moonsinnergom

[moonsinnergom]

Love your stories, and thought you could help! When I married my husband, he was my dream guy; big, hairy, and unapologetically masculine. He used to exaggerate every burp or fart to be as loud as possible, and I loved that about him!

Anyway, in the last year, he's turned his life around. He lost all the weight, quit his bluecollar job, and shaved all his body hair. I've been a supportive husband for long enough, but he said he won't go back because his new boss wouldn't allow it.

I guess what I'm asking is for you to turn him back into that big hairy man he used to be, but make his office completely ignore his unprofessional look and smell that'll come with it?

It sounds like what you’re wanting is a curse. Sound about right ? Make your husband gain everything he lost… and then some. By my big question is does he really need an office job ? Wouldn’t you be a lot happier with him placed right back into blue collar work? He’s sitting at his cubicle when suddenly a painful hunger surges through him. He begins to break out in a sweat. Thick salty beds building on his brow. He goes to the bathroom not sure of what just happened to him. Attempting to freshen up he is overcome with a painful pressure. He start grabbing at the button down because his stomach feels like it’s about to burst. Looking down he is horrified. His stomach is expanding. Over the past year he had managed to lose a significant amount of weight and finally had a flat stomach. But not anymore. Right in front of him his stomach was blowing up like a beach ball! The buttons on his shirt burst off flying in all direction as his gut continued to push further and further out. The sweat on his brow now went to his puts and down his back. Dee sweat stains forming on his clothes and the smell of Bo that would be permanent on him began to envelope the air around him. His feet began to feel confined in the tone shoes he wore as his fatter feet demanded more room. Going from a size 12 to a size 14 almost instantly. A think unkempt beard grew out on his face and his stomach continue to expand outward. This was the largest he had ever been and he was still growing !!! You asked that his coworkers not notice anything wrong with him. That they accept his new fatter smelly form. But these aren’t his coworkers. His boss comes I the bathroom to figure out what all the fuss was about and he was disgusted to see your husband. Fatter than ever. Smelly. Sweaty. Hairy! Firing your husband he told him to get out of the office and go find a place that is fitting for an animal like him. In tears your husband rides down the elevator and when him landing on the 1st floor the sudden stop of the elevator coupled with gravity sends the final changes throw his body. His gut gain another 20 pounds. Forcing it outward. And the sudden stop back it hand low. Always to be seen under any shirt he wears from now on. He even lost a few inches on this stop. Going from 6’ all the way down to 5’6”. Making his stomach even bigger and banging even lower. Waddling out of the elevator he managed to get to his truck. Struggling to get in and sweating like a pig. He began to burp and it smell of beer and protein. Having trouble fitting behind the wheel of his truck he had to push the seat all the way back just to fit his expanded frame in the cab and he could barely reach any of the pedals with his now shorter frame. His stomach rubbed against the wheel when he was driving home. Tears rolls down his fattening face. Making it home was even more of a shock. While you have been inside reading about all the changes you forced your husband into things have been changing around you. Junk cars littered your front lawn. No grass and only mud. Outside it looks as though. On one has ever cleared. While the house dimensions itself have become drastically smaller. Fitting more of the size of a standard airstream. You husband busts open the door and you can feel him home. The trailer sinks to one and literally shakes with every thunderous step of his fatter feet. He flops down on the chair and the whole trailer shakes. Lights flickering. But this is what you wanted isn’t it ? Now. Being a good sport and fetch your big man a case of beer. He’s going to need it for when he’s plowing you later tonight.

[moonsinnergom]

Djinni's Gym: Towel Service

When you’d mentioned to your buddies at the college Pride club that you were moving back to your small town after grad, they swooned at the name. “That’s where Djinni’s Gym is, right?” one gasped, fanning their face. “Raj and Shaun’s BlueSky is, like, my favourite.”

“Everyone they collab with is sooooo hot,” gushed another. “Your town must be the cruising capital of the state!”

You tried to assure them that no, it was just as homophobic and shitty as any other small town in the region. You were only moving back to sleep on your parents’ couch until you could get a job. In fact, you’d been friends with the only kid of colour in your whole high school, and he hadn’t had it easy, being Moroccan and gay in that small town. But they insisted, and when you looked up Djinni’s Gym on social media their address was, in fact, in the only mall in your hometown, just down the hall from the arcade.

Before you’d even been home for a week, you found yourself gazing up at the massive sign for the gym, with its antique lamp logo. Some of the gym gays at your college had taken you to the gym once or twice, but it really wasn’t your scene. You were weedy and awkward, the kind of gangling nerd who seemed to have an invisible “kick me” sign on his back any time a jock was in range. But with no gay bar in town, it seemed like this gym was your best chance at getting off with anyone.

The automatic doors slid open and your eyes watered as a gust of humid, musky air washed over you. You tried to take shallow breaths through your mouth as you walked inside, hoping it was just the entrance. After all, why would a gym smell like a sweaty, precummy cock and balls?

An Indian hunk with a cocky smirk stood at the reception counter. Raj, you remembered from the many graphic pictures your friends had shown you. “H-hi,” you stammered, “do you have a free trial?” You struggled to keep his eyes on his face, your mind drifting to the video of his brown cock dripping thick precum that was front and centre on his socials.

Raj’s smirk widened into a perfect, toothy smile, and you suddenly felt strangely like a small prey animal caught in his gaze. “For you, yes,” he rumbled, his accented voice somehow dripping in innuendo. “Would you like towel service, my friend?” he asked, reaching under the reception desk and somehow bouncing his thick pecs at the same time. Your gaze snapped to the dark nipples peeking out of the sides of his stringer tank.

“Uh, sure,” you agreed, your voice thick as you took a deep breath in through your nose to try and calm the sudden movement in your briefs. The sharp, alluring scent of Raj’s musk made your cock harden more instead.

Raj tossed the perfectly rolled towel to you and you scrambled to catch it, desperate not to embarrass yourself in front of this suave, flirty stud. As you grabbed it and clutched it to your chest, you got a whiff of something other than Raj’s scent: more of an animal stench than Raj’s almost curated musk.

You shook your head and hurried through the gate, struggling to hold it together as Raj pointed out different parts of the gym and gestured to the single change room in the back. You had hoped that your hard-on would subside once you were inside the gym in the mass of different body types that frequented it, but every man you saw was a paragon of muscle. With a shaky wave to Raj, you tiptoed further into the gym, still clutching the strangely musky towel, looking around at the studs of every size, colour, and age pumping iron and flirting in the pheromone-laden air of the humid gym.

Desperate that no one saw that the weedy nerd had some kind of creepy erection in his sweatpants, you folded in on yourself and beelined for an elliptical machine facing the gym’s back wall. Sweat already standing out on your pale brow, you shook the towel out to hang it on one of the arms of the machine.

An instant later, as you began to stride on the machine, that animal smell reached your nose again. For some reason, the towel carried a scent like pure, unadulterated sex, and you looked down at it in some disgust. Had they even washed it? You eyed it closely. Why did the thought of it being unwashed get your excitable cock even harder?

You shook your head and tried to focus on your cardio, hoping the stench would fade into the background over time. Sweat began to flow down your face and stick your T-shirt to your back as you upped the intensity of the machine to distract yourself.

Even this wall had a mirror, and you despaired as you watched your ghostly, gangling limbs pumping back and forth on the machine. This was a stupid idea, you told yourself. None of the hunks in this gym were going to give a college kid like you a second glance. You’d better just enjoy this chance to ogle them and then go home, back to struggling through job applications in the hope of moving somewhere better.

But as you started to watch the guys lifting in the mirror’s reflection, you kept noticing their eyes drifting your way. The guy twisting himself into a pretzel outside the yoga studio—Jorge, your college friend’s voice helpfully supplied—kept sneaking glances at you, his eyes mischievous. When he saw you looking at him, he winked and made a “call me” gesture with the hand he wasn’t using to pull his foot against the back of his head. A massive Chinese-looking guy on a deadlift platform licked his lips lasciviously as you locked eyes with him in the mirror. In spite of being the least hunky guy at the gym, you felt strangely like a piece of meat as dozens of eyes followed each twist of your torso and bob of your barely visible butt.

Barely ten minutes into your cardio, your face was burning bright red, the flush creeping under the collar of your shirt as you sweated more from the stress of being watched than from any exertion. You grabbed the smelly towel from the machine’s arm and bolted for the showers.

You were already under the rush of water in the shower before you realised you could have just gone home to wash. It was so strange you hadn’t thought to just leave now that you were uncomfortable. As you scrubbed down your legs, another whiff of that arousing scent from the towel washed over you, and the thought washed away with the soap suds. Shaking your head, you switched off the water and grabbed the towel from its hook.

Barely realising your cock was starting to leak precum just from the towel’s scent, you began to rub it through your hair, your conscious mind trying to ignore the smell that was somehow not so disgusting anymore. As you rubbed, your hair darkened from brown to black, the follicles thickening as the strands curled into a short quiff. You ran your hands through it, confused for a moment and then smiling as you remembered joking about how pubic your head hair looked compared to your nearly hairless groin.

You ran the towel over your face, pausing for a moment to take a deep whiff of the thick, overwhelming smell of sex embedded in the cotton. Your features shifted, chin strengthening as a tan rushed down from your forehead. A few smile lines folded into view around your eyes as you gave yourself a dimpled smile, enjoying the sensation of the towel against your thick black moustache and scruffy stubble. It was so wild that you had this masculine, hairy face, nearly looking Moroccan like your buddy from high school, on such a pale, gangling body.

You ran the towel down your chest, giving your pecs special attention as they grew thick and strong, more dark hair whorling across them from your darkening nipples. Sweat began to bead between the hairs, soaking up the musky stench of the towel you were becoming obsessed with. You barely held back a deep moan as you ran the towel across your nipples, your cock letting loose a spurt of precum at the sensation.

Your core and back grew to match your chest as you towelled off your arms, strong and thick and covered in dark hair. Sure, you didn’t have a six pack, but your belly was way better, way stronger, because of the fat you kept around your middle.

Meanwhile, your arms thickened and darkened, your hands twitching as they grew big and callused and gripped your musky towel harder. You wiped your armpits too, but chuckled as you felt the thick, dark hair that grew in them immediately begin to drip musky, mature sweat down your thick lats. This was your third shower today, you remembered. Sure, it was a lost cause, but there was something sexy about the futile battle with your animalistic armpit musk, especially because of the contrast with your pale cock and wispy pubes.

You gave your rock-hard cock a tug as you started to dry your legs, leaving the best for last. It felt good to grip it with your big, dark-skinned hand, as if you’d never done it before. Had you?

You shook your head at the sudden onslaught of a doubled consciousness. How the fuck did you have the upper body of a mature Moroccan bear paired with the slender legs of some college white boy? Why was your white boy cock so fucking hard and leaky thinking about it? What was…

A sudden wave of vertigo came over you, and you lost your train of thought. Had the showerhead always been so high on the wall, you wondered, idly flexing your thick quads as dark, curly hair raced over them and down your swelling calves. Fuck, you loved being a short, thick muscle bear. You could get picked up and pounded by a muscle stud like Raj, and it was even hotter when you slung Jorge over your shoulder and threw him on the mats to eat the Mexican yoga teacher’s sweaty ass. All that was missing was your own ass, you mused, running your musky towel over your flat, pale ass and between your bulked up thighs.

Your ass suddenly thickened with muscle, bouncing as the cheeks squeezed, and you roared with pleasure, feeling your ring twitch, ready to get opened up. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d gotten your needy ass filled, which was crazy because you usually couldn’t go more than twelve hours between loads. You were so lucky Raj and Shaun had opened this gym to get guys like you some relief.

Fuck, you needed to dry off your cock and go grab a guy to fuck you. One of those young bucks should have enough stamina to work you over.

The feeling of your cock and balls growing as you wrapped the towel around them had you whimpering. Dark, wiry hair grew in everywhere around your crotch, halfway up your big leaky bear cock, and immediately captured your copious sweat, letting that heady, sex-tinged musk you’d been smelling the whole time tickle your nose even deeper. Your eyes rolled back as you used the towel to pump once, twice, and exploded.

Your balls pulled up tight around the base of your dark-skinned cock like you’d been edging for hours, and you whimpered as shot after shot went into the thick fibres of the towel. You felt sweat dripping down your stubbled chin and moaned louder, loving how much of a big, sweaty muscle bear you were.

It could have been seconds or minutes later, and you were still braced against the wall, your towel wrapped around your cock as you gasped for air from a true all-timer of an orgasm. Behind you, you heard Shaun’s ironic voice. “Damn, Hamza, you gonna clean that towel this time, brother?”

You turned around and grinned at the younger man, shaking out your softening cock as you tossed him the towel. “Maybe after cardio,” you rumbled, enjoying the soft Moroccan accent in your voice. “You know I need a towel when I walk.”

“Brother, you need a mop,” Shaun said. He sniffed the towel appreciatively. You watched the Black jock’s cock jerk in his compression shorts. “Lemme get you a fresh towel, on the house,” he suggested, palming his crotch. “Me and this guy need a little alone time.”

You grinned back at him, putting one arm behind your head to show off your dripping armpit. “Why not get it from the source?” you suggested, seeing Shaun’s nostrils flare at your musk. “I can do bedroom cardio today.”

Fuck, you loved this gym. You were so glad you’d moved to this town.

[moonsinnergom]

The Wrong Wish (revamped)

inspired, once again, by the iconic @bigfuckingdudes. more stories to come! appreciate all the asks and excitement. hope y'all weren't trying to lose weight while i was gone.

Kyle slouched on the couch, his lean, 19-year-old frame tense with disgust. Craig, his mother’s new husband, waddled in from the kitchen, his beer gut swaying, sweat stains blooming under his armpits. The man let out a ripe fart, chuckling as he scratched his hairy belly, crumbs from a bag of BBQ chips tumbling to the floor. “Hey, lighten up, squirt,” Craig leered, winking with a crude grin. “Life’s too short to be so uptight.” Kyle’s stomach churned. Craig was everything he despised: loud, vulgar, and shamelessly gross. Worse, his mom seemed blind to it, laughing at Craig’s lewd jokes, blushing when he groped her. Kyle was the opposite—quiet, introspective, a college kid who valued discipline and order. This slob was ruining his life.

That night, Kyle lay in bed, his mind racing. “I’d do anything to get Craig away from Mom,” he whispered, his voice cracking with desperation. The words hung in the air, heavy with intent, as if the universe itself was listening. Exhausted, he drifted into a deep, uneasy sleep.

And then the sun rose on a new reality.

Kyle woke to a suffocating weight, his body sinking into the mattress like it was quicksand. His limbs felt sluggish, pinned by an unfamiliar and quivering bulk. His chest heaved, each breath a labored wheeze, as if his lungs were squeezed by layers of dough. He tried to move, but his neck—now a thick roll of fat—resisted, creaking as he turned his head. In the dim light, Craig loomed beside him, propped on one elbow, his doughy face split into a smug, intimate grin. “Mornin’, my sexy hog,” the man purred, his voice dripping with lust. His meaty hand reached out, stroking Kyle’s cheek, fingers lingering on the stubble of a double chin.

Kyle’s heart pounded. “What the—” His voice was alien, a deep, raspy growl, thickened by years of grease and smoke. He tried to sit up, but his body rebelled. His belly, a massive, quivering dome, spilled across the bed, its pale, stretch-marked surface trembling with every breath. Rolls of fat cascaded down his sides, pooling against the sheets, each one soft and heavy, like warm dough. His thighs, thick as tree trunks, rubbed together, slick with sweat, their friction sending a jolt through him. His arms were flabby slabs, jiggling as he flailed, and his man-tits sagged, dusted with coarse, dark hair that trailed down to his navel. A sour, musky stench clung to him—sweat, body odor, and something earthier, like unwashed skin. It was his smell, and it made his stomach lurch.

He raised a hand, fingers now fat and clumsy, nails yellowed, and saw a gold wedding band glinting on his ring finger. His chest tightened. He was married. To Craig. “No, no, no,” he rasped, his voice trembling. He tried to roll off the bed, but his bulk made it impossible. His belly sloshed, dragging him back, and his joints ached under the strain. Beneath the layers of fat, his cock stirred, buried under a thick pad of lard that jiggled with every movement. It throbbed, hard and aching, the pressure intense but humiliatingly inaccessible, smothered by his new girth.

“Look at you, my big, blubbery boy,” Craig teased, his hand sliding down to knead Kyle’s belly, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh. “Fuck, you’re so heavy, ain’t ya? Bet you can’t even get outta bed without me.” He chuckled, his own gut pressing against Kyle’s side, their sweaty skin sticking together. Kyle’s cock pulsed harder, betraying him, and a wave of arousal hit so strong he gasped, his cheeks flushing under his chubby cheeks.

“Get… away,” Kyle managed, but his mind was foggy. He was not himself—or was he too much himself? Memories flickered, not his own. He saw himself as Kyle, the lean, disciplined kid who planned his workouts, who cringed at fast food, who valued control. But new memories—vivid, invasive—pushed in. He was 48 now, not 19, a man who’d spent decades indulging, gorging on pizzas and beers with Craig at their favorite diner. He was no longer quiet; he was loud, laughing at crude jokes, belching in public, reveling in his bulk. He was Craig’s husband, a role model for excess, a gainer who lived for the scale’s climb. Their wedding day: Kyle, 400 pounds, waddling down the aisle, his suit splitting at the seams, Craig whispering, “You’re my perfect pig.�� Nights in this bed, Craig feeding him, their bodies entwined, sweat and musk mingling as they fucked.

“No, I’m not that guy!” Kyle growled, shaking his head, his jowls quivering. He clung to his old self, the college kid who hated Craig’s filth—his farts, his sweat, his lewdness. But it was fading, like a signal drowned out by static. Craig grinned, undeterred, and grabbed a tray from the nightstand, laden with donuts, their glaze glistening, alongside a pitcher of cream and a stack of bacon. “Time to eat, big man,” he said, holding a donut to Kyle’s lips. “Gotta keep my hog nice and stuffed.”

Kyle’s stomach roared, a deep, hungry rumble that shook his frame. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to open his mouth. “I’m not… your fucking pig,” he spat, but the scent of sugar and grease was intoxicating. His cock throbbed beneath his fat pad, the pressure building, and he hated how good it felt. Craig’s teasing didn’t stop. “Oh, come on, babe, you love this. Look at that gut, all swollen with lard. Bet you can’t even reach your dick anymore, huh? Need your husband to take care of that for ya.” He jiggled Kyle’s belly, sending ripples through the fat, and Kyle moaned, the sound raw and involuntary.

His mind begged him to fight. You’re Kyle. You’re not this slob. You hate him. But his body had other ideas. His mouth opened, and the donut slid in, the sweet, doughy taste exploding on his tongue. He chewed, glaze smearing his lips, and another moan escaped. Craig fed him another, then a strip of bacon, the grease dripping down Kyle’s chin, pooling in the folds of his neck. Each bite was a surrender, his old personality crumbling. The disciplined kid was gone, replaced by a man who craved excess—food, sex, filth. He was becoming Craig’s mirror, a loud, crude gainer who laughed at restraint, who loved burping contests and farting in bed, who got off on being too big for chairs.

“Fuck, you’re such a greedy pig,” Craig growled, his hand sliding under Kyle’s belly, fingers brushing the fat pad where his cock strained. “Look at this. All that lard’s got you so hard, but you’re too fat to do shit about it.” He squeezed, and Kyle bucked, his bulk quivering, pleasure overwhelming his resistance. Craig leaned in, kissing him, his stubble scraping his sensitive skin, his breath hot and sour. Their bellies pressed together, sweat and musk mingling, and Kyle’s mind frayed. Craig’s filth—his filth—wasn’t gross; it was hot. His farts were funny, his sweat was sexy, his crude love was perfect.

