alpha5565

[alpha5565]

What happens in a walk in the country.......

[alpha5565]

[alpha5565]

Shorts down and rugby shirt off.........

[alpha5565]

I always envied my uncle. He was rich, built like a statue, and somehow still full of life even in his sixties. He’d stroll around his mansion in a crisp white polo and red shorts, looking like he belonged on a magazine cover. Meanwhile, I was stuck with a scrawny frame, living paycheck to paycheck, and feeling more like an outsider with every family gathering.

But I never realized how badly I wanted to be him until the day I stole his body.

It started at his house.

I’d been feeling more isolated since my parents died. My aunts and uncles barely checked on me, too caught up in their perfect, luxurious lives. That day, I noticed something weird — my uncle’s muscles twitching under his skin like something was trying to get out.

Curiosity got the best of me. Later that night, I crept into his bedroom. He was snoring, sprawled out on his king-sized bed, still in his polo and shorts like he’d passed out from exhaustion. I carefully peeled back his shirt, tracing my fingers along his defined abs and powerful chest.

And that’s when the thought hit me:

What if I could take this life?

I didn’t know how I’d do it, but the idea latched onto my brain like a parasite. I spent weeks researching body-swapping — digging into ancient curses, rituals, anything that might give me a shot. Nothing worked.

Desperate, I turned to black magic. I summoned a demon, promising whatever it wanted if it would grant my wish. The ritual nearly killed me. My body shook, blood dripping from my nose as I collapsed to the floor.

But it worked.

The next morning, I woke up feeling… different. Stronger. I sat up, the sheets sliding off my new, muscular frame. I ran my hands over my chest, my arms — pure, solid power beneath my skin.

I practically ran to the mirror. My face stared back, but it wasn’t quite me. It was sharper, more confident, my uncle’s signature charisma etched into every line.

I grinned, flashing his perfect teeth.

I spent the morning exploring the mansion, running my fingers along the expensive furniture like I owned the place. Eventually, I poured myself a glass of whisky, settled into his favorite armchair, and just… existed.

For the first time, I felt alive.

Then I heard a cough.

My heart skipped. I looked toward the mirror, and there he was — my uncle. Not standing behind me, but inside the glass, staring back with wide, terrified eyes.

I raised my glass.

“Hello, Uncle,” I said, smirking. “Or should I say, hello to myself?”

He pounded against the glass, his mouth moving in silent rage. I felt the faintest echo of his voice in my head, screaming at me, begging to be let out.

But I just chuckled and took another sip of whisky.

As the days passed, I slipped into his life like I’d been born for it. I played golf, sailed his yacht, even started dressing like him — white polos and red shorts every day.

His reflection haunted me. I’d catch him watching from the bathroom mirror, the TV screen, even the polished chrome of the fridge. Always angry. Always helpless.

But I never spoke to him again.

I just kept living.

[alpha5565]

I wanted to make a good impression, so I headed to Sarah’s parents’ house for dinner, my heart hammering in my chest. The evening started off well enough — laughter, easy conversation, and food I could barely taste through my nerves. I kept checking Sarah’s dad out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge if he liked me, if I measured up.

Then, it happened.

A wave of dizziness crashed over me, violent and sudden. My vision blurred, the room distorted like I was underwater, and the voices around me turned distant and warped. I blinked, trying to steady myself, but everyone else at the table looked just as stricken. Sarah clutched her head, her mom swayed, and her dad’s mouth fell open, his eyes glassy and vacant.

And then, just as quickly, it stopped.

But something was wrong. I could feel it.

My skin prickled with an unfamiliar weight, like I was wearing someone else’s clothes. I looked down — and nearly gagged. The hands in front of me weren’t mine. They were thicker, calloused, with coarse hair sprouting along the knuckles. I flexed my fingers, watching in horror as the foreign hands obeyed. My stomach dropped, heavy and foreign, pressing against the waistband of my jeans. I glanced down, and my breath caught in my throat. A round, swollen gut strained against the fabric of a polo shirt that smelled faintly of sweat and stale beer.

I was in Sarah’s dad’s body.

I looked up and saw myself across the table. My face. My body. But it wasn’t me. It was… him. My body sat there, chewing, swallowing, continuing the conversation like nothing had happened. Watching my own face laugh, my mouth move without my control, made my skin crawl.

Sarah locked eyes with me, her gaze frantic. But it wasn’t her face I was looking at — she was in her mother’s body. The realization twisted in my gut like a knife.

