swappetf11

[swappetf11]

I was told to blend in.

That’s what the briefing said. “High-visibility event. Client wants low-profile presence. You’re there to observe, make contact if needed, stay incognito.”

Incognito I could do. I’d done Burning Man in dusty cargo, Coachella in a tie-dye hoodie, even South by Southwest in a fake badge and a Rolling Stones tee. I figured this would be more of the same.

Then I walked into the prep room.

It was a cool, sterile space hidden behind a boutique on 9th Street. Music thumped faintly through the walls, something pulsing and unapologetically queer. Glitter hung in the air like mist. I was still wearing my tactical black and my sidearm, trying to make sense of the racks of sequined gowns, makeup palettes the size of license plates, and shelves of towering heels.

Carlos stood in the center of it all, clipboard in hand, glossy black nails, hair swept up like a goddamn peacock.

“You must be Deacon,” he said. “Let’s get you stripped and tucked. You’re on in three hours.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry—tucked?”

“Darling,” he drawled. “You’re a drag queen.”

I didn’t know what to say.

I’d followed orders my whole career, but this wasn’t orders. This was something else. A curveball aimed directly at my masculinity and lobbed with glittered fingers. But I stripped, slowly. Tactical shirt first, then undershirt, cargo pants, boots. I stood in the center of the room in nothing but briefs and ankle socks.

Carlos motioned to the table. “Lie down. Open your legs.”

The words hit like a shock to the chest.

He was holding a tuck kit—tape, padding, a cooling gel I didn’t recognize. I hesitated.

“You want to blend in?” he asked, eyes sharp now. “This is how queens survive. We become art.”

I nodded once. Lie back. Lifted my legs.

The cold air hit me first.

Then the gel—cooling, tingling as it was massaged carefully along the shaft, the balls, the skin beneath.

Carlos was gentle. Experienced. He talked me through every movement. “Now I’m going to guide everything back. You’ll feel pressure. Breathe through it.”

He slid his gloved fingers underneath, guiding me inward. My cock folded backward, my balls pushed gently into the inguinal canal, one at a time. I gasped—not from pain, but from the surreal tightness of it. Like pressing the core of myself into a hollow I didn’t know existed.

Then the tape.

Strong. Flexible. He smoothed it upward, anchoring it from taint to lower stomach in one, long, firm motion. My briefs were pulled up—tight, reinforced—and everything vanished.

Gone.

Flat.

I looked down.

Nothing.

Just smoothness.

Carlos handed me a mirror, but I couldn’t bring myself to look yet.

They helped me stand.

I was told not to twist too hard. Not to lunge. Keep my knees slightly bent when walking.

Then came the corset.

It wrapped around my waist like a vice, leather and satin boning, black with crimson edging. Carlos pulled the laces tighter with each exhale until my ribs lifted higher than I was used to, my breath shallow and decorative.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Women wear beauty like armor.”

Then the breastplate.

Warm, soft, and substantial. It slid over my shoulders like a weighted vest, cool against the tape on my tucked groin. I felt the swell of breasts sit on my chest for the first time—large, high, soft. My balance shifted. My arms naturally moved around them.

Carlos powdered and blended until it looked seamless. The contour was perfect—cleavage, slope, even subtle veins. I reached up and touched one. It jiggled.

It bounced.

“Stop staring,” Carlos murmured. “You’ll give yourself away.”

The dress was next.

A floor-length gown—navy sequins with a high slit up one thigh and a deep plunge between the breasts. They slid it over my body and zipped it from behind.

The fabric clung to me. Hugged me.

It didn’t just fit—it performed.

Every breath pulled it tighter around my middle. Every step sent a whisper of sequins brushing between my thighs.

Heels followed.

Black stilettos. Four inches. I wobbled as I stepped into them. Carlos steadied me. “Heel first. Then toe. Keep your steps narrow. Let your hips do the work.”

I practiced. Two steps. Three.

I caught my reflection in a chrome wall panel. I didn’t look like me. I looked… dangerous.

Then came the makeup.

Brows blocked and redrawn higher.

Eyes smoked out in plum and gold.

Lips overlined, full and berry-glossed.

Lashes—lashes—like butterflies perched on my eyelids. Long. Soft. Flicking upward with every blink. The glue tingled.

“Don’t squint,” Carlos warned. “Keep your eyes shut. Light pressure.”

They attached. When I opened them, the world looked different—softer, more dramatic, like everything had been lit for seduction.

Then the nails.

Acrylic. Shiny. Almond-shaped with black tips and tiny rhinestones. My hands looked like they belonged to a different species now. I couldn’t close them. Could barely clench a fist.

That was the point.

“Now,” Carlos said, adjusting the wig cap and sliding on the lace-front hair—deep wine red, curled, styled off one shoulder—“talk to me.”

I tried. My voice cracked.

He adjusted my jaw. “Lighter. Softer. Speak from the front of your face, not your chest. Smile with your tone. Say your name.”

I hesitated. “Deacon…”

“No,” Carlos interrupted. “She’s not Deacon. She’s…”

I swallowed. My throat felt dry, but my lips looked perfect.

“…Roxy.”

Carlos raised a brow. “Last name?”

I paused, watching my painted reflection. My lashes dipped low. My chest rose against the sequins. I curled my fingers delicately around the vanity.

“…Roxy Saint.”

Carlos beamed. “Of course she is.”

He left me alone for a moment to get dressed.

The room was quiet, the only sound a faint pop song vibrating through the concrete.

I turned slowly in the mirror.

The heels made my calves flex. The gown emphasized the fake curve of my hip. My breastplate rose and fell slowly. I touched my lips with the back of a rhinestoned nail, tracing the shine.

And something… stirred.

Deep.

Primitive.

I adjusted the tuck slightly—just a shift of pressure—and realized I couldn’t get hard.

But I was.

I mean, mentally. Emotionally. Whatever that was, watching myself in the mirror, legs slightly parted, hand on hip, mouth slightly open.

I’d never looked at myself like this before.

I’d never wanted to.

But Roxy Saint?

She was hot.

And I was… her.

Even just for tonight.

I couldn’t stop staring.

The curve of my own reflection made my breath hitch. The wig—no, the hair—spilled down past my shoulders in a dark, seductive cascade. It wasn’t just attached to me, it framed me. Every soft curl bounced when I moved my head, catching light like it had something to say.

I brushed one lock behind my ear—slow, delicate, just like Carlos had shown me—and it stayed, as if trained to obey. The movement was addictive. I did it again. My fingertips, still clumsy with long nails, grazed the curve of my jaw. It was my face under there, technically, but it didn’t look like Deacon.

It looked like her.

Roxy Saint.

The name had settled into me fast. Too fast. Like it had always been mine. Like she’d been waiting just below the surface, patient and bored, until now.

I shifted my hips, just to see. The dress clung tighter than anything I’d ever worn, but the slit gave me just enough freedom. My ass—padded just enough, blended with contour—moved like it was built to make people stare.

I moved like that now.

And the heels—Christ. Four-inch stilettos that forced my weight forward, pushed my hips back, made every step an exercise in balance and power. I walked slow, deliberately, heel-toe, heel-toe, the floor clicking under me like a rhythm I was learning to command.

The corset made me breathe from higher up. Every breath was smaller but sexier. Each inhale pushed my chest forward, made the breasts bounce subtly, and I couldn’t lie to myself—every bounce, every shift of my tucked groin under the tight pressure of that tape and thong, made me feel something I couldn’t name yet.

When I turned side to side in the mirror, I saw the illusion of a waist so narrow it made me blink. My back arched. My ass popped. My thighs brushed when I walked.

The makeup didn’t smear.

It stayed.

Even when I pressed my cheek into the back of my gloved hand, even when I tried blinking fast, trying to test the lashes—they just fluttered, like they were part of me. Like I had always worn them.

The gloss on my lips still felt fresh. Every time I opened my mouth to breathe, I caught the faint taste of synthetic berries and heat. I watched how it made my mouth glisten. My lips weren’t lips anymore. They were weapons.

I heard Carlos’ voice echoing from earlier. “The whole week is performance.”

He hadn’t been joking.

I had assumed I’d slip into the crowd, nod, scan, step back into the shadow. But no—this was the blending in. It was becoming. I wasn’t supposed to disappear.

I was supposed to be seen.

Roxy Saint wasn’t a costume.

She was camouflage.

There was a knock on the door.

I took a shaky breath, adjusted the fall of my breasts inside the gown, smoothed a hand over my hip—carefully, avoiding the rhinestones on my new nails—and clicked toward the door.

Carlos stood there, holding a small bottle of champagne and a smile that knew too much.

“Time for your press photos.”

I blinked. “Press?”

“You’re not just blending in, darling. You’re booked.”

My mouth dried.

He handed me the flute and said, “Don’t smudge your lipstick when you drink. Tilt the glass, not your head. Nails out. Wrist loose.”

I followed instructions.

The glass felt delicate between my fingers, the chill running up into my wrist. I brought it slowly to my lips, keeping my chin tucked, tilting only the glass. The cool liquid passed over my tongue, catching hints of my lipstick—bitter, sweet, chemical. Bubbles tickled the back of my throat. I tried not to cough.

Carlos just smiled and turned. “And when you eat, use your fork like it’s a tool, not a weapon. One bite at a time. You’ll learn.”

My stomach was tight anyway—between the corset and the nerves, food could wait.

But the photos couldn’t.

They took me to a small rooftop set up with Pride banners and a neon-pink inflatable backdrop. The photographer was already snapping test shots, her camera clicking like a heartbeat. She looked up and froze when she saw me.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

I didn’t mean to blush—but I did.

She stepped forward. “You’re gorgeous. Let’s get that slit up. Show some thigh.”

My legs obeyed before my brain could argue. I shifted the fabric. One long, shaved leg forward, hip cocked. Carlos adjusted the angle of my chin.

“More presence,” he whispered. “You’re not hiding. You’re seducing.”

And just like that—click.

The camera flashed.

I posed.

Click. Flash.

Shoulders angled. Lips parted. Fingers curled.

Every angle they asked for, I gave them.

Something inside me was unlocking.

A slow ache between my thighs that was more than just pressure from the tuck. I could feel myself trying to get hard, deep under the layers of tape and compression. I pressed my thighs together—tight.

I was getting turned on by myself.

Not just by the image—but the feeling.

This… beauty. This power.

I could hear the heels clicking beneath me as I shifted weight from one side to the other. The movement made the fake breasts bounce ever so slightly. My waist looked impossibly small under the tight satin. My ass curved naturally now when I twisted toward the camera.

I caught my own reflection in a polished panel near the elevator.

My mouth opened just slightly.

She was breathtaking.

Roxy Saint was immaculate.

Elegant. Bold. Designed to destroy.

And that was what scared me the most—how good it felt to be her.

How right it suddenly felt.

How this was supposed to be a disguise—but for the first time in my entire life, I was feeling. I was present in my body in a way I never had been before.

I whispered the name to myself.

“Roxy…”

My cock throbbed again under the pressure of the tuck—frustrated, trapped.

I smiled.

Because she wasn’t.

I couldn’t stop staring.

The curve of my own reflection made my breath hitch. The wig—no, the hair—spilled down past my shoulders in a dark, seductive cascade. It wasn’t just attached to me, it framed me. Every soft curl bounced when I moved my head, catching light like it had something to say.

I brushed one lock behind my ear—slow, delicate, just like Carlos had shown me—and it stayed, as if trained to obey. The movement was addictive. I did it again. My fingertips, still clumsy with long nails, grazed the curve of my jaw. It was my face under there, technically, but it didn’t look like Deacon.

It looked like her.

Roxy Saint.

The name had settled into me fast. Too fast. Like it had always been mine. Like she’d been waiting just below the surface, patient and bored, until now.

I shifted my hips, just to see. The dress clung tighter than anything I’d ever worn, but the slit gave me just enough freedom. My ass—padded just enough, blended with contour—moved like it was built to make people stare.

I moved like that now.

And the heels—Christ. Four-inch stilettos that forced my weight forward, pushed my hips back, made every step an exercise in balance and power. I walked slow, deliberately, heel-toe, heel-toe, the floor clicking under me like a rhythm I was learning to command.

The corset made me breathe from higher up. Every breath was smaller but sexier. Each inhale pushed my chest forward, made the breasts bounce subtly, and I couldn’t lie to myself—every bounce, every shift of my tucked groin under the tight pressure of that tape and thong, made me feel something I couldn’t name yet.

When I turned side to side in the mirror, I saw the illusion of a waist so narrow it made me blink. My back arched. My ass popped. My thighs brushed when I walked.

The makeup didn’t smear.

It stayed.

Even when I pressed my cheek into the back of my gloved hand, even when I tried blinking fast, trying to test the lashes—they just fluttered, like they were part of me. Like I had always worn them.

The gloss on my lips still felt fresh. Every time I opened my mouth to breathe, I caught the faint taste of synthetic berries and heat. I watched how it made my mouth glisten. My lips weren’t lips anymore. They were weapons.

I heard Carlos’ voice echoing from earlier. “The whole week is performance.”

He hadn’t been joking.

I had assumed I’d slip into the crowd, nod, scan, step back into the shadow. But no—this was the blending in. It was becoming. I wasn’t supposed to disappear.

I was supposed to be seen.

Roxy Saint wasn’t a costume.

She was camouflage.

There was a knock on the door.

I took a shaky breath, adjusted the fall of my breasts inside the gown, smoothed a hand over my hip—carefully, avoiding the rhinestones on my new nails—and clicked toward the door.

Carlos stood there, holding a small bottle of champagne and a smile that knew too much.

“Time for your press photos.”

I blinked. “Press?”

“You’re not just blending in, darling. You’re booked.”

My mouth dried.

He handed me the flute and said, “Don’t smudge your lipstick when you drink. Tilt the glass, not your head. Nails out. Wrist loose.”

I followed instructions.

The glass felt delicate between my fingers, the chill running up into my wrist. I brought it slowly to my lips, keeping my chin tucked, tilting only the glass. The cool liquid passed over my tongue, catching hints of my lipstick—bitter, sweet, chemical. Bubbles tickled the back of my throat. I tried not to cough.

Carlos just smiled and turned. “And when you eat, use your fork like it’s a tool, not a weapon. One bite at a time. You’ll learn.”

My stomach was tight anyway—between the corset and the nerves, food could wait.

But the photos couldn’t.

They took me to a small rooftop set up with Pride banners and a neon-pink inflatable backdrop. The photographer was already snapping test shots, her camera clicking like a heartbeat. She looked up and froze when she saw me.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

I didn’t mean to blush—but I did.

She stepped forward. “You’re gorgeous. Let’s get that slit up. Show some thigh.”

My legs obeyed before my brain could argue. I shifted the fabric. One long, shaved leg forward, hip cocked. Carlos adjusted the angle of my chin.

“More presence,” he whispered. “You’re not hiding. You’re seducing.”

And just like that—click.

The camera flashed.

I posed.

Click. Flash.

Shoulders angled. Lips parted. Fingers curled.

Every angle they asked for, I gave them.

Something inside me was unlocking.

A slow ache between my thighs that was more than just pressure from the tuck. I could feel myself trying to get hard, deep under the layers of tape and compression. I pressed my thighs together—tight.

I was getting turned on by myself.

Not just by the image—but the feeling.

This… beauty. This power.

I could hear the heels clicking beneath me as I shifted weight from one side to the other. The movement made the fake breasts bounce ever so slightly. My waist looked impossibly small under the tight satin. My ass curved naturally now when I twisted toward the camera.

I caught my own reflection in a polished panel near the elevator.

My mouth opened just slightly.

She was breathtaking.

Roxy Saint was immaculate.

Elegant. Bold. Designed to destroy.

And that was what scared me the most—how good it felt to be her.

How right it suddenly felt.

How this was supposed to be a disguise—but for the first time in my entire life, I was feeling. I was present in my body in a way I never had been before.

I whispered the name to myself.

“Roxy…”

My cock throbbed again under the pressure of the tuck—frustrated, trapped.

I smiled.

Because she wasn’t.

Sure. Here’s the rewritten, immersive first-person continuation from Jamar’s point of view—detailing his transformation into a gay leather bear, now including his confusion about the term “bear,” a conversation about what it means in gay culture, and the experience of getting nipple piercings as part of the process.

I stood in the prep room in nothing but my briefs and socks, watching the chaos unfold around me. Sequins and feathers to one side, cigars and leather to the other. No one here was in a rush, but everything moved fast.

Carlos, clipboard in hand, strode toward me, scanning my frame like he was sizing up a slab of meat.

“You must be Jamar,” he said. “Mmm. Yes. Leather. Definitely leather.”

I frowned. “Hold on. Leather what?”

Carlos raised a brow. “Bear.”

“Excuse me?”

He smirked. “Bear, sweetheart. It’s a term. A whole subculture. Big man, body hair, facial hair, older vibe. Leather. Power. Softness underneath. Think—teddy bear meets sex god.”

I blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Carlos chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Welcome to the gay community. You’re going to be a very desirable man this weekend. Trust me.”

I didn’t respond right away. I was still processing.

Bear?

I didn’t know if I was more confused or… flattered.

He stepped behind me and tapped the waistband of my briefs. “Let’s begin.”

First came the head shave. I’d kept my cut low for years, but now they took it to the skin. Hot towels. Cream that smelled like menthol and bourbon. A straight razor. Each stroke exposed me more.

Then came the lace-front beard. They used my own clippings—blended with coarse, streaked gray and glued along my jawline in sections. It was thicker than anything I could have grown naturally. It aged me up, gave me authority.

When I saw the beard complete, I didn’t see myself.

I saw someone I would’ve avoided eye contact with in a leather bar.

Carlos came back holding a tray. “Let’s get those nipples ready.”

I blinked. “Wait, ready for what?”

He grinned. “Piercings.”

My jaw clenched. “That really necessary?”

“It’s not about necessity,” he said smoothly, swabbing my chest with alcohol. “It’s about commitment. You want to blend in? You need to look like a man who’s done this a hundred times. Like he owns the room. Not like he borrowed someone’s harness for the weekend.”

I didn’t flinch when the first clamp bit down.

It stung like a wasp—tight, pulsing. A few seconds of pressure. Then the needle.

White heat. My breath left me in one hard grunt.

The second came faster. Another sharp bite. Another breathless groan. The rings were thick—silver, polished. They clicked into place, cool against my flushed skin.

Carlos gently tapped one, just to see me wince. “Now that’s a bear.”

They worked fast.

Chest hair was applied—stippled in, dark, swirling across my pecs and down the middle of my stomach. My abs disappeared under the illusion of dense fur. My nipples—now pierced—gleamed beneath it, each ring catching the light as I shifted.

Then the harness.

Thick black leather straps crossing my chest, anchored with chrome O-rings over my pierced nipples. The harness squeezed everything tight. I felt the pressure with every breath.

“You’re gonna feel those rings with every step,” Carlos whispered. “That’s the point.”

They slid a jockstrap up next. My cock, already half-hard from the stimulation, was carefully adjusted into place. Thick pouch. Bare ass.

Then came the chaps—open in the back, black and heavy. They hugged my thighs like they were sculpted to my legs.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath as I looked down.

“You feel it?” Carlos asked, tugging the waist tight.

I nodded slowly.

I didn’t just feel it. I felt seen. Like this version of me had always been waiting, just under the surface.

The boots were next—massive, steel-toed, laced high up my calves. Each step I took in them was loud. Final. Heavy.

“You stomp when you move,” Carlos said. “You don’t walk. You claim.”

Then he handed me a cigar.

I stared at it.

“Don’t smoke?”

“I’ve lit a few. Don’t inhale.”

“Good,” he said. “Don’t light this. It’s a prop. But it matters. You let it sit loose on your lip. Tilt your jaw like you’ve done this before. Like you’ve done everything before.”

He slipped it between my lips.

I chewed on it gently. The taste of tobacco and cedar filled my mouth.

And just like that, the transformation clicked into place.

My reflection looked back at me like a stranger. No—like a man I’d admire. Fear, even.

The beard. The leather. The rings catching the overhead light. My chest fur curling under the straps. My cock pushing forward in the pouch.

I ran my hand down my stomach, over the fur, down to the top of the jock. I brushed over the piercing and hissed through my teeth.

It hurt. But it felt good.

Real.

The beard made me look older.

The rings made me look owned.

The leather made me look in charge.

But it wasn’t until I walked—heavy bootsteps, thighs rubbing, hips pushed slightly forward to counterbalance the cigar and the way the harness hugged my chest—that I understood.

Blending in didn’t mean fading out.

It meant becoming someone they couldn’t question.

And this weekend, I was the kind of bear you only see in your dreams or at 3AM in the back of a club.

Rough. Ready. Admired.

And already half-hard.

I needed the hour.

Not because I wasn’t used to new roles—hell, I’d played fake husbands, fake chauffeurs, even a fake priest once. But this? This wasn’t slipping into a disguise.

This was entering a whole damn culture.

And it was leathered, pierced, bearded, and thick.

I walked laps through the prep hallway, boots thudding hard enough to vibrate the walls, arms folded across my chest harness like I was guarding a vault. The weight of the cigar in my mouth, the cool drag of air over the exposed skin between the chaps, the constant awareness of the nipple piercings tugging just a little every time I exhaled—it was a lot.

I kept staring at myself in reflective surfaces, muttering names under my breath.

Brick.

No.

Too forced.

Dre?