“I… I’m not…” Kyle whimpered, but the words were a lie. The wedding band felt like it had always been there, a symbol of their kinky bond. New memories solidified: him and Craig at a buffet, Kyle’s shirt riding up, Craig feeding him ribs until he couldn’t breathe. Their honeymoon, Kyle stuck in a hot tub, Craig fucking him as the water sloshed. He was a gainer, a hog, proud of his 500-pound frame, his immobility a trophy of their love. His personality had shifted—he was no longer introspective but boisterous, cracking lewd jokes, goading Craig into stuffing him fuller.

“More,” Kyle gasped, his voice thick with need. “Feed me, Craig.” His mind screamed one last desperate plea, but it was drowned out by his hunger. Craig’s laugh was deep and triumphant. “That’s my big, filthy hog,” he said, stuffing a pancake into his mouth, syrup dripping onto his man-tits. His hand worked under the fat pad, teasing his cock, and Kyle moaned, his body quaking. “Gonna make you so much fatter, babe. My perfect husband.”

Kyle surrendered completely. He was Craig’s, body and soul. His old life—discipline, restraint—was a distant dream. He loved his filthy, kinky husband, loved the sweat, the stench, the excess. As Craig fed him, fucked him, worshipped him, Kyle knew this was where he belonged: a massive, smelly hog, bound to his fat man forever.

[moonsinnergom]

Dude your stories are amazing. I’d love to turn into your typically smelly frat bro, think you could help me out? I don’t mind being a former frat bro either hehe

Thanks :) I would be more than happy to help you out

Smells Like Confidence

With a click of a finger your wish has come true. You feel something else click; your jaw. It has sharpened dramatically into what could only be described as an ‘aesthetic’ shape. Your change in facial structure has meant that your lips are permanently pulled back into a cocky grin. Brown hairs pierce through the skin on your razor sharp jawline and above your now perpetually smug smirk. You have the face of a typical frat bro who knows he is hot and loves it.

You don’t even have to think about putting on a wife beater, a backwards cap and a douchey chain necklace. It is your natural aesthetic. Your body grows to fill out the wife beater. A strong chest pokes out between the straps which straddle onto your now large traps. Big shoulders and arms burst out from the sides. The rest of your body reaps the benefits too. Your abs carve out a clear eight-pack into your core, your legs thicken up with powerful muscle, and even your glutes gain a generous amount of mass making your ass stretch out towards dump truck territory. That’s not all, as your feet stretch out to become three shoe sizes bigger than before and your spine cracks and twists as it adjusts to your new height of six foot four. You feel your balls start to hang lower as they become heavier, swelling up into two large, plump orbs. Finally, your precious cock fattens up and adds more than a few inches to its length, so that it now dangles even lower than your hefty balls.

Now it’s time for you to experience the aspect of your new frat aesthetic that you desperately yearned for the most; your smell. You notice an intense itchy and damp sensation coming from your armpits. You lift your arm up and unleash a wave of masculine odour that floods into your nose, whose wide nostrils and symmetric shape has not been spared from turning completely ‘aesthetic’. To no one’s surprise you love your foul yet incredibly manly scent.

This transformation melts your brain, and in doing so destroys so many worthless memories and habits that have been damaging you for so long. Using deodorant, doing laundry, taking post-gym showers, caring what others think; gone. But don’t worry, there is still plenty left floating around in the puddle of a brain that you have. You still know how to lift weights and flex your muscles. You get incredibly aroused whenever you catch a whiff of yourself, which is often as the potency of your odour is increasing with each passing hour. All you can think is that you smell like a man, and that being a man is so good. 

Your cocky grin beams even wider as you notice people staring at you everywhere you go. You have a powerful scent that turns heads and a god-like body that keeps eyes on you. Whether it's disgust or lust that your body invokes, it doesn’t matter, as all the attention fuels your already overblown ego. That same ego that loves that people can smell you long before they can see you, that loves that your stink lingers on everything you interact with even long after you are gone.

Socially, you are a tyrant. Most people can’t stand you and for very valid reasons. Luckily you have developed a tight circle of friends who are very similar to you. One of your new favourite pastimes is hanging out with your bros and watching sports as you down beers and protein shakes. They aren’t judgmental about you like the rest of society and don’t give you snarky looks when you let out a BUUUUURRRRRP after chugging a beer or let rip a BRRRRRAAAAAP after drinking too many protein shakes. In fact, they encourage it and join in too. It goes to show how comfortable you and your new friends are with your body. You embrace that which the rest of society thinks is foul, you embrace your true masculinity.

This hobby of yours doesn’t take long to show its effects on your body. Your once shredded and aesthetic physique gets replaced with a thicker, stockier build. All those beers and protein shakes have bloated your body. Your confidence however has taken no such hit. You still think you're the best thing in this world, and you will never change your mind.

This extra padding has come with the side-effect of making your body produce an endless amount of sweat. You make dry clothes turn sopping wet within minutes, of course you still have no inclination to do laundry. You put permanent sweat stains on everything piece of furniture you touch, your favourite sofa is now just a sponge that hopelessly tries to absorb all your sweat.

The best part of this is how much smellier it makes you. You’re a walking health hazard that can make someone pass out just by being too close to you. All this sweat has only made you thirstier too. Your beer and protein shake consumption goes through the roof. Your stomach is constantly in a losing battle trying to digest all that yeast and protein. So, your belches have become louder than a lion’s war and your farts are now literal bombs. 

Looks like I made you into a bit more than just a ‘typical’ smelly frat bro. But I think you can see how slippery the slope is once you start going down that path. Just like a frat bro, I am not one to take half measures, so enjoy your new life as a bloated, smelly freak. It’s not like you know any better anymore.

[moonsinnergom]

Seriously? You've been talking big game about taking me home and fucking me hard. Instead I get you blowing your chance early in the stall of the club bathroom after a little bit of teasing. What a fucking let down dude. I'm going to clean up and see if one of your mates can show me how a real man fucks.

[moonsinnergom]

[moonsinnergom]

[moonsinnergom]

The Wrong Wish

Bill’s stepdad was a real piece of shit. Bill liked to think of himself as a tolerant, well-rounded person: his bad feelings for Bill were uncharacteristic and vast. They hadn’t gotten on from day one. Bill hated Derek’s attitude, his lazy and slobbish ways that screamed “I’m a huge human pig with bad manners, a bloated face, and a wobbling body who should not be marrying your mother”. And yet… Here they were. Bill was twenty now and it had been five years of this, five years of sheer resentment and distaste. What’s worse was Derek was a pretty young guy, closer to Bill’s age than felt comfortable. For half a decade, though, Bill had hated Derek’s big gut that pushed out of his stained shirts and strained his buttons, and his pecs that were more like tits, and his chubby hands that never seemed to stop gripping food or soda or beer or yet more food. The fat fucker had to get his wedding ring resized last year. Bill found that fact particularly distasteful. What did his mother see in this guy? And what could he do to fix it? One of these days, Bill’s mother was going to wake up next to an immobile blob reeking of cigarettes, and Bill had to stop it. Was Derek going to be at Bill’s wedding someday, stinking up the place while Bill tried to marry whatever handsome, normal man he actually liked? There was no genie or wishing well that Bill believed in, unfortunately, but he did have a feeling that it would take some kind of act of spiritual intervention to get Derek out of his life. He’d need to beg the universe to get rid of the fucker and his swollen thighs and big ol'feet. One night, home visiting his family, after a long evening of Derek belching like a hog and talking about the price of fast food going up, Bill got down on his knees in his childhood bedroom, and prayed to whoever was listening. “Please, please, fix this. I’ll take anything else, just not this.” Some would argue that was a mistake. You never know who’s listening. When the morning came, light streamed into the smoky bedroom and Bill yawned. Smoky? Opening his eyes further, his vision landed upon Derek. Derek! In bed with him, naked apart from ancient tight white briefs, smoking. Derek’s body was a thing to behold, a pig bloated by years of neglect and dark impulses, and Bill… Loved it? He loved it. Derek was so insanely sexy to him all of a sudden, a far cry (a fat cry!) from the emaciated twinks he normally jerked off to. Derek’s stinking, vast body. Derek had cheeks that looked like apples, lips that oozed saliva, eyes that were crowded shut by flesh, a forehead that constantly glistened with sweat. He was perfect. “I’m glad you’re awake, baby,” Derek growled, “I’ve missed ya. You’ve slept for so long. Did you have any dreams?” Bill grunted and tried to lift his head up and reply, but realised he couldn’t move easily. He was pinned down by something. By. Himself. Instead of hyperventilating, he just gazed in wonder at what his boyfriend and feeder Derek had done to him. He was huge! Flesh was piled onto him, under the covers: it looked like he was smuggling beach balls where his pecs used to be, and there was an enormous belly straining against the bedsheets, the kind that made Derek’s gut look like washboard abs. “Derek, I–” “–had that dream where I was literally your stepdad again, babe? The roleplay has really gotten into your head, hasn’t it?” “I–” This, Bill was interrupted by a wave of hunger. “Derek…babe. I need to eat. Can we just go downstairs and… Not talk for a bit yet. I need to… I need, well. I need to eat.” “Babe, come on,” Derek said, smiling widely, his chubby body bobbling up and down as he began to laugh, “you haven’t gotten out of bed in weeks.” Somewhere deep under flesh, Bill felt his tiny, buried dick become rock hard as he realised quite how fucked up the new reality in which he lived was, and quite how much he was going to love it. “I’ll bring you some breakfast. And then another breakfast. And don’t forget about brunch.” Derek heaved himself up, belching as he did so, and Bill watched him walk out of the room, unable to follow.

[moonsinnergom]

[moonsinnergom]

Mr. Steal-Your-Man

You left the club exhausted. The music was hot, the people were hot, your girlfriend was... very drunk. It was the first time in MONTHS that you got to go out, and you were so excited to finally just let loose at a live concert again. Not that Christi was particularly into the idea. To be honest, listening to her complain and slur and talk shit about her "friends" had been nagging on your shoulder for some time now. If you were being real with yourself, you'd admit your feelings for her had diminished quite a bit. If you were keeping it truly real, you'd admit that you were tired of no sex for the past eight months. You were tired of her getting pissed when she caught you beating one out on a Saturday afternoon. You were tired of having to work, cook, clean, and silently agree with her every whim. In short, you were whipped and you were... well, exhausted.

You turned and did your best to let the bouncer deal with her drunken ramblings about you, as Uber began to load up on your phone. Please, don't be a long wait, you thought; begging to just get her home and into bed so you wouldn't have to worry. The little ding from your phone signaled you had precisely five minutes before "Greg" in is Red Toyota Sienna would come pick you up out front. Turning around, you prepared for the ungodly fight that was going to ensue to get her in the car and yet, as you scanned the crowd to see where she'd gone off to, you couldn't help but notice that you were being watched.

Against the side gate of the back alley leaned the musician for the night, fresh off the stage from his set. He was a DJ, you couldn't quite recall his name, but he was a fairly well known fixture around town after a few well received gigs and a quick tour. His face glistened with sweat as the streetlight illuminated him from above, his hand covering the flirtatious side grin he cast you from his face. Intriguing. You wonder if he recognized you from somewhere, or more likely his gaze was pointed at someone else closeby. Still, something felt magnetic from those stoned, red eyes.

"BAAAAAAAAAAAABE I wanna go homeeeee." Christi's whining broke the connection like a baseball flying through a plate glass window. You took a deep breath and turned to her. She was fumbling with her clutch, trying to find keys for a car you didn't have. "I don't knoww... Where the fuck are the keys. I think... I think that fucking bartender took them. I bet..." Just as you were preparing to turn and head back into the club to appease her, a gruff, smoky voice came billowing from beside you.

"What's up. How'd y'all like the set?" You turned, and were met with the DJ's chill, definitely toked out face. From up close, you were better able to read him, and absolutely one hundred percent he was flashing you and Christi some looks. She turned and immediately started to do her typical chipper grovelling. That beat drop was so cool yada yada yada, the lights were so colorful yada yada yada, it frustrated you to no end knowing that she hated the set and wouldn't even dance, so every lie she spewed made your expression sink a bit further into irritation. "That's what's up, that's dope. Thank you so much." He was suave, a laid back attitude that perhaps was elevated by an inordinate amount of weed (of which you could easily smell behind a thick veil of sweaty musk), but it felt genuine- not put on for clout.

"Yeah, man. I fuckin' loved it. I'm gonna have to check you out on iTunes." He turned to you and smiled, raising his hand to collide with yours. He did not break eye contact, but his brows did furrow just a bit, a facial signal you'd read many times before.

"Yeah, man. I saw you out there on the floor. Love seein' folks feel the music, you know what I'm sayin'?" You and Christi both nodded, your attention entirely entangled with him. "So, I don't know if y'all are into this or not. But, I'm headin' back to my place in a bit, if you two wanted to... you know. Tag along." You were picking up what he was laying down. You'd never been propositioned like this before, you'd never been propositioned for a threesome before, and for a solid moment there you sincerely thought about taking him up on that offer. You'd never been with a guy before, you'd never been interested in guys before, but something was different with this dude. Yet, as you turned to see Christi's uninterested gaze and felt her pinch your forearm- the universal signal she was saying no.

"We've been drinking a lot, and I think we're just gonna get home and hit the hay. Thank you for the offer though!" You tried to smile, express your nonverbal apologies, and it seemed to be received. He held his hands up and chuckled.

"Hey, shoot your shot, right? You change your mind, let me know, aight?" He pulled out a sharpie from his pocket, fresh from signing his headshots, and scribbled on your hand a phone number and his name, Apollo. He winked at you two as he sauntered back down the back alley out of sight. You turned to Christi, yet again destroying your chances not only of getting laid, but dictating to you about promiscuity or something. You stopped listening the moment she called him a faggot.

The night ended much as expected. "Greg" showed up in his Red Toyota Sienna and drove you and Christi home. She stumbled around the kitchen a bit before taking the last of your La Croix and heading up to your bedroom before passing out atop the duvet. This is how every outing went. And frankly, you were done. You'd been done for quite some time now, but for some reason, you couldn't shake Apollo's wink from your mind and the tension of having yet another opportunity whisked away from you boiled over. You pulled your phone off the charger on the counter and typed in the number hastily written on your wrist.

"Hey," you texted "thanks for the offer tonight. If you're still out I'll defs come grab a drink or something?" You felt a rush. Was this wrong? Is this cheating? Did you... care? Your phone chimed: your caller ID proclaimed a message from DJ Apollo Wilde.

"dope im leavin the bar now meet up at my place on esplanade" followed by the address. You snagged your keys (a plus of not being drunk this evening) and checked your hair in the hall mirror. Just a once over before slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.

The drive only took about fifteen minutes, and you were eventually out in front of a fairly nice apartment complex. Super modern, nicely landscaped, floor to ceiling windows... Impressive. You pressed the call button and typed in 7A. The box rang and after a solid 10-20 seconds of anxiety, Apollo's sultry voice spilled from the intercom.

"Whassup, head on up, man." The door buzzed loudly, and you quickly swung the door open and crossed the lobby to the elevators. You rode them to the 7th floor in quiet anticipation. You were floored you were doing this. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined that you'd be taking up some dude's offer for a nightcap in his apartment- let alone while being 'taken.' The doors opened to the floor and you meandered to the end of the hall: 7A. Outside the door were three or four sets of sneakers and boots, all wafting a heavy stench of wet foot funk. You knocked on the door, and could hear from the far end of the apartment a bit of movement. Taking another guilty glance down at your feet, the well worn shoes had caught your attention. You'd never liked feet. You'd never really been turned on by musk or sweat... But something about that warm, sharp scent... fresh... right off of his body... leaving some of himself in them, his essence... Yeah, it hit different. Before you could even know what you were doing you'd picked up one of the more beat up AF1's and brought it to your nose. You inhaled deeply, and let that intoxicating smell right into yourself. It hit just like poppers, a wave of goosebumps flushed down your body, and your head got ever so slightly more misty and light.

The fiddling of the lock came quick and as Apollo swung the door open you dropped the sneaker back onto the pile, trying to pull off a nonchalant posture as you met his gaze and hoping he hadn't seen. Just one look at him and whatever concerns or qualms in your head about whether or not to follow through with this insane booty call melted away. That slicked back, sweaty black hair, that stoned gaze that felt so effortlessly cool, that natural man smell that poured from his lean, inked frame. He nodded his head in greeting, reaching his hand out to you once more.

Taking his hand, he guided you inside, letting the door shut behind him. The apartment was disastrously messy. Dirty clothes littered the floor atop mixers, amps, sneakers, tablets... all bathed in the blue and purple glow of colored lights. The fanciness of the apartment seemed more comfortable, to be honest, and you felt at ease in the smoke veiled flat. There, against a wall of glass, viewing the incredible skyline was a platform bed and a huge bong sitting atop an old MacBook.

"Damn, dude you got a nice..." You couldn't even finish before he'd taken your face between his slick palms and pulled your lips together. His lips were like butter, soft and pillowy; and his pierced tongue slid like a slick, smoky probe around your mouth. No girl had ever kissed this well before, no girl had ever tasted this mouthwatering. Your lips parting made you have an insatiable need for more, his hot breath still flooding your mouth.

"Fuck I'm glad it's just you, bruh. No offense but your girl is rough, man, but I was gonna push through it if I got to spend some time with you." His hands slid down your back and playfully groped your ass, before he pulled your hand toward the bed. He plopped down and finished packing the bowl he'd started, the leather jacket shining like polished latex in the fuchsia hues. "I know you ain't ever been with a dude before." The Bic lighter snapped as he lit the bowl, taking a considerable drag you were not confident you could follow. He winked at you as he blew the cloud of smoke into your face. "I can tell. But I'mma take it nice and slow for you, babe." Flashing a cocky grin, he passed you the bong. You brought the opening to your lips as he ignited the bowl. Pulling, pulling, pulling, until the bong was filled with white smoke. Before you could do it, Apollo pulled the stopper, and the smoke flooded into your lungs. Expecting a coughing fit of epic proportions, you held your breath. As you let the smoke slowly out, it felt as if you'd done this a million times even though this was by far the largest toke you'd ever taken. Your brows dropped, your eyes got heavy, your body relaxed, and your mind was finally contently quiet. He pulled out a small remote and clicked the speakers on. Some of his low fi, almost vaporwave beats began to pump through the bass. Though you'd never heard it before, you seemed to know every single beat, every single melody and scratch. He smiled as you bobbed your head to his music.

"That's right, baby. Here, take my boots off." Apollo swung his legs around, letting his huge, well loved Timberlands rest in your lap. "I saw you playin' with the AF's. You like it don't ya?" You absentmindedly nodded, and began to unlace the huge boats. Pulling off the first one, wet hot steam burst forth as if decompressing from the hot confines of the boot. His stretched out white socks were stained with his footprint on the bottom, beckoning for you. "Try the boot first, baby. Let summa that musty foot funk in." You brought the size 13 Timberland to your face and dragged just as you did from the bong. Sopping wet. Buttery. Salty. Tangy. It was as if you were inhaling his entire concert right out of the hot spring. His wet sock pressed and played with your growing bulge as you let your tongue slide across the insole, your tongue bursting with a flavor indescribably savory and addictive with every droplet of his sweat. "Fuuuuck, I love the way you love that funk after a show. Here, take the other one off."

