moment. “Yeah, sure,” I replied, trying to sound just as nonchalant.

As he walked away to start his set, I couldn’t help but watch him. There was something about his casual cockiness, the way he carried himself with this slight earned arrogance, that was undeniably attractive. He wasn’t just comfortable in my old body—he loved it. And honestly? That made him even more appealing.

---

Later that night, we met up at a dive bar just a block away from his apartment. It wasn’t much—a little run-down, sticky floors, the smell of stale beer—but it had character, and it was quiet enough for a real conversation. When I walked in, I spotted him immediately. He was leaning casually against the bar, a beer already in hand, wearing my old Texas Tech T-shirt like it was made for him. It looked snug on his broad frame, the sleeves straining against his biceps, and for a second, I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite name. Nostalgia? Jealousy? Lust? Maybe all three.

“Nice shirt,” I said, sliding into the stool next to him.

He smirked, giving me a once-over. “Figured it’d be a nice touch. Thought it might bring back memories.”

I laughed, feeling oddly sheepish. “Yeah, well, it looks better on you.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I cringed internally. Was I… flirting? With my own body? I mean, technically, yeah, but how could I be this flustered? This was me, or at least it used to be. Yet here I was, stumbling over my words, feeling like a nervous wreck. Meanwhile, he—Frank, Max, whatever—was cool as a cucumber, his confidence practically radiating off him.

We ordered drinks, and he started asking me about my life. He was surprisingly attentive, hanging on to every word like he genuinely cared. It threw me off a little. “You’ve been busy,” he said after I told him about some of the things I’d been up to. “It’s good to see you doing so well.”

Was it weird that he almost sounded… proud?

Then he started telling me about his life—what he’d been doing in my old body. Turns out he’d made good money over the past few years working as a fitness instructor part-time, balancing that with his job as a mechanic. And apparently, he’d built up an online following, which had blown up enough that he was now financially set.

“It’s funny,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I thought I’d hate it at first, but I kinda love this life. It suits me.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, my eyes trailing over his broad shoulders and confident posture. “It really does.”

As the drinks flowed, I found myself relaxing a little too much. I didn’t even realize I was flirting until it was too late. My hand kept finding excuses to touch his arm or brush against his thigh. At first, it was just playful, but one of those touches lingered a little too long. My hand stayed on his thigh, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his jeans. He didn’t move away, and I didn’t either.

He turned to me with a raised eyebrow, that damn smirk spreading across his face. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “I’d think you were flirting with me.”

My face went red, and I quickly looked away, mumbling something unintelligible. But before I could pull my hand back, he grabbed my thigh, his grip firm and deliberate.

“Usually,” he said, leaning in just enough that I could feel the heat of his breath, “I don’t go for twinks. But I think I can make an exception for you.” His hand slid just slightly higher, his smirk turning into something hungrier. “I mean, I know how fantastic that ass is. And I’d love to try it out for myself.”

My breath hitched, and I couldn’t find the words to respond. All I could do was stare at him, my heart pounding as his grip tightened slightly, his confidence swallowing the room whole.

Stay Tuned For Part 2