Too soft.

Tank?

Yeah. That stuck.

Tank looked like he’d been wearing leather before he could walk. Tank didn’t care if you liked what you saw. He knew you would. He didn’t smile. He nodded once, and that was enough.

By the time they called for the team to reconvene, I was moving like the boots had always belonged to me. Like the straps knew my skin. Like the beard wasn’t glued to my face—it grew there.

I pushed open the door to the private staging suite and—

Stopped.

In front of me was… a woman. A tall one. Glittered. Elegant. Wig parted just so, legs crossed under a navy sequin gown, one stiletto tapping against the bench like she was waiting for a car, not a mission. Her lashes were criminal. Her lips looked like they came with a velvet rope and a bouncer.

And then she looked up.

Our eyes locked.

And I knew.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Her brow twitched. “Oh. You’ve arrived.”

That voice—Deacon. Smothered under perfect makeup and powdered sarcasm.

“You—” I pointed. “That’s what you went with?”

She—he—stood up. The gown spilled to the floor like a movie reveal. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t told we were competing for Most Unrecognizable. But now that I’ve seen you, congratulations. You win.”

I stared. “You have tits.”

“You have your entire ass out.”

“Correction,” I said, shifting my hips slightly. “I have half of it out. The important half’s still on duty.”

He took a slow step forward, those heels clicking with annoying authority. “What’s the name?”

“Huh?”

“The name. Drag 101: We all have names now.”

I grunted. “Tank.”

He stared. “Like the vehicle?”

“Like the energy.”

He sighed. “Of course.”

“And you?”

He adjusted his earring and gestured toward his face. “Roxy Saint.”

I snorted. “That sounds like an adult film actress and a cocktail combined.”

He smiled—tight. “And Tank sounds like a guy who gets winded walking up stairs.”

We just stood there, sizing each other up, both fully disguised, both trying to figure out which one of us had gotten the worse deal.

Then he looked me up and down, arms crossed under his fake tits.

“Beard’s convincing,” he muttered. “Actually looks like yours.”

I shifted the cigar in my mouth. “It is.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“They shaved me. Laced it. Blended it back in.”

There was a long pause. Then, in a deadpan tone: “Disgusting. Kind of respect it.”

We didn’t shake hands. We didn’t smile.

But we understood each other now.

We were both ridiculous.

And now we were stuck like this for three whole days.

I should’ve known it was going to be different when the guy holding the clipboard didn’t look at me—he assessed me.

“Height, okay. Build, wiry. Cheekbones, decent. We’ll need a prosthetic, chest shaping, full binder, and a little bleach. Let’s go.”

I blinked. “Sorry—what now?”

Carlos finally looked up from his tablet and pointed to the dressing screen. “You’re going to be our transmasc unicorn.”

I squinted. “I don’t even know what that means.”

He rolled his eyes. “It means you’re hot, you’re early in your transition, and you’re going to get a lot of attention. You’ll blend in perfectly.”

“I thought I was here for security.”

“You are. This is the assignment. Strip.”

The room was cold. Or maybe it just felt that way because I was standing in my underwear with a prosthetic dick in one hand and a pair of small silicone breast forms in the other.

Carlos handed me a snug tank top bra. “You’re going to wear these first so you can feel what you’re binding.”

I frowned. “You’re putting boobs on me just to flatten them again?”

“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “We want the right silhouette. Most of our transmasc clients don’t bind bone-dry. You’ll feel it more realistically this way.”

The breast forms were small, maybe a B-cup at most. They had weight. Texture. They fit against my skin like they belonged there—just long enough to make it awkward when Carlos handed me the binder.

It was thick, double-layered compression material, slate gray, with adjustable clasps on the side.

“Step into it. Arms up. Exhale before pulling.”

It was like being crushed by a very opinionated python. My breath came out shallow. I tugged it down, shifted the straps, and let the soft weight of the breast forms get squashed beneath the binder’s aggressive hug.

“Now look at yourself,” Carlos said, turning me toward the mirror.

The chest was flat. Not sculpted or manly—but boyish. Soft, square, real.

“You look like someone trying,” Carlos murmured. “And that’s what matters.”

Then he handed me the prosthetic.

It wasn’t subtle.

Uncut, average length, with textured balls and a silicone base that stuck seamlessly to my groin. The stylist powdered it, pressed it into place, and adjusted the positioning under my compression briefs.

It moved when I did.

I wasn’t hard, but the pressure of it against me—even fake—made something in my stomach flip.

Carlos handed me boxer-briefs, then cargo pants a size too big that cinched up just right. They hung from my hips like they’d been mine for years. A flannel. A tank top. Dog tags with “Milo” already printed on them.

I didn’t even remember saying the name.

Next: hair.

I’d kept it short before. Easy to hide under hats. No-nonsense.

Not anymore.

They bleached the roots to pure platinum. Then came the dye—rainbow streaks painted into the ends. Red in the front. Orange and yellow along the side. Teal and violet flaring out toward the nape. The result looked chaotic in the best way. Like a pride flag exploded during band practice.

Carlos stepped back, arms crossed.

“You’re the kind of boy people want to smoke with and cry about their childhood trauma to,” he said, satisfied. “You’re perfect.”

The makeup was light. Just enough concealer to soften my face. Brows brushed up. A little dusting of blush over the bridge of my nose. The beard they glued on was patchy—on purpose. Chin fuzz, jaw stubble, sideburns just coming in.

When I looked in the mirror, my stomach dropped.

I looked like someone who existed. Like I was already halfway down a road I’d never walked but somehow knew the turns.

I looked like Milo.

They gave me a canvas backpack and shoved a vape into the pocket.

“Take five,” Carlos said. “Then meet your team.”

I wandered the hallway in boots a size too big, my binder biting into my ribs, prosthetic shifting subtly when I walked. I tried adjusting my posture, lowering my voice, standing more square. Every movement made me aware of how much this body was built to signal something.

And then I was escorted into the staging suite.

Tank was already there—six-foot-something of bearded leather, chest hair like steel wool, cigar dangling from his lip like it belonged there. His boots looked like they kicked down walls for fun. I didn’t have to ask who he used to be.

Next to him, perched with absolute unbothered elegance, was Roxy Saint.

Her wig was a sculpture. Her gown a statement. Her eyes said she’d kill you in your sleep and steal your charger. I knew who she used to be, too.

They both turned and looked at me.

Tank blinked. “What in the Lisa Frank hell—”

“Don’t start,” I muttered, pulling my flannel tight across my chest.

Roxy stared at my hair, lips twitching. “You look like you fell into a gender reveal party and came out cooler.”

“I look like someone who vapes oat milk and has a favorite mug,” I said dryly.

Tank grunted. “You binding under there?”

“Wanna switch and find out?”

He smirked. “Respect.”

Roxy tilted her head. “Is that a packer?”

I nodded.

She gave a single slow clap. “He’s got the full kit. We’re officially a punchline.”

“‘Tank, Milo, and Roxy walk into a gay bar—’” I started.

“Only one of them gets hit on,” Roxy finished.

We all looked at each other.

Tank in leather and fur.

Roxy in sequins and heels.

Me in flannel, rainbow hair, binder tight against my ribs.

And it was obvious.

This wasn’t just blending in.

This was the job.

The first night blurred into sensation—heat rising off the pavement, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder under LED string lights, the pulse of bass-heavy pop vibrating in their ribs. None of them had imagined that “blending in” would mean posing for selfies, fielding compliments, taking shots they didn’t ask for, and being pulled into spontaneous dance circles by strangers in glitter and harnesses.

They didn’t break cover once.

Tank stood sentinel near the cigar tent all night, leather glinting under string lights, arms folded under his thick chest harness. His nipples ached from the rings, but he’d stopped noticing by hour two. People flirted, barked compliments, and circled like he was a bonafide celebrity. He barely moved—just shifted his weight when the jockstrap rode up too high or someone bumped him too close from behind.

Roxy—Deacon—ended the night soaked in sweat and cheers, the crowd chanting her name after her final performance. Her wig had started to slip halfway through a lip-sync to Donna Summer, but she had held it together like a pro. Backstage, she hadn’t even taken the tape off—just dropped onto a folding chair and mumbled, “I think I’m in love with her.”

Milo never stopped moving. Buttons, stickers, water bottles, bandages for heels. He crouched, squatted, ran, redirected arguments, redirected confessions, redirected attention. No one looked at him like a threat. They looked at him like a friend. That meant everything. It also exhausted him.

The next morning, they reported to the trailer again just after eight.

Roxy was already in the chair, flannel robe cinched over her corset, sipping black iced coffee through a metal straw. Her lashes were off, but the tucking had stayed. She hadn’t untaped. She didn’t want to do it all over again.

“Glue me in good today,” she told the stylist. “I don’t want to feel him.”

The makeup artist nodded and began layering new foundation over her already-raw skin. A new breastplate was powdered and fitted with fresh adhesive. Her voice dropped a few registers when she said, “Tighter on the jaw contour. She’s got attitude today.”

It took over an hour. Wig steamed. Nails re-tipped. Corset re-laced. And the tuck? She had to be helped into it again—straps adjusted, compression thong angled right, taping smoothed into place while she grit her teeth and kept talking about brunch.

Meanwhile, Tank dressed himself.

Leather harness laid out on a black towel. Chest hair re-applied by hand. Beard combed and oiled. Nipple rings checked. Chaps buckled, jockstrap pulled up in one slow motion that made the room go quiet for half a second.

Milo stood by the mirror in compression shorts and the binder, staring at the prosthetic that waited for him on the folded towel.

He grabbed it, pressed it on himself, rolled his hips to feel it settle.

Binder, flannel, rainbow hair fluffed. He was ready in ten.

Saturday afternoon was heavier. Thicker air. Bigger crowd. Less wide-eyed celebration and more tension under the surface—people coming with expectations now. And all three of them had reputations to uphold.

Roxy was back near the VIP tent, holding court with other queens. One of them had worked Drag Race. Another said they’d done Madonna’s makeup once. She didn’t flinch. She just nodded, flicked her nails, and performed two crowd sets with zero missed cues.

Tank posted up in the same place. This time, though, someone lit his cigar for him.

A man in a leather police cap, mirrored aviators, and a handlebar mustache walked up without a word, holding a silver butane lighter. He looked like he’d stepped out of the Village People archive and grown thicker with age—barrel chest, salt-and-pepper chest hair, tattooed forearms bulging out of his sleeveless leather vest.

He held the lighter up. Tank leaned in, cigar clenched between his lips. The flame flared. The tobacco caught.

They locked eyes.

The man grunted. “You’re new.”

Tank nodded. “You’re not.”

“Good,” the man said. “We need both.”

Then he was gone.

Milo wandered through the vendor tents, pausing to take pictures for couples, to adjust someone’s binder, to answer questions about hormones he’d never taken but had Googled the night before.

Someone offered him a phone number written on a rainbow flag. He smiled and folded it into his flannel pocket. Just in case.

By sundown, the three of them regrouped under a misting fan near the staff tent.

None of them spoke for a long moment.

Then Roxy stretched out her neck, cracked her back, and said, “One more day.”

Tank exhaled smoke through his nose. “You ready?”

Milo took a long pull off his vape, sweat streaking the rainbow in his hair.

He grinned. “Yeah. I think I am.”

[swappetf11]

The first time David Whitaker tried to go undercover in his own company, he wore a ten-dollar polo from a strip mall, khaki pants a size too tight, and an ill-fitting baseball cap he found in the back seat of his driver’s car. He looked like a man playing dress-up—more sitcom character than sanitation technician.

Still, he tried.

He showed up at the Midlands BioWaste Division unannounced, with a fake name, a fabricated work order, and a cheap badge that looked real if you didn’t look too long. His assistant, Andrew, had arranged it all—found a makeup artist to darken his skin slightly, widen his nose with putty, even add faint calluses to his palms using silicone. The wig was glued down with care, short and curly, and he’d grown out just enough facial hair to pass for a bearded guy who didn’t quite keep up with his grooming.

When he walked in that morning, he believed—deeply—that he could pass.

“Hey, new guy,” one of the crew had barked. “You lost or something?”

David gave a tight smile, trying to adjust his voice. “Nah, man. I’m supposed to be with Tony’s team?”

The other man squinted. “You got a whole-ass camera crew followin’ you?”

“No,” David said quickly. “Just… orientation. Transfer from another plant.”

But someone was already pulling out their phone. Someone else muttered, “That look like Mr. Whitaker to you?” and then, louder, “Yo, isn’t that the CEO dude?”

The prosthetics had taken four hours to apply.

They lasted twelve minutes.

David didn’t make it past the safety training room. He’d barely sat down before a supervisor recognized the shape of his jaw, the cadence of his voice, the way he walked with his hands half-clenched like he always did on investor calls.

By noon, the whole floor knew.

He had to call security—not to remove anyone, but to extract himself.

That night, sitting shirtless in his penthouse, scrubbing adhesive from his cheeks with industrial remover, David stared at himself in the mirror.

It wasn’t just that he had failed. It was that who he was was un-hideable. He had crafted a life so specific, so visible, so perfectly elite, that no disguise—no matter how well done—could ever let him fade.

“I don’t want to play pretend,” he said aloud, to no one.

He wanted something real. Something where he didn’t have to act like a different person. He wanted to become one.

That’s when he made the call.

⸻

Two weeks later, in a nondescript facility under a NovaGro lab in Raleigh, he stood in a concrete chamber lined with biometric locks and fiber-optic panels.

Alina, head of Transformation Ops, met him with a tablet and a thick file. Her eyes flicked down to the bruises still faint on his cheek from removing the nose prosthetic too quickly.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “This isn’t reversible. Not in the short-term. It’ll be full integration. Your body, brain, endocrine system, vocal cords, memories—will all take on the template of the subject.”

“I’m not interested in partial,” David replied, already pulling off his tailored jacket. “No cameras. No makeup. I want a life that’s not mine. I want to feel what it is to be them.”

Alina nodded. “We ran compatibility scans. Based on your baseline metrics, there’s one candidate we believe will give you the most extreme—and instructive—contrast.”

She tapped a file and turned the screen toward him.

Jamal T. Thompson.

David stared at the photo. Then another. And another.

Sweat glistening down heavy shoulders. A grin that curled upward only on one side. Southern-born. Grew up in a single-bedroom home with four siblings. Works waste ops. Likes basketball, black-and-milds, homemade biscuits. Gay, proudly. And solid. Stocky. Compact like a brawler. Loud laugh. Tattoos up both arms.

The file scrolled, showing more pictures, video clips, audio samples.

David leaned closer, watching the way Jamal’s body moved, the way he talked with his hands, the ease with which he leaned into his own life.

David whispered, almost surprised at himself, “He’s… perfect.”

“We thought so,” Alina said. “You’ll be his twin. Not just in body. But in culture, behavior, hunger, and temperament. You’ll feel what he feels. Desire what he desires. You won’t just know what it’s like to be him. For a time… you will be him.”

David nodded slowly. “Then let’s begin.”

This time, there’d be no wig. No latex. No cheap accent. This time, he’d disappear entirely.

And when he came back?

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, ozone, and engine grease. David stood on the metal platform in nothing but a black cotton robe, arms outstretched like he was about to be crucified. Overhead, a dozen articulated scanner arms moved around his body, flashing beams of blue light across his skin, taking full biometric and skeletal reads.

He’d already shaved—everywhere. Head, face, groin, chest, legs. They needed a blank canvas. His scalp felt raw, almost vulnerable. His jawline, now completely exposed, looked sharper than he remembered. Alina had noted that with a slight smirk.

“You’re going to miss that cleft chin,” she said, scrolling through readouts. “Jamal’s got a softer jaw. You’ll be chewing differently. Speaking differently. Swallowing’s going to feel odd at first, especially with the shift in tongue thickness and palate height.”

David just nodded. “I’m ready.”

“You say that now,” she muttered.

The table rose with a hydraulic hiss, angling him backward. Soft cuffs secured his ankles and wrists. His heart began to race—not from fear, exactly, but the kind of adrenaline he hadn’t felt since his Series B pitch fifteen years ago.

A nurse dabbed his temples with cold gel. “You’ll be under in sixty seconds. Just focus on what you’re doing this for.”

“I am,” he said quietly. “I built this company with people like Jamal on the ground floor. I need to know what it really cost them.”

The IV slid in. The lights dimmed.

Warmth hit him first—a heavy, smothering warmth, like waking up beneath a lead blanket soaked in sweat. His limbs felt thick, like they were submerged in syrup. He tried to roll to one side and couldn’t—his body didn’t move how it used to. Muscles responded, but not with the sharp, clean coordination he knew. These were denser muscles. Bulkier. Slower. The joints flexed differently.

David’s eyelids peeled open with effort. The ceiling was low. Concrete, unfinished. A fan spun lazily above, stirring air that smelled like antiseptic, cocoa butter, and… funk. His own funk. That realization hit somewhere deep in his groin.

“Good morning,” came a voice. A man in slate gray scrubs stepped into view, tablet in hand. His badge read Technician HERNANDEZ.

David grunted.

The voice that came out wasn’t his. It was deep. Resonant. With a Southern rasp to it. It rumbled through his chest and vibrated at the base of his skull.

“Yeah…” Hernandez chuckled. “She’s calibrating. That’s yours now.”

Another tech appeared. A Black woman with long braids and a no-nonsense air. “Vitals holding. Let’s start full integration.”

David felt the soft weight of a robe over his body. His hands rested across his belly. Or rather—Jamal’s belly. Round, heavy, firm with thick muscle and a layer of fat. He lifted one hand slowly.

The skin was deep brown. The fingers thick. The knuckles worn. A callus sat below the ring finger—decades of hard grip. The nails were blunt and imperfect. Hair dusted the back of the hand. A dark tattoo curled along the wrist: BLESSED, in bold gothic font.

“Try wiggling your toes for me,” Hernandez said.

David shifted. The sensation was dull at first, then overwhelming. His feet were broad—flat. The soles ached even as he flexed them. He had never felt such pressure just from lying down.

“That’s all you,” the woman said. “Your new feet. Years of concrete floors in those. No arches. When you stand, you’re gonna walk wider, heavier. You carry weight differently now. Thighs rub. Calves thick. Your center of gravity’s lower, further forward.”

David grunted again.

“You’re sedated slightly,” Hernandez said. “Not fully. Just to keep the memory integration smooth. You’ll feel flashes. Desires. The sound of your new laugh. How you like your eggs. Let that stuff settle naturally.”

David nodded. Or tried to. His neck was thick. When he lifted his head, the weight of it shocked him. His traps tensed automatically—meatier now. It wasn’t pain. Just… density.

“Go slow,” the woman murmured. “Gettin’ up’s gonna feel like moving furniture inside your skin.”

David flexed his abs—only they weren’t abs. They were thick slabs of core muscle padded by soft fat. He felt the roll bunch and shift as he leaned forward. The robe stretched.

“Take a look at your chest,” Hernandez said.

He did. Broad pecs—soft but firm—hung heavy. His nipples were darker, thicker, surrounded by curly hair. He reached up and felt his beard. Coarse. Damp with sweat. It connected to thick sideburns and a tight fade that met a shaved neckline. The skin of his scalp was different too—more sensitive.

“Can you speak for us?” the woman asked.

David licked his lips. They were full. When he parted them, his tongue felt wide and heavy. He blinked, then rasped, “Mornin’.”

Even he startled at the sound. The accent. The rhythm. It didn’t just sound like someone else. It felt like someone else.

“Good,” Hernandez said. “Nice and gravelly. You’ll smooth out by lunch.”

David took a slow breath. Beneath the robe, he could feel his balls resting heavy against his thighs. His cock hung warm and wide, resting sideways. He could feel it in a way he never had before—every swing, every pulse.

“Alright, Jamal,” the woman said, eyes warm but focused. “Let’s sit up.”

He gripped the sides of the bed. His hands grunted against the rails. Arms strained—thicker now, tattooed, bunched with strength. His belly compressed as he sat forward. Sweat beaded along the curve of his spine.

He sat up.

And groaned—his own sound now, low and guttural.

“We’ll walk you through standing in a moment,” Hernandez said. “But first… we’ll give you a few minutes to explore. You need to understand what you’re working with.”

They both stepped back.

David looked down at his body—his new body—and let out a long, shaky breath.

He reached for the belt at the front of his robe. His pulse ticked faster. The cotton was damp against his chest. His new scent rose from under the fabric—earthy, sour, familiar in a way he didn’t want to admit yet.

He loosened the knot.

And slowly, deliberately, opened the robe.

The cotton robe fell open.

Heat rushed up from his groin like steam from a manhole. His chest expanded on instinct, like he had to make room for what he was seeing—what he was now.

His belly rose in a wide dome, a stretch of rich, dark skin mottled with freckles and a faded scar to the left of his navel. His pecs were thick, meaty, each with a dark nipple that pointed slightly outward, ringed in curly hair. A gold chain rested in the valley between them. His thighs spread wide beneath him, black and powerful, touching from mid-groin to knee. A stretch mark shimmered silver on one hip.

David’s breath caught as his eyes dropped lower.

His cock was half-hard already, wide at the base and resting sideways against his thigh, heavy and uncut. The skin there was darker, smoother. It looked used to friction. Behind it, his balls hung low and full, twitching slightly from the breeze of the overhead fan. His pubic hair was trimmed—more from wear than grooming—and sweat made it glisten.

Jesus… that’s mine now.