You let the first boot thunk to the ground next to your feet, as you eagerly yank off the second yellow Timberland from his foot. As it drops to the ground, Apollo smiles as he puts his feet on your face, the sweaty, grimy slime of built up footsweat against your skin was better than any day spa could ever make you feel. So in euphoria were you that you didn't even notice your feet starting pulsate, as the hot smelly fumes from the Timberlands began to penetrate into your own soles and into every crevice behind each toe until your feet had begun to emanate his own irresistible musk.

"Fuck yeah, babe. I love how drunk you get off me. Gimme some of those lips." He pulled his feet from your face, smirking as he noticed the stubble that had begun to develop on your chin and upper lip. You crawled atop him in a feat of dirty passion you'd never had before, locking your rapidly plumping lips with Apollo's, still tainted with the taste of his own feet. You knew he loved your musty size 13's, especially after sharing his boots; a constant part of your filthy sex ritual. You knew he loved the taste of ashy weed on your pierced tongue as it slid over his, and you knew just how to make him happy when your lips met. His soft hands slid over your slimming body, ripping the ill fitted clothing from your tanning skin. You pulled away and began to slowly unbutton his pants. Tattoos sprawled out across your slimming fingers as your expertly pulled the ripped black jeans to the ground, exposing the throbbing outline of his cock behind the thin fabric of his Calvin Kleins.

"Aww fuck yeah, babe. You always know what to do." Apollo tossed the leather jacket aside, and sprawled backward with his arms behind his head; a naughty twinkle hidden in his narrow brown eyes. Pulling down the off-white calvins wet with sweat and pre, his lean, rock hard uncut cock nearly smacked you in the jaw as it does nearly every time. You lick around the head and under his foreskin, letting your piercing tease him while you taste that funky ass dick you love. He moans as you take him into your mouth, letting it slide down your throat without so much as a heave. He smirks as he grabs the back of your head and slams it down, face fucking you with rhythmic, rolling thrusts. His balls slap against your chin as your body starts to soak up his sweat on your skin, putting on just enough muscle to define your tall, sunkissed body. "Jesus Christ, you're so sexy." Apollo muttered, letting you up for air.

You smiled, your sultry and handsome face oozed sexual confidence matched only by his after years of damn good sex. Ripping off his shirt, you flipped him as he growled in furious lust, plunging your tongue into his tight, sweaty hole.

"FUCK, Mateo. Get in there, fuck yeah." Your cock elongated with every pump of blood; 6 inches. 8 inches. 10 inches, before the skin closed loosely over your 11" inch uncut python, begging to explore your man's spit slick hole. You pulled your tongue out, and quickly plunged your pre-lubed cock into Apollo. You fucked him bareback, deep with a swagger and romantic passion that drove you wild.

"Fuck, Apollo. I'm gonna blow." He growled thrust backwards, spearing himself on you and stroking your cock with an ass better than any fleshlight on the market until your inflating balls couldn't handle any more. You shot your famously massive load deep into Apollo, streams of white cum shooting out of his hole like a geyser. You smirked and pulled out just in time for him to grab you by the neck, tossing you onto your back.

"You're so fuckin' hot, Mateo. Let me in that ass." Gagging you with his socks you love to sniff every day, he plowed you rough with his wide hands against your throat until he could climax his own flood into your body. Apollo dismounted and plopped on his back next to you, throwing his arm around your neck as you fell asleep in eachother's juices.

The next morning, the sun shone bright through the windows onto you and your man's notoriously sexy bodies sprawled across the satin sheets. You woke up as you always did, swiping on your OnlyFans and Twitter until Apollo would wake. A grope of your lithe cock and a deep kiss was all you needed each morning from him, assuming it was just you two the night before. You hopped out of bed, slipping on one of Apollo's outfits from a show earlier in the week, and borrowing his ripe socks and Doc Martens to flesh out the look. In their home, "mi casa es su casa." Just as you were heading out to get some promo shots for the next album, a ping from your phone showed a strange text from an unknown number, asking about her boyfriend or whatever. Psh. Must've been the wrong number.

[moonsinnergom]

Waking Up As a Stranger

Joey:

“What the— where am I?”

The last thing I can remember was right before falling down a flight of stairs. This guy and I bumped into eachother and ended up tumbling down… and then I think I blacked out…

Actually the more I think about it— I remember the dream I had right afterwards.

I was floating outside of my body… it so surreal seeing myself… and I saw the guy as well. Our bodies were on the ground together. So I panicked and rushed into my body….

But wait—where am I at right now? I feel kinda funny.

I look around and then this nice looking guy comes running over.

“Baby you’re awake!,” he says to me.

“Baby?”

“Yeah honey, it’s me your husband Jacob!”

“Husband?”

That’s when a doctor comes in and says, “Dr. Hasan! You’re awake!”

Wtf? Who is this guy saying he’s my husband and why did that doctor just call me a doctor— that’s when I notice my hands.

They’re big thick masculine hands covered with black hair. I look down and see my chest…

I have dark chest hairy…this isn’t my chest…

I run my fingers down it, this feels so unreal. Maybe I am still asleep?

“Oh I’m sorry Jacob, Pete maybe experiencing some slight amnesia. Good thing is that should wear off soon.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry for just coming in like that. I was just o excited to see that he woke up so quickly.”

“It’s okay! Just give him a second.”

The doctor and Jacob walk closer to the door. I close my eyes and say to myself softly, “wake up…”

“So what about that kid he bumped into? Is he okay?,” I hear Jacob ask.

Kid? Oh shit! They’re talking about me!

“Yes he’s okay! Left with his family 30 minutes ago, what’s strange is that he also had slight amnesia. Kept saying he knew me…”

“Huh, that’s really weird.”

My body’s gone??? And this guy— Pete, is in my key? That’s when I sit up and immediately see a mirror of myself. Only to confirm what I already knew— I’m the guy who I fell down the stairs with…

Hold on… that means that wasn’t a dream earlier… I floated into the wrong body!!!

I get out of bed and both the Doctor and Jacob rush over to me.

“Pete, take it slow,” says the doc.

“I’m feeling fine now, I want to go home,” I say to him.

“Pete baby, come on and listen to him,” says Jacob.

I sit back down and the Doc runs a bunch of tests on me.

What was strange was that he asked me personal questions— and somehow I knew this guys birthday and his parents names…

“Well he seems to be good, just take it easy today.”

We leave the hospital and we get to Jacob’s BMW X7. Nice car I thought…

I wanted to go find my body so bad but I knew that would be hard to do right now.

As we’re driving, Jacob grabs my hand and holds it firmly. I found it kinda comforting even if he’s a strange to me.

I study his face, he’s handsome. The kind of guy I’d hope to marry when I’m this age.

“You scared me today,” he said to me.

“Sorry,” I say back.

“It’s okay, I’m just happy you’re okay.”

We pull up to a giant beach front property. My eyes get huge… is this there house???

Don’t get me wrong my parents are well off but this kind of property in southern Florida is insane! So I guess this body is super rich!

We head inside and Jacob gets me to sit down on the couch.

I kick off my shoes and stair down at the big manly feet that now belong to me. I wiggle my toes and smirk at them.

I feel a slight amount of excitement rush through me. These feet are so hot and I control them…

I run my new hands around my thighs… shit… I wonder…

I open up my pants and I gasp! Surrounded by a lovely trimmed dark bush was thick cock sitting at around 6 inches in length soft.

Man, now that I want to try out! I close my pants as I hear Jacob come back up.

“So we are off for the week, obviously your work knows that after I talked to your boss.”

My work— I’m an orthopedic surgeon. I specialize in trauma and that guy earlier is one of my best buds… Wait! This guys memories are starting to come to me.

Lifts up my feet and sits down placing them on his lap.

He starts rubbing my feet and it feels so good. I watch him and notice something… I’m turned on right now.

Jacob lifts one foot up and kisses my toes. I bite my lip watching him…

I look down at his bare feet… fuck he has some sexy toes too. Actually a lot about him is sexy… his feet, legs, face, beard, the warmth in his smile, his dick…

Memories of being in bed with him rush through my mind…. Fuckkk… he’s so good in bed. Atleast that’s how Pete remembers…

Tbh in my actual body I’ve only dated one guy and I don’t even know if that even qualifies. It’s tough being a 19 year old scrawny guy who’s so unsure about the world. The only time I’ve ever hooked up with someone was from a sketchy one night Grindr hookup.

Kinda freaked me out…

But Jacob is sooo different from anything he’s kissing my feet and telling me how or Pete… idk that he’s so happy he gets to kiss them and how much he loves me.

“I love you too baby,” I say back to him.

I take my other foot and rub it on his crotch. He grins and says, “oh so you are feeling better.”

“Yeah I think so,” I say biting my lip.

He rubs his hands up my think hairy legs… I feel his hand reach into my pants and he grabs my dick.

“You’re so hard right now,” he says grasping it and gently jerking me.

“Well yeah I have a hot husband,” I say back.

He climbs over to me and pulls me in. We start making out.

I run my hands all over him and he pulls back.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom.”

We both head to the bedroom kissing and taking off a piece of clothing every step.

I look over both of our naked bodies… his cock… my cock…

I’m a handsome Doctor with an incredible handsome husband. Maybe I don’t need to worry about finding my body today… or tomorrow…

We crash into the bed and now Jacob is all I’m thinking about…

He climbs on top of me and pulls lube out of the drawer.

He rubs it on my cock and his hole.

He leans down and says softly, “finger me baby.”

I gently insert two fingers into him and he lets out a moan. I finger his hole for a minute before he says, “I’m ready.”

Jacob grabs my cock and works it in. It’s so warm inside of him. Jacob does so much of the work, he’s literally riding my dick. I have my hand on his jerking him off.

Both of us are moaning, loudly!

We keep kissing and repeating I love you to one another. And right now , I do feel like I love him.

More flashback come back… oh god, Pete was having an affair with Jacob… why would he do that???

It’s been months since we’ve… that’s when all of there relationship rushed through my head…

A tear goes down my face and I say, “I love you so much Jacob!”

“I love you too Pete!”

Both of us moan loudly as we cum in unison. My pours so much cum into him while his dick gets all over my chest, hand, and face.

Both of us are panting and I taste his cum.

Jacob climbs off of me and curls into me. I wrap my arms around him and say, “I’m sorry.”

He looks a little confused.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t done that sooner with you. You’re my everything Jacob.”

He pulls me in closer.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry too. Maybe we can make up for that this week.”

“Well you wanna go to the beach or the pool?,” I say with a grin.

“I don’t care but let’s order out tonight.”

“Deal,” I say giving him a kiss.

Both of us go out of bed and head to the shower. We bathe together washing off our cum covered selves.

It’s so hot getting to rub soap on his cute hairy butt.

We dry off and grab a speedo out of my drawer.

I take a photo of myself really just admiring my new body. Gosh, I hope Pete doesn’t want his body back…

I walk outside and Jacob’s already laying out.

“Did you already jump in?,” I ask him.

“Yeah, couldn’t help it!”

Man, I can’t wait to fuck him again tonight!

Meanwhile…

Pete:

I was initially freaked out waking up in this body! But something about being 19 years old again is so sexy!

And I can actually just be single, not have to worry about work, or anything stressful.

Hell, with my knowledge and this youth— I’ll be an unstoppable doctor this round. And I’ll actually have time to party this round!

I pull off my shorts and touch the perky cute cock between my new legs. Ohhhh it’s so sensitive!

I pull off one of my socks and bring up the soft foot up to my face. I take a deep breath into my sole.

“Fuckkkk…”

I gingerly toy with my dick and pull out my phone. I redownload Grindr and set the location for the closest college university.

I wanna fuck a frat guy tonight!

As I gently tease my new dick, all I can think about is that I sure that Joey likes my body— because I want to keep his!

[moonsinnergom]

DEAL OF A LIFETIME

I stepped into the locker room after my workout to find the old man sitting there. Just like every night of the last week, he stared at me, glancing away every time I looked up to catch him. At first, it was cool. Hell, I was even a little flattered, but after a few days it was starting to creep me out.

Tonight, we were alone. The gym was completely empty other than a couple of guys that worked the front desk and creepy old dude wouldn’t take his eyes off me as I took off my shirt.

“You’ve been working out hard,” he finally said. First time he’d ever said anything as I glanced over and nodded.

“Yeah. Just trying to stay in shape, you know?”

“Well, it’s working.”

I nodded again, not sure what to say. I mean, I wasn’t really into guys. Especially ones old enough to be my grandfather.

“Your name’s Ryan, right?”

I paused, stared over at him. “How do you know my name?”

“I had you followed,” he said … like it was completely normal or something. “I think I might have a business proposition for you … if you’re interested.”

“I don’t know what you’re into, but–”

“It’s worth a million dollars.”

The words hit me so hard I almost stumbled back. A million bucks?

“What is this about?” I asked. “Is this some kind of sex thing?”

The old man laughed, glancing down at his old body. “I’m afraid you’d be a bit more than I could handle, but that is a small aspect of it, but it’s all in your favor I assure you.” He glanced down at my cock with a smile and then back up at me. “You see, I have the ability to transfer age. I do it every forty years or so and–”

“You what?”

“I can take years from another person, but only if they’re willing.” He was completely serious. The crazy old shit was actually serious. “I know how it sounds, but It’s a very beneficial arrangement to both parties. I am always very selective.”

“Uh huh.” It was all I could manage, but figured I’d play along until the guys in white coats came to collect him. “So, why me?”

“Because you’re lost. You need the money. Even though you’re young, you’d be happier with some years on you. I’ve seen how you go through the motions, mindless and wanting. You want more from your life, but you refuse to ask for help.”

“You think you know me?”

“I do,” he said. “And I can make your life better.”

“So, you want to buy my youth?”

“Not all of it. Just twenty years or so. You’d till be young enough, but a million dollars richer. You’d never want for anything else.”

I shook my head, sat down on the bench across from him. May as well have a little fun, right? “Okay, let’s say I do this … I want five million.”

“Done.” He responded without thought and I realized I should have asked for more.

“How do I know you’re not bat shit crazy?” Before he could answer I heard my phone beep in my locker.

“That will be a message alerting you that five million dollars has been transferred into your bank account,” he said. “Go ahead, check.” I retrieved my phone from my locker. It was exactly as he said. Five million dollars. “So, we are agreed?”

I nodded, not really sure what the hell was going on, but what did I have to lose. What he was talking about wasn’t possible, but the money was real. “Yeah, we’ve got a deal.”

“I’m going to have to suck your cock now,” he said, kneeling down in front of me as I took a step back.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s how the transfer happens. Trust me.” He looked up at me with a smile and I considered it. Five million dollars to get blown by some old guy in a locker room … why not?

“What if somebody walks in?”

“The gym has been cleared. We’re alone now.”

I shrugged. Looked like the old guy had thought everything out.

I took a step forward and pulled my dick out of my underwear. The old man looked at it, licked his lips and slid his mouth around my dick. It was slow and pretty vanilla at first, but then he started to massage by balls, moving his tongue over my dick and  … fuck, I don’t know what he was doing, but I found myself moaning like never before. Creepy old dude was crazy, but he could give one epic blow job.

He stroked my dick harder and faster. I felt myself cum inside his mouth, and he took it in, begging for more as he continued to milk me. I felt a tightness in my chest. For a brief moment, it was hard to breathe as he sucked harder. I placed my hand on the back of his head and pushed into him. We were both moaning now. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before as I heard his voice crack and felt his hair grow beneath my fingers. I thought I was going fucking nuts at first, but when I looked down, the old man was gone.

Instead, I saw a young guy staring up at me with a mouthful of my dick. I pulled out immediately, stumbled back into the lockers. I felt different, heavier somehow. The young guy wiped his mouth and stood, glancing down at his body, running his hands over his chest.

“Nice,” he said. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Ryan.” He gave me a wink, wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out of the locker room, leaving me sitting there by myself.

“What the hell was that?” I asked, taking a deep breath and shaking my head. “I felt a little dizzy, my body covered in sweat. I swallowed hard. “FUCK!”

Not quite sure what the hell happened, I grabbed my towel and headed for the showers. It wasn’t until I was standing in front of the mirror that I realized the old man wasn’t crazy after all. I stared at my reflection. It was definitely me, but I was older … probably around forty-five or fifty. I was a little beefier and was missing some hair, but otherwise, it was totally me … or a different version of me. I guess I should’ve been horrified, but the old man was right … this is who I wanted to be.

I rubbed my bald head and smiled up at myself, at the thought of the new life I was about to have. A millionaire. A handsome older man that could now be any woman’s furry sugar daddy.

After a quick shower and discovering my “new body,” I made my way back to my locker and found an expensive, tailored suit where my jeans and hoodie once were. There was also a card that read “Enjoy your new life, Ryan. Thanks again!” I heard something jingle inside the envelope and turned it upside down as a set of keys fell into my hand … car keys … to a new Bentley.

“Hell yes,” I said, noticing that my voice even sounded gruff and a bit more commanding. “That was one hell of a deal.” I couldn’t help but smile.  

[moonsinnergom]

Interstate Interchange (A Body Swap Story)

Note: This story has an nsfw version found on my discord server. If you’d like to see my other stories in its raw (NSFW) form with more photos/videos, you can join here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS 

Interstate Interchange

The sun had long dipped behind the treeline when the interstate stretched out into a ribbon of pure twilight. The highway shimmered under the weight of a thousand forgotten stories, and two cars miles apart, yet destined, kept pace in the same lane, bound for the same nameless destination.

One was a black Chevy, polished clean, with smooth tires and leather seats that clung to the driver’s trim waist like a second skin. Inside sat Joey, a handsome college senior with an athletic frame, weekend stubble lining his sharp jaw, and a look of effortless superiority. He drove one-handed, his fingers tapping the wheel to an EDM playlist, confident in every motion.

The other, an aging silver Corolla, sagged under the weight of its driver. Eric, large and soft in all the wrong ways, hunched over the wheel, his belly brushing the dashboard, his fingers leaving grease on the touch screen. A neckbeard crept like ivy around his jawline, and his glasses constantly slid down his sweaty nose.

They saw each other on the road. Not right away. That came later.

At first, it was nothing. Just two drivers passing on the highway, glimpses caught in side mirrors and reflected in gas station glass. But hours passed. Towns vanished in the rearview. Rest stops came and went. And somehow, neither car left the other's orbit.

Joey noticed first. He glanced to his left while cruising at 73 and saw that overweight guy again. Same university parking tag on the dash. Same direction. Same tired stare. Joey scoffed to himself but couldn’t look away. The guy looked soggy, like melted clay crammed into clothes two sizes too small.

But something about the man stuck with him.

He wondered, uncomfortably at first, what does it feel like to carry that much weight? How does it feel to live with a body that sags, sweats, presses against itself constantly? What does he see when he looks at someone like me?

Joey adjusted his seat, suddenly aware of his toned thighs in basketball shorts, the cool air drying sweat along his firm chest. His armpit hair tickled lightly with the breeze of the AC. He caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked strong, clean, and desirable. He exhaled, and a strange guilt bloomed in his chest. Or was it curiosity?

Eric felt it too.  Even through his blurry vision, he’d clocked the black Chevy early on. The guy was like a Greek statue in motion. He had angular arms draped across the wheel, tight shirt clinging to his chest, that stubble framing a face that belonged on a billboard.

Eric should’ve ignored him. Should’ve looked away. But something about that smoothness, that effortlessness. How would it feel to walk into a room and not disappear? To smell like cologne and sun-warmed skin instead of sweat and shame?