We tried to communicate, glancing at each other, muttering under our breath when the parents weren’t looking. But every second stretched unbearably long. I could feel the weight of my borrowed body pressing down on me — the ache in my knees, the way my beer belly brushed against my thighs when I leaned forward. Every sensation was wrong. I felt bloated and slow, like I was decaying inside someone else’s skin.

When Sarah’s — or rather, her mother’s — voice suggested we call it a night, I followed her to the guest room, dragging my borrowed body like a corpse. We sat on the bed, the mattress dipping uncomfortably beneath my newfound weight. Sarah wouldn’t look at me, and I didn’t blame her. I could feel the dampness of her dad’s skin, the faint itch of stubble along my jawline, the sickening pulse of a body that didn’t belong to me.

We fell asleep, but I woke up constantly — jolting awake to the feeling of my heavy chest rising and falling, the foreign smell of the sheets clinging to me. Every time I opened my eyes, I half expected to be back in my own body. But I wasn’t.

Morning came like a death sentence. The truth was undeniable: Sarah’s parents had taken our bodies. I stared at my old face in the bathroom mirror, brushing someone else’s teeth, feeling the phantom sensations of his mouth.

I couldn’t stop touching my face — feeling the sag of my cheeks, the roughness of the skin. My stomach churned every time I caught a glimpse of the body in the mirror. It didn’t feel like I was inhabiting it. It felt like it was consuming me.

We tried to confront them, but the parents played dumb, smiling with our faces, wearing our skin like costumes.

What did they want? Why us?

The worst part wasn’t the swap itself — it was the waiting. The growing suspicion that they didn’t want to go back. That they were perfectly content living our lives, leaving us trapped in these bloated, aging bodies.

The house felt smaller with each passing day, like it was closing in. The air tasted stale. The walls pressed in.

I wanted out.

I wanted my body back.

But the longer I stayed, the harder it was to remember what it felt like to be me.

[alpha5565]

“Dude! What did you do to me?” I shouted, my voice raspier, heavier.

I looked down, my pulse hammering in my chest as I took in the foreign body I was now inhabiting. Wrinkled skin, hairy arms, a stomach that sagged slightly over the waistband of sweatpants. It wasn’t mine.

It was Mr. McGill’s.

My best friend’s dad.

“Come on, man! Just for the weekend!” my friend grinned, far too casual for the nightmare he’d just dropped me into. “You can buy us beer and shit!”

I stared at him, my mouth dry. “But your father? He’s in my body? Won’t he know?”

“Yeah, probably,” he shrugged.

I could feel my heart — or rather, Mr. McGill’s — thudding painfully in my chest. I looked down at my borrowed hands, flexing the thick fingers, trying not to freak out. But I was already spiraling.

“Swap me back. I’m done,” I snapped, rubbing my temples.

“Give it 20 minutes, dude. You’ll be enjoying yourself, trust me,” he said, already grabbing car keys like this was just another Friday night.

“No, I… I can’t do this,” I argued, my voice shaking. “You didn’t sign me up for this!”

But he just laughed, clapping me on the shoulder — a sharp, paternal gesture that made my skin crawl even more. “Relax, Dad. Just lean into it.”

I wanted to punch him, but instead, I just… sank.

The weight of the situation pressed down on me, exhaustion winning out over panic. I rubbed my face — his face — and let out a long, defeated sigh.

“I’ll… I’ll put on some clothes,” I muttered, already feeling the role consume me.

“That’s the spirit,” he smirked.

I turned toward the bedroom, dragging my heavy body across the room, but before I left, the words slipped out of my mouth, low and instinctive.

“Go, son.”

I froze. The words tasted wrong, foreign, like someone else had forced them out of my throat. But my friend just grinned, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“That’s more like it, Dad. I’ll see you in the car.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving me alone in his father’s body.

Alone.

[alpha5565]

Sexy grandpa

[alpha5565]

Shorts down and rugby shirt off.........

[alpha5565]

Preparing to play rugby in my Jockey y-fronts and vest.

[alpha5565]

Einmal da reingreifen 😋

From dark formal suit to white Jockey y-fronts........

[alpha5565]

As requested by higginslover.........

[alpha5565]

Dem würde ich gerne die unterbuchs runterreißen 😋

High rise white y-fronts

Old fashioned underwear

[alpha5565]

[alpha5565]

[alpha5565]

Die Füllung würde in meiner Hand mächtig wachsen. 😉

High rise white y-fronts

Old fashioned underwear

[alpha5565]

[alpha5565]