He swallowed. His new tongue rubbed differently inside his mouth. Focus. Just breathe.

He reached out slowly with both hands. The palms trembled—calloused, broader than his old ones. When his fingers touched his belly, a shock ran up his spine.

“Shit,” he muttered. But the voice came out with drawl and grit: “Shiit…” The way the ‘i’ curled and the ‘t’ dropped… it wasn’t David’s accent anymore. That was Jamal’s.

He tried again, softly, talking to himself. “C’mon now. Ain’t no reason to be actin’ scared.”

What the fuck did I just say? The voice didn’t sound scared at all. It sounded practiced, like this body already knew how to calm itself down. The cadence. The rhythm. It wasn’t rehearsed. It just was.

He touched his pec next. It gave under pressure, but bounced when he let go. Then he pressed in again—thicker, weightier than anything he’d ever had on his chest. His fingers lingered on his nipple. It twitched.

David exhaled through his nose. “Damn, this body don’t miss.”

Who even talks like that? He did now, apparently.

He ran both hands over his stomach, feeling the way it sat. Solid. Not flat like before, but strong. He twisted a little, watching how it folded, how the weight shifted. When he bent forward, his thighs compressed his balls in a way that made his whole lower body twitch. Not pain. Just… mass. Heat. Life.

The scent from under his arms hit him next—cocoa butter and musk, something faintly like peppercorn and sun. That’s me now. I smell like that. I carry that.

He reached up and touched his face. The beard was dense, wiry. A little damp. He rubbed his cheek, watching the way his hand looked against his own skin. Dark on dark. Real.

He stood.

Slow. Careful.

His thighs tensed to lift him, and he immediately felt his center of balance had changed. Wider hips, heavier ass. His feet settled flat on the floor with a dull thud. Toes splayed wide, grounding him.

“Feel like I gotta… walk different,” he murmured.

The woman tech nodded. “You do. You’ll lead with the thighs now. Your knees don’t lock the same. And your back’s shaped to lean just slightly forward.”

David stepped once. Then twice. The robe swayed open behind him.

He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck, chuckling low. “Damn. I walk like my ass just told the room I showed up.”

The accent was undeniable now. Southern. Smooth. Deep in the throat. That wasn’t David pretending. That was Jamal, rising to the surface.

“Vitals holding,” Hernandez said. “Integration is stabilizing. You’re thinking like David but moving and speaking like Jamal. Your subconscious is doing its job.”

David scratched his chest absently. “This is wild… I ain’t never— I mean—I’ve never felt this grounded in my body. It’s like… I take up space now. People gonna look at me different.”

“That’s the point,” the woman murmured.

David turned and looked at her. “Yeah… yeah, I see that.”

His hand brushed his cock, shifting it to the left side out of habit. It bounced slightly, swaying from the base. He caught himself smiling.

“This man got a lot goin’ on,” he laughed.

[swappetf11]

He didn’t know the safe word.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t care.

Brett had agreed to the operation six weeks ago. Go undercover, embed with a leather ring suspected of smuggling and laundering—drugs, guns, men. He was their best muscle. Built like a linebacker, 6’2”, all chest and forearms, and just enough good ol’ boy charm to blend in anywhere between Dallas and Baton Rouge. But this gig was different.

They needed him inside The Pit, the most exclusive private leather club in the state. And the only way in was through Dante.

Dante had been working the scene for nearly a year, deep undercover, fully turned. “It’s not a costume,” he’d warned, thick fingers tugging a cigar between his lips during their first meeting. “It’s not pretend. You can’t fake the smell of cigar smoke on your breath or how a real pair of chaps rides your thighs. You want Raul to believe you’re one of us? You become it.”

Brett had snorted. “I don’t need to become gay just to wear some leather.”

Dante had only grinned. “No. But the leather might make you become something else.”

That was two weeks ago.

Now Brett stood in a basement room—private, windowless, reeking of sweat, sex, and smoke. Stripped down to nothing but his briefs. Arms spread wide, wrists loosely cuffed to the metal frame of a custom barber’s chair. Dante circled him, slow, deliberate, dragging the tip of a riding crop down the curve of his spine.

“Say it,” Dante murmured.

Brett swallowed. “This is for the job.”

Dante paused. “No. Say it.”

Brett hesitated. The words felt foreign, alien. But something had cracked. Last night he let Dante trim his chest hair. The night before, he’d tried on the vest. Tight, black leather. It clung to his back like it belonged. Made him stand straighter.

Now the briefs were gone. Tossed to the floor. His thick cock hung heavy between his thighs, already twitching.

Dante brought over the jockstrap. Oiled. Warm. Black leather, worn by someone else. “You don’t wear leather,” Dante said. “You submit to it.”

He pulled the jock up Brett’s thighs, fitting him into it like he was being saddled. The leather cupped his ass like two palms gripping him from behind. The straps hugged his hips so tight he swore his pulse thudded through them.

Next came the pants. Heavy, stiff, lined with suede. Brett stepped into them, lifting one thick leg at a time. Dante zipped them up slowly. The bulge at Brett’s crotch tented forward, straining. The scent of leather filled his nose, overwhelming his senses. Then chaps, cinched tight with a wide belt that pulled his waist in, forced his posture open.

Brett’s head spun.

“You’re hard,” Dante whispered into his ear. “And we haven’t even shaved your head yet.”

He couldn’t lie. Couldn’t hide it. His dick throbbed inside the jock.

Dante brought out the clippers. “Last chance, cowboy.”

Brett didn’t speak. Just nodded.

The first pass sent his brown hair falling in thick clumps across his shoulders. Each strip of scalp exposed gleamed under the low light. Cold air bit at the bare skin as Dante methodically stripped him down to the scalp, then shaved him smooth. The moment the straight razor finished behind his ears, Brett felt it—that strange charge like he’d crossed a line and couldn’t go back.

Dante oiled his head. “There. Now you look owned.”

Beard oil came next. Then growth serum. Brett watched in the mirror, breath caught in his chest, as his face darkened—not with shame, but hair. A beard bloomed from his jaw, thick and black, coarse and masculine. His cheeks itched, but he didn’t flinch. It looked right.

He didn’t even protest when Dante stuck the thick cigar between his lips.

“Open,” Dante said. “Deep breath.”

Brett obeyed. The cigar flared. Smoke hit his tongue. Spicy. Bitter. It burned.

Then it settled.

He groaned around the cigar, jaw slack, throat open. “Fuuuuck…”

“That’s it,” Dante smiled. “Let it in.”

Gloves next—fingerless, black leather, snug against his wide palms. Then a vest, tight over his massive chest, pressing the smoke deeper into him with every breath.

By the time the boots went on—tall, black, thick-heeled—Brett’s stance had changed. He spread his legs wider. He flexed his gloved fingers.

He rolled the cigar to the corner of his mouth and muttered, “How the hell does this feel so good?”

Dante stepped behind him again, placing a firm hand on Brett’s leather-clad ass.

“Because this isn’t an act anymore,” he whispered. “You were never undercover. You were always meant to be mine.”

And Brett, groaning as the smoke settled deeper into his lungs, let himself nod.

[swappetf11]

He waited until the last of the student tours shuffled past the gift shop and the lobby’s murmurs fell silent. Dorian lingered in the shadows of the Viking exhibit, pretending to study a laminated pamphlet he’d already memorized. His hoodie sleeves sagged over pale, bony wrists; his jeans hung limp off his hips, and his wire-rimmed glasses clung askew to the bridge of his nose.

But he wasn’t here for the merchandise or the history blurbs. He was here for them—the gods of strength and fury immortalized in towering wax. Braided beards. Broad, bear-like shoulders under fur cloaks. Thighs like tree trunks under studded leather belts.

One figure, set at the prow of a replica longship, dominated Dorian’s attention. The Viking’s expression was carved in war-hardened pride. A thick mane of blond dread-braids framed his weathered face, and a jaw-length mustache curled at the edges. His chest swelled beneath a linen tunic, heavy with muscle and presence.

“That’s what a man should look like,” Dorian whispered, his fingers tightening around the brochure until it crumpled. “Not… whatever this is.”

He crossed the roped barrier, heart pounding, ducking into a side alcove marked Artifacts of Spiritual Warfare. No one stopped him. No alarms rang. He felt guided.

There, tucked behind a case of ceremonial blades and amulets, he found it. A slab of stone carved with ancient runes—weathered and nearly illegible—propped beside a folded piece of vellum so brittle it seemed older than language itself. No plaque. No translation.

He knelt, hands trembling, and lifted the parchment. The ink bled faintly across the hide, forming jagged symbols. A crude phonetic translation had been scrawled in modern pencil below.

“Blood of the beast, breath of the sea, I take into me. Let me walk as they walked, strong and free.”

Dorian whispered it, each syllable louder, bolder. He felt it. The air thickened around him. The exhibit lights flickered, one by one, until only a dim amber glow remained. The air filled with the smell of iron and salt.

Then the floor dropped beneath him.

He didn’t fall. He vanished—ripped from his time like parchment from a book.

He landed hard on his back. Dirt packed beneath him. Smoke filled the air. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Children screamed. Wood cracked.

He blinked up into a slate-grey sky. And above him, towering with a half-drunk sneer and thick, soiled feet planted inches from his face, stood a man.

No… not a man.

A brute. Filthy linen tunic stained yellow and brown. A greasy cap crammed over a skull mostly bald. And a face—his face—that felt horribly familiar.

Because he saw the same face on the wax figure. Only this one was softer. Rounder. Toothless. Reeking.

He sat up—tried to, anyway—but his body didn’t move right.

His back hunched, shoulders curled forward. Arms short, thick, strangely heavy. His hoodie was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place: a stiff, sweat-slick tunic that clung to his sagging chest and distended gut. His thighs slapped together when he twisted. His legs no longer fit the way they once had.

He panted. Reached up to his face. His nose had widened—flattened. His cheeks bulged. His beard was not braided glory. It was patchy, wiry, stank of oil and old meat.

“No—no no—” His voice cracked. The pitch was higher, but the diction was gone. The syllables slid from his tongue like chewed bread.

“Huuhh… gods’ tits… what I—?” he mumbled. The words were barely there.

His fingers touched his teeth. Several were missing. One long yellow molar wobbled loose. Something dribbled down his chin. Saliva. Or worse.

A girl passed by with a basket of fish. She shrieked. “Snorri! You’re late again! Piss barrels is full!”

“Snorri?” he croaked. But the name didn’t feel foreign. It itched deep inside him.

Memories slithered in: crawling through trench ditches, cleaning chamber pots, hoisting waste onto carts before the sun rose. Slipping on muck. Laughing through toothless gums. Craving attention, even if it came with a kick to the ribs.

A thick man stomped toward him, waving a cudgel. “Oi! Latrine’s overflowing, you lumpy fartbag!”

He tried to explain, to argue, but the words twisted. “Ain’—I weren’t—jus’ lookin’…”

He stood, wobbling on flat, cracked feet. The tunic rode up over his swollen belly. He scratched his rear and winced at the scent wafting off his body—sour, animal, real.

A cart rolled past, splashing mud. Or was it mud?

Snorri—Dorian—looked down. The spell had not only transported him back in time. It had rooted him in a life he never dreamed of.

Not a warrior. Not a legend.

A shit-keeper. A historical footnote of filth.

And as he waddled toward the pit toilets, scratching his gut with one hand and tugging at his tunic with the other, a deep grunt rumbled from his throat.

Somewhere far away—in another timeline, another century—the museum’s exhibit had updated. A new wax figure appeared.

“Snorri Bjornssen, Sanitation Worker of Birka, 842 A.D.”

Experience the lives of everyday Vikings! Live exhibit pending return.

But Snorri wasn’t coming back.

He had buckets to empty.

[swappetf11]

Teo stood in front of the mirror, stunned. His soft, brown hand drifted up his slim stomach, fingertips brushing the faint outlines of abs that curved beneath his dark, supple skin. The tank clung to him like it had been painted on — so thin it felt like nothing. His hips swayed slightly with each step, his thighs smooth, toned, perfectly hairless. He turned, half-expecting to see his usual broad, muscular ass. But what he saw instead was something round, high, and bouncy — delicious. He gasped, covering his mouth with manicured fingers.

“Dios mío,” he whispered, the accent coating his voice like honey. “This… this is me?

The soft flick of a lighter behind him made him jump. Bruno was leaning against the wall shirtless, wearing only leather shorts that barely covered his enormous thighs. His body was a thick slab of meat and fur, sweat glistening in his chest hair. He held the fat cigar between his teeth, already burning.

“You look like temptation itself,” Bruno growled, exhaling smoke. “Come here, Teo.”

Teo’s body obeyed before his mind caught up. His feet padded across the floor, each step a sway of the hips, a delicate, instinctive dance. As he moved, he became aware of everything — how light his limbs felt, how his smaller frame practically floated, how his lips tingled, full and sensitive. He caught his reflection again, lips parted, eyes wide and wet, and a shiver ran down his spine.

“I feel… weird,” he murmured, his voice like silk, like song. “But also… kinda amazing.”

Bruno stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He reached out and ran a hand along Teo’s jaw, then trailed it down his neck, resting on the soft curve of Teo’s chest.

“You don’t just feel it,” Bruno said, cigar smoke curling between them. “You are it.

Teo leaned into the hand. He could smell the leather, the sweat, the thick, smoky musk rolling off Bruno’s body. His skin flushed, a tight warmth building between his legs — unfamiliar and electric. He looked up at the man he’d once called Ryan. Now, he was something else. Bigger. Rougher. The very definition of dominance. His gut pressed against Teo’s belly, his chest hair scratchy against Teo’s smooth neck.

Teo whispered, “Do I look… good?”

Bruno chuckled, dragging the back of his fingers down Teo’s cheek. “You look like what I’ve dreamed of when I’m alone with my shame.”

That’s when it cracked open.

The realization. The truth.

Teo stepped back and looked down at himself again. The tightness of his shorts. The soft bulge pressing against the front. His thighs were gorgeous. His waist impossibly small. He’d never allowed himself to want this, to feel this. But now? Now he didn’t have to hold back.

He sauntered — yes, sauntered — to the bed, hips rolling with ease. He sat, legs crossed, back arched, admiring himself in the wall mirror.

“I think I used to want boys like me,” he said slowly. “But maybe I wanted to be the boy.”

Bruno grunted, sitting across from him, spreading his legs wide with a groan as he exhaled more smoke. The air filled with heat and musk. “And I think… I always needed to be this. Hairy. Heavy. Seen. Not judged for liking cock. Not hiding behind some gym bro mask.”

He grabbed his chest, tugging the pierced nipple until he groaned. “Fuck, I love the way this body feels. I love the way I smell.”

Teo watched, biting his lip. His fingers danced up his own thigh. “I wanna feel it too.”

Bruno reached into a box on the nightstand. Inside was a kit — lube, poppers, oil, leather cuffs. The whole room felt curated by their own denied cravings.

Teo took the bottle of oil and poured it into his palm. He rubbed it slowly along his arms, down his flat chest, across his belly. His skin gleamed. He loved the way it felt. He loved how pretty he looked. How he smelled faintly of cinnamon and citrus. He let out a soft moan, brushing his fingertips across his own nipple.

Bruno lit another cigar and watched, his cock tenting his leather shorts. “Yeah, Teo. That’s it. Don’t just explore. Indulge. You only got 48 hours. Might as well feed the beast.”

Teo climbed onto the bed on all fours, back arched, ass high. He looked over his shoulder and winked. “Then come feed me, papi.”

Bruno climbed behind him like a freight train of heat and hunger.

They gave in.

To the smoke. The oil. The taste of ash and musk on each other’s skin. Teo learned to walk with a wiggle, to flirt with his eyes. Bruno leaned into the weight of his new body, the comfort of being a bear who took and didn’t apologize.

That night, Teo smoked his first clove cigarillo and took selfies in the mirror with one hand down his mesh shorts. Bruno jerked off in the bathroom, beard soaked in sweat, moaning his own name. In the morning, they woke tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, smelling of sex and smoke, both grinning.

No one would know. No one had to. But for those 48 hours, they weren’t pretending.

They were.

And it was everything they’d never let themselves want.

Teo stood in front of the mirror, stunned. His soft, brown hand drifted up his slim stomach, fingertips brushing the faint outlines of abs that curved beneath his dark, supple skin. The tank clung to him like it had been painted on — so thin it felt like nothing. His hips swayed slightly with each step, his thighs smooth, toned, perfectly hairless. He turned, half-expecting to see his usual broad, muscular ass. But what he saw instead was something round, high, and bouncy — delicious. He gasped, covering his mouth with manicured fingers.

“Dios mío,” he whispered, the accent coating his voice like honey. “This… this is me?”

The soft flick of a lighter behind him made him jump. Bruno was leaning against the wall shirtless, wearing only leather shorts that barely covered his enormous thighs. His body was a thick slab of meat and fur, sweat glistening in his chest hair. He held the fat cigar between his teeth, already burning.

“You look like temptation itself,” Bruno growled, exhaling smoke. “Come here, Teo.”

Teo’s body obeyed before his mind caught up. His feet padded across the floor, each step a sway of the hips, a delicate, instinctive dance. As he moved, he became aware of everything — how light his limbs felt, how his smaller frame practically floated, how his lips tingled, full and sensitive. He caught his reflection again, lips parted, eyes wide and wet, and a shiver ran down his spine.

“I feel… weird,” he murmured, his voice like silk, like song. “But also… kinda amazing.”

Bruno stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He reached out and ran a hand along Teo’s jaw, then trailed it down his neck, resting on the soft curve of Teo’s chest

“You don’t just feel it,” Bruno said, cigar smoke curling between them. “You are it.”

Teo leaned into the hand. He could smell the leather, the sweat, the thick, smoky musk rolling off Bruno’s body. His skin flushed, a tight warmth building between his legs — unfamiliar and electric. He looked up at the man he’d once called Ryan. Now, he was something else. Bigger. Rougher. The very definition of dominance. His gut pressed against Teo’s belly, his chest hair scratchy against Teo’s smooth neck.

Teo whispered, “Do I look… good?”

Bruno chuckled, dragging the back of his fingers down Teo’s cheek. “You look like what I’ve dreamed of when I’m alone with my shame.”

That’s when it cracked open.

The realization. The truth.

Teo stepped back and looked down at himself again. The tightness of his shorts. The soft bulge pressing against the front. His thighs were gorgeous. His waist impossibly small. He’d never allowed himself to want this, to feel this. But now? Now he didn’t have to hold back.

He sauntered — yes, sauntered — to the bed, hips rolling with ease. He sat, legs crossed, back arched, admiring himself in the wall mirror.

“I think I used to want boys like me,” he said slowly. “But maybe I wanted to be the boy.”

Bruno grunted, sitting across from him, spreading his legs wide with a groan as he exhaled more smoke. The air filled with heat and musk. “And I think… I always needed to be this. Hairy. Heavy. Seen. Not judged for liking cock. Not hiding behind some gym bro mask.”

He grabbed his chest, tugging the pierced nipple until he groaned. “Fuck, I love the way this body feels. I love the way I smell.”

Teo watched, biting his lip. His fingers danced up his own thigh. “I wanna feel it too.”

Bruno reached into a box on the nightstand. Inside was a kit — lube, poppers, oil, leather cuffs. The whole room felt curated by their own denied cravings.

Teo took the bottle of oil and poured it into his palm. He rubbed it slowly along his arms, down his flat chest, across his belly. His skin gleamed. He loved the way it felt. He loved how pretty he looked. How he smelled faintly of cinnamon and citrus. He let out a soft moan, brushing his fingertips across his own nipple.

Bruno lit another cigar and watched, his cock tenting his leather shorts. “Yeah, Teo. That’s it. Don’t just explore. Indulge. You only got 48 hours. Might as well feed the beast.”

Teo climbed onto the bed on all fours, back arched, ass high. He looked over his shoulder and winked. “Then come feed me, papi.”

Bruno climbed behind him like a freight train of heat and hunger.

They gave in.

To the smoke. The oil. The taste of ash and musk on each other’s skin. Teo learned to walk with a wiggle, to flirt with his eyes. Bruno leaned into the weight of his new body, the comfort of being a bear who took and didn’t apologize.

That night, Teo smoked his first clove cigarillo and took selfies in the mirror with one hand down his mesh shorts. Bruno jerked off in the bathroom, beard soaked in sweat, moaning his own name. In the morning, they woke tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, smelling of sex and smoke, both grinning.

No one would know. No one had to. But for those 48 hours, they weren’t pretending.

They were.

And it was everything they’d never let themselves want.

[swappetf11]

Ricardo stands just over six feet tall, with a powerful, solid build that commands attention without needing to speak. His skin is a rich espresso tone, deep and warm, with a slight sheen that catches the light when he moves. His beard is thick, black, and coarsely curled, peppered with strands of silver near the chin and jawline—a mark of wisdom earned, not given. It frames his square face like armor, accentuating his broad cheekbones and slightly furrowed brow.

His eyes are dark brown, almost black, with a calm, unreadable depth—like still water hiding something ancient and tender beneath. Thick lashes and arched brows give him an intensity that makes you feel seen, studied, and disarmed. His nose is wide and strong, with a gentle bump that suggests it might’ve been broken once. His lips are full, slightly chapped, and often pressed together in thought or parted just enough to reveal the edges of his gold-capped teeth—custom work that gleams when he grins.