He looked down at his stained t-shirt, clinging damply to his chest. His belly peeked out when he shifted in his seat. He could smell himself and it was sour and earthy. What would it be like… to be that fit driver?

As the evening thickened into night, something unspoken passed between the two cars. Like a magnetic pull. They both signaled at the same exit, pulled into the same gravel pit rest area, and parked just one spot apart. The air outside was heavy with humidity, and for a moment, neither man moved.

Joey stepped out of his car first, his muscles tight from the long drive. He arched his back, stretching until his shirt lifted enough to expose the pale ridge of his obliques, a faint line of sweat clinging to his skin. The light of the rest stop flickered above him, buzzing like an insect on its last legs.

Eric watched from the pump, barely breathing.

Joey turned and for the first time, they locked eyes. Really locked eyes. The world seemed to shift, as if the axis of the Earth had realigned to run through this gas station outside of nowhere.

Joey gave a crooked half-smile. “Hey. You go to Minton U too?”

Eric swallowed. “Yeah. I, uh… recognized the tag on your bumper. Been behind you for a while.”

Joey tilted his head, frowning like he was working through a dream. “Yeah… I noticed that. Thought it was weird, y’know? But not bad weird. More like… meant-to-be weird.”

Eric’s pulse beat against his throat. “What do you mean?”

Joey scratched the back of his neck, eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t know, man. It’s like… I kept catching glimpses of you in the rearview, and I couldn’t look away. Like I was supposed to see you. Like… I was supposed to be you.”

Eric’s breath caught in his throat. He stepped closer, every nerve raw. “I kept thinking the same thing.”

Joey blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Eric’s voice cracked. “All day. I kept imagining myself in your skin. Your face. Your body. Your life.”

Joey’s lips parted, but he didn’t laugh. Neither of them did. The night thickened, the hum of cicadas rising like static in a dream.

“I was ashamed to admit it, even to myself,” Eric confessed. “But there was this… itch. In my brain. In my body. Like the only way to make it stop was to know what it’s like to live inside you.”

Joey looked away, chest rising and falling. “I was ashamed too. But it also… turned me on. Like, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wearing your shirt. Smelling your sweat. Saying your name and making it mine.”

Eric whispered, “Me too.”

They stood in silence, everything unspoken stretching between them like a rubber band pulled to its limit.

Then Eric spoke again, low and deliberate. “I have a proposal. But it’s a little crazy”

Joey didn’t hesitate. “Say it.”

Eric gestured toward the restroom. “Let’s swap. Clothes. Cars. Everything. Just for tonight. Let’s see how it goes.”

Joey’s eyes gleamed with something hungry. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Eric shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his oversized shirt swallowing him whole. He could feel the seams of the fabric straining against his body, the heat of the small space making his skin prickle. Joey leaned casually against the sink, his fitted shirt stretching across the firm contours of his chest.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, the silence thick with something unspoken.

“So…” Joey started, his voice low and smooth. He tilted his head, his eyes scanning Eric’s frame with an intensity that made Eric’s stomach flip.

“So,” Eric echoed, his voice shaky. He pulled at his shirt, trying to ease the tightness around his midsection. “You really want to do this?”

Joey didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pushed off the sink and took a step closer, his presence filling the room. His eyes lingered on Eric’s face, then dropped to his body, taking in every curve, every fold. There was something in his gaze, a curiosity, maybe, or something deeper. Something Eric couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah,” Joey said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to do this. Don’t you?”

Eric swallowed hard. Did he? He’d fantasized about it all day. What it would be like to step into Joey’s body, to feel the confidence that radiated from him, to know what it was like to be wanted. But now that the moment was here, his heart was racing, his palms slick with sweat.

“I… yeah,” Eric stammered. “I do.”

Joey’s lips curved into a small smile, and he reached for the hem of his shirt. Eric’s breath hitched as Joey slowly pulled it up, revealing the taut muscles of his abdomen, the sharp lines of his chest. The fabric slipped over his head, and Joey tossed it aside, his bare skin gleaming under the harsh light.

Eric couldn’t look away. His eyes traced every inch of Joey’s body, from the broad shoulders to the defined arms, the firm chest, the narrow waist. It was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever dreamed of. And it was right there, just within reach.

Joey gave a nervous laugh, breaking the charge in the air. “This is fucking insane.”

Eric nodded, eyes glued to the curve of Joey’s torso. “Insane, yeah. But…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

They reached for each other’s shirts. Eric gripped Joey’s shirt, still warm from his skin, and pulled it over his head, shuddering as the musk hit his nose. It smelled of salt and sun and something distinctly male. Joey slid into Eric’s huge tee, the fabric foreign and thrilling against his skin.

Then came the pants.

Joey dropped his gym shorts to the tile floor, revealing strong thighs, sinewy and tan, with a bulge that made Eric momentarily forget to breathe. He wasn’t trying to show off. It just was.

Eric fumbled with his belt, then pushed his jeans down slowly, revealing boxer briefs stretched over a soft, pale belly, his legs thicker. The air buzzed between them, and for a long, silent beat, they stood like that, half-dressed, gazing openly.

Joey’s lips curled into a sly smile, and without another word, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, sliding them down slowly, deliberately.

The fabric caught on his hips for a moment before finally giving way, revealing the hard length of his cock, already half-hard and twitching against his thigh. Eric’s eyes widened, his breath hitching as he took in the sight. It was huge, thicker than he’d imagined, the vein running along the underside making it look even more imposing.

Joey let out a low chuckle, his voice teasing. “What? Not what you expected?”

Eric couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Instead, his hands moved on their own, trembling as he reached out, his fingers brushing against the warm, smooth skin. Joey groaned softly at the touch, his hips bucking forward slightly, seeking more contact. Eric’s fingers wrapped around the base, his grip tentative, unsure. He couldn’t believe he was touching Joey like this, that he was allowed to touch him like this. His heart raced, and he felt a rush of heat spread through his body.

Joey’s hands were already moving, sliding Eric’s boxers down his hips, his touch firm but gentle. Eric froze, his cheeks flushing as the cool air hit his exposed skin. Joey’s eyes roamed over his body, his gaze hungry, taking in every detail. Eric’s cock was small, almost shy, nestled in a thatch of dark hair. Joey’s lips parted, a soft exhale escaping him as he reached out, his fingers brushing against the soft skin.

Eric’s breath caught as he took in the sight of Joey’s body, his eyes tracing every line, every muscle. Joey’s skin was smooth, his body toned and firm. It was everything Eric had ever wanted, and it was right there, just within reach.

Joey’s eyes roamed over Eric’s body, his expression filled with something Eric couldn’t quite place. “You’re beautiful,” Joey said again, his voice filled with awe.

They swapped boxers. Eric brought Joey’s to his face and inhaled, eyes fluttering shut. The scent was intoxicating with sweat, soap, and something raw. Joey did the same with Eric’s, lips parting slightly.

Then pants. Then socks. Then shoes. Every item peeled off or slipped on with attention, with longing. They watched how the fabrics clung differently, how they sat on unfamiliar hips.

Joey slid Eric’s glasses over his face, blinking. “Shit,” he whispered. “I feel like I’m becoming you.”

Eric was holding Joey’s ID, thumbing over the name. “This is so hot,” he murmured, slipping it into his wallet. “I want to be you. Not just wear you.”

They passed phones, wallets, keys. With every exchange, they whispered their new names aloud, again and again. Joey, now calling himself Eric, stared down at the cracked phone he’d inherited. Eric, now calling himself Joey, held Joey’s sleek one like a holy relic.

“This is real,” Joey as Eric said, voice trembling with awe. “We’re actually doing this.”

Eric as Joey grinned, boyish and unashamed. “And it feels amazing.”

Joey as Eric ran his hand slowly down the front of his new shirt, Eric’s shirt, feeling the tightness across a softer body. “Guess I should start answering to ‘Eric.’”

Eric as Joey adjusted the waistband of Joey’s shorts on his rounder hips and looked in the mirror, breath catching. “And I should start answering to Joey now. Holy shit. God, this feels right.”

Outside, the air was cooler. Fresher. The night wind carried their new scents, their new identities.

Joey raised a hand. “Later, Joey.”

Eric grinned. “See you around, Eric.”

They got into each other’s cars and drove back to the highway, their old selves left behind under the hum of that flickering light.

As the highway swallowed them again, the lines on the road seemed to bend. Joey drove the wheezing Corolla, sweat pooling in new places like beneath his gut, between his thighs. He breathed heavier. Felt every jolt in his spine. The air smelled different. He caught himself muttering, “I’m Eric,” over and over, his fingers sticky on the wheel. Meanwhile, Eric drove the Chevy like it was a chariot. His fingers flexed over the leather. He took off his shirt imagining he has abs and muscles even though in reality he was overtly obese.

After another two hours of night driving, the highway began to blur. Street signs smeared like watercolor in their headlights, and exhaustion hummed behind their eyes. The Blue Swallow Motel buzzed under a dying neon sign, flickering like a broken pulse against the night sky. Gravel crunched under tires as both cars rolled in at the same time, headlights dimming, engines silencing. The silence between the two men was charged, thick, and electric. They exited simultaneously, each carrying a duffel bag that didn’t belong to them.

The motel lobby was stale and yellow-lit, walls lined with faded pamphlets and a dusty ficus. Behind the desk, a clerk in a tan vest nursed lukewarm coffee, eyes narrowing as the two men stepped in.

Joey, presenting as Eric, approached first and slid an ID and credit card onto the counter. “One room. Name’s Eric Lard.”

The clerk picked up the ID: an overweight man with thick glasses. He looked at Joey. What he saw was a lean, sharp-jawed, handsome man. The resemblance was... off. He glanced at the man waiting behind him, who looked more like the guy on the card.

“This you?” the clerk asked.

Joey nodded. “Yep.”

“You’re... Eric Lard? You drop 200 pounds overnight?”

Joey smiled thinly. “Something like that.”

The second man stepped up. “I’ll take a room too. Joey Stoll.”

The clerk looked at the next ID. He saw a young, fit, confident man. He stared at the man before him: rounder face, tight shirt, greasy hair.

“You’re this guy?” the clerk asked.

Eric nodded. “Stress eating. Finals.”

The clerk looked between them, frowning. “You sure you didn’t just swap IDs?”

Joey leaned on the counter. “Nope. I’m Eric. He’s Joey.”

“Right,” the clerk muttered. “And pigs fly.”

Eric gave a low chuckle. “Why would I want to be a fatass like Eric Lard?” He lifted his shirt slightly, belly peeking out, pretending it was flat and tight.

Joey smirked. “What do you think this is? Freaky Friday?”

“Body swapping isn’t real,” Eric added.

The clerk narrowed his eyes, but finally relented. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“Alright then. Mr. Lard, Room 12. Mr. Stoll, Room 14,” he said, eyeing them both one more time. “Whatever game this is, you win. Enjoy your stay.”

And as they walked the hallway in opposite directions, bags in hand, bags that didn’t match their bodies, but matched their names, neither could stop thinking about the exchange. About being called Eric Lard. About being called Joey Stoll. About being seen and spoken to as the other man. It was intoxicating.

In their separate motel rooms, they stripped naked, slowly, deliberately like shedding old skin. The clothes they’d worn didn’t quite fit the bodies they had literally… but somehow, they fit them figuratively. Clothes that whispered of who they wanted to be.

They stepped into their showers. Two rooms apart, but moving like mirrors. Steam billowed. Water ran hot, cascading over skin that felt like it wasn't their own.

Joey stood under the stream, hands gliding over his chest, his abs. He let his eyes close. He imagined thicker arms. A rounder chest. Softer belly. A fuller face. Hair slicked down on a broader scalp. He imagined his body becoming Eric’s. And in that moment, he didn’t just picture it, he almost felt it.

Meanwhile, Eric dragged soap along his huge belly, jaw clenching as he stared at the fogged mirror. He imagined a flat stomach. Cut hips. Narrow waist. Hair that stayed in place without effort. A cock that matched a tighter, fitter frame. He imagined being Joey. And he could almost feel it. The difference. The shift. The desire. It made him stroke himself slowly, reverently, like he was Joey already.

After the water cooled and their skin prickled with heat, they pulled on each other’s clothes. Joey buttoned Eric’s shirt over his own chest with something like reverence. Eric tugged on Joey’s tighter jeans, savoring how they hugged differently now.

After the shower, they slept. And in their dreams, they found each other.

Joey appeared as a glowing blue figure. He still looked muscular.

Eric shimmered in soft purplish pink, round and heavy. They stood in a hazy, neon-lit void with no floor, no walls. Just them, suspended in color and longing.

Joey’s voice trembled. “I wish I could really be you.” Eric reached out, fingertips brushing Joey’s glowing jaw. “I want your life. Your face. Your body.”

The space between them rippled. Light twisted.

Joey’s blue form warped, softened, and swelled until he stood wide and round like Eric, but still tinted blue.

Across from him, Eric’s pink shape pulled tighter, straighter, and more muscular. Then his hands pressed against a firmer chest and stomach, eyes gleaming with awe.

They looked at each other. They were transformed yet glowing in their original colors and smiled.

And then, everything went dark.

They woke in the same bed and the same motel room they slept in that night.

Joey was heavy now. Belly rising and falling with his breath. The waistband of Eric’s old sweatpants fit perfectly. And Eric, he sat up fast, heart pounding, chest tight. He looked down at the flat plane of his stomach, the firm tension in his thighs beneath Joey’s jeans. He pressed his palm against his own abs, wide-eyed.

They ran outside their rooms and looked at each other.

And they knew. They had swapped. Really. Fully. Irrevocably.

Joey, now Eric, let out a stunned laugh. “Holy shit.”

Eric, now Joey, grinned, running a hand through his hair. “It worked.”

They dressed quickly. Every article of clothing fit perfectly. Shoes, socks, even the tension of a belt against the waist. It was seamless. Fated.

By midmorning, they were already on the road, driving to each other’s homes.

Joey, in Eric’s heavier body, gripped the steering wheel with confident hands, windows down, wind blowing through borrowed hair.

Eric, in Joey’s fit body, couldn’t stop smiling in the rearview mirror, his reflection showing him a future he’d only dared dream about.

Two men. Two cars. Two swapped souls. One interstate interchange.

The End.

[moonsinnergom]

[moonsinnergom]

[moonsinnergom]

Out of Our Minds (A Body Swap Story)

Note: The discord version of this story has some videos and more photos. If you would like to read that version, you can find it here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

The Beginning 

Walter James Holloway, born in 1959, was a lifelong Kentucky auto mechanic, known for his grit and hard work. Years of heavy eating and little exercise had left him overweight, but he found comfort in his routines—working under car hoods by day, unwinding with a cigar by night. His bond with his son, Daniel, was distant, but with his grandson, Ryan, it was different. Ryan admired his old-school ways, even when they clashed.

Born in 1999 and shaped by Chicago, Ryan David Holloway was athletic, disciplined, and ambitious. A 6'2", 215-pound physical therapist, he dedicated himself to helping others regain mobility. City life was expensive, so when he needed a more affordable place to stay, Walter offered him a room. The arrangement suited them both—Walter enjoyed the company, and Ryan appreciated the short commute to his sports rehab job.

The night of the accident, the chill in the air had been sharper than expected. Walter had shivered, rubbing his thick hands together before eyeing Ryan’s coat. His own was too thin for the dropping temperature, so Ryan handed over his heavier jacket without a second thought. Neither man realized the mistake—their wallets, tucked into their respective coat pockets, had now been switched. As they got into the car, Walter stubbornly insisted on driving. He claimed Ryan had drunk too much at the gathering, even though Ryan had barely touched his glass. The old man wouldn’t listen, convinced that his grandson was unfit to drive. Reluctantly, Ryan let him take the wheel.

The hum of the highway filled the silence between them. Walter’s hands gripped the wheel firmly at first, but then his fingers slackened. A wave of dizziness hit him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. His chest tightened, and for a split second, his mind blanked—his body freezing up as he experienced a transient ischemic attack. The car swerved wildly. Ryan reacted instantly, reaching over to grab the wheel, but the sudden movement only made things worse. Tires screeched, the vehicle spun, and before either of them could fully comprehend what was happening, they crashed headlong into the highway divider. The impact sent the car flipping multiple times before it crumpled into a final, jarring stop.

The collision was so violent that their skulls fractured, and their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Emergency responders arrived to find both men unconscious, their skulls fractured from the violent collision. The impact had been so severe that their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Paramedics rushed them to the nearest hospital, where chaos and confusion took hold. Due to their exchanged coats, the hospital staff misidentified them. Their last names matched, their faces were too swollen to compare to their IDs, and in the frantic rush to surgery, no one double-checked. Their medical files were also misplaced and mislabeled, further cementing the misidentification.

Relying on mislabeled records, the lead neurosurgeon reviewed their brain scans. One brain, though outwardly resembling that of an elderly individual, exhibited an unusual level of rapid healing—traits typically found in much younger patients. This was, in reality, Walter’s brain, but the accident had triggered a restoration process that made it appear younger. The other brain, while structurally younger, showed significant inflammation and signs of deterioration more commonly associated with advanced age. This was actually Ryan’s brain, which had suffered more damage from the accident, making it seem far older than it truly was.

The medical team analyzed the locations where the brains had landed, mistakenly believing that the brain near the muscular body belonged to the younger patient and the brain near the older, overweight body belonged to the elderly man. Compounded by misidentification and limited time, the surgeons made a catastrophic assumption—believing Ryan’s brain to belong to Walter and Walter’s brain to belong to Ryan. 

The hospital staff proceeded with what they thought was a life-saving operation. They addressed the extensive trauma to their skulls and bodies, miraculously sparing their internal organs. After repairing the fractures, they carefully placed the dislodged brains into what they assumed were their correct bodies. What should have been a clerical correction became a medical catastrophe.

The Awakening

Walter awoke with a start, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened with a clarity he hadn’t experienced in years. He blinked, confused. Wait… he thought, reaching up to rub his eyes. His hand—his hand—caught his attention. It was large, strong, and calloused, but not from decades of wrenching on cars. This was something else entirely. He flexed his biceps, marveling at the ease with which they moved. No stiffness. No ache.

He sat up slowly, the movement effortless, and glanced around the hospital room. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, but his body felt… different. Alive. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He stood, his breath catching in his throat as he realized just how tall he was. He felt… powerful.

Walter took a few tentative steps, each one feeling lighter than the last. His feet carried him with a grace he hadn’t known in decades. He glanced down at his body—Wait, this isn’t my body. His chest was broad, his arms muscular, his waist trim. He ran his hands over his torso, his fingers tracing the contours of hard muscle. This isn’t me. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror stopping him dead in his tracks.

Staring back at him was Ryan.

Walter froze, his breath hitching. No. No, this can’t be real. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as he reached up to touch the mirror. The face—Ryan’s face—mimicked his movements perfectly. He turned his head, examining the sharp jawline, the stubble that shadowed his face, the piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold a life of their own. This… this is Ryan’s body.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Walter—now in Ryan’s body—grabbed Ryan’s smartphone from the nightstand. He tapped the screen, the bright glow illuminating his new, youthful face. His heart pounded with exhilaration as he stared into the selfie camera, tilting his head to admire the sharp jawline, the smooth skin untouched by age. He ran a hand through his thick hair, relishing the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation. The reflection staring back at him was strong, vibrant—everything he had lost over the years, now his to claim.

Bringing the phone back into the bathroom, he placed it on the sink, angling the camera just right before hitting record. Walter flexed, watching his bicep swell with power, then smirked as he reached under his arm, rubbing the thick patch of armpit hair with satisfaction. The sensation sent a wave of pride through him—this body was youthful, masculine, perfect. Grinning, he grabbed the phone, lowering the camera to capture the tight ridges of his abs, tracing a hand over them possessively before finally lifting the phone to his face. His smirk widened as he locked eyes with his reflection, drinking in his own smug satisfaction.

But the curiosity didn’t stop there. His eyes drifted lower, over his flat stomach, toward the waistband of his hospital-issued pants.

His heart pounded as he slid them down, revealing the thick, heavy weight of Ryan’s bulge. Walter’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling as removed his underwear. He touched his new cock and it was warm, heavy, and currently his own. He gave it an experimental stroke, a moan escaping his lips as pleasure shot through him...

Then he observed it even more and began to make his dick and balls swing like a pendulum

He leaned against the wall, his knees weak as he continued to stroke himself, the sensations overwhelming. His other hand wandered, exploring every inch of his new body. He pinched his nipples, gasping as the sparks of pleasure intensified. He ran his fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, down his sides, over his hips. Every touch felt electric.

Walter paused, his nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of something. He lifted his arm, touching his armpit hair and then inhaling deeply. The scent was musky, masculine, and familiar. It was Ryan’s scent—his cologne, his sweat, him. Walter’s cock twitched in his hand, his arousal spiking. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. It was primal, raw, and his.

His strokes grew faster, his body trembling with need. He tilted his head back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. This is… this is too much. But he couldn’t stop. His hips bucked into his hand, his cock throbbing with every stroke. He moaned, the sound low and guttural, filling the small bathroom. His balls tightened, his release building with every passing second.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his grip tightening as he edged closer and closer to the brink. His muscles tensed, his body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him. And then he was there, his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. He came with a shout, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spurted onto the floor. He collapsed against the sink, his legs trembling as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Walter stared at the mess he’d made, a strange mix of guilt and satisfaction swirling in his chest. He had just jacked off in his grandson’s body. What the hell is wrong with me? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t deny the exhilaration coursing through him. This body—Ryan’s body—was incredible. And it was his right now.

He cleaned himself up, his mind racing as he tried to process everything. He needed to figure out what had happened. How he’d ended up in Ryan’s body. But for now, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… excitement. He looked at his reflection one more time, a sly grin spreading across his face. This is going to be interesting.

Ryan’s consciousness drifted back slowly, his mind groggy as if weighed down by something heavy. His whole body felt wrong—bloated, sluggish, stiff. A dull ache radiated through his limbs, his joints protesting even the slightest movement. His chest rose and fell, but his breaths were deeper, heavier, almost labored. Something was off—terribly off. His heart pounded, but instead of its usual strong, steady rhythm, it felt slower, weaker, unfamiliar. He swallowed hard, his throat raw and dry, and when he moved his hands, they felt thicker, rougher. Panic crept in.

His fingers brushed against his face, and his stomach dropped. His skin was loose, not firm and smooth like it should be. He traced over deep wrinkles, then moved up to his head—his hair. His heart clenched. The thick, youthful strands were gone, replaced by thinning hair and a balding scalp. His breath quickened as he looked down, only to see a broad, heavy gut stretching his hospital gown. His arms were thicker, softer, with veins more pronounced and skin slightly sagging. His chest was heavier, fleshier, completely wrong.

This wasn’t his body. His hands fumbled beside him, landing on a pair of glasses on the nightstand. His trembling fingers slid them on, and suddenly, the world snapped into focus. Desperation overtook him as he reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand, his unfamiliar, clumsy hands struggling to grip it properly. He turned on the screen, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he opened the camera app and switched to selfie mode. His entire body froze. Staring back at him was Walter. His grandfather’s face. 

The lined, aging skin, the receding hair, the tired, sunken eyes—it was all there. His breath hitched as he slowly touched his cheek, watching Walter’s reflection mimic his every movement. His fingers trailed down to his heavy jaw, the rough stubble, the loose skin of his neck. His horror deepened as he lowered the phone, angling it toward his chest—the bulky stomach, the unfamiliar flesh. His own grandfather’s body. His vision blurred—not from the lack of glasses, but from pure, overwhelming dread. The phone slipped from his hands, clattering onto the sheets as he screamed. This couldn’t be real. But it was.

In the other room, Walter’s exploration was cut short when a sound froze him in place. A voice. A voice he had known all his life. His own voice—but weak, hoarse, and laced with panic. He cleaned himself up immediately and wore his hospital robes once more. 

Walter turned abruptly, his heart pounding. He followed the noise, pushing open the door and stepping into the hallway. Another hospital room. He moved quickly, his newfound speed shocking him. As he approached, he heard rustling, then a sharp intake of breath—followed by a scream.

Walter shoved the door open and stopped in his tracks.

Walter froze in the doorway, his breath hitching as he got his first real look at the body he had left behind. His old body. Ryan was sitting on the hospital bed, hunched forward, his face twisted in shock and horror. But it wasn’t just the face—it was everything. The broad, sloping gut, the soft arms, the sagging flesh hanging from his neck. Was this really what he had looked like all this time? The sight sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He had always known he was overweight and old, but seeing it from the outside made it so much worse. How had he lived like this? His breath was heavier, his posture slouched, his very presence sluggish. Walter clenched his jaw, forcing down the wave of disgust and relief threatening to bubble up. Because now, that wasn’t him anymore.

Ryan’s head snapped up at the sound of movement, and his breath caught. A man stood in the doorway—young, muscular, shirtless. His body. His body was standing there, staring at him. His stomach twisted in confusion. How was this possible? His pulse pounded as the world sharpened. The stranger wasn’t a stranger. He knew that face—the sharp jawline, the confident stance, the broad chest. But it was wrong.

Walter took a slow step forward, his powerful legs carrying him effortlessly, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "Ryan," he said cautiously, pretending to hesitate.

Ryan inhaled sharply at the sound of his own voice coming from someone else’s mouth. His hands clutched the hospital sheets, knuckles white. “No… no, no, no… that can’t be…” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his body trembling as he looked up at the man—at himself. “Grandpa?” His voice wasn’t his voice. It was rougher, weaker—Walter’s.

Walter nodded slowly, as if the realization pained him, but inside, he felt a thrill of satisfaction. "I don't know how," he said, carefully keeping his tone neutral, masking the excitement rising in his chest. “But we woke up like this. We woke up as each other.”

Ryan let out a shaky exhale, staring down at himself in disbelief, his hands gripping at the thickened flesh of his stomach. His own grandfather’s body. His breath quickened as he clutched at the loose skin, the soft flesh of his arms, the unfamiliar weight pressing down on him. He had felt strong his entire life, but now? Now he felt heavy, sluggish, weak.

They stepped closer, eyes locked, studying what they had lost and gained.

Ryan’s wrinkled hand trembled as he reached out, pressing against Walter’s hard abs, then his solid pecs. He squeezed—firm, powerful, his pecs. His fingers drifted up, brushing through thick, luscious hair—his hair. A shudder ran through him as he traced his strong jawline, the smooth skin.

Then, he hesitated, looking at his own body. Slowly, he raised a shaking hand to his bald scalp. His breath hitched at the thin, wiry strands left behind. His grip moved to his soft chest, squeezing—nothing but sagging weight.

Walter finally reached out, gripping Ryan’s weak arm, squeezing the loose, aging flesh. His fingers pressed into Ryan’s soft pecs—his old manboobs—and he barely hid his disgust. He lingered only for a moment before stepping back, rolling his strong shoulders.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Both turned as a nurse stepped in. “Oh, good. You’re both awake. The doctors will be in shortly to see you.”

“This can’t be real.” He turned toward Walter, who stood there in Ryan’s youthful body, an almost dazed expression on his face. “ Tell them,” Ryan pleaded, his voice rising. “Tell them we’re not who they think we are!” Walter, shaken but more composed, nodded grimly. 

When the doctors finally arrived, their expressions neutral but professional, Ryan wasted no time. 

“We—we’ve switched,” he blurted, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed with his trembling hands. “That’s not my grandfather. 

That’s me in his body. And—and I’m in his.” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Walter, in Ryan’s body, took a step forward. “It’s true,” he said. “I woke up in his body, and he woke up in mine. Something went wrong.” 

The doctors exchanged puzzled glances before one of them cleared his throat. “Mr. Holloway, you’re disoriented from the accident,” he started, but Ryan cut him off. 

“I know who I am!” he snapped, the exertion making his new body’s chest heave. 

“I don’t care what my name says on your charts. That’s my body standing right there.” He pointed a trembling finger at Walter. 

The medical team looked between them, skepticism etched onto their faces—until another doctor, flipping through a tablet, suddenly paled. He exhaled sharply. 

“My God,” he muttered, drawing the attention of his colleagues. Looking up, he hesitated before speaking. 

“We… we may have made a terrible mistake.” 

The air in the room thickened as he explained, voice cautious yet urgent. 

“During surgery, we relied on multiple factors to identify the bodies—facial structure, ID tags, personal effects. But their faces were swollen beyond recognition, and their medical files were mislabeled in the chaos. Their coats had been switched, leading to further confusion. We assumed the brain found closest to each body was the correct one.” He paused, gripping the tablet tighter. 

“But that assumption… was wrong.” Another doctor, looking equally unsettled, pulled up the brain scans. “We should’ve known,” she admitted, her voice tight with regret. 

“Walter’s brain, despite its age, exhibited an accelerated healing response, which is why it looked younger in the initial scans. Meanwhile, Ryan’s brain suffered significant trauma, causing inflammation and deterioration, making it appear older than it really was. 

We mistook those neurological differences for evidence of their respective ages and—” she hesitated, exhaling slowly, “—we placed the wrong brains in the wrong bodies.” 

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Ryan’s knees buckled, and he barely caught himself against the bed. 

“Fix it,” he gasped. “Switch us back.” The doctors exchanged grim looks before one of them finally spoke.

 “We can’t.” 

Walter and Ryan froze. The doctor continued, his voice heavy with finality. 

“The reconnection process was incredibly delicate. Your neural pathways have already begun adapting to their new hosts. Any attempt to reverse the procedure would result in severe, irreversible brain damage—possibly death.” He swallowed. 

“There’s no way to undo this.” Another doctor stepped forward, regret plain on her face. “We are deeply sorry,” she said, “but the swap is permanent.” 

The words sent a wave of cold dread through Ryan. His breath came in short gasps as reality crashed over him. He was trapped. This body—this slow, aching, unfamiliar form—was his for the rest of his life. Forever.

Ryan’s body sagged. Walter, too, felt the weight of those words, though the sting was dulled by the strange exhilaration running through him. Permanent. He would never go back. Walter realized that he would never feel that old body again. His mind warred between horror and an undeniable thrill.

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances before speaking again. “For now, we strongly advise keeping this a secret.”

Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”

“If this gets out,” the doctor continued, “it could lead to medical lawsuits, ethical scandals, media chaos. The hospital would be ruined. Your lives would be turned upside down.” He glanced between them, his voice firm. “It’s best if you assume each other’s lives.”

Walter’s lips parted in shock. Ryan looked utterly stricken.

“As far as the world is concerned,” the doctor said, “you are Ryan Holloway.” He turned to Walter. “And you are Walter Holloway.” His gaze was unyielding. “That is how the hospital will refer to you, and that is how your families will know you.”

Ryan was visibly horrified. His whole life—his identity—had been stripped away in an instant. But Walter… Walter could feel the seed of something dangerous, something exhilarating taking root within him. He had been old, tired, and at the end of his road. But now? Now, he had everything ahead of him again.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Walter James Holloway felt truly alive.

The Initial Adjustment 

To help them adjust, they were referred to psychiatry. The psychologist assigned to their case, Dr. Evelyn Carter, was a woman of firm composure and measured words. She wasted no time in establishing the gravity of their situation. "For your mental and emotional well-being," she explained during their first session, "you must fully integrate into your new identities. There can be no doubt, no hesitation. From now on, Walter James Holloway is Ryan David Holloway. And Ryan David Holloway is Walter James Holloway."

Ryan sat stiffly in his chair, hands clenched into fists. His body, now weighed down by age, ached with every movement, and he felt suffocated by the reality that this was now his existence. Across from him, Walter sat in Ryan’s youthful body, leaning back with a relaxed ease that only made Ryan's fury burn hotter. "This is ridiculous," Ryan muttered. "You're asking me to pretend to be someone I’m not."

Dr. Carter’s gaze was steady. "I'm asking you to survive. If you refuse to accept this, your mind will reject your new body, leading to severe dissociation, depression, and possibly worse. The human psyche craves consistency. You must become Walter in every way possible. And you—" she turned to Walter, "—must embrace being Ryan."

Walter gave a slow nod, as if considering her words, but Ryan saw the glimmer of something else in his expression—excitement. He already knew Walter was relishing this, the chance to start over in a body full of strength and vitality. Ryan wanted to scream.

Dr. Carter, however, had no patience for resistance. She was relentless, her approach clinical and unforgiving. "You will commit to this," she said with an icy firmness. "Every hesitation, every denial, every refusal to accept your new identity will only make this harder. You are Walter. Period. If you cannot embrace that, you will never be able to function in the life that is now yours." She leaned forward, her piercing gaze locking onto Ryan’s weary eyes. "From this moment on, you will respond to ‘Walter.’ You will introduce yourself as Walter. If you hesitate, if you falter, we will start again until you get it right."

Ryan seethed with frustration, but there was no room for argument. Every day, Dr. Carter drilled it into him. Morning sessions were brutal. "Say it again," she ordered. Ryan’s voice was hoarse from repetition.

"I am Walter James Holloway. I am sixty-five years old."

"Louder."

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I am Walter James Holloway," he repeated, each word tasting like poison.

"Again."

Meanwhile, Walter, in his youthful, powerful form, flourished under the same treatment. He practically beamed as he repeated his lines, sitting up straighter with every declaration. "I am Ryan David Holloway. I am twenty-six years old. I am young, strong, and full of life." His voice carried confidence—more than Ryan ever had.

Dr. Carter only reinforced this divide, encouraging Walter’s transition into Ryan’s life while pushing Ryan further into his new role. She arranged daily conversations where Ryan had to describe "his" past experiences as Walter—his first car, the long hours in the repair shop, his favorite cigar brand. "Make it real," she insisted when he hesitated. "Believe it. Because no one else will believe you if you don’t."

Dr. Carter took the exercises a step further, introducing direct role-play into their sessions. One morning, she placed two chairs in the middle of the room and gestured for them to sit. "We’re going to reinforce your identities with introductions," she announced. "Walter, introduce your grandson."

Ryan tensed. His throat tightened as he glanced at Walter, who sat across from him with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. Dr. Carter’s expectant gaze left him no choice. He swallowed hard. "This is my grandson, Ryan," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Louder. More confidence."

Ryan clenched his fists, forcing the words out again. "This is my grandson, Ryan David Holloway." The statement felt wrong, like a betrayal of everything he was.

Walter, meanwhile, sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "And this is my grandpa, Walter James Holloway," he said with a smug ease, gesturing toward Ryan. He even threw in a playful pat on Ryan’s knee. "He’s had a long life, worked hard as a mechanic, and now he’s enjoying retirement."

Ryan’s jaw clenched as he heard the words. Retirement. It was another nail in the coffin.

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly before moving to the next phase. She held up a photo of Ryan’s old body, shirtless at the gym, muscles defined and glistening with sweat. "Who is this?"

Walter smirked. "That’s me," he said proudly. "Ryan Holloway. I work out regularly, and I take pride in my physique." He flexed his arm slightly, as if to emphasize the truth of his statement.

Ryan wanted to throw the chair. Instead, he forced himself to mumble, "That’s my grandson."

Dr. Carter didn’t let him off easy. "Say it properly."

Ryan inhaled sharply through his nose. "That’s my grandson, Ryan David Holloway. He’s twenty-six years old, works as a physical therapist, and is in excellent shape."

Walter chuckled under his breath. "Thanks, Grandpa. Appreciate that."

Dr. Carter then held up another photo, this one of old Walter—his overweight, aging frame sitting on a lounge chair near the pool. "And who is this?"

Ryan felt sick. "That’s... me."

"Full sentence," Dr. Carter pressed.

"That’s me. I’m Walter James Holloway. I’m sixty-five years old, and I used to be a mechanic." The words made his stomach turn, but Dr. Carter simply nodded in approval.

Walter leaned back with a grin. "Yeah, that’s my grandpa," he said casually, glancing at the image. "He’s been through a lot, but he’s still kicking." He turned to Ryan with a smirk. "Ain’t that right, old man?"

Ryan ground his teeth. He didn’t respond.

The exercises continued—more questions designed to hammer their new identities into place. Dr. Carter would ask who was older, who was younger. Who was strong, who was weaker.

"Ryan, stand up and describe your daily fitness routine," she instructed.

Walter eagerly complied, launching into an enthusiastic monologue about "his" morning runs, weightlifting, and strict nutrition. He flexed his arms playfully, smirking at Ryan as if reveling in his newfound youth.

Then she turned to Ryan. "Walter, describe your typical day before the accident."

Ryan was forced to mutter about oil changes, cigar breaks, and back pain. Each time he faltered, Dr. Carter would correct him, forcing him to repeat the statement until it sounded natural. Each time, Walter grinned, enjoying every second of his new role. And every time Ryan looked in the mirror, the reality became harder to deny.

Dr. Carter intensified their conditioning by incorporating physical and sensory exercises. She had them touch and feel their bodies, comparing them to what they remembered before the accident.

"Ryan, describe how your skin feels. The texture, the muscle tone, everything."

Walter ran his hands along his arms, his biceps firm and strong. "My skin is smooth, my muscles are defined. I feel powerful, full of energy. It’s like I have endless stamina."

She turned to Ryan. "And you, Walter?"

Ryan hesitated before placing a hand on his stomach, feeling the softer flesh, the wrinkles on his hands. "My skin is looser, my muscles are weaker. My joints ache. My fingers feel stiff. I’m..." He swallowed hard. "I’m older."

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. "Good. Acknowledging these changes will help your mind accept them. Now, let’s work on movement."

She made them practice mannerisms. Ryan had to learn the slower, heavier gait of an aging man, the slight stoop, the way old Walter used to rub his lower back absentmindedly. Walter, meanwhile, had to master a youthful stride, the way Ryan used to bounce on the balls of his feet when excited, the casual confidence of a younger man.

Walter took to it with ease, exaggerating Ryan’s old habits at first but gradually settling into a natural flow. He walked with effortless energy, stretched his shoulders confidently, and even practiced grinning at his reflection the way Ryan used to. He was absorbing the role with glee, while Ryan struggled to let go of his former self.

Dr. Carter was relentless. "Again. Walter, you should be moving slower. You’ve had a long life, and your body has the weight of years. Show it."

Ryan sighed, shifting his posture to mimic an elderly man’s careful movements. "Like this?"

"Better. But I want it to be second nature. We’ll keep practicing."

Then came the hypnosis.

Dr. Carter dimmed the lights, her voice a steady, rhythmic pulse in the dimly lit room. "Close your eyes. Take slow, deep breaths. With every exhale, let go of who you were. With every inhale, become who you are meant to be."

The air grew thick with the weight of suggestion, their minds sinking deeper with every word. "You are stepping into a grand hall," Dr. Carter murmured, "a palace of memory, a mind palace where truth is revealed. Look around you. This place is yours. It has always been yours. Walk through its corridors, see the reflections of your life."

Ryan and Walter found themselves standing within the endless mirrored halls, their surroundings shifting like a dream. The polished floors reflected them perfectly, stretching endlessly into the distance. But something was wrong. The reflections weren’t right.