Ricardo’s hair is cropped close on the sides, with a textured, salt-and-pepper wave on top, always brushed neatly but never fussy. Tattoos climb up both of his forearms, abstract shapes and names inked in black and red, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tight-fitting t-shirt. He wears dark jeans that hug thick thighs, and scuffed work boots heavy with wear. His gait is wide, deliberate, and grounded—he walks like someone used to carrying weight, physical and otherwise.

He smells faintly of tobacco, motor oil, and sweat—masculine, unfiltered, lived-in. When he speaks, his voice is rough velvet, low and stretched with a lazy drawl, shaped by late nights and strong drink. It’s a voice that can comfort or command, seduce or silence.

And when Ricardo looks at you—really looks—it’s like the world slows down for a second. Because behind all that strength, there’s a question in his gaze: Do you really see me, or just the man I’ve become?

[swappetf11]

A change on the job site.

[swappetf11]

Weekend party transfer

“Y’all are gonna remember this for the rest of your damn lives,” was all Elijah said when the first invitations arrived. Creamy thick envelopes sealed with wax—his initials pressed in bold copper. The four of them—Dev, Mason, Jorge, and the groom-to-be, Griffin—received theirs within a day of each other, scattered across the country.

Inside was a card, embossed with burnished lettering on rough parchment:

You are cordially invited to a most unusual Bachelor Celebration—five days of immersion, camaraderie, and transformation. Pack light. What you wear now, you won’t need. Your new life awaits.

We need the following by Sunday:

• Current measurements: height, inseam, waist, neck, shoe size, hat size, wrist circumference

• Facial hair status

• A headshot without facial expression

Your destination is: Santa Fe Regional Airport

Date of Departure: September 9

Do not open your character card until you are in the air.

That was it. Elijah didn’t answer questions.

Griffin had tried texting him three times the week before.

GRIFFIN: What kind of bachelor party is this, man?

ELIJAH: Just trust me.

GRIFFIN: You making us do ayahuasca in the desert or some shit?

ELIJAH: Better.

Griffin, 34, a finance consultant, sharp-featured with buzzed light brown hair, a lean, gym-maintained body, and a nervous laugh, was both excited and low-key panicking. Mason, his best man, had shaved the sides of his head into a fade, wore silver rings on nearly every finger, and had a perpetual smirk that made everyone expect mischief from him. He flew in from Chicago, where he ran a boutique gym. Jorge, the biggest of them all, was broad-shouldered and warm-eyed, a firefighter out of Denver with a thick beard and callused hands. Dev, a tech guy from Seattle, was slim and stylish, usually in black turtlenecks, obsessed with speakeasies and jazz bars.

The four friends hadn’t been in the same place together in nearly two years.

And now, they stood beside one another in Santa Fe’s tiny regional terminal, bags in hand, laughing too loudly, hugging longer than usual, staring at Elijah, who leaned against a matte black SUV outside.

Elijah, the quietest of them all, wore a black button-up shirt and beige desert boots. His beard had grown in since they’d last seen him—darker, fuller—and his hair was longer, slicked back. Something was different in his energy. Focused. Stern. He hugged each of them, but didn’t laugh.

“Y’all ready?” he asked, smiling but guarded.

“You gonna tell us what the hell is happening now?” Mason asked, tossing his duffel in the back.

Elijah just grinned and pointed. “Get in.”

The Embodiment Institute.

A low-slung adobe facility emerged—curved edges, pale ochre in color. Strange wind chimes hung in clusters near the entrance. As they climbed out, a woman in a green dress approached. Her gray hair was piled high in a bun, but her arms were covered in ink.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said with a strange accent—somewhere between Midwestern and something older. “Please follow me to Intake.”

Still no answers. Just wide-eyed glances between friends.

Inside, they were brought into a cool hallway lined with lanterns, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and old, sepia-toned portraits of men with long mustaches, leather dusters, rifles, and pipe smoke curling from their lips.

They were led into a round room where four high-backed leather chairs waited. In front of each chair—neatly folded—were loose-fitting gray gowns and slip-on sandals.

“We’ll begin shortly,” said the woman. “Please undress and change into your prep robes. Jewelry off. Phones on the tray.” She motioned to the center pedestal. “After this, the fun begins.”

Still stunned, the guys looked at Elijah.

“Elijah,” Dev said cautiously, “What the fuck is this? You told us bachelor party. Not… spa cult retreat.”

Elijah smiled, standing near the exit. “Just trust me. It’s all part of the immersion. Everything’s about to change. In the best way possible.”

One by one, still laughing nervously, they undressed.

Griffin felt weird taking off his clothes in front of everyone—boxer briefs, socks, the wedding ring he already wore just for comfort—placing everything in the canvas bag provided. He slid the robe on. The material felt… heavier than expected. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he noticed the color of his eyes shift—just subtly—from gray-blue to a hazier, muddy green.

“Uh—guys?” he muttered.

“I feel like I’m tripping and we didn’t take anything yet,” Dev said, looking at his arms. “Is it me or are these robes… tight around the chest?”

Jorge was already seated, eyes closed. “Feels good to me. Warm. Like it’s molding to me.”

“It’s supposed to,” said a man who entered silently. He was massive—long black hair tied back, a black turtleneck over broad shoulders, his skin sun-worn and bronze. “You’re not wearing robes. You’re wearing time.”

Elijah smiled. “Boys—meet Ezra. He’s our transformation lead.”

Ezra handed each of them an envelope. “Do not open these until you are airborne. Your character cards. These are who you’ll become.”

They boarded a sleek, vintage-style aircraft just an hour later. Wood interiors, leather chairs, dark velvet curtains. No logos. No flight crew—except Ezra, who now wore a brown vest and had taken on the air of a conductor in an old train.

The plane lifted gently into the sky.

“Now,” Ezra said, “open your envelopes.”

Each man did so, hearts beating fast.

GRIFFIN:

Name: Ellis Booker

Age: 38

Profession: Sheriff of Wren Hollow

Background: Former outlaw turned lawman. Known for his cold stare and swift trigger. Stoic. Clean. Craves justice… and whiskey.

Vices: Cigarillos, strong bourbon, power

Body type: Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, heavy-legged with square jaw and sun-aged skin

Clothing: Leather duster, steel toe boots, sheriff’s badge, wool vest

Facial Hair: Thick dark mustache, stubbled jaw

Hair: Jet black, parted, heavy pomade

MASON:

Name: Saul Vickers

Age: 43

Profession: Riverboat Tycoon

Background: A man of means and schemes. Knows how to manipulate trade and men alike. Flashy. Always in motion.

Vices: Gambling, cigars, women… and secrets

Body type: Tall, soft belly, expensive hands, long fingers

Clothing: Pinstripe three-piece suit, gold chain, top hat

Facial Hair: Curled mustache, oiled beard

Hair: Chestnut, styled and curled

JORGE:

Name: Clay McKinney

Age: 36

Profession: Bandit and Enforcer

Background: Once worked on the rails, now robs them. Simple, loyal, deadly.

Vices: Chew tobacco, brawling, greasy meat

Body type: Wide torso, hairy forearms, deep chest, fat fingers

Clothing: Canvas pants, suspenders, bandana, gunbelt

Facial Hair: Wild, unkempt beard

Hair: Buzzed, dirt-streaked

DEV:

Name: Felix “Trickshot” Darrow

Age: 39

Profession: Saloon Owner

Background: Talker, charmer, hustler. Ran from the east coast and reinvented himself.

Vices: Opium, gin, flirting

Body type: Lean, wiry, long legs, deft hands

Clothing: Velvet jacket, lace shirt, finger rings

Facial Hair: Narrow chin beard, waxed mustache

Hair: Auburn curls, shoulder-length

Griffin read his card twice.

“Sheriff?” he whispered. “I’m… I’m a goddamn sheriff?”

Mason started grinning. “You see this shit? I’m wearing a top hat.”

Jorge was already chuckling. “Bandit? Hell yeah. Makes sense.”

Dev raised an eyebrow, “Opium? The hell, man?”

They laughed. The laughter faded. Each man looked at the others—really looked. Mason’s beard looked fuller than it had that morning. Griffin’s hands had grown wider, knuckles slightly more pronounced. Jorge’s jaw was beginning to square out—hair creeping higher on his cheekbones.

“Wait…” Griffin said slowly. “My skin…”

Each of them watched themselves changing, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter. Cuticles thickening. Teeth aching. The smell of tobacco started to feel… enticing

“Ezra,” Dev asked, his voice already raspier, “What the fuck is happening?”

Ezra looked at them, unmoved. “You’re becoming what you always were. The costumes are just catching up.”

[Continuing with the next 5,000+ words of the transformation — from makeup room through to individual dressing and full emergence. No summary, no headers. Just immersive narrative.]

The moment the plane touched down on the desert runway, the air had shifted. No one said a word. It felt like stepping through a veil.

Each man was escorted into a separate vehicle—horseless carriages styled to resemble something out of the 1800s, yet clearly engineered with precision. Not one of the friends spoke; they couldn’t. Their voices felt thick in their throats. Their thoughts—disjointed, vibrating, foreign.

Griffin… no, Ellis—he began thinking in fragments now—noticed that when he blinked, the light bent differently around the edges of his vision. Mason’s nose looked slightly broader than earlier. Dev’s freckles had darkened. Jorge… he was staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.

The cars rolled up to a vast compound, part adobe ranch, part old Western movie set. Ezra stepped out first and turned, his voice sonorous.

“Inside, you’ll undergo Hair and Makeup. You’ll each be taken to separate dressing rooms once your body is ready.”

“Ready?” Griffin’s voice cracked—lower than before. Guttural. “What do you mean ready?”

Ezra only smiled. “Don’t fight it.”

Inside, the hallway was lined with rich velvet curtains. Oil lamps flickered. Distant fiddle music played softly, but no source could be found. One by one, they were ushered behind separate doors by silent, gloved attendants. Griffin was last.

The chair was wide. Leather. Heavy wooden arms. As he sat, he noticed the weight in his hips. The robe clung differently now, stretched around broader shoulders.

“Mr. Booker,” said a voice behind him. “We’ll begin.”

A mirror loomed in front of him. His reflection flickered… and then steadied.

The makeup artist was older, with silvery eyes and long, sunspotted fingers. She dipped her brush in a tray of deep brown pigment and began smearing it into the contours of Griffin’s face. Except… it didn’t feel like makeup. It tingled. It stung. His pores absorbed it.

“Wait,” he murmured. “This ain’t… normal.”

“No, Sheriff Booker,” she said softly. “None of this is.”

Griffin grunted. His jaw ached. The brush moved down his neck. He blinked, and his reflection blurred again—his chin squaring, his temples tightening. The bones under his skin popped—crack—softer than a fracture, but loud enough to make him wince.

The brush was swapped for a small metal instrument. She pressed it into his upper lip and applied something waxy. Heat bloomed under the skin.

And then—sprout. Like the sudden bud of spring, a thick black mustache pushed through. It itched fiercely, then stopped. The ends curled downward just slightly.

His cheeks reddened. The sun-aged look. He could feel the burn of it, like long days on horseback. His eyebrows thickened—his eyelids heavier. His lips lost their pink flush and dulled to a dry, dusty hue.

The attendant placed a firm, calloused hand on his scalp.

“What the hell—” he murmured.

And then he felt it.

The follicles on his head tingled. Hair pushed out, jet black and coarser than he’d ever known it to be. A natural part formed at the center, swept back as if trained over years. It felt heavy with oil… with pomade. His hand lifted, ran fingers through it—it didn’t feel like a wig. It felt his.

“God… damn…” he whispered.

A tingling burned across his gums.

Then came the pop.

Each tooth loosened slightly, then re-rooted. The front two now large and squared, more visible. His tongue ran over a molar—flat, strong. A chewing tooth.

He looked in the mirror. He no longer saw Griffin.

He saw a sheriff. The eyes, the jaw, the weathered skin. The kind of man who settled problems with silence and a revolver.

He heard yelling through the wall—Mason.

“Are those real?!” Mason’s voice echoed. “What the fuck—what the fuck are these—these rings are part of my hands now?!”

The makeup artist laughed softly. “Mr. Vickers has arrived, I see.”

Across the compound, Mason’s own transformation had become theatrical. They had brought him a velvet-cushioned chair and surrounded him with three attendants. One applied thick creams that bronzed his skin a full shade darker, bringing out a strange reddish undertone. Another began reshaping his beard—not trimming it, but massaging something warm into it.

The hair on his jawline pulsed.

He screamed as the beard suddenly thickened, oiled up as if maintained daily for years. His mustache curled up at the edges—he hadn’t seen that coming. “Jesus! I look like… some old banker-slash-wizard!”

His reflection betrayed more—his nose now more hawkish, his ears pierced with gold studs. His fingers… long and slender, with thick knuckles and pruned, soft palms. A man who’d never done labor. Just deals.

Then, without warning, a cigar was placed between his lips.

He coughed at first.

The artist leaned in. “Inhale, Mr. Vickers.”

His lips wrapped around the dark, thick stogie. A slow pull. He tasted tobacco and cloves. It burned his throat. Then it soothed him. His pupils dilated. A grin crept across his face.

“Oh,” Mason—Saul—moaned. “Oh that’s… nice.”

He looked at his teeth. Slightly yellower now. But even. Sharp. The kind of grin that closed deals and opened legs.

One floor below, Jorge sat bare-chested. His robe was already torn at the seams, unable to contain his expanding chest and gut. He groaned as thick body hair exploded from his chest and trailed down his stomach.

“What the hell are you doin’ to me?” he asked, voice now low and thudding.

The attendant—male, broad-shouldered, wearing only suspenders—grunted and stuffed a dip of tobacco into Jorge’s lower lip.

He resisted at first. Then sighed. His whole mouth began to salivate. His tongue licked at the brown leaf. His mind dimmed slightly.

“You’re Clay McKinney now,” the man said. “And you’re strong as hell. And dumb as you need to be.”

His neck thickened. His shoulders cracked, spreading wide. A tattoo of a cross emerged across his forearm like it had always been there. His thighs widened, his boots bursting at the seams. New ones waited nearby—mud-stained and steel-toed.

Meanwhile, Dev sat in the mirror… trembling.

His hands had already become slimmer. More graceful. Each nail buffed, each knuckle faintly dusted in silver rings. His skin pale but glowing.

He watched as his hair curled and lengthened before his eyes—down past his shoulders, auburn waves cascading. A delicate goatee etched itself onto his chin, a waxed mustache curling above his lip.

“I… I look like a fucking magician,” he whispered.

“You own the saloon,” the artist said, applying rouge to his cheeks and eyeliner to his lids. “Your job is to seduce, distract, and profit.”

He saw his eyes in the mirror—sultry. Knowing. Older.

Then came the clothes.

They were led—individually, now wordless—down the corridor toward four separate rooms. In each room, their character wardrobe was displayed like museum pieces. Lit by lantern. Reverent.

Griffin stepped into the Sheriff’s room. His breath caught.

A thick leather gunbelt, a steel star, a tailored black duster with red lining. Boots with square heels. A wool shirt the color of gunmetal. Underwear—long, woolen. His name—Ellis Booker—embroidered in the waist.

He dropped the robe.

His body was dense. His thighs thick like tree trunks. Hair had sprouted along his stomach and legs, coarse and dark. His feet were wider. Even his dick hung heavier—meaty, low, crowned with new skin he didn’t recognize. His balls were fat and swung as he moved.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

His voice was deeper. Hoarse. Like gravel.

One by one, he dressed.

Underwear first—itchy, but instinctual. Then the shirt, thick around the arms. He buttoned it slowly, hands trembling. The pants were stiff denim. No zipper—just buttons. They clung to his new ass, which was rounder, firmer. The suspenders hugged his shoulders.

The boots—heavy, unpolished—slid on and made him taller. He adjusted the badge last, pinning it to his left breast.

As it clicked in, something clicked in him.

He stood straighter. His mouth curled into a tight line. His eyes narrowed.

“Ellis Booker,” he said to the mirror, and believed it.

Elsewhere, Mason slid into silk boxers—not modern, but the high-waisted kind. A crisp collared shirt followed, frilled slightly, tucked into pinstripe slacks. A gold chain draped across his chest, connected to a pocket watch he instinctively wound.

The vest hugged his belly. The top hat balanced perfectly on his oiled curls.

He took another puff of the cigar—now perfectly placed between his two front teeth—and gave himself a smirk.

“I got deals to make, don’t I?”

Jorge—Clay now—grunted as he pulled up canvas trousers that nearly split from his thighs. No underwear. Just thick denim against thick skin. He belted them high. A red bandana around his neck. Suspenders snapping into place.

He laughed as he caught his reflection. “Hell yeah,” he muttered, bouncing once. “Built like a damn ox.”

Dev buttoned a velvet waistcoat over his lace shirt. A blue cravat at his throat. His hands delicately adjusted each ring. He smelled faint gin and lavender. His nipples peeked through the thin shirt. His hips now slightly more curved. He looked… ambiguous. Rich. Dangerous.

One hour later, the saloon doors swung open.

Four men emerged—not as they were, but as they now believed.

And something deep in the mirror’s reflection… locked into place.

From their perspective

Ellis stood alone in the wooden dressing room. The lamp overhead flickered softly. His breath was slow and heavy—slightly wheezing, like a man who’d taken in years of desert air. The mirror before him no longer reflected Griffin. That was gone.

He reached for the long underwear first—coarse wool, scratchy on the skin. As he bent over to step into it,he caught his new thighs flexing in the mirror.

“Jesus…”

His voice caught in his throat. Gravel. That was what it sounded like now. Gravel and whiskey.

He tugged the long johns up his legs. They were snug. His thighs were thicker than they’d ever been. Covered in a new coat of coarse, dark hair. Even his calves had changed shape—leaner, harder, like someone who spent their life in saddle.

He reached between his legs. He had to. He needed to know.

His new balls were heavy. Full. They hung low in the wool, pulling forward with gravity. His dick was different too—uncut, girthy, almost unrecognizable. Not the clean, smooth shaft he’d known in his old life. This was something primal.

He didn’t know whether to panic or moan.

Instead, he kept dressing.

The shirt was stiff—gunmetal wool. He slid his arms into it and froze when he felt the muscles in his forearms bulge slightly at the movement. The sleeves barely made it over his thick wrists. His new shoulders pushed the seams wide. He ran a hand down the length of his torso. The shirt clung to him.

Next, he buttoned on the thick denim pants. No zipper—buttons only. Every inch of it reminded him of the body beneath. He could feel the shape of his ass—rounder, wider. His thighs rubbed as he walked. He cinched the suspenders, the weight of the pants pulling on his waist as if daring him to stride.

His badge was last.

He pinned it to his chest slowly. As it clicked into place, he exhaled.

“Sheriff Ellis Booker,” he said aloud, testing the name.

And it felt right.

Saul Vickers was laughing to himself. In his room, he stood naked in front of the mirror with one hand on his stomach.

“I got a damn belly,” he whispered. “When the hell did I get a belly?”

He poked it, and it jiggled. His chest, still broad, now sloped slightly. It wasn’t fat—it was luxury. This was the body of a man who didn’t need to lift shit. A man waited on.

The silk drawers slid on easily. He adjusted his cock—it was long, a little veiny, and hung lazy between his legs. His pubic hair was neat and auburn, like the waves now curling atop his head.

“Damn. Even my bush is classy.”

He pulled on the tailored shirt, the collar brushing his neck. Then the pinstriped pants—he sucked in his gut to button them, which made him laugh again.

Next, the vest, snug around his torso, a gold chain dangling from the front. He slipped on the jacket. It hugged his shoulders perfectly.

He looked regal. Smug. Dangerous.

He reached for the cigar. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Coughed—just once. Then smiled.

“I’m Saul fucking Vickers.”

Clay McKinney wasn’t talking. He was grunting.

The first thing he’d done was look in the mirror and mutter, “Aw hell naw.”

His gut hung heavy. His chest was broad and furry. He had a scar across one pectoral, a tattoo on the other. His arms were thicker than his thighs used to be.

He looked down at his cock—uncut, thick, surrounded by wiry black hair. His balls hung like saddle bags.

“I smell like sweat and iron,” he muttered. “And it ain’t bad.”

The pants were hard to pull on. Canvas, stiff, gritty. But they felt right. They held his thighs together tight. No underwear. Just man and denim.

He snapped the suspenders on and rolled his shoulders. He cracked his neck. Then he saw the boots—mud-caked, scuffed—and slid them on with a grunt.

He smacked tobacco into his lip, spit in the bucket, and belched.

“I could wreck somebody.”

Felix Darrow, meanwhile, was humming as he powdered his cheeks. He was completely naked—admiring the way his hips curved now. Slender. Almost effeminate. His nipples were darker, more sensitive. He brushed his fingers across them and felt a rush of heat.

He leaned close to the mirror and smiled.

His teeth were perfect—but not Hollywood perfect. 1800s-perfect. Slightly tinted. Seductive.

The lace shirt went on first—flowing, translucent. Then the silk pants, tight at the waist and loose around the legs. He added the velvet coat, slipped on his rings, tied the cravat.

When he stepped into the heeled boots, he felt taller. Not in inches—in presence.

He blew a kiss at the mirror.

“Felix Darrow. Owner of sin.”

Outside the doors, the others were waiting. They’d all finished dressing. Each man stepped into the yard—one at a time. And then froze.

They stared at one another.