Ryan peered into the glass, and his heart pounded. His old body—his real body—stared back at him. The strong jawline, the youthful vigor, the sharp, defiant eyes. But as he watched, the image flickered, warping ever so slightly.

Dr. Carter’s voice was patient, inescapable. "You were always Walter, weren’t you?" she said, her tone like silk wrapping around his thoughts. "From the moment you were born, you were Walter James Holloway. You grew up fixing cars. You built a life, had a grandson. And that grandson... is Ryan David Holloway."

The new Walter shook his head, but his reflection wavered. The skin grew looser, lines forming where there had been none. His shoulders slumped, the once-defined muscles softening, weakening. His hands, resting at his sides, twitched as the veins became more pronounced, the skin weathered. He could feel it—the slow, inevitable transformation sinking into him, reshaping his very sense of self.

Dr. Carter then turned her attention to the new Ryan. "And you, Ryan. You are young, full of energy, full of potential. You’ve always been Ryan, always twenty-six. You were born into strength and health. That old life you remember? That was someone else’s story. Look at yourself. Accept what you see."

Walter stepped toward his reflection with a reverent gaze. He had expected to see his old, worn face. Instead, Ryan’s youthful form stared back at him, powerful and whole. His chest tightened with something dangerously close to relief.

The new Walter’s breath came in ragged gasps as the transformation continued. His reflection—the one that had been his true self—was fading. The gray hair took root. The skin sagged, wrinkles deepened. His back hunched slightly. The young man he had been was disappearing before his eyes, swallowed by the reality being woven around him.

The new Ryan, standing beside him, beamed at his own reflection. His body—no, Ryan’s body—stood tall and strong, exuding the confidence of youth. He touched his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, running a hand through thick, dark hair. "This is right," he said, the words coming naturally now. "This is how it has always been."

Dr. Carter’s voice wrapped around them both, sealing their fates. "There was no surgery mishap. There was no switch. Walter was, is, and always will be Walter. Ryan was, is, and always will be Ryan. It was meant to be this way. It has always been this way."

The old Ryan tried to speak, to protest, but the words dissolved before they reached his lips. His mind felt like sand slipping through his fingers. The past was distant, blurred, uncertain. And the mirror before him—the mirror that had once reflected the truth—now showed only the inescapable reality. He was Walter. He had always been Walter.

The old Walter, now fully embracing his new existence, straightened, stretching his arms as if testing the strength that belonged to him now. "That felt... good," he admitted, his voice filled with satisfaction.

Ryan blinked groggily, his head aching. He turned toward the mirror one last time, desperate to see something—anything—of his old self. But the face staring back at him was unfamiliar. Not just in appearance, but in identity.

Dr. Carter smiled. "Good. We’ll continue this tomorrow. We’re making progress."

Outside of sessions, Walter made it worse. He had fully embraced his role as the younger man and took every opportunity to taunt Ryan for his struggles. "C’mon, Grandpa," he’d say with a smirk when Ryan groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Takes a while to get used to the ol’ joints, huh?"

Ryan gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge him. But Walter didn’t stop. He took pleasure in watching Ryan fumble with his new limitations, chuckling when Ryan dropped something and struggled to bend down and pick it up. "Want me to get that for you?" he’d ask mockingly, flexing his arms for emphasis.

At mealtimes, Walter would take exaggerated bites of his food, sighing in delight. "Damn, this metabolism is something else," he’d say, patting his flat stomach. "I could eat a whole pizza and not feel a thing." He’d then glance at Ryan, whose plate was filled with doctor-recommended portions for an elderly man. "Better watch your sodium, though. Gotta be careful at your age."

The more Walter thrived, the more Ryan suffered. And worst of all, no one cared. No one believed he was suffering at all.

Beyond the psychological conditioning, they were also referred to rehabilitation medicine to help them adjust physically. Ryan despised it. Every exercise session was a brutal reminder of how weak and sluggish his body had become. He struggled with basic movements, his joints stiff, his muscles sore from even the lightest exertion. He used to love pushing his limits in the gym, but now? Now, simply standing from a chair felt like an ordeal. Worse, the cravings gnawed at him—a deep, incessant yearning for nicotine. Walter’s old habits had latched onto him like a vice. He found himself gritting his teeth, fingers twitching for a cigar he didn’t even want.

Walter, on the other hand, was thriving. He attacked every workout with an eagerness that left Ryan seething. He ran, he lifted, he moved with a joy that Ryan had once taken for granted. The burn of his muscles, the soreness after an intense session—Walter embraced it all. He reveled in the sensation of sweat rolling down his back, the musk of his own body after pushing it to the limit. He even took deep breaths after each session, enjoying the raw, earthy scent of exertion. "Damn, I missed this," he murmured more than once, flexing his arms in the mirror, watching the way his muscles tensed and released with effortless precision.

The divide between them grew wider with each passing day. The more Walter embraced his new identity, the more Ryan felt like he was fading away. And no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the reality was settling in: he was no longer Ryan David Holloway. He was Walter. And there was no way out.

The Request

One evening, Ryan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his wrinkled hands gripping the stiff sheets, his body still aching from the trauma of the accident. The dim hospital lighting cast long shadows across the room, making it feel colder than it was. The door creaked open, and in stepped the new Ryan—his former body—tall, strong, and exuding a presence that made Ryan’s stomach twist. Walter, now a young man, moved with an effortless confidence that Ryan never had, his every step controlled and precise. He grinned, shutting the door behind him with an air of authority.

"Hey, Grandpa," Walter said smoothly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The way he said it—casual, natural—sent a spike of anger through Ryan’s chest.

Ryan clenched his jaw, refusing to respond right away. He had been waiting for this moment, wondering if Walter would slip up—if he would acknowledge the truth, even just for a second. "Grandpa," Ryan said pointedly, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his own ears. "You know who I really am."

Walter smirked, pushing himself off the wall and strolling closer. "I do," he said, his voice teasing. "You're my grandpa, Walter Holloway." He reached out and patted Ryan's knee in a patronizing gesture. "And I’m your grandson, Ryan. Took me a bit, but I think I’m finally getting used to it."

Ryan’s hands curled into fists. "Stop it," he hissed. "You know that’s not true." His chest tightened as he searched Walter’s face for any sign of recognition, of doubt, of something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. But there was nothing. Only that infuriating grin.

Walter pulled up a chair, sitting across from him, his posture relaxed, completely at ease in his new body. "Why fight it, Grandpa?" he said with exaggerated patience. "You heard Dr. Carter. We have to accept who we are now.”

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry as he stared at the man before him—his body, his youth, his entire life, now inhabited by someone else. The weight of his wrinkled hands resting on his lap only deepened the ache in his chest. He needed something—anything—to hold on to. A compromise. A semblance of his old identity.

"Grandpa," Ryan started, his voice low, hesitant. "What if… just when it’s just us… we still call each other by our real names? I don’t mean in front of the doctors or anyone else, just… in private." His tired eyes searched Ryan’s old handsome face, hoping—begging—for some kind of understanding. "I just—I need something to hold on to. Something real."

Walter tilted his head, considering the plea for a moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. "Nah," he said simply.

Ryan stiffened. "What?"

Walter chuckled, stepping closer, his movements loose, confident, utterly at home in the body that should have been Ryan’s. "No can do, Grandpa. See, that’s the problem—you keep looking back, clinging to something that isn’t yours anymore." He placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make him feel the difference in their strength now. "You heard Dr. Carter. That part of your life is gone. And the sooner you accept it, the easier this will be for you."

Ryan's nails dug into his palms. "I am Ryan," he gritted out.

Walter gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Still not getting it, huh? Alright then, let me help you."

With that, he reached down and grabbed the hem of his hospital gown, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The hospital’s dim lighting cast shadows over his defined abs, his broad chest—the physique Ryan had worked years to maintain, now standing tall before him, stolen. Walter flexed his arms slightly, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the feeling of being young and powerful.

Ryan could only stare, his breath shallow, his insides twisting.

Walter smirked. "Take a good look, Grandpa," he said, running a hand over his chest before giving his bicep a slow, deliberate flex. "This is my body now. Not yours. Not ever again. You see, it doesn’t matter what you remember. What matters is what’s real. And this—" he gestured down at himself, at the sculpted muscles, the youthful skin, "—this is real. You? You’re just an old man now. An old man who needs to stop pretending."

Ryan felt something inside him crack.

Walter grabbed his shirt from where he had tossed it onto the bed but didn’t put it back on. Instead, he took a step closer, towering over Ryan. "You wanted a moment of honesty between us? Fine. Here’s some honesty: It’s over. There’s no going back. This body belongs to me now, and the sooner you let it go, the easier this will be." He patted Ryan’s knee mockingly. "So go ahead, Grandpa. Say goodbye. Otherwise, I’ll make you."

Ryan's vision blurred, his breath shuddering in his chest. Even his own grandfather or rather… grandson—even Walter—refused to give him a sliver of acknowledgment.

Walter stood in front of the full-length mirror, his—no, Ryan’s—body glistening under the soft light of the room. He ran his hands over his chest, feeling the firm ridges of muscles that now belonged to him. His reflection stared back, young, strong, vibrant. It was perfection.

He turned to Ryan, who was slumped in a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking every bit the frail old man he now was. Walter smirked, the corners of his lips curling upward in a cruel, knowing way.

"Strip," Walter commanded, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What? Why would I—"

"Because I said so," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. He took a step closer, his towering frame looming over Ryan. "You need to face reality, old man. Our reality. So strip. Now."

Ryan hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing the sagging, wrinkled skin of Walter’s old body. His stomach hung slightly, the muscles long gone, replaced by softness that spoke of years of neglect.

Walter’s eyes raked over him, his expression a mix of amusement and disdain. "Good," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Now the pants."

Ryan’s face flushed with humiliation, but he obeyed, awkwardly shimmying out of his pants until he was naked and exposed. His body was a stark contrast to Walter’s—young, powerful, arrogant.

Walter stepped back, his eyes never leaving Ryan as he began to strip as well. His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the chiseled chest and abs that Ryan had spent years building. He kicked off his pants, standing tall and confident, his body on full display.

"Look at us," Walter said, spreading his arms wide as if to emphasize the difference. "Isn’t it perfect?"

Ryan couldn’t look away, his eyes darting between Walter’s body and his own. His shame was palpable, but there was something else there too—something darker, more primal. A flicker of arousal that he desperately tried to suppress.

Walter noticed, of course. His smirk widened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You like what you see, don’t you, Grandpa?"

Ryan’s breath hitched, his face turning a deep shade of red. "I—I don’t—"

"Don’t lie to me," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. "I can see it in your eyes. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?"

Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His heart was pounding, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.

Walter laughed, a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down Ryan’s spine. "Admit it," he demanded, his voice firm. "Tell me who’s the grandpa and who’s the grandson now."

Ryan’s jaw tightened, his pride warring with the humiliation coursing through him. "You’re the grandson," he finally muttered, the words barely audible.

"Louder," Walter commanded, his eyes blazing with intensity.

"You’re the grandson," Ryan repeated, his voice trembling. "And I… I’m the grandpa."

Walter’s grin was triumphant, his chest swelling with satisfaction. "That’s right," he said, his tone dripping with superiority. "And this?" He gestured to his body, running a hand over his chest. "This is mine now. Every muscle, every inch of skin. Mine."

Walter stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he loomed over the frail, wrinkled man in front of him. "You’ve always been so jealous of me, haven’t you?" he taunted, his voice slow, deliberate, dripping with cruel amusement. "Even before all this, you wanted what I had. And now…" He trailed off, his hand reaching out with an almost mockingly gentle touch, his fingers brushing over Ryan’s soft, sagging chest, feeling the loose skin beneath his fingertips. "Now you’re stuck with this."

Ryan—no, the new Walter—flinched at the contact, his hands clenching uselessly in his lap, but he didn’t pull away. Ryan—the old Walter—chuckled darkly as he crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side as he took in the pitiful sight before him. The old man sat hunched and small, shoulders curled inward, looking up at him with a mixture of resentment, disbelief, and—most satisfying of all—helplessness.

"You know," Ryan mused, tapping his chin as if lost in thought, "I bet you’ve always been jealous of me."

Walter’s head snapped up, his aged face twisting in defiance. "What?" Ryan grinned, white teeth flashing against his youthful skin. "Come on, Grandpa. Don’t play dumb. You wanted this, didn’t you? My body, my strength, my youth." He spread his arms wide, stretching deliberately, rolling his shoulders to feel the strength coursing through his muscles. "Hell, you practically drooled every time I was at the gym. Always making comments—‘Damn, kid, you don’t know how lucky you are.’ Or, ‘If I had your body, I’d—’ Well, now you know. And let’s be honest, you weren’t just admiring it from a distance. You were longing for it, weren’t you? Watching me move, watching me live—all while being trapped in that pathetic old shell of yours."

He took a step closer, deliberately slow, letting his towering presence loom over Walter’s frail form. "I mean, look at me." He turned slightly, giving a mock flex, the defined muscles in his arms and chest shifting beneath his smooth, youthful skin. "Imagine how it must feel—to wake up every morning strong, invincible, without a single ache or pain. To have all the energy in the world, to be the one everyone listens to when you speak, to be the one people want to be around. That was me before, and now? Now, it’s still me. But you?" His smirk deepened as he tilted his head. "You're nothing more than an afterthought now. Just another old man waiting for the world to move on without him."

Walter’s face darkened, his lips twitching as if he wanted to speak, to lash out, but nothing came. The words—the truth—hung in the air between them, undeniable and crushing. Ryan leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re beneath me now. Knowing I own the life that used to be yours. Knowing that, from now on, no one will ever look at you the way they used to look at me."

Walter’s face burned, his wrinkled hands twisting in the sheets beneath him. "That’s not—"

"Oh, don’t even try to deny it." Ryan cut him off, stepping closer, his voice thick with condescension. "You wished for this. I could see it in your eyes every time you groaned about your back, every time you huffed and puffed after going up the stairs. You wanted to be young again. To be me. And now, look at you." He let out a short, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "Karma’s funny, huh?"

Walter’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The heat in his face spread down his neck, shame curling around him like a vice. Ryan smirked, placing his hands on his hips, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "Tell me, Grandpa, if you were in my shoes—if you swapped bodies with your grandson—wouldn’t you love it?" He let the question hang in the air, savoring the tension, his smirk widening as Walter stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean, come on. Think about it. Really think about it. You know exactly what I’m talking about now, don’t you? Now that you’re the old man, you get it." Ryan took a slow step forward, his presence looming, his voice like velvet laced with poison. "Be honest with me, Grandpa. Wouldn’t you have enjoyed waking up one day in a body like this? No more aching knees, no more graying hair, no more struggling to even be noticed in a crowd. You spent years watching me, admiring me—hell, envying me. And now you know what it’s like to be on the other side of it. Doesn’t feel so great, does it?"

Walter looked away sharply, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration, but Ryan wasn’t finished. "Tell me, does it burn you up inside when you see me walking around, feeling amazing in this body? Do you hate it when I stretch, when I flex, when I live like I was meant for this?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned down just enough to meet Walter’s weary eyes. "Or worse—do you crave it? Do you secretly wish you could trade back, knowing damn well you never will? Do you miss your body? Or are you finally realizing that it was never yours to begin with?"

Walter looked away, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration.

Ryan leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Feels different when you're the one stuck in the rocking chair, huh? When you're the one struggling just to get up in the morning?" He let out a breath, deliberately warm against Walter’s ear, before straightening back up.

Walter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the sagging skin of his throat. His entire body tensed like a coiled spring, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from the torment.

Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Look, I get it. You’re jealous. And that’s okay. It’s natural. Anyone in your position would be jealous of me." He flexed his arm, rolling his shoulders as if relishing the movement, his eyes flickering toward Walter expectantly. And just as he predicted, Walter’s gaze betrayed him—darting, just for a moment, toward the strong biceps, the smooth skin, the sheer power that had once belonged to him.

Ryan caught it instantly and let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Yeah, I saw that. You can’t help it, can you?" He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied the old man before him. "I mean, look at me. I’m young. Strong. Alive." His voice softened, turning almost patronizing. "And you? Well… you’re just Walter now."

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to accept it.Ryan let the words settle before placing a firm, almost comforting hand on Walter’s frail shoulder. "But here’s the thing—you need to accept it. This is our reality now. There’s no going back. No second chances. This—" he gestured between them, "—is permanent. I’m Ryan. And you’re Walter. For good."

The Family Visit 

Eventually, the day of the family visit arrived, and Walter could feel his stomach twisting with unease. He sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his aged body aching from even the smallest movement. Across from him, Ryan stretched his youthful limbs with ease, barely able to contain his excitement. The roles they had been forced into were about to be cemented, and Walter dreaded every second of it.

When the door swung open, Daniel Holloway entered first—The old Ryan’s dad, and now Walter’s son. Though now Daniel had to see the old Ryan as his father, Walter. Behind him was Margaret, Daniel’s wife and Ryan’s mother. Then came Charles and Peter, Ryan’s younger brothers—though now, they were supposed to be his other grandsons. The sight of them was both familiar and alien, each face filled with relief and happiness.

"Dad!" Daniel greeted warmly, smiling at Walter with all the familiarity of a son addressing his father. Walter swallowed hard, his hands clenching against the hospital sheets. That greeting was meant for what used to be his grandfather—but not anymore. It was for him now.

"Grandpa!" Peter grinned, moving to Walter’s bedside. "It’s great to see you up. You gave us a real scare."

Walter flinched at the word. Grandpa. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. Daniel, his own father, was now looking at him as if HE were his father. It was suffocating.

Meanwhile, Ryan stood with an excited grin, spreading his arms wide. “Dad, Mom, Charles, Peter! Man, you have no idea how good it is to see you all.”

Margaret let out a relieved sigh and pulled Ryan into a tight embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, we were terrified,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you’re okay.”

Ryan leaned into her touch, relishing every second. “Of course I am, Mom. Strong as ever.” He flexed his arm playfully, making Charles and Peter chuckle.

Ryan basked in the attention, his new face lighting up as he embraced his mother—his former daughter-in-law —and patted his father—his former son—on the back. It was exhilarating. Thrilling. They truly believed he had always been their Ryan. They spoke to him as if he had always been their son, their brother. Every word of affection, every familial gesture, sent a pulse of euphoria through him. It was as if fate had always intended for him to be in this body.

Walter’s chest tightened as he watched his former body bask in the warmth of his family’s love. That was his mother embracing him. His brothers laughing with him. But now, they saw him as the grandfather—an old man, a relic of their past.

Walter also felt the crushing weight of despair. Even his own parents—who he was supposed to treat now as his own kids, looking at him with concern—saw him only as their dad, Walter. There was no recognition, no flicker of realization that something was horribly wrong.

Daniel turned back to Walter and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

His breathing grew unsteady. He had to fix this. "Dad, listen to me," Walter rasped, voice shaking. "I’m not—I’m not your dad. It’s me, Ryan! That’s my body! He—he stole it! You have to believe me!"

A tense silence filled the room. The smiles faded. Ryan, standing beside their mother, let out an exasperated sigh and turned toward the nurses. "I told you this might happen. His memory’s been slipping ever since the accident."

“Oh, Grandpa, not this again.” He turned to the others with an exaggerated sigh. “The doctors said he’s been having these memory lapses. He keeps insisting he’s me.”

One of the nurses nodded sympathetically. "It’s common with head trauma at his age. Sometimes, patients get confused about who they are."