Saul was the first to speak.

“Griffin…?”

Ellis took one look and said, “Don’t call me that.”

Dev blinked. “Holy shit, you’re… huge.”

Jorge stepped out and grinned. “Y’all look like the damn cast of Deadwood.”

They stared.

Each body different.

Each voice… subtly changed.

Each man standing different.

Saul’s hand never left the cigar. Felix adjusted his cravat compulsively. Clay stood wide-legged, scratching at his side. Ellis was holding his belt, thumb hooked casually near the revolver.

“This is fucked up,” Felix said. “But also… not.”

“Y’all feel that?” Clay asked. “Like… deep in your bones?”

Ellis nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Then, a voice echoed from the rooftop above.

Ezra.

“Gentlemen,” he said, arms crossed, smiling.

The wind caught his coat.

“Welcome to Wren Hollow. Your home for the next four and a half days.”

Felix squinted. “Wait… this is the bachelor party?”

Ezra nodded. “This is the party.”

Saul raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Ezra continued, voice low and clear:

“You will live here. Eat here. Drink here. Sleep in your cabins. Perform your duties. No one’s pretending. These roles are yours now. You’ve been prepared for this. The memory integration has already begun. By morning, your instincts will guide you.”

Clay stepped forward. “What if we don’t wanna do it?”

“You’ll want to,” Ezra said simply. “Trust me.”

Ellis narrowed his eyes. “This permanent?”

Ezra smiled. “Not technically. But the longer you wear it… the harder it is to take off.”

Then he pointed toward the town.

“Sun’s setting. Time to live like the men you were always meant to be.”

He vanished behind the chimney.

The four friends—no, not friends anymore—characters—looked at each other.

Felix let out a soft whistle. “Well, Sheriff,” he said with a grin, “might as well go see what kind of liquor you got in that saloon of mine.”

Saul flicked ash off his cigar. “And maybe try my luck at some poker. See if I can’t buy this town by tomorrow.”

Clay grunted. “I want meat.”

Ellis… just nodded.

They turned toward the town.

And walked forward—boots crunching on gravel—into the wild, lawless world of Wren Hollow.

[swappetf11]

The moment Ezra opened the manila envelope marked “CONFIDENTIAL – ETHICS WAIVER REQUIRED,” his palms started sweating. It hadn’t even been two minutes since he signed the papers. It was meant to be simple. Clinical. A six-month experimental pilot exploring racial embodiment—part of a deep social psychology immersion funded quietly by a global consortium. Ezra was a 29-year-old academic, half-Korean, half-Irish, lean and sharp-witted, standing at just under 5’9”. He wore round wire-framed glasses, his thick dark hair swept to one side, smooth skin, no facial hair, and a voice that always sounded slightly amused, as if the world were performing for his entertainment.

He’d volunteered for the money, sure—but also the curiosity. He’d been researching performative identity for years. Now he was about to become his own case study.

The transformation wouldn’t be a slow one. They’d assured him it would be “viscerally complete.” A sterile white room, a padded table, and a robe was all he was given. His own clothes and phone were taken away. His voice cracked a joke—“You’re not going to harvest my organs, are you?”—but it fell flat against the thick silence.

Dr. Carvalho walked in with two assistants, all dressed in grey. “You’re sure?” she asked, her Brazilian accent crisp. “There’s no going back until the full cycle is complete.”

Ezra hesitated, then nodded. “Let’s begin.”

She nodded to the assistant, who injected a translucent solution into a vein in his arm. He watched it snake its way up like silver lightning, his breathing beginning to stagger. And then—

It hit him. His body jerked violently, and he gasped—air suddenly felt too thick, like he was breathing through velvet. His legs trembled as his bones seemed to stretch, pop, and reform. His ribs shifted outward. His hips thickened, and his thighs ballooned, thick, corded muscles developing under new weight. His skin, once pale, flushed deep brown, the tone settling like honey-dark soil. He could feel the melanin flood in with a prickle, like thousands of sun-kissed needles.

Ezra screamed, but it wasn’t his scream. The sound was deeper, masculine in a way his voice had never been. Baritone. Weighted. A rich, rumbling gravel. He choked on it, coughing. His throat pulsed, stretched, reshaped. His jaw cracked—twice—widening and flattening. The bridge of his nose ached like it was breaking inward and re-forming into something broader, stronger.

Hair fell from his scalp in chunks. His fingers curled as his palms roughened, the pads thickening. His feet were huge now, spilling out of the hospital sandals. His once-smooth chin itched—burned—as hair burst forth, a tight, coarse beard spreading like fire across his jawline, curling dark and dense.

“Fuck—what the—” he tried to speak, but he froze at the sound of himself.

“Don’t panic,” said Dr. Carvalho, calmly observing the monitors. “The vocal cords are adjusting. You’re entering Phase Two.”

His teeth shifted, scraping against one another. He spat one out, horrified, watching a small, white molar clatter on the floor. He gagged. Another fell loose. And then the replacements came—larger, denser, slightly off-white with tiny imperfections. Biting into the inside of his cheek accidentally, he tasted copper and…smoke? There was a strange sensation, a craving for flavor and grit. Something earthy. Something real.

The transformation slowed. He felt heavier—so much heavier. His thighs pressed together, rubbing coarse hair, his cock now heavy, thick, uncircumcised, hanging low between massive thighs. His balls…Jesus. They hung. Like warm stones, weighty and primal. He reached down, touching the dark, leathery sack. The jolt of sensation went straight to his gut. He gasped. His hand looked alien—wide, dark, rough-knuckled, with thick fingernails.

A mirror was wheeled into the room.

He turned toward it slowly, the hospital gown opening in the back. His ass was full. Round. Muscular. Not like the flat, runner’s backside he’d always had. His back was broad, tapering into a narrow waist. Thick deltoids. Shoulders like armor. The beard curled across his square jaw, lips now full and soft, slightly parted in disbelief. His nose broad. His eyes—still dark brown—but framed by heavier lids, deeper set. He looked like someone who had never been Ezra.

He looked like a 38-year-old Black man from Chicago.

And he remembered it.

“Wait,” he whispered, the sound vibrating in his chest like thunder. “I—I remember this voice. I know this face.”

Dr. Carvalho approached him gently. “The psychological layer was administered during your blackout. Neural mapping. It’s not just a body—it’s a life. You’ll have six months living as Damon Walker. Your ID, address, job history, all reflect this reality. You’ve been working as a building supervisor in Bronzeville. You were raised on the South Side. You drive a 1997 Chevy Impala. You love jazz and grilling and two fingers of bourbon at night. You smoke cigars. You started when you were 17.”

She handed him a small cedar box. Inside—three fat maduros. He picked one up, the muscle memory there without thought. He brought it to his lips. “I…don’t smoke.” The words came hollow, uncertain.

“You didn’t,” she corrected. “Damon does.”

He sniffed the cigar, then lit it with a wooden match. The flame flickered as he drew in—and choked. The first drag made his eyes water. But the second one—damn. The smoke curled in his nose, earthy and sweet. The tension in his shoulders fell. His lips curled around the wrapper, tongue tasting tobacco. His cock twitched.

“This ain’t me,” he muttered to himself. “This ain’t me.” But his voice was soaked in a Midwestern rasp, casual, slow. He blinked. “…The fuck it ain’t,” he added under his breath.

He looked in the mirror again. Not just looked—posed. Chin tilted. Licked his lips. He raised a thick brow. “Damn… I’m handsome as hell.” His hips swayed differently now. Confident. Ass out, like it belonged on display.

Later, in the private wardrobe room, he stripped off the gown and pulled on his clothes—tight gray tank top, black Levi’s that gripped his thighs and ass, gold chain, Timberland boots. It fit perfectly. His new frame was made for it.

He stared at the name stitched on the jacket: Damon W

A single tear rolled down his cheek. He didn’t know if it was mourning Ezra…or welcoming Damon.

“You ready?” one of the techs asked from the doorway.

Damon sniffed, took another drag from the cigar, and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s roll.”

The scent of the leather seats in the old Impala mixed with the fading sweetness of the cigar clinging to Damon’s beard as he pulled into the parking lot of the red-brick building he now apparently managed. The hum of the city was louder than he remembered—but it wasn’t memory, not really. It was like waking up in a dream someone else had been living, and the edges were still smudged with uncertainty.

The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he stepped out. He reached for his keyring—clipped to a carabiner that swung from a belt loop—and fingered through until muscle memory took over. Third key, silver, worn down. Insert. Turn. Click. He opened the door and walked into the building’s small maintenance office, letting it shut behind him with a loud thud.

The office smelled of grease, paper, sweat, and time. A laminated calendar was pinned to the wall. March. Two weeks already crossed off in Sharpie. The name Damon was scribbled across nearly every day. That name—it didn’t sting like it did when Dr. Carvalho first said it. It sat differently now. Like a coat that already had his scent on it.

He flicked on the fluorescent lights, the hum above him deep and unyielding. The cracked leather chair groaned as he sat, his massive thighs spreading naturally. His balls rested heavy, warm against his leg. That weight again. He adjusted—but it wasn’t enough. That pull. That constant presence. He’d never had a pair before that felt so… alive.

He looked down.

The bulge in his jeans was pronounced. Not obscene—but undeniable. It pressed thick and confident, like a silent announcement. This is Damon. This man didn’t apologize for taking up space. For existing loudly. For drawing eyes.

He swallowed and unzipped, glancing at the closed door out of habit.

His new cock was uncut, the skin darker than his thighs, and already semi-hard from the friction of the denim. As he pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat. Thick. Heavy. A wide mushroom head peaked from the foreskin, veins pulsing along the shaft. He wrapped his hand around it—barely. It felt… alien. Sacred. The weight filled his palm like it had always been his.

“Jesus,” he muttered, the word thick with grit. “This fuckin’ thing’s a weapon.”

He stroked once—slow, tentative. A moan spilled out of him, involuntary and deep. He clenched his jaw, his beard brushing his collarbone. The sensation was different—richer, deeper, the nerves wired into a body that wanted nothing else at that moment.

His other hand cupped his balls—low hanging, warm, like ripe fruit. He rolled them gently, feeling their fullness. The pressure was satisfying, intoxicating. It didn’t feel like a violation of Ezra—it felt like Damon waking up more fully. Like his cock had its own identity, and it was demanding to be known.

He stood, jeans around his thighs, tank top clinging to his chest, and stepped in front of the office mirror—slightly cracked, dirty around the edges. His reflection was a man built to fuck. Thick chest, broad shoulders, arms with real weight to them, a stomach that wasn’t flat but solid with meat and strength. His beard curled under his chin, framing a mouth that looked made to growl.

He stroked again. The foreskin slid back, revealing the head slick with precum. A low grunt came from his throat. “Fuck, yeah…” he whispered, running his thumb across the slit. The pleasure made his knees weak.

Ezra had never felt this. Never been this man. Never hung like this. It was like learning an instrument you didn’t know you’d owned. Every tug, every throb sang with masculine urgency. He imagined what this dick looked like between thighs. Inside mouths. Inside asses. His cock twitched hard at the thought. His whole body pulsed.

And yet… he stopped. Not finished. Just… mesmerized.

He stared into his own eyes in the mirror. Not Ezra’s almond-shaped, playful ones. Damon’s deep, slightly hooded ones. World-worn. Steady. He breathed out, the smoke from his earlier cigar still lingering in his beard, clinging to his lips. He didn’t just look the part—he was it now.

He tucked himself back in slowly, savoring the way the fabric clung to his damp cock. The zipper threatened to snag, but he adjusted instinctively. That, too, felt familiar. Like he’d been dressing this body for years.

A knock.

“Yo, D! You in?”

A voice. Young. Male. Playful.

Damon cleared his throat, deepening his voice without thinking. “Yeah, hold up.”

He washed his hands, splashed water on his face, dried with a roll of paper towels.

Looking at himself one more time, he muttered under his breath, “Get it together, Big D.”

And for the first time, he believed it.

[swappetf11]

He didn’t know his name would be erased.

Not at first.

Not when the slick black car picked him up outside the crumbling apartment complex in Sofia. Not when the men in tight suits handed him the envelope with two thousand euros and a plane ticket with no return. Not even when he stepped off the plane into the golden, suffocating heat of the Arabian Peninsula, and was escorted past customs by men in tailored linen and mirrored glasses. The realization didn’t come until he was stripped bare in that room.

A hexagonal space lined in mirrors. Cool marble under his feet. That eerie buzz of electrics and incense in the air. Six men—silent—circled him like wolves. And one, seated in a wide leather chair, watching him with eyes that glowed like burnt honey.

“You are a fortunate man,” said the one in the chair. His voice curled like smoke. Arabic lilt with European polish. “You were selected for resemblance, but also for your… malleability.”

“My name’s Deyan.” The words came from his mouth like they didn’t belong to him. “Deyan Gochev. I didn’t sign up for anything like—”

“You’re done with that name.”

Two snapped fingers. His clothes were cut from him. Boxers last. He stood exposed, 5’10”, pale with sallow skin, slightly stooped from years of coding jobs and nicotine habits. No facial hair—could never grow much. Patchy. His teeth were slightly yellow, and his lips narrow, always drawn in thought. He had a slight curve in his spine from poor posture, thin ankles, barely any hair on his chest.

He was nobody.

Until the transformation began.

First came the bath. Heated oils and silks, hands scrubbing until his skin burned and tingled, opening pores, massaging elixirs into his scalp, into his face. His ears rang. His chest throbbed.

Then the tattooist entered.

“This is not ink,” the artist whispered as he crouched beside him, pressing the tip of a blackened needle to his breastbone. “This is magic. It marks the bond.”

Searing pain. Not the sharp pain of a tattoo gun, but the way hot metal sears animal hide. Deyan tried to scream, but incense thickened in his lungs. His chest convulsed as the ink bled into him, spiraling out in sacred script—Arabic characters laced with symbols older than language. They twisted across his chest, down over his ribs, his thighs, his back.

The symbols pulsed. He buckled.

He felt his hair fall out in soft clumps—eyebrows gone first. Then scalp hair. Face bare as a newborn. But not for long.

The new hair sprouted—coarse, dark, and tight, jet-black and curly. Thickening at the jaw, pushing through his skin with a burn. A mustache bloomed above his lip, dense and commanding. His cheeks filled in, and he felt the follicles erupt, thick as wire, spreading down his neck and across his chest.

His nose cracked audibly. He screamed as it reshaped, cartilage shifting to a proud, arched bridge. His lips swelled—no longer thin and drawn but lush and masculine. His skin darkened—gradually—tingling like sunburn, deepening from pale beige to a rich olive bronze.

His limbs stretched.

He fell forward on his hands, which thickened before his eyes—veins rising, fingers roughening. He cried out again, but the voice that emerged was not his own. It was lower. Bass-heavy. And laced with a soft Gulf Arabic accent.

“No… what—what are you—” he began, and stopped. The words were English, but the sound of them was wrong. Too smooth. Too confident.

The man in the chair stood. “You are no longer Deyan. That man was a statistic.”

The mirror showed the truth.

He stood nearly 6’2” now, with thick thighs, a chest full of dark curls, a soft layer of masculine fat padding his midsection. Not obese—just wealthy. Well-fed. His beard was sculpted—already trained to taper just below his chin. His eyebrows were darker, more angular. His feet had widened. His ass was fuller, jutting slightly, and his penis—he gasped—hung heavy and low between muscular thighs, no longer shriveled and shy.

He touched it. He felt it. The weight. The warmth. His own breath hitched.

The door opened again.

A younger man stepped in. Tall, broad, and golden-skinned. Tight jeans. Open white linen shirt. Gold chain. He smelled like oud and tobacco.

“Who’s this?” the man asked, eyeing the newly formed figure in the mirror.

The voice in the chair responded. “This is Hamza al-Khoury. He is the cousin of the Sheikh. He spent six years in Monaco. Studied in Paris. Had a love affair with a Danish sculptor. He returned last year to oversee the Sheikh’s vineyards.”

“I don’t know any of that—” Deyan—no, Hamza—choked.

“You will,” the man said.

The younger one smiled. “He’s… beautiful.”

Hamza’s heart pounded.

Something stirred low in his gut. An unfamiliar heat. He watched the man approach, that gold chain glinting. The man’s hand touched his new cheek, rough thumb dragging over Hamza’s fuller lips.

“You want to remember, don’t you?” he whispered.

“I—” Hamza trembled.

The man leaned in. “Say shukran.”

“Shukran,” Hamza breathed, the sound curling like honey.

The man smiled wider. “Good. He learns fast.”

That night, he was dressed. Black robe tailored to cling to his chest and hang elegantly over his now-broader shoulders. Underneath, snug-fitting white undergarments held his heavy parts. He walked with a slow gait—no longer the quick, hesitant shuffle of a programmer but the grounded sway of a man with lineage, power, and indulgence in his blood.

He was brought to a lounge where sheikh’s inner circle smoked cigars and played cards. A leather case was presented to him. Inside—a Cohiba, thick and uncut.

A man pressed it to his lips. “Smoke, cousin.”

The first puff nearly floored him. The smoke filled his nose, down into his chest, anchoring the new identity deeper. The taste was bitter. Spicy. He coughed, his chest heaving—but they laughed.

“You’ve been away too long, Hamza.”

He grinned, the cigar now resting easily between his fingers. His accent more natural with every word. His spine straighter. A hunger in his eyes.

Later that night, he caught his own reflection again in the marble mirror.

“I am Hamza,” he whispered. “Aren’t I?”

The door creaked open. The golden-skinned man stood there again, shirtless now, watching him.

Hamza exhaled cigar smoke and spread his legs slightly. The words came naturally now.

“Well? You coming in, habibi, or just gonna stand there staring at your new man?”

And the door shut behind him.

[swappetf11]

He was standing at the airport gate when it happened.

Kasien hadn’t even boarded the flight to Marrakesh. A layover. Just one night. That’s all he’d agreed to. His leather duffle bag slung over one shoulder, oversized hoodie hanging off his lanky frame like a wet sheet on a clothesline. Thirty-three years old, white, born and raised in Portland—he was the kind of man who always seemed a little lost, but charming in that distracted, quietly eccentric way. He’d taught English for a while, then dabbled in freelance copywriting. In truth, he mostly floated—never quite landing.

His hair was sandy brown and just long enough to tuck behind his ears. No facial hair. His skin was pale, with that northern translucence that resisted sun. His teeth were straight, but small, a little yellow. He had thin lips, long toes, and a voice that rarely raised above a soft baritone. Casual, cerebral, with a dry sense of humor and a vape always close at hand.

He didn’t see the man watching him from across the terminal.

Didn’t notice the whispered prayer in a dialect older than sand.

Didn’t hear the first sound of his body beginning to unmake itself.

Crack.

His spine arched, sudden and sharp. He stumbled forward, dizzy, his vision tunneling. His feet—it felt like they were swelling in his sneakers, toes thickening, arches flattening. He gasped, but the sound that came out was different. Coarser. Rougher. As though his vocal cords had been lightly dusted with gravel.

“Hey, you good?” a woman asked, passing by.

He tried to answer but his tongue felt… full. Heavy. He bit down reflexively and tasted blood. His jaw ached as the bones beneath his skin subtly reformed—broadening, angling.

His vape dropped to the floor, forgotten.

He reeled into the airport bathroom. Staggered into a stall and locked it. Collapsed onto the closed toilet, panting.

His fingertips trembled. Skin darkening. Not tan—deepening. He looked at the back of his hands, watching fine golden hair thicken into coarse black coils. His fingernails changed shape, squarer, more prominent. His wrists thickened, the veins crawling up his forearms growing more visible under darker, tighter skin.

He blinked at his reflection in the scratched metal of the toilet paper holder. His jaw was broader. His lips fuller. The bridge of his nose flared slightly wider. His eyes—green, still, but rimmed with unfamiliar lashes. A darker hue encroaching at the edges of his irises.

“What the fuck…?” he breathed—and stopped.

His voice.

It was different.

Not just deeper. Velvety. With a cadence. Like it wanted to fall into Arabic, even if his thoughts were still in English.

He pulled off the hoodie—sweat clinging to his chest. His nipples were larger. His pecs were defined. He ran his palm over his sternum, startled at how hairy it felt—fine at first, then thick and curly, black and coarse as it fanned down his stomach, leading to—

He doubled over.

His balls.

They dropped.

The sensation was visceral. He grunted, moaned involuntarily as weight swelled between his legs. No longer soft and retracted, his testicles hung, heavy and low in his briefs. His cock—it was thicker, uncut, a deep brown, veined and alien to him. It twitched with every heartbeat. The briefs grew tighter, then tore slightly at the seam as his thighs bulked outward.

His calves swelled. Ankles thickened. Feet stretched outwards, toes curling then reshaping—broad, callused, darker, no longer the pale writer’s feet of someone who spent his life indoors.

He panted.

“Sho… sho…”

The words came—foreign and familiar, like borrowed memories sliding into place.

A knock at the stall. “Yalla,” a voice commanded. Rough. Male. Confident.

“It’s time, Habibi.”

Kasien’s breath caught. The voice stirred something. Desire. Recognition. Obedience.

He stood slowly. Wobbled.

And then—his teeth shifted.

“Ah—shit—” he gurgled, spitting as one molar clattered into the toilet bowl. Then another. His tongue found new shapes in his mouth—larger, capped teeth. Some gold. One slightly crooked canine.

His reflection now showed a bearded man—his beard, thick and wiry, jet-black and glinting with sweat. His cheeks were fuller. Nose strong. His brows arched darker, thicker.

Kasien’s body wasn’t just different. It was older. Maybe mid-40s. Muscular, hardened by sun and years of physical labor.

Another knock.

“Mohammed, open the door.”

His name wasn’t—was it?

His hand reached for the lock before he’d decided to.

The man outside was tall, darker-skinned than his own new body, with a buzzcut and an angular jaw. He wore a linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar and sandals that revealed strong, blunt toes. A thick silver ring glinted on one finger.

“You took long enough,” the man said with a smirk, eyeing him up and down. “But damn. Look at you.” He stepped close, ran a finger through the beard, down the curve of his chest.

“I don’t—” Kasien tried, but the other man placed a finger to his lips.

“You do.”

And then he kissed him.

Not softly. It was claiming. Familiar. And right.

Kasien gasped as their lips met—his new lips, softer, fuller, responsive. A fire surged through him. Not just arousal. Recognition.

Mohammed. That was his name.

He belonged here.

He groaned into the kiss as the last changes settled in—his spine cracking again, his shoulders squaring out fully, his legs adjusted to the new gait. He stood different now. Walked with a slight swagger, his balls swinging with each step.

They left the bathroom together.

The man—Jamal, that was his name—led him to the exit. Outside, an old Peugeot idled. The air smelled like spice, motor oil, and heat.

He caught his reflection in the window before climbing in.

He didn’t look lost anymore.

He looked alive.

And inside, the fire burned. For home. For men. For the feeling of sweat in the sun, of thick smoke curling between full lips, of skin against skin.

And he knew he was going to smoke now. He craved it. Tobacco. Clove. The slow drag of a cigar.

“You remember where we’re going?” Jamal asked.

Mohammed smiled. It reached his eyes. His new teeth gleamed.

“Of course,” he said in Arabic. “I’ve always known.”

[swappetf11]

There was a man named Claude. Forty-three years old, Caucasian, reclusive, and stiff in manner, Claude lived in a quiet corner of Belgium. His thin frame, pale skin, and angular face gave him an almost ghostlike appearance under the yellow lights of his study. He’d been an archivist for two decades—obsessed with obscure folklore, old languages, and cultural anthropology. No partner, no children, and no real friendships to speak of, save for the occasional email exchange with academics scattered across the globe.

Claude’s newest obsession was North African identity—particularly Algerian Berber culture. It started innocuously. He was tasked with indexing a series of oral histories from French-Algerian immigrants, stories recorded between the 1960s and the early 2000s. The voices gripped him: their accents, the cadence, the tension between loss and pride. He began ordering books in French and Arabic. He practiced the language daily, alone at his desk, murmuring “Ana min al-Jaza’ir… Ana Amazigh…” into the silence.

Then came the disguises. First a keffiyeh draped awkwardly over his scalp. Then darker foundation, drawn-on stubble, and a poorly-fitted faux-leather jacket he ordered online after seeing it on a 1990s Algerian pop star. He’d stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the scarf over his head, narrowing his pale blue eyes, thickening his Belgian accent with slow, deliberate syllables: “Wallah, frère… c’est chaud ici, hein?”

It should’ve felt like play. But something was shifting beneath the performance. Each disguise felt right. Not just right—familiar.

He sought out Algerian cafés in Brussels, listening quietly in corners, inhaling the scent of sweet mint tea and Gauloises. The first time he actually spoke to someone—an older man named Salah—he was terrified. But Salah seemed to sense something.

“You’re not from here,” Salah said, leaning in, wrinkled fingers tapping the ceramic of his teacup.

“No,” Claude admitted. “But I want to understand.”

Salah smiled. “Then you’ll need to do more than wear our clothes, son.”

Claude started volunteering at the cultural center. Salah introduced him to his sons. Young, tough men, second generation, bilingual in that rapid, clipped Françarabe that sounded like gunfire. They were skeptical of Claude. But the more time he spent there, the more natural it all felt. The way they joked, the way they touched each other’s shoulders when laughing, the chain-smoking, the rough affection—they were tight-knit, fast-moving, alive.

He stopped going home some nights, falling asleep on old couches at the center. He let his hair grow, stopped trimming his nails. The scent of shisha and sweat became his new cologne. Salah’s youngest, Rachid, handed him a pack of Marlboros one night and said, “Either you smoke with us or you don’t belong.”

Claude coughed through the first few, but eventually it stuck. It changed something. He began craving that smoky burn in his lungs. And something else. He was looking at Rachid longer than he should’ve.

That night, he went home, stripped naked in front of the mirror. He stared at his pale skin. The bony arms. The long toes. He touched his jaw and rubbed the charcoal he’d once used for fake stubble. He muttered, “Je ne suis pas Claude…”

The next morning, something itched under his skin. He scratched his arms raw. His face felt hot. It wasn’t sickness. It was molting.

Over the next week, it accelerated. At first it was subtle—his skin darkened unevenly like a bad tan. Then thicker hair began to sprout along his arms, under his jaw. His beard came in wiry and black, stubborn as steel wool. His cheekbones broadened. His lips puffed. His nose thickened at the bridge. But the most jarring change? His eyes. The blue faded day by day, becoming a rich, dark brown—soft at first, then sharp and intense. He no longer saw Claude in the mirror.

He panicked and didn’t leave the house. Salah came looking for him. Knocked. Claude didn’t answer.

But Rachid came too. Rachid didn’t knock. He barged in.

And when he saw him, naked, crouched on the bathroom floor, hair thick and curly now, a trimmed goatee on his chin, cock thick and heavy resting over his thigh, skin a dusky brown, body stronger, broader, harder—Rachid only blinked.

“You look… right,” he said.

Claude stood slowly. His knees cracked. He felt taller. Denser. There was more weight in his gait now. His cock hung lower, swinging heavy between his thighs. The hairs on his chest curled naturally. His jawline was rougher. His voice, when he tried to speak, cracked and rumbled with gravel he’d never known before.

“I…” he started, then paused. He tried again. “Je suis… moi.” He coughed. A laugh caught in his throat.

“No, bro,” Rachid grinned, “Tu parles comme un vrai dz.” He pulled a small bundle from his bag—dark jeans, an oversized leather jacket, a tight-fitting t-shirt with Arabic script, and a cheap chain. “Put these on. You gotta meet the crew.”

Claude—no, Karim—took the clothes. Naked, he examined himself. He touched his new beard, rubbed his thick fingers through his coiled hair. The mirror no longer showed the gaunt Belgian archivist. It reflected a thirty-something Franco-Algerian man with hooded eyes, a confident smirk, and a past soaked in street politics, family honor, and cigarettes.

As he pulled on the tight black tee, his thick arms bulged. He tugged the jeans up—snug over his new thighs, ass firm and round. The belt clicked. The jacket fell onto his shoulders like a memory coming home.

He slipped on the chain. Lit a Marlboro. Exhaled slow.

The taste was his now.

Karim didn’t ask questions. He followed Rachid to the car, radio blaring raï music, and laughed deeply for the first time in years. The rhythm of the language—the slang, the poetry, the curse words—they rolled off his tongue like they’d always lived there.

He didn’t know how or why it happened.

He didn’t need to.

He had become the culture. The disguise wasn’t a mask anymore. It was skin. And he wore it like it was always his.

[swappetf11]

Well, @support can’t find my account: bodyswappertransforming that suddenly disappeared a month ago. So things where I’ll post, perhaps. I’m still writing by not posting.

Saudi American - End.

Full story

The Final Meeting in the Desert

As the year drew to a close, Faisal found himself increasingly restless in his original life. Although he had tried to reintegrate into his role as a father, husband, and respected community leader in Saudi Arabia, the memories of his time as Jake in America—living freely, embracing his dominance, and fully owning his identity—lingered in his mind, pulling him toward a different kind of life.

The day of their meeting arrived, and Faisal made the journey to the secluded desert camp with a mix of anticipation and determination. As he drove, his thoughts swirled with the memories of the life he had lived as Jake—the freedom, the power, the sense of authenticity that had come with it. He knew that this meeting would change everything, but he hadn’t yet decided exactly how.

When Faisal arrived at the camp, the sight that greeted him was a stark reminder of the life he had come to love. Jake, waiting by the fire, had transformed even further over the past year. His body was more muscular, his presence even more commanding. A large, thick beard framed his face, adding to his aura of authority and power. The shaved head, horseshoe mustache, and pierced nipples made him look every bit the dominant force that Faisal had once aspired to be.

Jake sat by the fire, a large cigar clenched between his teeth, the glow of the embers reflecting off his eyes as he looked up to greet Faisal. The scent of rich tobacco filled the air, mixing with the desert breeze, creating an atmosphere that was both intimate and intense.

As Faisal stepped out of the car and approached, the two men locked eyes. The air between them was thick with unspoken tension, desire, and the weight of the decisions they had made over the past year.

Underneath his traditional Saudi robes, Faisal wore a leather jockstrap, leather chaps, and a leather harness. The feel of the leather against his skin was exhilarating, and knowing that Jake had no idea what was underneath his robes only heightened the anticipation. Faisal had initially been drawn to Jake over ten years ago, captivated by the incredibly thick and long beard that Jake wore with such pride, as well as his bald head. The way Jake’s beard felt against his skin had always driven Faisal wild, and he loved to grab it as Jake sucked his cock.

But Faisal had learned from their conversations that Jake missed the beard he had when he was in Faisal’s body. It was why Jake had ultimately decided to remove the piercings from his nipples and the Prince Albert—those changes didn’t feel pure to him, not when compared to the simplicity and power of his bearded face.

They walked together into the tent, the familiar setting bringing back memories of their previous encounters. But this time, there was an unspoken understanding that this meeting would be different.

Making Love and the Transformation

Inside the tent, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Without speaking, they began to undress, their movements slow and deliberate. As Jake pulled off Faisal’s robes, his eyes widened at the sight of the leather gear underneath. Faisal stood there, the black leather chaps hugging his muscular legs, the harness framing his broad chest, and the jockstrap barely containing his arousal.

Jake’s reaction was immediate—his eyes darkened with desire, the sight of Faisal in leather driving him wild. The memory of Faisal’s beard and how it felt against his skin flashed in Jake’s mind, and he realized that this was the moment he had been waiting for, the culmination of everything they had shared over the past ten years.

Jake reached out, running his hand over the leather harness, feeling the warmth of Faisal’s skin beneath it. The sight of Faisal in leather, paired with the memory of their past, sent a shiver down Jake’s spine, and he pulled Faisal into a fierce, passionate kiss. The taste of smoke lingered on Jake’s lips, the heat of their bodies pressing together igniting a fire within Faisal that he couldn’t contain.

Their hands roamed over each other’s bodies, the leather amplifying the sensation of every touch. Jake’s dominance quickly took over as he pushed Faisal back onto the bed, his hands gripping Faisal’s thighs as he positioned himself above him. The weight of Jake’s body, the feel of the leather, the intensity of the moment—it all built to a crescendo as Jake entered him, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through their bodies.

Jake, fully immersed in his dominant role, leaned back, savoring the sight of Faisal beneath him. He pulled out briefly, flipping Faisal onto his stomach, his hands parting the firm, round cheeks before diving in with his tongue. The sensation of Jake’s beard brushing against his sensitive skin as Jake ate his ass sent shivers down Faisal’s spine, each flick of Jake’s tongue bringing him closer to the edge. Faisal moaned into the pillow, his body trembling as Jake worked him over with a skill that left him breathless.

The ass-eating was intense, primal, and added an extra layer of intimacy to their connection. It wasn’t just about dominance and submission; it was about knowing each other’s bodies, each other’s desires, in the most intimate way possible. When Jake finally pulled back, Faisal was more than ready, his body craving the fullness of Jake inside him once more.

The rhythm they set afterward was relentless, each thrust driving them both closer to the climax they sought. The sounds of their lovemaking filled the tent—the slap of skin against skin, the moans of pleasure, the deep, guttural growls of Jake as he took Faisal with a force that left them both trembling.

As their bodies began to transform, the changes were deeper, more profound than ever before. The ritual took hold as they made love, the magic intertwining with their physical connection. Jake felt the shift inside him as Faisal’s body gradually became his own once more. His muscles, his very essence, shifted to match Faisal’s, but this time, it wasn’t just physical. As the transformation progressed, Jake found himself embodying everything that Faisal had been—the responsibilities, the cultural heritage, the deep, abiding sense of duty. It wasn’t just a body swap; it was a total immersion into the life he was about to lead.

Faisal, now becoming Jake, felt the same but opposite shift. The dominance, the confidence, the very essence of Jake’s life in America seeped into him, making him more Jake than he had ever been before. He could feel the weight of the decisions Jake had made over the years, the sense of freedom that had defined Jake’s life, and it felt right, like a second skin.

When they reached their climax together, the transformation was complete. They lay together, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they adjusted to the new reality.

The Permanent Swap

Afterward, as they lay together in the quiet of the tent, the finality of their decision settled over them. Jake, now truly Faisal, ran a hand over his body—his hands felt the familiar shape and texture of Faisal’s muscles, but it was more than that. He was Faisal now, in every sense of the word. The responsibilities of being a father, a husband, and a leader in his community filled his mind, and he found peace in the decision.

Faisal, now fully Jake, looked over at his former self with a deep sense of satisfaction. The life he had chosen, the identity he had reclaimed, felt more right than ever. He was ready to live fully as Jake, to embrace everything that came with it, from the power to the freedom and the dominance that had always been a part of him.

It was then that the full weight of the transformation hit them both: the swap was now permanent.

Jake—now Faisal—felt the finality of it in his bones, the realization that the life he had reclaimed as Jake was now out of reach. But as he looked at Faisal—now Jake—he saw the contentment and pride in his former self’s eyes and knew that this was the right decision for both of them.

The two men shared a final, lingering kiss, sealing the bond they had formed and the decisions they had made. The connection between them was unbreakable, even as they prepared to step into their new, permanent lives.

The New Reality

Faisal, now fully Jake, looked at his former self with a mix of pride and contentment. The man he had become, the life he had chosen, felt right in every way. He had found his true identity in America, and now he could live it fully, without the burden of returning to his old life.

Jake—now Faisal—took a deep breath, the weight of his new reality settling over him. He had returned to his family, his responsibilities, and the identity that had once defined him. And while the loss of his life as Jake in America stung, there was a strange sense of peace in knowing that he could now focus entirely on his life in Saudi Arabia.

As the two men stood facing each other, the bond between them remained unbroken, even in their new roles. The realization that they could no longer swap lives was bittersweet, but it also brought with it a sense of finality that they both needed.

“I guess this is it,” Jake—now Faisal—said quietly, the words heavy with acceptance.

“Maybe not entirely,” Faisal—now Jake—replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “We might not be able to swap back, but that doesn’t mean we can’t stay connected. I’ll visit you here… or you could come to the States. We can still have our time together, our desert rendezvous.”

Jake—now Faisal—nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The idea of maintaining their connection, of finding ways to be together even in their new lives, brought a sense of comfort.

“I’d like that,” Jake—now Faisal—said, his voice filled with sincerity. “I’d like that a lot.”

As they parted ways, each man walked away from the tent, stepping into the lives they had chosen—one as Faisal, the other as Jake. The desert, the ritual, and the magic that had brought them together would remain a part of them forever, but their paths were now set, and they would find a way to navigate their new lives together, even from a distance.

Jake’s Full Integration into Life in the United States

After the permanent swap, Jake fully embraced his identity in the United States, immersing himself in the world he had come to love. Over the next five years, he became a dominant force in the BDSM and leather communities, earning multiple Mr. Leatherman titles and building a reputation as a master in the world of kink. His transformation was complete, both in body and spirit.

Jake reinserted his Prince Albert piercing, feeling a sense of completion with the metal once again adorning his cock. He took it even further, adding piercings to his testicles and tongue, each modification deepening his connection to the lifestyle he had fully embraced. His body became a canvas for his identity, each piercing a symbol of his dominance and the control he exerted over his world.

His physical appearance evolved to match the powerful persona he projected. Jake dyed his long, thick beard jet black, matching the fierce Mohawk that crowned his head. The combination of his jet-black beard and Mohawk made him stand out in any crowd, a visual representation of the strength and confidence he had gained since fully integrating into his new life. He also adorned his body with tattoos—bold, intricate designs that covered his arms, chest, and back. The tattoos were a striking contrast to the life he had once lived, something that would have been completely forbidden in Saudi Arabia and Islam.

And there was always a cigar. It became an extension of himself, a fixed presence in his mouth, whether he was at a leather bar, a BDSM event, or simply living his day-to-day life. The rich scent of tobacco surrounded him, a constant reminder of the power and authority he wielded.

Yet, despite his complete immersion in his life in America, Jake occasionally found himself thinking of the life he had left behind in Saudi Arabia. The memories of his family, his responsibilities, and the cultural ties that had once defined him would surface from time to time, pulling at the edges of his consciousness. Whenever these moments struck, Jake would send a message to Faisal, maintaining a connection that, while distant, never fully faded.

The Reunion in San Francisco

Five years after the permanent swap, the time came for Jake and Faisal to meet again. This time, it was in America, back in San Francisco, where they had shared so many intense and transformative moments. The city that had once seen them swap lives was now the backdrop for their reunion.

Faisal arrived in San Francisco, stepping off the plane with a mix of anticipation and nostalgia. His appearance had changed over the years as well. He had embraced his role as a conservative leader and a grandfather, his responsibilities grounding him in his life in Saudi Arabia. His beard had grown longer, as had his hair, both symbols of his wisdom and status. Yet, beneath the conservative exterior, the fire that Jake had ignited within him still smoldered, waiting to be rekindled.

As Faisal walked through the airport and into the city, he couldn’t help but reflect on the wild contrast between his life in Saudi Arabia and what he was about to experience. It was strange, almost surreal, to think about Jake’s body—his former body—now transformed into this dominant, leather-clad figure that seemed so distant from the man Faisal had once been. It was like meeting a stranger in the body he once knew intimately, a body that now felt completely foreign to him.

The two men met at a leather bar, a place that had become a second home to Jake. The moment Faisal stepped inside, he was hit by the intensity of the environment—leather-clad men, the scent of cigars and sweat, the heavy atmosphere of dominance and submission. It was a world that was both foreign and familiar, a stark contrast to the life he had been living.

Jake greeted Faisal with a smile, the cigar in his mouth bobbing as he spoke. “Good to see you, Faisal,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice, his English a mix of his American past and the slight Arabic accent that had lingered. “Welcome back.”

Faisal couldn’t help but smile back, the sight of Jake so fully integrated into this life both surprising and oddly comforting. “Good to see you too, Jake,” he replied, his own English still tinged with the broken syntax that reflected their years apart. “Very different… you now. I hardly know my old body.”

Jake chuckled, taking a long drag from his cigar before responding. “I know… it’s strange, right? I don’t even recognize him—don’t feel like that person anymore.”

Faisal nodded, looking at Jake’s muscular, leather-clad form. The tattoos on Jake’s arms and chest were striking, a bold declaration of the life he now led. “You… become something new. Strong, powerful. It’s like you… meant for this life.”

Jake’s eyes softened, appreciating Faisal’s words. “And you… Faisal. You look like you were always meant to be the grandfather, the leader. But do you miss this?” he asked, gesturing to the bar, the scene around them.

Faisal hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Sometimes, yes. But… not like you. I see now… I was never meant to stay. Saudi… is home.”

Jake took another drag from his cigar, studying Faisal with a thoughtful expression. “There’s something I want you to try,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of his authority. “You see my tattoos?” He gestured to the ink that adorned his arms and chest. “I know… this forbidden for you. But while you here, with me, I want you to wear some—temporary, just for fun. As your dominant, I ask this.”

Faisal’s eyes widened at the suggestion. Tattoos were completely forbidden in his culture, something he had never even considered. But the way Jake looked at him, the authority in his voice, made it clear that this wasn’t just a request. It was a command.

Faisal hesitated, the conservative part of him recoiling at the idea. But then he remembered the bond they shared, the trust that had been built over years of shared experiences. Slowly, he nodded. “Alright, Jake. If you say so… I will do.”

Jake smiled, pleased with Faisal’s response. “Good. You trust me, yes?”

“Yes,” Faisal replied, his voice steady despite the uncertainty he felt. “I trust you.”

They spent the next few days together, exploring the leather bars and immersing themselves in the world that Jake had made his own. Faisal, though more conservative and reserved, found himself slowly letting go of the constraints he had placed on himself over the years. The connection they shared, the bond forged through their experiences, made it easy for him to surrender to the moment.

One night, as they returned to Jake’s apartment, Jake prepared the temporary tattoos, intricate designs that mimicked the bold, tribal patterns on his own body. He applied them to Faisal’s skin, watching as the ink settled into place, transforming Faisal’s appearance in a way that was both striking and unsettling.

Faisal looked at himself in the mirror, the tattoos a stark contrast to the man he had always been. It felt strange, almost wrong, but the way Jake looked at him with approval made him feel… powerful, in a way he hadn’t expected.

Jake stood behind him, his hands resting on Faisal’s shoulders. “You look good,” he said, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. “Like you belong here, with me.”

Faisal met Jake’s gaze in the mirror, the weight of the tattoos and the authority of Jake’s words settling over him. “Thank you, Jake,” he said quietly, his broken English carrying a mix of gratitude and submission. “For showing me… this side.”