Margaret’s expression softened with concern. “Oh, Walter…” She kneeled beside him, taking his wrinkled hands into her own. “The doctors did say there might be confusion after everything you went through. But don’t worry, we’re here for you.”

Walter’s face burned. "No Mom! I’m not confused! I swear to you, I’m Ryan! That’s my body! That’s my life!"

Walter’s pulse pounded in his ears. “No! I’m telling you the truth! I’m your son, Ryan! That is my body!” He pointed a trembling finger at Ryan, who merely shook his head with amusement.

His desperation escalated, his voice cracking as he tried to force them to see the truth. But all they saw was an old man having a breakdown. Daniel frowned, concern deepening in his eyes. "Dad, please, calm down. You’re scaring the boys."

Daniel sighed and squeezed Walter’s shoulder. “Dad, please. I know this must be overwhelming, but you’re Walter Holloway. You’ve always been my father.”

Ryan leaned against the bed, arms crossed, his smirk growing wider. “Come on, Grandpa, you don’t want to confuse the kids, do you?” He turned to Charles and Peter, feigning sympathy. “It’s hard watching Grandpa struggle like this, huh?”

Charles gave an awkward smile. “Yeah… but the doctors said he just needs time, right?”

Walter’s hands trembled as he looked from face to face. No one believed him. Not his dad, not his mom, not his brothers. The truth was slipping through his fingers like sand, and Ryan was enjoying every second of it.

Ryan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Walter’s shoulder, leaning in slightly, his voice gentle but condescending. "Grandpa, you need to rest. You’re just confused. I know it’s hard, but you have to accept the truth."

Walter shook his head furiously. "You did this! You stole my life! You—"

Ryan clicked his tongue and turned to the others. "See what I mean? It’s like he’s stuck in some fantasy. I read about this—sometimes older folks cling to a delusion because reality is too much for them."

Walter gritted his teeth, shaking with humiliation. His own family. His own flesh and blood. They all thought he was a senile old man losing his grip on reality.

Ryan turned back, eyes gleaming with something cruel and victorious. "You’re not Ryan, Grandpa. I am. You’re Walter. Always have been. Always will be. And there’s no changing that."

Walter slumped back against the bed, defeated. His world had been stolen, and no one—not even his own family—would ever believe him.

Ryan took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Walter to hear. “Face it, old man,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “This is your life now. You’re Grandpa. And I’m Ryan.” He patted Walter’s frail knee, just as he had been forced to do in their therapy sessions. “Better get used to it.”

Walter’s vision blurred with frustration and helplessness. Ryan had won. He had taken everything. And there was nothing Walter could do to stop it.

The Final Adjustment

Dr. Carter wasted no time intensifying their therapy sessions after the disastrous family visit. Walter’s outburst had only reinforced the doctor’s belief that he was suffering from a severe delusional episode, and Ryan made sure to milk every second of it.

At the start of their next session, Dr. Carter sat across from them with a patient but firm expression. “Walter, before we continue, I think there’s something you need to say to Ryan.”

Walter tensed, already dreading whatever was about to come next. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Carter tilted his head, as if speaking to a confused child. “You accused Ryan of something very serious in front of your family. You caused a scene, frightened your grandchildren, and distressed your son. Don’t you think you owe Ryan an apology?”

Walter’s stomach turned. His hands clenched against his thighs as he cast a hesitant glance at Ryan, who was lounging in his chair, arms crossed, a smug little smile playing on his lips.

Walter wanted to resist. He wanted to scream the truth again. But what good would it do? No one believed him. No one ever would. And the only way to stop the relentless humiliation was to play along.

“I…” Walter forced the words out, his throat dry. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Ryan’s grin widened. “Sorry for what, Grandpa?”

Walter swallowed back his pride. “For accusing you… of stealing my body.”

Ryan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And why do you think you did that, huh?”

Dr. Carter nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Walter. Let’s explore that. What made you feel like Ryan had taken something from you?”

Walter’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded in his temples. Ryan’s eyes were gleaming, waiting for him to break.

“I guess…” Walter exhaled shakily. “I was jealous.”

Ryan clicked his tongue. “Jealous?”

Walter stared at the floor. “Yes.”

“Jealous of what?” Ryan pressed.

Walter’s shoulders sagged. “Of… your body.”

Ryan let out a small, satisfied laugh. “Oh yeah?”

Walter shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear. “Yeah.”

Ryan leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. “And what else? You jealous of my muscles? My youth? The fact that I get to live as Ryan while you’re just old man Walter?”

Walter felt the weight of every word pressing down on him. He forced himself to nod. “Yes.”

“Say it,” Ryan ordered. “Tell me what exactly you’re jealous of.”

Walter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your strength. Your body. Your youth.”

Ryan wasn’t done yet. He leaned in closer, his voice smooth, almost gentle, but dripping with cruel amusement. “Come on, old man. You jealous of the way I wake up every morning, full of energy, no aching joints, no stiff back? The way I can run without gasping for breath, the way I can eat anything I want without worrying about cholesterol or heartburn?” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Bet you miss that, huh?”

Walter clenched his fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight.

Ryan tilted his head, studying him like a predator toying with wounded prey. “Or maybe you’re jealous of how people see me. No one looks at me with pity. No one treats me like some fragile old man who’s past his prime. No one assumes I need help just getting out of a chair.” His smirk widened. “That must suck, huh? Going from being strong, being respected, to being… this.”

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep quiet, but the words pressed against his lips like poison waiting to spill.

Ryan wasn’t finished. “How about the way people talk to me? The way they listen when I speak, when I walk into a room, when I shake someone’s hand?” He flexed his fingers, letting the movement draw Walter’s gaze. “Bet you miss that, huh? Bet you hate looking in the mirror and seeing Walter Holloway staring back at you. The sagging skin, the graying hair, the belly that won’t go away no matter what you do.” He let out a fake sympathetic sigh. “Damn, that’s gotta sting.”

Walter swallowed thickly, his throat raw. He wanted to shut his eyes, to disappear, but it wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.

And then, for the first time, he spoke without being prompted.

“I’m jealous,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan’s smirk deepened. “What’s that, Grandpa?”

Walter’s fingers twitched, his nails pressing deeper into his palms. He exhaled shakily, his voice stronger this time. “I’m jealous… of how strong you are. How you can move so easily, how you can run and jump without thinking about it. I’m jealous of your energy, how you wake up feeling rested, how your body isn’t slowing you down.” The words spilled from his lips like a confession, each one tightening the grip around his chest.

Ryan folded his arms, nodding smugly. “Go on.”

Walter shut his eyes for a moment, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it worse, but the pressure was unbearable. He had to let it out. “I’m jealous of how people look at you. The respect you get. The admiration. I’m jealous that when you talk, people listen. I’m jealous that you don’t get treated like you’re fragile, like you’re in the way.” He inhaled shakily, his voice dropping to a hoarse murmur. “I’m jealous that you have your whole life ahead of you while mine is…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

Dr. Carter, who had been watching intently, leaned forward slightly, his expression warm with approval. “This is good, Walter. Acknowledging these emotions is important for your progress. But there’s something else you need to say.”

Walter’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Dr. Carter’s voice was steady, coaxing. “Despite your jealousy, despite everything you feel… you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you? You would rather be Walter Holloway. That’s who you are, and that’s who you want to be.”

Walter felt a lump lodge itself in his throat. His skin felt hot, prickling with shame, with exhaustion.

Ryan was watching him expectantly, his smirk lingering, waiting for him to break completely.

Walter’s jaw tightened. The weight pressing down on him was suffocating. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of this to stop.

So he did the only thing he could.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Carter’s smile widened. “Say it, Walter.”

Walter’s lips parted, the words slow, shaky, forced. “I… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ryan’s smirk deepened.

Dr. Carter beamed. “Good. That’s very good.”

Walter stared at the floor, feeling the last of his resistance crumble. It was done. He had said what they wanted to hear.

Dr. Carter smiled approvingly at Walter’s supposed ‘progress.’ “Good, Walter. Acknowledging these feelings is an important step. Now, let’s reinforce this understanding with sensory exercises.”

Walter’s stomach churned. He knew what was coming. He had endured these exercises before, each one designed to strip him of whatever dignity he had left. A quick glance at Ryan confirmed his fears—his grandson, now towering over him in the body that once belonged to him, was already smirking, barely containing his amusement.

“Stand up,” Dr. Carter instructed, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. Walter pushed himself up slowly, his joints stiff, his movements sluggish, while Ryan rose effortlessly, his youthful body full of strength and energy. Walter barely had time to steady himself before Ryan took a deliberate step forward, his presence overwhelming.

“Face each other,” Dr. Carter continued.

Ryan wasted no time closing the gap between them, his muscular chest nearly brushing against Walter’s frail one. Walter could feel the heat radiating from his former body, his skin tingling with the stark contrast between them.

“Walter, touch Ryan’s face,” Dr. Carter directed. “Feel the difference.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he reached up, brushing against Ryan’s jawline. The skin was firm, the bone structure sharp and defined—nothing like the sagging, soft flesh that now hung from his own face.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And what do you feel?”

Walter swallowed hard. “Strength,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan chuckled. “Damn right,” he said, flexing his jaw for emphasis. “Feels solid, doesn’t it? Not like that loose mess you’ve got now.”

Walter’s face burned, but Dr. Carter wasn’t finished. “Now, move to his shoulders.”

Walter obeyed, his hands hesitantly trailing down to Ryan’s broad shoulders. They were powerful, firm with well-developed muscle. His grip tightened slightly as he traced the structure, feeling the undeniable strength beneath his fingertips.

“Compare it to your own,” Dr. Carter ordered.

Walter pulled back slowly and reached for his own shoulders, wincing at the stark contrast. His hands met soft, sagging skin, the once-solid mass now reduced to frailty. Before he could react, Ryan’s hands followed suit, gripping Walter’s shoulders with an exaggerated squeeze.

“Man, this is like grabbing a sack of dough,” Ryan quipped, kneading Walter’s flesh mockingly. “No muscle left, huh? Just… soft.”

Dr. Carter ignored the taunt. “Now, Walter, his arms.”

Walter’s hands hesitantly wrapped around Ryan’s biceps. They were thick, hard, brimming with power. Ryan flexed with a smirk, his muscle bulging beneath Walter’s touch.

“Give it a squeeze,” Ryan encouraged. “Go on, Grandpa. Feel what real strength is like.”

Walter did as instructed, though the action only deepened his humiliation. The sheer power in Ryan’s arms was undeniable. Then, before Walter could react, Ryan reached for his arms, gripping them in return.

“Wow,” Ryan mused, squeezing the loose skin. “There’s just… nothing here. No definition, no strength. Just… flab.” He gave Walter’s arm a light shake, watching as the skin wobbled pathetically. “Man, that’s depressing.”

Walter clenched his teeth, his body stiff with shame, but the session was far from over. Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension. “His chest, Walter.”

Walter’s hands hesitated before settling on Ryan’s chest. It was firm, solid, each muscle defined and sculpted. He swallowed hard, already dreading the next instruction.

“Now your own.”

Walter pulled his hands away and pressed them against his own chest. His fingers sank into soft flesh, the skin loose and yielding beneath his touch. Ryan wasted no time mirroring the action, pressing a hand against Walter’s chest before bursting into laughter.

“Wow. It’s like feeling an old couch cushion,” Ryan taunted, giving a light squeeze. “No muscle. No tone. Just sagging.”

Walter’s humiliation deepened, but Dr. Carter continued. “His abdomen, Walter.”

Walter’s hands trailed down Ryan’s torso, brushing against the ridges of his six-pack, the muscles firm and unyielding. The contrast was unbearable.

“Now your own.”

Walter forced himself to touch his own stomach, feeling the soft, excess flesh pooling beneath his fingertips. Ryan, ever the tormentor, pressed a firm hand against Walter’s belly and gave it a condescending jiggle.

“Damn,” Ryan laughed. “What happened, old man? You used to have abs—now you’ve got this?” He patted Walter’s stomach mockingly. “Guess you don’t need to worry about sit-ups anymore, huh?”

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the shame, but there was no escape.

Dr. Carter continued, “his legs.”

Walter’s hands slid down to Ryan’s thighs, feeling the sheer power in the muscle. His legs were strong, lean, built for movement. Ryan shifted slightly under Walter’s touch, flexing his quadriceps just to emphasize the contrast.

“And your own,” Dr. Carter prompted.

Walter obeyed, his hands falling to his own thighs. They were thin, weak, lacking the firmness they once had. Ryan reached down, gripping Walter’s thigh in return, his fingers pressing into the soft, aging flesh.

“These legs are useless,” Ryan scoffed, shaking his head. “No wonder you walk like you’re about to fall over.”

Walter’s head hung low. The session had stripped him down piece by piece, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly powerless. Ryan, meanwhile, stood tall, his smirk one of pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

Dr. Carter nodded, seemingly satisfied with the exercise so far. “Now, we’re going to take this a step further. I want both of you to smell each other. Start with the armpits.”

Walter’s eyes widened in horror. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Dr. Carter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Smell is a powerful sense—it can help ground you in reality. Ryan, go first.”

Ryan smirked, raising his arm and flexing slightly to expose his armpit. “Go ahead, Grandpa. Take a whiff.”

Walter hesitated, his stomach churning at the thought. But under Dr. Carter’s watchful gaze, he leaned in, his nose brushing against Ryan’s armpit. The scent hit him immediately—musky, masculine, and undeniably Ryan. It was intoxicating, and Walter couldn’t help but feel a pang of arousal.

“Who’s musk does that belong to, Walter?” Dr. Carter asked.

“Ryan’s,” Walter admitted, his face burning with shame.

“Good. Now, Ryan, smell Walter.”

Ryan grinned, raising Walter’s arm and pressing his nose against the older man’s armpit. He took a deep breath, the scent filling his nostrils. It was musty, the smell of age and neglect, and Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Man, that’s just… gross,” Ryan said, pulling away with a grimace. “Smells like old sweat and decay.”

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the heavy silence, calm and clinical as ever. “Now, Walter, Ryan, I want you to take this exercise one step further than before. I want you to explore the differences between your bodies in their most… intimate form.”

Walter’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. “What?” he choked out, his voice barely audible. He could feel Ryan’s gaze burning into him, smug and expectant.

“You heard the doctor, Grandpa,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Time to get up close and personal.”

Dr. Carter nodded, her expression unchanged. “You will touch each other’s genitals. This is an essential part of understanding the physical disparities between you and accepting them.”

Walter’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what was coming, and the dread coiled tightly in his gut. He glanced up at Ryan, who was already smirking, his youthful arrogance shining through. Ryan’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and Walter could see the faint bulge in his pants—a cruel reminder of the vitality that now belonged to his grandson.

“Stand closer,” Dr. Carter instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Walter took a shaky step forward, his frail body trembling as Ryan closed the gap between them with ease. The warmth of Ryan’s body radiated against Walter’s, the contrast between their physical states almost unbearable.

“Walter,” Dr. Carter began, “reach out and touch Ryan’s waistband. Feel the difference in your bodies’ structure.”

“Go on, Grandpa,” Ryan taunted, his voice laced with mockery. “Touch it. Feel what a real man has.”

Walter’s hands trembled as he hesitantly reached for Ryan’s hips. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his grandson’s pants, feeling the firmness of the muscles beneath. Ryan shifted slightly, intentionally pressing his hips forward, and Walter’s fingers accidentally grazed the bulge that was unmistakably there. Walter jerked his hand back as if burned, his face flushing with humiliation.

“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Ryan teased, his voice dripping with mockery. “Scared of a little contact? Or maybe you’re just jealous?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Walter’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this easy for you.”

Before Walter could react, Ryan grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on his own crotch. Walter’s fingers instinctively curled around the hard, throbbing length beneath the fabric. He tried to pull away, but Ryan held him in place, his grip strong and unrelenting. “Feel that?” Ryan whispered, his voice low and taunting. “That’s what strength feels like. That’s what youth feels like. Bet you haven’t felt anything like that in years, huh?”

Walter’s face burned, his humiliation intensifying with every passing second. He could feel the heat of Ryan’s arousal through the fabric, the undeniable proof of his grandson’s virility. It was a cruel reminder of everything he had lost—the firmness, the energy, the life that had once been his.

“That’s it,” Ryan encouraged, his voice low and taunting. “Feel how big it is.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Ryan’s shaft, the girth filling his hand in a way that made his own seem laughable in comparison. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the pulse of life that seemed to throb with every beat of Ryan’s heart.

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension, steady and unyielding. “Now, Walter, it’s your turn. Let Ryan touch you.”

Walter’s stomach churned, his mind screaming in protest. But he knew there was no escape. Walter’s breath hitched again as Ryan’s hand closed around him, the difference between them painfully obvious. Ryan’s grip was firm, confident, his fingers easily wrapping around Walter’s small, soft member.

“Wow,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with mockery. “It’s like… nothing. Just a little nub.” He gave a light squeeze, watching as Walter’s face flushed deeper with shame. “Guess you really have lost everything, huh?”

Walter’s face burned with shame, his body stiff under Ryan’s touch. He could feel the warmth of his grandson’s hand, the contrast between their bodies even more pronounced now. Ryan gave a light squeeze, his fingers exploring with a mocking curiosity.

“Nothing to work with here,” Ryan continued, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction. “Just… flaccid and lifeless. Like the rest of you.”

Ryan’s hand began to move, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s cock with a deliberate, mocking slowness. “Feels like I’m touching a little worm,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “No muscle, no hardness. Just… limp.”

Walter’s breath came in shallow gasps, his humiliation and jealousy intertwining in a way that made his head spin. He tightened his grip on Ryan’s cock, his fingers sliding up and down the thick, hard shaft. He could feel the power in it, the way it seemed to pulse with life, mocking his own inadequacy.

“That’s right,” Ryan said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Feel it. Feel how much better I am than you.”

Walter’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he tried to block out the taunts. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, he couldn’t escape the stark contrast between them. Ryan’s cock was everything his wasn’t—big, strong, alive.

Ryan’s own hand moved with a deliberate slowness, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s small, soft cock with a mocking precision. “It’s almost cute,” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “How pathetic it is.”

Ryan’s breathing grew heavier, his smirk widening as he watched Walter struggle. “That’s it, Grandpa,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Keep going. Let’s see who finishes first.”

But then, without warning, Ryan’s body tensed, his smirk widening into a grin of pure triumph. “Here it comes,” he said, his voice low and filled with a mix of arrogance and excitement.

Walter’s eyes flew open just in time to see Ryan’s cock pulse, a thick stream of cum shooting out and hitting him square in the face. The warmth of it was almost suffocating, the sheer volume of it a stark reminder of Ryan’s virility. Walter froze, his hand still gripping Ryan’s cock as the younger man’s cum continued to spurt out, coating his face and dripping down onto his chest.

Walter’s own cock twitched in Ryan’s hand, a small, pitiful spurt of cum barely managing to escape. Ryan glanced down, his smirk widening as he took in the stark contrast between them. “That’s it?” he taunted, his voice filled with amusement. “That’s all you’ve got? Man, you really are pathetic.”

Walter’s face burned with humiliation, his body trembling as he tried to process the sheer difference between them. Ryan’s cum was still warm on his face, a bitter reminder of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think as the weight of Ryan’s dominance pressed down on him.

Dr. Carter nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, let’s proceed with hypnosis while you’re still euphoric. I want you both to sit down and listen to my voice.” They weren’t even allowed to clean themselves. 

Walter obeyed, already feeling lightheaded from the session. He barely reacted as Dr. Carter began speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, guiding him deeper into relaxation.