Jake leaned in, his lips brushing against Faisal’s ear. “Now, let’s enjoy this, Faisal,” he whispered, the command clear in his voice. “Let me take care of you.”

Faisal nodded, his heart racing as he felt Jake’s hands move down his body, the tattoos adding a new layer of sensation to every touch. The night was filled with exploration, submission, and a deepening of their connection. Faisal, now adorned with the temporary tattoos, felt a freedom he hadn’t known he needed. The role allowed him to let go of his responsibilities, his status, and simply be in the moment with Jake.

Jake led Faisal to the bed, where he began to undress him, the leather and tattoos contrasting sharply against Faisal’s skin. As they moved together, Jake’s dominance was clear in every touch, every command. He guided Faisal through each step, from sucking his cock with fervor to eating his ass with a skill that left Faisal trembling. The intimacy and intensity of the moment were overwhelming, each sensation heightened by the knowledge that this was something they could only share here, in this world.

As the night drew to a close, they lay together, the leather gear still clinging to their bodies, the scent of cigars and sweat thick in the air. Jake looked over at Faisal, his voice soft yet filled with emotion. “I’m glad you came,” he said, his English still bearing traces of his past life. “This… is good, yes?”

Faisal removed the pup mask, his longer beard now slightly matted from the night’s activities. “Yes, Jake… very good. I missed this part of me… the part only you bring out.”

They shared a kiss, slow and tender, each man savoring the connection they had rekindled. The years apart had changed them, but the bond they shared was as strong as ever.

As they lay in the quiet of Jake’s apartment, they knew that this reunion was just another chapter in their ongoing story. The future held uncertainty, but as long as they had each other, they would find a way to navigate it together.

Faisal knew he would return to Saudi Arabia, to his family and responsibilities, but the time they had spent together in San Francisco would remain a cherished memory—a reminder of the man he had been and the man he still was, deep inside.

And Jake, as he watched Faisal drift off to sleep, knew that no matter where their paths led them, they would always have this bond, this connection that transcended time, distance, and even identity. It was a bond that neither man would ever fully let go of.

The next morning, Jake woke up first, his eyes lingering on Faisal, who was still asleep beside him. The temporary tattoos had faded slightly, but their effect on Faisal had been profound. Jake couldn’t help but smile as he thought about the night they’d shared—the intensity of their connection, the submission, the exploration. It had been a powerful reminder of the bond they’d forged, and he was eager to take it further.

Jake got up quietly, careful not to wake Faisal, and headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he thought about what he wanted to introduce to Faisal next. The night before had been about testing boundaries, pushing Faisal just a bit further than he was comfortable with. Today, Jake wanted to deepen that experience, to fully immerse Faisal in the world he had embraced over the last five years.

When Faisal finally stirred and came into the kitchen, Jake greeted him with a warm smile and a cup of coffee. “Morning,” Jake said, his voice still gravelly from the night before. “Sleep well?”

Faisal nodded, accepting the coffee with a small smile. “Yes, very well. Last night… it was something,” he said in his broken English, the hesitation in his voice showing that he was still processing everything.

Jake chuckled, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Good. We’re not done yet, though. I have something more planned for you, Faisal. Something that will push you even further. You trust me, right?”

Faisal looked at Jake, the weight of his words settling over him. He could feel the trust they had built over the years, and even though he knew Jake would push him out of his comfort zone, he nodded. “Yes, Jake. I trust you.”

Jake set down his coffee cup, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “Good. Then I want you to do something for me. Today, I want you to dye your hair and beard black, just like mine. We’ll use temporary dye, but I want you to see yourself in a different way. And after that, we’re going to take things a step further with some puppy play.”

Faisal’s eyes widened at the suggestion. Dyeing his hair and beard black, even temporarily, was a bold move—one that would completely change his appearance. And the idea of puppy play, something he had only briefly experienced the night before, was still new and unsettling to him.

“But, Jake… black hair? Black beard? Puppy play?” Faisal hesitated, the conservative part of him still resisting the changes.

Jake stepped closer, placing a hand on Faisal’s shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. “Yes, Faisal. I want you to experience this fully, to let go of the man you’ve always been, just for a while. Trust me—this will be good for you. It’s about surrender, about giving yourself over to something new. And as your dominant, I’m asking you to do this.”

Faisal swallowed hard, the conflict clear in his eyes. But the trust he had in Jake, the bond they shared, made him nod slowly. “Okay, Jake. I do it… for you.”

Jake smiled, pleased with Faisal’s response. “Good. Let’s get started.”

The Transformation

Jake led Faisal to the bathroom, where he had already set up everything they needed for the transformation. He showed Faisal the temporary dye, explaining how it would work, how it would wash out after a few days, but would give him the intense, jet-black look that Jake had made his own.

Faisal looked at himself in the mirror, taking a deep breath before nodding. “Let’s do it,” he said quietly, his voice filled with resolve.

Jake guided him through the process, applying the dye with careful precision. As the black color took hold, Faisal’s appearance began to change dramatically. His once gray-streaked hair and beard turned a deep, glossy black, transforming him into a version of himself that he had never seen before.

When the dye was set and washed out, Faisal looked at his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back at him was almost unrecognizable—a striking figure with jet-black hair and a long, dark beard that gave him an intense, powerful look. It was a version of himself that he had never imagined, and yet, there was something exhilarating about it.

Jake stood behind him, admiring the transformation. “You look incredible,” Jake said, his voice filled with pride. “Like you belong here, with me.”

Faisal turned to Jake, a mixture of emotions swirling in his eyes. “It’s… different. I don’t recognize myself, but… I trust you, Jake.”

Jake nodded, placing a hand on Faisal’s shoulder. “Good. Now, let’s take it a step further.”

Jake led Faisal back to the bedroom, where he had laid out the leather pup mask and other gear for their next adventure. The sight of the mask brought back memories of the night before, but now, with his newly dyed hair and beard, Faisal felt a surge of confidence that he hadn’t felt before.

“Put this on,” Jake instructed, holding out the pup mask.

Faisal hesitated only for a moment before taking the mask and carefully fitting it over his head. The leather felt cool against his skin, the snout and ears transforming him into a pup, just as Jake had intended.

Jake stepped back, his eyes raking over Faisal’s transformed appearance. The jet-black hair and beard, the leather mask—it was a striking combination, one that sent a thrill through Jake. He could see the conflict in Faisal’s eyes, the struggle between his conservative upbringing and the surrender Jake was asking of him, but he also saw something else—a willingness to explore, to trust, and to give himself over to the experience.

“You look amazing,” Jake said, his voice low and commanding. “Now, on all fours. Let’s see how you move.”

Faisal dropped to his hands and knees, the leather gear creaking slightly as he adjusted to the position. The feeling of the mask, combined with the weight of the dye in his hair and beard, made him feel different—stronger, more submissive, more willing to follow Jake’s lead.

Jake watched with satisfaction as Faisal began to crawl, the leather pup mask making him look every bit the part. “Good,” Jake said, his voice firm. “You’re doing well. Now, let’s see just how deep you can go.”

With that, Jake guided Faisal into a series of commands, his dominance clear in every word. He had Faisal sit, lie down, and roll over, each command bringing Faisal deeper into the role. But it wasn’t just about obedience—Jake wanted to push Faisal further, to break down the last of his resistance.

Jake knelt beside Faisal, running his hands over his body, feeling the tension and anticipation in his muscles. He leaned in, whispering in Faisal’s ear. “Now, let me take care of you.”

With skilled hands, Jake guided Faisal through a series of increasingly intimate acts, from sucking his cock to licking his ass, the intensity of the moment heightening with each passing second. Faisal, despite his initial hesitation, found himself surrendering completely to Jake’s dominance, the trust between them allowing him to let go in a way he never had before.

The night was filled with exploration, submission, and a deepening of their connection. Faisal, now fully immersed in the role, felt a freedom he hadn’t known he needed. The combination of the black dye, the pup mask, and Jake’s commands created an experience that was both exhilarating and transformative.

As the night drew to a close, they lay together, the leather gear still clinging to their bodies, the scent of cigars and sweat thick in the air. Jake looked over at Faisal, his voice soft yet filled with emotion. “I’m proud of you,” he said, his English still bearing traces of his past life. “You trusted me, and you let go. This… is good, yes?”

Faisal removed the pup mask, his newly blackened beard now slightly matted from the night’s activities. “Yes, Jake… very good. I never thought… I could do this. But with you, I can.”

They shared a kiss, slow and tender, each man savoring the connection they had rekindled. The years apart had changed them, but the bond they shared was as strong as ever.

As they lay in the quiet of Jake’s apartment, they knew that this reunion was just another chapter in their ongoing story. The future held uncertainty, but as long as they had each other, they would find a way to navigate it together.

Faisal knew he would return to Saudi Arabia, to his family and responsibilities, but the time they had spent together in San Francisco would remain a cherished memory—a reminder of the man he had been and the man he still was, deep inside.

And Jake, as he watched Faisal drift off to sleep, knew that no matter where their paths led them, they would always have this bond, this connection that transcended time, distance, and even identity. It was a bond that neither man would ever fully let go of.

Faisal's Perspective

As Faisal stood in Jake’s bathroom, staring at his reflection, he felt a strange mix of emotions wash over him. The gray in his hair and beard, once symbols of his wisdom and status as a grandfather and leader in Saudi Arabia, were gradually disappearing under the black dye that Jake was carefully applying. It was disorienting to watch the transformation happen, to see the man he had always known himself to be slowly fade away, replaced by a version of himself that was darker, younger, and far more intense.

The dye clung to his hair, turning it jet black, just like Jake’s. The contrast was striking, almost unsettling, as if he were watching a stranger take shape in the mirror. But as the black overtook the gray, Faisal couldn’t help but feel a surge of something else—excitement, anticipation, and maybe even a little fear.

Jake’s hands were steady as he worked, his touch firm but gentle. Faisal couldn’t help but notice how different Jake had become over the years. The tattoos that covered his arms and chest were bold and intricate, a stark contrast to the life Faisal had left behind. Tattoos were forbidden in his culture, something he would never have considered in his previous life. But here, in this moment, with Jake guiding him, it felt strangely right.

When the dye had set and was washed out, Faisal looked at his reflection again. The man staring back at him was almost unrecognizable—a striking figure with jet-black hair and a long, dark beard. His heart pounded in his chest as he ran his fingers through the newly dyed hair, feeling the weight of it, the slickness. It felt alien, but it also felt powerful.

Jake stood behind him, a pleased smile on his face. “You look incredible,” Jake said, his voice filled with pride. “Like you belong here, with me.”

Faisal turned slightly, reaching out to touch Jake’s mohawk. The hair was thick and rigid under his fingers, a sharp contrast to the softness of his own hair. He stroked it gently, marveling at the transformation Jake had undergone over the years. This man, with his tattoos, piercings, and commanding presence, was so far removed from the life they had once shared. And yet, there was a connection between them that felt unbreakable.

“Different,” Faisal said softly, his broken English tinged with awe. “But… I trust you, Jake.”

Jake’s smile widened as he guided Faisal back to the bedroom. There, laid out on the bed, was the temporary tattoo set Jake had prepared for him. The designs were intricate, mimicking the tribal patterns that adorned Jake’s body. Faisal hesitated for a moment, knowing how forbidden such markings were in his culture. But when he looked into Jake’s eyes, saw the trust and the command there, he nodded.

Jake carefully applied the temporary tattoos to Faisal’s arms and chest. As the designs took shape, Faisal felt a strange mix of exhilaration and fear. The tattoos felt cool against his skin, the weight of them making him feel different, more powerful, and yet more vulnerable. When the tattoos were finished, Faisal stared at himself in the mirror. The transformation was complete—jet-black hair, a dark beard, and bold, intricate tattoos that made him look like a different man entirely.

“Now, you’re ready,” Jake said, his voice filled with satisfaction. “Come, let’s take this further.”

Jake then reached for a pair of magnetic earrings and held them up for Faisal to see. The simple, yet bold design of the earrings was something Faisal had never considered wearing before—another symbol of a lifestyle that was completely forbidden in his culture. Jake, with a reassuring smile, gently placed the earrings on Faisal’s ears, the magnetic backing clicking into place. Faisal’s heart raced as he felt the cool metal against his skin, adding yet another layer to the transformation.

“These… good?” Faisal asked, his voice uncertain as he touched the earrings lightly.

“More than good,” Jake replied, his voice soft but firm. “They look perfect on you. Just another way to show the world that you belong here, with me.”

The words sent a shiver through Faisal. This entire experience was pushing him far beyond his comfort zone, yet the trust he had in Jake made him willing to explore these new aspects of himself.

Jake led Faisal to the bed, where he began to undress him. The leather chaps and harness clung to Faisal’s body, the tattoos and newly dyed hair adding a layer of intensity to the experience. As Faisal lay back on the bed, Jake’s hands began to explore his body, the tattoos adding a new texture to every touch.

Jake leaned down, his breath hot against Faisal’s skin, and began to eat his ass. The sensation was overwhelming, Jake’s beard brushing against his most sensitive areas, sending shivers down his spine. Faisal moaned softly, his hands gripping the sheets as Jake’s tongue worked its way deeper, the sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced.

When Jake moved up to suck Faisal’s cock, the feeling was even more intense. The piercing in Jake’s tongue added an exhilarating twist to the experience, the metal sliding against Faisal’s skin in a way that made him gasp. Every movement of Jake’s mouth sent waves of pleasure through him, the combination of the tattoos, the dyed hair, and the intensity of Jake’s touch making him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years.

But Jake wasn’t done. He guided Faisal into a new position, commanding him to eat his ass. Faisal hesitated only for a moment before following the order. As his tongue slid against Jake’s skin, he could feel the weight of the moment, the power dynamics shifting between them. It was a strange feeling, both dominant and submissive at the same time, and it made his heart race with a mix of fear and excitement.

Afterward, as they both caught their breath, Jake retrieved the leather pup mask. He held it out to Faisal, his eyes filled with expectation. “Put this on,” Jake instructed, his voice firm.

Faisal took the mask with trembling hands, the leather cool against his skin as he fitted it over his head. The snout and ears transformed him completely, making him feel even more like a stranger in his own body. But there was something liberating about it, something that made him feel free in a way he hadn’t before.

“Now, on all fours,” Jake commanded, his voice low and commanding. “Let’s see how you move.”

Faisal dropped to his hands and knees, the leather gear creaking slightly as he adjusted to the position. The feeling of the mask, combined with the weight of the dye in his hair and beard, made him feel different—stronger, more submissive, more willing to follow Jake’s lead.

Jake watched with satisfaction as Faisal began to crawl, the leather pup mask making him look every bit the part. “Good,” Jake said, his voice firm. “You’re doing well. Now, let’s see just how deep you can go.”

With that, Jake guided Faisal through a series of commands, his dominance clear in every word. He had Faisal sit, lie down, and roll over, each command bringing Faisal deeper into the role. But it wasn’t just about obedience—Jake wanted to push Faisal further, to break down the last of his resistance.

As they continued, Faisal felt himself slipping deeper into the role, the trust between him and Jake allowing him to let go in a way he never had before. The feeling of being a pup, of surrendering completely to Jake’s dominance, was both strange and exhilarating.

Later that evening, they went out together to a club, the air heavy with the scent of leather and tobacco. It was an environment that was still somewhat foreign to Faisal, but with Jake by his side, he felt a strange mix of safety and arousal. As they mingled with the crowd, Jake leaned in and whispered in Faisal’s ear, “Let’s see how those earrings look in public.”

Faisal touched the magnetic earrings, feeling the cool metal under his fingertips. The idea of wearing them in public, especially in a place like this, made his heart race. But before he could dwell on it too much, Jake pulled him into a kiss, right there in the middle of the crowded club. The sensation was overwhelming—the public display of affection, the magnetic pull of the earrings, the taste of Jake’s lips against his own. It was a kiss that was forbidden in every sense back in Saudi Arabia, but here, it was both liberating and intensely arousing.

The kiss deepened, their bodies pressed close together, and Faisal could feel the magnetic earrings pressing against his skin as Jake’s hands roamed over him. It was a sensation that was both foreign and exhilarating, a stark contrast to the conservative life he had lived for so long.

As they pulled back, Jake smiled at him, his eyes filled with a mix of pride and desire. “You did great, Faisal,” he said, his voice low and filled with meaning. “You’re really embracing this.”

Faisal nodded, his breath still coming in short gasps. “Yes, Jake… it’s different, but I trust you.”

The rest of the night was a blur of sensations, each one more intense than the last. The leather, the tattoos, the earrings, the kiss—all of it combined to create an experience that Faisal would never forget. And as they finally returned to Jake’s apartment, the bond between them felt stronger than ever.

As they lay in bed together, Faisal couldn’t help but reflect on everything that had happened. The transformation, the tattoos, the earrings, the kiss—it was all so far removed from the life he had known, and yet it felt right, in a way he hadn’t expected.

Jake leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. “I’m proud of you, Faisal,” he said softly. “You’ve come so far.”

Faisal smiled, his heart filled with a mix of gratitude and affection. “Thank you, Jake… for showing me this side of myself.”

They lay there in the quiet of the apartment, both men knowing that this experience, this connection, was something they would carry with them forever. The future held uncertainty, but as long as they had each other, they would find a way to navigate it together.

Faisal knew he would return to Saudi Arabia, to his family and responsibilities, but the time they had spent together in San Francisco would remain a cherished memory—a reminder of the man he had been and the man he still was, deep inside.

The Final Day

The final day of their reunion dawned quietly, the early morning light filtering through the windows of Jake’s apartment. Both men lay in bed, bodies aching and sore from the primal, ravenous sexual experiences they had shared over the past few days. It had been an intense, transformative time—both physically and emotionally—and now, with the end of their time together approaching, a sense of calm settled over them.

Faisal stretched slightly, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. Every part of his body felt the weight of what they had done, a lingering reminder of the powerful connection they had shared. As he shifted, he caught a glimpse of the temporary tattoos that Jake had applied to his arms and chest. They were supposed to have faded by now, but as Faisal examined them more closely, he realized with a pang of concern that they were still very much visible.

“Jake,” Faisal began, his voice tinged with worry, “the tattoos… they’re not fading. What if… what if they don’t go away?”

Jake, lying beside him, turned his head to look at Faisal. His expression was calm, commanding, yet filled with the same reassurance that had guided Faisal through every step of their reunion. “Don’t worry, Faisal,” Jake said, his voice steady. “They’ll fade. Sometimes it takes a little longer, but I promise, they won’t be permanent.”

Faisal nodded, trying to let Jake’s words sink in. He trusted Jake, but the thought of returning to Saudi Arabia with any trace of the tattoos was unsettling. Yet, he knew that Jake wouldn’t let anything happen that he couldn’t handle. It was that trust that had brought him this far, that had allowed him to explore parts of himself he never knew existed.

Jake leaned over, brushing his hand through Faisal’s hair. The jet-black dye had been washed out, and now his hair and beard were back to their natural salt-and-pepper state, a return to the man he had always known. The change was a stark reminder that their time together was coming to an end, and soon Faisal would be back in his world, carrying the memories of these few days with him.

“Let’s share one last cigar,” Jake suggested, his tone a mix of command and sentiment. He reached over to the nightstand, pulling out two cigars and a lighter.

Faisal watched as Jake lit his cigar first, taking in the rich scent of the tobacco as it filled the room. He had never been fond of smoking, had even found it disgusting at first. But over the years, he had come to associate the smell with Jake, with the life they had shared, both as Faisal and as Jake. It had become a link between their two worlds, a reminder of everything they had gone through together.

Jake handed him the second cigar, and after a moment’s hesitation, Faisal took it, allowing Jake to light it for him. As he inhaled the smoke, he felt the familiar burn in his throat, the rich, earthy taste filling his mouth. It was a strange sensation, something he had never thought he would grow to appreciate, but now it felt… right. It was as if the cigar was a bridge between the life he had once lived and the life he had now embraced.

They sat in silence for a while, the smoke curling around them, their thoughts heavy with the knowledge that this would be their last moment together for some time. The bond between them was stronger than ever, forged through the intense experiences they had shared. Yet, there was an understanding that they both had chosen the lives they were meant to live.

As the morning wore on, Jake reached under the bed and pulled out a box. He opened it to reveal a pair of thick, black Wesco stomping boots—heavy, durable, and clearly well-crafted. He looked at Faisal with a small smile. “I want you to have these,” Jake said, his voice firm. “Wear them on your flight back to Saudi Arabia. They’re a part of this world, a reminder of everything we’ve shared.”

Faisal’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the boots. They were unlike anything he would normally wear, but they carried with them the weight of the experiences they had shared, a symbol of the bond that had grown between them. Without a word, Faisal took the boots from Jake and began to put them on. The weight of them, the way they felt on his feet, was a stark contrast to the traditional footwear he was used to, but they felt solid, grounding.

Once the boots were on, Faisal stood up, feeling the weight of them as he walked around the room. They were comfortable in their own way, a reminder of the strength he had found within himself over the past few days. He turned to Jake, a mixture of gratitude and affection in his eyes. “Thank you, Jake,” Faisal said quietly, his voice filled with emotion. “For everything.”

Jake simply nodded, understanding that words weren’t necessary to convey what they both felt. The connection between them, the experiences they had shared, would stay with them, even as they returned to their separate lives.