Dr. Carter’s voice deepened, slow and steady, like a distant pulse guiding them into the depths of their minds. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Let go of everything else. Picture yourselves stepping into a vast space, one that belongs to both of you.”

Walter felt himself sinking, drifting into the doctor’s words, his senses blurring as the weight of the session pressed against him.

Dr. Carter’s voice became a thread weaving through his mind. “You are in a grand hall,” he continued. “A palace of mirrors, stretching endlessly in all directions. There is no ceiling, no walls—only reflections, endless and pure.”

The vision took shape.

Walter found himself standing in an enormous, empty chamber. The floor was smooth and black, almost liquid in appearance, reflecting light that had no source. Tall, ornate mirrors lined the space in every direction, their silvered surfaces pristine, infinite, inescapable.

He wasn’t alone.

Ryan stood beside him, just as Dr. Carter had described, both of them facing the mirrors that surrounded them.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Tell me, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter turned toward the nearest mirror, his breath catching in his throat.

Staring back at him wasn’t his wrinkled, aging face.

It was Ryan.

His reflection was young. Strong. The way he had once been.

A jolt of longing struck him like a knife between the ribs.

Ryan exhaled sharply beside him, amusement laced in his voice. “Hah. Would you look at that.”

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And if you look down at yourself, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter hesitated.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze.

His heart lurched.

He wasn’t looking at withered hands, spotted with age. His body—his mental body—wasn’t frail or weak.

It was Ryan’s.

The hands were young, strong, his shoulders broad, his posture straight. His chest solid, his legs full of power.

For a single, intoxicating moment, hope flared within him. Maybe this was the proof he needed. Maybe, if even his mind rejected this body, there was still a chance—

Dr. Carter turned his attention to Ryan. “And you, Ryan? What do you see?”

Ryan smirked. “Same thing. My reflection looks like Walter. And when I look down?” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “Old. Obese. Weak.”

Walter’s stomach twisted.

Dr. Carter nodded. “Good. That is your self-perception. The mind’s final grasp on the confusion. But that confusion will fade. The mind cannot fight the truth.”

The words slithered into Walter’s thoughts, sinking deeper.

“The reflections are truth,” Dr. Carter murmured. “The mind knows which body it belongs to.”

Walter turned his gaze back to the mirror.

His breath caught.

The image was… shifting.

The firm jawline softened. Wrinkles bled into the smooth skin. His chest lost its shape, sagging under the weight of years. His shoulders hunched, his legs losing definition. The reflection aged before his eyes.

His pulse pounded.

“No,” he whispered.

But the mirrors did not lie.

Across from him, Ryan’s reflection changed, too—but in the opposite way. The tired, aging body in his mirror straightened. Muscles formed beneath once-loose skin. His shoulders broadened. His stance grew confident, filled with youth.

Ryan chuckled softly, watching the change unfold.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained unwavering. “The reflections have settled. But now, the mind must align.”

Walter looked down, desperate—

His body still looked young. His hands were still Ryan’s hands. His chest still solid, his legs still strong.

The reflection was wrong.

It had to be wrong.

Ryan hummed thoughtfully, inspecting himself in the mirror. “Yeah… this is looking a lot better, huh?” He turned his head slightly, watching the light catch his sharp jawline. “Starting to feel natural.”

Walter’s breath grew shallow. “No…”

Dr. Carter’s tone became more commanding. “The mind must not fight the truth.”

The walls of mirrors shimmered.

A pull deep within Walter’s chest made his skin crawl. A sinking sensation washed over him, like he was being submerged, like something was being taken—

And then—

His hands.

His chest.

His legs.

They weren’t young anymore.

His own body—his mental body—had changed. The frail arms, the wrinkled skin, the weakened muscles—

It was all his again.

Walter gasped sharply, stumbling back.

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, no, no—”

Ryan’s laughter was quiet, smug.

Walter turned, wide-eyed, to see Ryan inspecting his own reflection. And this time, when Ryan looked down at himself—

He saw youth. Strength. Power.

And when he smirked, it wasn’t an illusion. It was real.

His body.

His mind.

It was over.

“You are Walter Holloway,” Dr. Carter’s voice droned. “You have always been Walter Holloway. You are an aging man, a father, a grandfather. And Ryan is your grandson. That is the truth. That is reality.”

Walter’s head swam. His body felt heavy. The words seeped into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

Dr. Carter’s voice softened. “Tell me, Walter. Who are you?”

Walter’s heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to scream. To resist.

But as he looked back at the reflection—at the undeniable image staring back at him—his throat closed.

“I…”

Ryan exhaled, dragging out the moment, savoring it.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but firm. “Say it.”

Walter swallowed hard, every ounce of fight draining from his limbs.

His lips trembled.

His voice barely above a whisper.

“I am Walter Holloway.”

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. “And who is Ryan?”

Walter clenched his fists, but his reflection only showed old, frail hands curling in on themselves.

He looked at Ryan.

Ryan—young, smirking, victorious.

Walter’s head lowered in submission.

“My grandson.”

Ryan let out a slow breath, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That’s right.”

Dr. Carter smiled. “Very good. And tell me, Walter—despite everything, despite the jealousy, despite the past… would you have it any other way?”

Walter hesitated.

The mirrors had spoken.

The body.

The mind.

The truth.

He exhaled shakily.

“…No.”

Dr. Carter’s voice was a final, steady command. “Then accept it.”

Walter’s shoulders sagged.

His body.

His reflection.

His fate.

“…I accept it. I wouldn't have it any other way ”

Ryan grinned.

And Walter Holloway knew, with bone-deep certainty, that there was no going back.

The Conclusion

After weeks of relentless therapy, psychological conditioning, and medical evaluations, the doctors finally deemed Ryan and Walter fully adjusted to their "true" identities. There were no more arguments, no more desperate pleas, no more resistance—at least, not outwardly. Walter had long since realized that fighting was useless. He had been backed into a corner, stripped of everything, and molded into what they wanted him to be. The final signatures were scrawled onto discharge papers, the last stamp of approval sealing their fates. With that, the hospital doors were thrown open, allowing them to step back into the world—not as themselves, but as the people the system had forced them to become.

As they prepared to leave, the contrast between them was stark. Walter—now in Ryan’s youthful, athletic body—was practically glowing with excitement, while Ryan—trapped in Walter’s aging, weakened frame—moved stiffly, weighed down by both the ill-fitting clothes and the unbearable reality of his situation.

Dressing that morning had been its own form of torture for Walter. The thick fabric of the slacks chafed against his legs, and the button-up shirt felt foreign, like a costume draped over someone he no longer recognized. The cardigan smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale detergent, a scent that clung to him like an accusation. The orthopedic shoes were stiff and heavy, dragging his steps down even further. Each layer of clothing was a reminder of what had been taken from him.

Ryan, on the other hand, had never felt better. He relished the way Ryan’s well-fitted tank top hugged his torso, how the jeans sat comfortably on his hips like they had always belonged to him. But the best part—the part that made it all feel real—was the scent. With a satisfied smirk, he rolled on Walter’s deodorant, letting the crisp, masculine smell envelop him. Then, with slow deliberation, he reached for Walter’s cologne, giving himself a generous spritz before inhaling deeply.

“Ahh,” Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms in satisfaction. “Now this smells like me.”

When it was finally time to leave, Ryan snatched the car keys and twirled them between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll drive,” he said, shooting Walter a knowing glance. “Considering the last time you were behind the wheel, we both ended up in the hospital, I’d say it’s for the best.” The words were lighthearted, but the smugness in his tone made Walter’s jaw tighten.

Walter said nothing. What could he say? He simply followed Ryan out of the hospital, his slow, weary steps a bitter contrast to Ryan’s confident, youthful stride. Ryan moved like he owned the world—because, in a way, he did. Walter, burdened by age, weight, and the cruel truth of his new reality, shuffled behind him, feeling smaller with every step.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ryan adjusted the mirrors, the seat, the steering wheel—everything to fit his new, larger frame.

Walter sank into the passenger seat, feeling uncomfortably out of place in a car that had once been his. The interior, the familiar scent, the worn leather—all reminders of a life that no longer belonged to him.

The sun bore down through the windshield, and Ryan exhaled dramatically. “Damn, it’s hot.” With a smirk, he grabbed his tank top and pulled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the dashboard before buckling his seatbelt. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, the ridges of his abs shifting as he settled in. Walter forced his gaze forward, his gut twisting at the sight of his former body, now so casually on display.

Ryan drummed his fingers on the wheel, then shot Walter another grin. “Ready to go, Gramps?”

Walter swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had no choice but to nod. The drive home felt longer than ever.

When they arrived home, Ryan stepped through the door with effortless ease, his posture relaxed, his smile easy—exactly how the old Ryan used to be. He greeted his family with a familiar charm, embracing them with warmth and speaking with the natural confidence of a young man who had his entire life ahead of him. They welcomed him with open arms, laughing at his jokes, asking about his recovery, completely unaware of the horrifying truth behind his stolen identity. 

Meanwhile, Walter stood awkwardly at the threshold, his movements slower, his presence smaller. The moment their eyes landed on him, everything changed. His family’s smiles faltered just slightly, their expressions shifting into something softer—gentle, but laced with a quiet pity. They spoke to him in lowered tones, carefully enunciating their words as if he might not understand. A hesitant pat on the shoulder, a brief exchange of pleasantries—it was clear they saw him as an old man who needed patience, not as the person he truly was. Every glance that lingered too long, every concerned look exchanged behind his back only deepened the pit in his stomach. He had come home, and yet, for the first time in his life, he had never felt more out of place.

The transition was swift and brutal. The old Walter stepped seamlessly into Ryan’s life, assuming every aspect of his former grandson’s existence as if he had always belonged there. He moved into Ryan’s bedroom, effortlessly adjusting to the space—the unmade bed, the posters on the walls, the faint scent of cologne still lingering in the air. It took him no time at all to settle into the familiar routine: early morning workouts at the gym, cracking jokes with Ryan’s friends, slipping into easy, flirtatious conversations with women who had once been off-limits. He thrived in this body, this life, indulging in every sensation and pleasure that came with youth.

Meanwhile, Walter was forced into a role he had never imagined for himself—that of an aging, powerless retiree. His world shrank overnight, confined to the quiet, unremarkable existence of an old man whose presence barely registered to those around him. He was no longer included in conversations the way he once had been; his opinions carried less weight, his presence went unnoticed. His body, once strong and agile, now ached with every movement, reminding him constantly of what he had lost.

But the most painful losses weren’t physical. They were the pieces of his identity that were stripped away, one by one, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been. His phone—his direct connection to the world he knew—was surrendered, replaced with a simple device meant for seniors, its contents erased. His bank accounts, his credit cards, the very name attached to them. His clothes were replaced with drab, practical attire suited for an elderly man, his favorite belongings distributed without a second thought. With every item he relinquished, the reality of his new existence settled in deeper, suffocating him.

The nights were the worst. Lying alone in his unfamiliar bed, Walter would hear the sounds coming from his old bedroom—the laughter, the music, the muffled voices. And then, sometimes, the unmistakable sounds of passion, of intimacy, of a body that had once been his, now used for pleasures he could no longer experience. A sharp, ugly jealousy burned within him, twisting his stomach into knots, but he swallowed it down. This was reality. This was how things were meant to be. Walter was Ryan now, and he, the old Ryan, was nothing more than an old man. And so, he forced himself to close his eyes, to let go of the bitterness, to accept the life that had been decided for him.

Now, back in the privacy of Ryan’s—his—room, Ryan stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the body that was now his. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over his skin. He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his fingers. He was perfect. Every inch of him.

He turned to the side, flexing his biceps, watching as the muscle tensed and bulged. He reached down, cupping the firmness of his ass, squeezing it experimentally. A shiver of pleasure ran through him. This body… it was electric. Every touch felt amplified, every sensation more intense than he remembered.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen, until his fingers dipped below the waistband of his sweatpants. He let out a low groan as he took himself in hand, feeling the heat and hardness of his new body. It had been years—decades, really—since he’d felt like this. Young. Hungry. Alive.

He began to stroke himself slowly, his eyes locked on his reflection. His breath quickened as he watched his face flush, his lips part in pleasure. He couldn’t look away. The sight of himself—his youthful self—was intoxicating. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every bead of sweat rolling down his skin was a reminder of what he’d gained.

His hand moved faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. He let his free hand roam over his chest, tweaking a nipple, feeling the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through him. He was close—so close. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as he reached the edge.

And then he was there, his body shuddering with release, his hand still moving as he spilled onto his stomach. He stood there for a moment, panting, his heart racing, his mind buzzing with satisfaction.

When he finally opened his eyes and opened his selfie camera, he couldn’t help but grin. This was his body now. His new life. And he was going to enjoy every damn second of it.

Ryan flourished in his stolen youth, embracing every ounce of vitality and strength that came with it. At home, he rarely bothered with a shirt, his toned physique constantly on display as he stretched, flexed, and moved with the effortless confidence of a man in his prime. Every movement seemed designed to remind Walter of what he had lost, of the body that once belonged to him but now obeyed another. Ryan's reflection had become a source of pride, and he ensured that his new grandfather—his former self—saw exactly what he had become.

He took to Ryan’s life as if it had always been his own, stepping seamlessly into friendships, relationships, and professional pursuits. His charm made the transition effortless. No one questioned the shift in demeanor, the newfound confidence and ease with which he navigated the world. Even in love, he thrived. The woman the old Ryan had once longed for but could never quite win over was now his. He had everything the old Ryan had struggled for, and he had taken it without consequence. Every success, every moment of pleasure, was a reminder that this was his life now, and no one—not even the man who had once lived it—could change that.

Meanwhile, Walter withered under the weight of his new reality. He was no longer seen as the strong, capable man he had once been. Now, he was an afterthought—an aging, pitiful figure trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn. His protests were dismissed as the confused ramblings of a senile old man, his desperation met with sympathetic nods and condescending reassurances. He was humored, not heard. The fight drained out of him with each passing day, his words fading into silence as he realized the futility of it all. He was powerless, forced to watch his old body, his old life, thrive without him.

Eventually, Walter stopped fighting. There was no point anymore. The world had already moved on, and he had been left behind. He no longer corrected people when they called him Walter. He no longer tried to reclaim what had been stolen. He simply accepted it. And with that acceptance, the last remnants of his old self faded away. For all intents and purposes, he was Walter Holloway.

https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXetnQg1GJNopG4fBsKFeJQmKSQHdGOH5rVqxdbiVZTEUrk3NmzvlBE_qid0DNp_F797AUaoptTbMZ__sivOcgt9dhmeyulsY1gA6HJo_AYU3L7BUaAg1VlFT0HsP-k1GowhELtwLA?key=kgQC7utVG18iSUuBehAZym-C

A full year passed since the accident, since their minds had been wrenched from their rightful places and forced into new vessels. The family gathered once again, a mirror image of the last time—except everything had changed. Ryan played the role of grandson with ease, laughing, joking, exuding the boundless energy of youth. Walter sat in the background, the quiet, aging patriarch. Something inside him had shifted as well. The resistance had vanished, replaced by something resembling contentment—or at least resignation.

For a fleeting moment, a thought crept into his mind. It had been a year since we were out of our minds. A year since fate—or something else—had rewritten their lives. But he pushed the thought away, willing himself to believe what he needed to believe. He was, is, and always would be Walter Holloway. And the man across the room, the one who had once been his grandfather, was, is, and always would be Ryan.

The End.

[moonsinnergom]

Poolside Fight

“This is what you want, right?” Cade hissed as I watched him getting more and more swole as he jacked his dick over his shorts. “You want me to be one of those cocky meat heads? Am I big enough for you yet, babe?”

“Cade…” I tried to calm down the situation but Cade wouldn’t let me get a word in.

“Oh, what, bigger? Still not good enough? You got it man,” Cade clenched his teeth as his neck and shoulder bulged out larger in size.

———

He’d packed on a ton of weight in the past several moments since he started his sudden explicit display. It started as a bit of a fight. See, I’ve always been a bit of an athlete, competing in soccer and basketball during my time at college and even playing recreationally on a community team during the weekends. Cade was not an athlete by any stretch, but that doesn’t mean he was a slouch by any means. He was cute and academic, with a face and a mind that made me swoon. That being said, I always wanted Cade to come to the gym with me to put some meat on his bones, just to give him a little more body for my enjoyment, but obviously my wishes and constant mention of what he saw as one of his deficits were, you could say a little off-putting.

Well, we were out by our neighborhood pool getting some sun and relaxing, when I looked over at him and saw his flat chest rising and falling with his breath. I said something I thought was innocuous enough, though it clearly wasn’t.

“You would look so hot with a little curvature on your chest.”

He took a heavy sigh and glared over at me, not saying a word, then closed his eyes and kept sunbathing.

“What?!” I scoffed. “I’m simply saying how good it would look on you if we put a little meat on your bones. Let me make y—..”

I stopped talking as Cade opened his mouth, as though he was going to interrupt me with something. He usually just rolls his eyes when I bring something like that up, but today it seemed as though he had some thought about it. For whatever reason, he decided say anything and closed his mouth… but then seconds later turned to glare at me again.

“I’m never gonna be good enough for you, am I?”

“Cade, look, that’s not what I—..”

“Like what’s the issue? I’m not unhealthy, I’m not a slob, I’m completely average. Is that not enough for you? Do I need to be some fucking Ken doll for you? Is that it?!”

Cade was clearly getting heated. He’d never reacted to my suggestions like this.

“Babe, I’m simply saying—..”

“What, that you’re bored and you want someone your own size?! You want a big man?? You want someone to make you the little spoon?? Is that what you want, ‘babe?’ You don’t want someone to love, you just want some himbo to fuck, don’t you?”

“Uhh… yeah?” I chuckled, scratching the back of my head, hoping to cool the tension in the air with a dumb joke. Clearly, Cade did not find it funny at all.

“Fuck you.” He stated simply.

“Wait, babe, it was a joke, I—..”

Before I could finish my sentence, Cade reached down and started pumping his soft dick over his shorts with ferocity. He started breathing heavily as his cock began to fill up with blood, and I thought this was his means of cooling the tension in the air. I sheepishly reached over to where he was sitting, trying to slip my hand under his shorts, but before I could get too close he swatted my hand away with his other hand. Fine, I figured, a little masturbation between the two of us by the pool could be sweet. I slipped my hand into my own shorts and started pumping my own meat, bringing it out of my shorts and coaxing it to rise to its hardened 7 inches, and started jacking myself off along with Cade. He just looked over at me panting and rolled his eyes.

I let go of my hard cock and let it bob stiffly in the air, “So what’s the goal with this, huh? You’re just gonna blue ball me for a while?”

Cade just chuckled breathily, “It’s always about you, isn’t it? No, I’m gonna give you what you wanted. I’m gonna get bigger.”

“Yeah you are,” I agreed saucily as his cock plumped up to its full size. “So it is always about me, then!”

Cade obviously didn’t appreciate my second failed attempt at a joke either, as he scowled at me between heavy pants and started jacking with more anger and ferocity.

“Cade, look, I’m sorry. That was dickish of me. Come on, just pull that thing out and let me polish your rod, I’ll let you—..”

Before I could finish the sentence, Cade’s body noticeably pulsed like a heartbeat. After the pulse, he was slightly but definitely bulkier than he was before, his arms now displaying curves and shadows it didn’t before and his chest a little more pronounced, plus his legs were looking thicker.

I just gawked. I couldn’t believe I just saw something like that happen. He looked at me with a devilish grin, still pumping his meat.

“You wanted bigger, right? I’ll show you bigger.”

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