As they stood there, the smoke from their cigars lingering in the air, there was no need for a conclusion, no need to say what would come next. They both knew that this was just another chapter in their ongoing story, one that would continue to unfold in its own time.

And with that understanding, Faisal took one last look around the room, at the life he had shared with Jake, before gathering his things and heading to the airport. The boots on his feet, the memories in his heart, and the lingering taste of tobacco in his mouth would serve as a reminder of the man he had become.

[swappetf11]

They used to call him Big G.

Gregor Dalton. 6’4”, 300 pounds of bad attitude and beer weight. A barrel of a man with a red-blonde beard so thick it practically had its own zip code, arms like hams, and a gut that hung over his duty belt like a second badge. His scalp was half-bald, ringed with tufts of sunburned orange hair slicked down with sweat and neglect. His eyes—cold, small, pale—hid under thick brows and a permanent scowl. His voice was a mix of gravel and bile, often used to bark orders or chew someone out, especially if they were brown and on the wrong side of the fence.

He wasn’t just a border patrol agent—he was the border patrol agent. A legend. Gruff. Abusive. Proud of it. Everyone on the force knew not to cross him, and no one wanted to ride with him on long shifts unless they liked hearing words that made their stomachs churn.

He didn’t just detain migrants—he broke them down.

“Get on the fuckin’ ground!”

“You think you can just sneak into my country?”

“You speak English? No? Then shut up!”

He’d slam their faces into the dirt, zip-tie them too tight, make them sit in the sun for hours. Sometimes he’d flick his cigarette ash at them. He didn’t care if they were women or kids. If they crossed the line, they were trespassers, criminals, filth.

“Don’t wanna get treated like animals?” he’d growl. “Then stay in your cage.”

And yet he believed he was doing good. He saw the job as sacred. Saw the border as a wall between order and chaos. He hated coyotes—those smug bastards who sold hope and death in equal measure. And he hated how the routes kept changing, how every time they cracked down on one tunnel or one trail, five more popped up like snakes from the dirt.

So when the higher-ups summoned him to the black site outside El Paso, he thought it was for commendation. Another medal. Another pat on the back.

Instead, they told him:

“You’re going under.”

Gregor blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

“You’re being placed in Rancho Silencio,” the man in the windbreaker said. “Durango. Rural town. The cartel’s established new smuggling paths through the region. People. Drugs. Coyotes are adapting. You’re going in to learn how they work. Blend in. Observe. Report.”

He laughed so hard he wheezed. “You want me to play fuckin’ dress-up as some beaner hillbilly and sniff out tunnels?”

“You’ll be transformed.”

Gregor’s face went dark.

“This is ‘cause I broke that Guatemalan’s jaw last month, huh?” he hissed. “Because I made that Honduran bitch piss herself when I yanked her kid?”

Silence.

“We’ve selected you because you’re effective,” the suit said flatly. “But to continue being effective, you must become the enemy.”

The rage boiled in him. Become the enemy. He clenched his fists, chest heaving under his sweat-stained undershirt.

“You’re gonna turn Big G into some taco-slinging campesino. This is humiliation.”

The female tech interrupted, calm and clinical. “This is necessary.”

They stripped him down. Watched him grumble and spit as he peeled off his uniform, revealing rolls of pale flesh, sunburnt and freckled. His arms looked like raw roast pork, glistening with sweat and red hair. His legs were thick and hairy, with thighs that chafed with every step. He stood there in a paper gown, his manhood hanging fat and pale between his legs, red bush tangled above.

Gregor had never felt more exposed.

“Drink this,” the tech said, handing him a glowing green vial.

He hesitated. Then, bitterly, he growled, “Fuck it.”

The potion burned like molten metal. It hit his gut like a hammer and exploded outward. He doubled over, gasping, clutching the table as his insides twisted like a snake was coiling in his belly.

“AHHH—fuck—what the fuck—!”

Then came the change.

His massive frame crumpled, bones cracking like firewood under an axe. His spine shrank. His gut melted, rolling away into nothing as his chest and shoulders collapsed inward, losing bulk and girth. His legs shortened, cracked, reshaped—his feet pulling back like a tape measure snapping shut.

“¡Madre… MADREEEEE!” he screamed, in Spanish, the voice pouring from his lips like it had always been there.

He tried to say What the hell? but what came out was:

“¿Qué… qué verga me está pasando, güey?”

His hands were different now—smaller, darker, callused in places they never were. His skin rippled with heat, peeling away layers of pink and freckle, shifting to a golden brown, then deeper. Dusty. Earth-worn. The skin of someone who’d worked under the Mexican sun their whole life.

His red beard began to itch—then fall out in clumps. He gasped, watching the wiry orange hairs drift down like autumn leaves. In their place, black stubble sprouted fast and thick. His scalp—once balding—tingled with pressure as black hair burst from it, dense and bristled, styled like it had just been clipped by a guy named Chuy who charged fifty pesos and used a straight razor.

Gregor’s lips swelled slightly, his cheekbones sharpened, and his nose broadened at the bridge. He stumbled forward, panting, sweat pouring off his body. His gut was gone. His back was lean, shoulders tight. His thighs were firm now, strong, compact. He stood maybe 5’6”, with the body of a man who carried bricks, not a badge.

And then—

His teeth began to fall out.

He howled. The sound was animal. He spat blood, watching his old crooked, yellow teeth hit the floor in a mess of gum tissue and drool.

“¡NO! ¡NOOO!”

New teeth grew in fast—pushing out sharp and white. A bit uneven. Real. Not American dental perfection. Teeth that had chewed tortillas, sunflower seeds, and weed stems.

His cock had changed, too. No longer pale and chubby, it was darker, narrower, but heavy and veiny, with thick, swinging balls that hung low between his thighs like they’d been there for decades. When he moved, they bounced with that familiar masculine sway—but they weren’t his. Not Gregor’s.

He panted. The stench of his new sweat filled the room—richer, muskier. A body that didn’t wear deodorant, that worked hard, that smelled like sex and dust and heat.

When he opened his mouth again, he didn’t speak English. He couldn’t.

“Yo… yo soy… Álvaro… ¿no?” he whispered.

The techs nodded. “Yes. Álvaro Medina. Born in Rancho Silencio. You’ve smoked weed since you were fifteen. You work odd jobs. You know how to listen. You don’t draw attention.”

They handed him jeans. A faded brown flannel. Cheap cowboy boots. A belt with a cracked leather buckle.

He dressed slowly. Every motion felt wrong—but familiar. He reached down and tugged the crotch of his jeans up. The denim hugged his thighs. His new bulge sat heavy between his legs. When he walked, it swung.

The mirror didn’t show Big G.

It showed a short Mexican man in his early 30s. Warm brown eyes, black hair in a clean fade, a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. A mouth that naturally turned down at the corners. The face of a man who’d seen enough.

His new gait was quiet, nimble. No longer a stomping bully. His shoulders rolled differently. He looked… wary. He looked real.

They handed him a joint.

“You’re gonna need it,” the tech said. “You’re Álvaro now.”

He lit it without thinking. Held the smoke deep. Exhaled slow.

And as the high settled in his lungs, he heard the whisper of coyotes in the back of his head—names, faces, paths carved through dry creeks and abandoned tunnels. His mission pulsed behind his temples like a forgotten dream.

Gregor was still in there, buried, raging.

But Álvaro Medina took another drag and muttered in a voice thick with smoke and certainty:

“Vamos a ver cómo chingados se mueven esta vez.”

The first time Álvaro caught his reflection—really caught it—was when he stepped into the narrow metal washroom outside the facility, barefoot, the floor cold beneath his smaller, roughened soles. The joint still clung between his fingers, burning slow. The flannel shirt they gave him stuck to his damp back, a film of sweat caught between cloth and skin. His new jeans hugged his thighs, the denim still stiff, smelling faintly of old soap and dust. And underneath, tight against his hips, a pair of faded gray briefs that had clearly seen years of wash. They were a bit snug, the elastic curling slightly, pressing in around the base of his cock where his thick new shaft curved to the left, balls hanging low and pendulous in the cramped pouch.

His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He wasn’t used to feeling small.

Everything felt too big now. The ceiling seemed higher. The sink farther. The stall too tall, too cold. His gait—once a wide lumbering stomp—had narrowed. His hips shifted differently, his knees bent more. He moved like a man built for maneuvering, for ducking under fences and sliding through brush, not for throwing weight around. The boots clicked on the tile with a sharper rhythm, his steps lighter, quieter.

The mirror above the sink wasn’t kind. But it was honest.

He stepped close.

A man stared back—rounder face, sun-warmed skin, eyes dark and rich with shadow. His lips were slightly chapped, the corners cracked. His stubble was thick, black, hugging his jawline tight. His ears sat closer to his head. His brow furrowed differently now—less harsh, more suspicious, like someone who’d spent years watching his back.

“I… I look like I sell oranges on the side of the road,” he muttered in Spanish.

And he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

He blinked, heart stuttering. The words weren’t English. They weren’t translated either. They were the only thing that came out. Pure reflex.

He dropped the joint, squashed it under his boot. The smoke lingered in the room, earthy and sweet. He grimaced.

“I hate this shit,” he said aloud, again in Spanish. “Smells like dead grass and cheap decisions.”

He was still aware of Big G—Gregor—in this moment. Could still feel the anger curling in his chest. Could still remember the way he used to glare down at migrants, sneer at addicts. He remembered slamming a kid into the hood of the truck for lighting a blunt during processing. He’d spat on the floor and called him trash.

And now he stood in a pair of borrowed briefs, smoke curling around his stubble, lungs filled with that same junk, a thick weight between his thighs that didn’t belong to him, in a stranger’s body that felt like home.

He stared at his hand. Callused in different places. Fingers longer. Nails different. He flexed.

Then reached up, running his fingers along his jaw, over the dark stubble. His beard used to be coarse, a wild fire of red. Now it was tightly packed and felt like velvet thorns. His scalp—he rubbed it, gritting his teeth—thick with hair. His bald patch was gone. He had a fade now. A damn fade.

He chuckled bitterly, still in Spanish.

“I used to mock guys with hair like this. Fuckin’ gang bangers. Now I look like I just stepped out of a cantina with two grams of coke in my sock.”

He ran water into the sink. Splashed his face. Watched the beads roll down his darker skin. It clung differently. Held heat longer. Smelled different too—earthy, like clay and sweat.

His hand slid instinctively down to the waistband of his briefs.

“Dios…” he muttered, palming the weight of his new package. “These balls are gonna kill my back.”

They were heavy. Long, meaty, pulled low by gravity and heat. His cock lay thick against his thigh, curved just enough that he had to adjust it in the jeans every time he moved. He shifted awkwardly, pressing a hand against his fly.

“I used to laugh at these guys walking around with their dicks swinging like they owned the world,” he muttered. “Now I walk like that.”

He pulled open the door and stepped back into the hallway. A mirror along the side wall reflected his full figure. He looked—young. Maybe early thirties. Hard years, but nothing like the red-faced monster he’d once been. He used to waddle when he walked. Now he moved. There was rhythm in his hips, a purposeful bounce in his step. His shoulders rolled with quiet confidence. His whole body said: “I’ve done time. I’ve worked hard. I know who I am.”

He didn’t.

But in about 12 hours, he would.

Because the memories were fading already.

The thoughts of Gregor—his face, his full name, his boots, the gravel of his voice—they were dissolving. Like smoke.

Already Álvaro couldn’t remember his old phone number. Or the name of his ex-wife. The memory of beating a teenager during an arrest? Blurry now. He remembered the blood. But not the name. Not the face.

He stepped outside, the air warmer now. The smell of diesel and dry grass filled his lungs

He lit another joint. Didn’t cough this time.

And then he said, in perfect, relaxed Spanish, staring out toward the hills:

“I wonder if Carlos is still working the arroyo. I bet the new path cuts north.”

He didn’t know where that thought came from.

But it felt right.

He didn’t dream.

When Álvaro woke up, his mouth was dry. A thick layer of sweat clung to his chest, his shirt twisted around his torso like he’d been rolling for hours. The fan overhead clicked rhythmically, slow, mechanical. It was early. Still dark outside the barred window. Somewhere, a rooster called in the distance, muffled by the heavy concrete walls.

He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers felt… different. Thicker knuckles. Slight curve in the nails. His skin was darker. Dry. Familiar.

He blinked a few times and looked around. A twin mattress, a chipped sink, faded curtains with some cartoon lemons printed on them. The house was quiet, still. In the silence, there was no alarm. No sound of the city. Just birds and the faint buzz of insects warming up for the day.

His stomach growled.

He swung his legs off the bed, felt the smooth concrete under his bare soles. The fan ticked. The heat was already rising.

He scratched his chest absentmindedly—and paused.

His hand grazed over a new terrain. The skin was taut, the chest flatter, leaner than he expected. The hair there was short, sparse, wiry. Black.

He looked down, lifting his shirt. His skin was bronze, brown, sun-warmed. His abs—not ripped, but defined—tightened when he shifted. The line of black hair trailed down toward the waistband of the briefs he was wearing: grey, old, tight. They hugged his hips closely, the pouch heavy and full between his thighs. His cock rested to the left, long and relaxed, with his balls hanging like ripe fruit, already sweaty from the heat.

He breathed in slowly.

This was his body. It felt right. Familiar.

But something tugged in the back of his head. A name. A whisper.

G… Gre…

Gone. It evaporated.

He stood up, stretched, arms reaching overhead. He caught his reflection in the window glass.

Thicker neck. Buzzed black hair. Jaw square with a tight shadow of stubble that clung to his cheeks and upper lip. A small mole on his right cheekbone. Brown eyes, the kind people didn’t remember clearly but trusted anyway. His shoulders were broader now in proportion to his shorter frame—strong, solid. A man who worked with his hands.

He turned sideways. Looked at the shape of his body in the mirror on the wall. His ass had filled out, rounded and firm under the snug cotton briefs. His thighs were powerful, thighs that had carried weight and moved through tight places. His calves were muscular, legs shorter than he expected, but they moved fluidly.

He walked back and forth across the room.

Light steps. Quick. Not heavy.

His old gait—if it had existed—was gone.

He paused in front of the mirror.

“Soy… ¿Álvaro?” he asked, half-laughing, half-startled.

(“I’m… Álvaro?”)

It didn’t feel wrong. The name sat on his tongue like a worn pebble, smooth from years of use.

Then, memory struck.

A room. Cold and bright. White tiles. The hum of machines.

The transfer facility.

He saw it in flickers.

He’d been standing there in just that robe—white, thin, open at the chest. His old body had been taken from him. They’d given him clothes—used jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of boots dusty with wear. He’d felt it all shift, his body changing, bones cracking, voice dropping into a quick, northern accent.

There had been mirrors there, too.

He remembered standing with his arms at his sides, sweat still dripping down his back. A tech had told him, “Look natural.”

“What does that mean?” he’d asked, his voice already softer, more nasal.

“Be you. Be Álvaro,” the tech said, then lifted a camera.

He had stood, one boot forward, hand on his hip, and tilted his chin slightly. And the shutter snapped.

Flash.

Then they printed the ID.

Álvaro Medina Estrada

32 años

CURP: AEM920711HMCLSR09

Santiago Papasquiaro, Durango

The photo showed him exactly as he looked now—tired, weathered, but composed. The kind of face that had seen hard work, too much sun, and still managed to nod politely when addressed. A man who could disappear in a crowd. A man whose backstory didn’t need explanation.

He remembered walking the halls of the facility after that. His boots clicking. His shoulders naturally hunched, one hand resting on the beltline of his jeans like it had always been there. He’d spit to the side and muttered,

“Hace calor, cabrón.”

(“It’s hot as hell, man.”)

No one corrected him. It was right. His mannerisms had already changed. He scratched the back of his neck with his pinky extended slightly. He coughed after smoking and muttered a “pinche madre” like he’d been cursing that way for decades.

It wasn’t Gregor who walked out of the transfer facility. It was Álvaro.

Now, standing in the morning light of his small house, Álvaro poured water from the cracked jug into the kettle, placed it on the rusted burner, and yawned.

He didn’t miss the old voice. Or the old body.

But when he caught a flash of himself in the mirror again, he hesitated.

He touched his cheek. Rubbed his stubble.

His eyes narrowed.

“Te pareces a alguien,” he whispered to himself.

(“You look like someone…”)

But who, he couldn’t say.

He turned from the mirror. The kettle hissed.

He muttered, “Primero café… luego trabajo.”

(“First coffee… then work.”)

And Álvaro Medina got on with his day.

The morning sun pushed its way through the faded lemon-print curtains as Álvaro stood in front of the mirror, barefoot and bare-assed. The fan overhead ticked slow circles, casting lazy shadows across his chest. The heat had started already, clinging to his skin in a humid, earthy sheen. He’d just dried himself off with a threadbare towel, steam still lingering from the kettle on the stove and the quick splash-bath from the cracked basin.

His body—his body—felt loose and warm, like he’d worn it all his life. He scratched under his belly, fingers brushing over the thick black hair that fanned out from the base of his stomach and bloomed into a natural, unkempt bush. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t trimmed. It was right. Coarse and sweaty and deeply him. His cock rested heavy against his thigh, limp and long, while his balls swung low, pendulous, their weight undeniable.

He turned, eyeing the way they hung—low and proud, sweating in the heat of the morning.

“Puta madre,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting them in his palm. “Estos huevos cuelgan como campanas.”

(“Fucking hell. These balls hang like church bells.”)

He let them drop, and they swung, a slow, humid rhythm like two sacks of grain shifting beneath him.

He bent down to grab his briefs—gray, stretched at the waistband—and carefully stuffed himself in, adjusting his shaft so it didn’t bend awkwardly to the side. His balls took a second to settle, one dropping lower than the other, pressed against the soft cotton. He gave them one last tug before pulling on his jeans.

They were tight around the thighs, worn-in just right. When he pulled the zipper up, the bulge at his crotch was impossible to ignore. Not obscene, but present. Honest. Worked. He threw on a tank top, the armpits already stiff with yesterday’s sweat, and stepped into his boots.

No mirror check. No hesitation. This was Álvaro.

At the counter, he took out the tin. It used to be a cough drop container, now full of crumpled, sweet-smelling mota. He unrolled a small square of paper, licked his finger, and began rolling. The weed crumbled easily under his fingertips, sticking just enough to form a tight roll. His fingers worked fast—practice that didn’t make sense if you asked him to explain it. But they knew. His body knew.

He licked the paper, sealed the joint, and tapped it twice against the tin. Then he sparked it, taking a slow, full drag through pursed lips, his cheeks hollowing as the smoke filled his lungs.

The taste was earthy, sweet, mellow. It hit the back of his throat and settled in his chest like a heavy sigh.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Así empieza un buen día.”

(“That’s how a good day starts.”)

Outside, the dirt kicked up as the truck pulled in. A beat-up Chevy with one door in primer gray. Inside: Manuel, a thick-necked man with a permanent scowl and three gold teeth. Álvaro flicked the joint into the ash dish by the door, grabbed his bag, and stepped out, the morning heat wrapping around him like a blanket.

“Listo, carnal?” Manuel grunted.

(“Ready, bro?”)

“Simón. Vamos por el canal viejo.”

(“Yeah. Let’s hit the old canal.”)

They drove past the dry canal beds, bouncing over unpaved paths, dust swallowing the tires. Álvaro leaned out the window, elbow resting on the frame, eyes sharp but relaxed.

He knew these roads. Not because someone told him. But because they were in his bones now.

They pulled into a shaded grove, where three men waited. Gaunt, sunburned, eyes hollow but hopeful. A woman cradled a toddler with cracked lips. No bags. No food. Just them.

“Cuatro esta vez,” Manuel said. “Van hasta la cueva, después los recoge el otro lado.”

(“Four this time. They go up to the cave. Someone picks them up past it.”)

Álvaro jumped down from the truck, cracking his neck.

“No hablen. No griten. Caminamos rápido,” he said to them calmly.

(“Don’t talk. Don’t yell. We walk fast.”)

He passed them each a small pouch of water, then checked his waistband for the knife. Not for fighting—but for cutting through fences if needed. His gait was light as he walked. His boots didn’t stomp. They slid over gravel and dry earth, careful not to kick up sound.

The group followed.

And Álvaro moved forward—not as a man pretending to be someone else.

But as Álvaro Medina, coyote. Smoker. Northern son of dust.

And the memory of Gregor Dalton?

Just a vapor in the wind behind him.

[swappetf11]

Keith and his friend Darren were walking home when they saw two men kissing ,Keith spat at them and Darren laughed. The men looked angry, however they walked away without saying anything. Later on they were sitting on the couch laughing, suddenly Keith felt intense pain, Darren looked concerned “What’s wrong mate?” He said. Keith couldn’t think, his body was burning up, it was like something was clawing under his skin. Darren watched in horror as Keith’s skin began to tear, his bones cracking and emerging, limbs breaking. Keith was screaming in agony.

His bones and muscles forcefully broke and teared, as they were given new form, his body stretched and he grew taller, from 5’9 to 6’5, his clothes were torn apart, his muscles grew to impressive sizes, his face grew significantly more attractive, Keith could feel his cock growing significantly, his balls grew bigger, his body hair grew fuller and darker. Darren looked at him in disbelief, as his friend was now a completely different man. Darren couldn’t help but notice Keith’s unusually large cock. He got up to distance himself, suddenly he felt faint, he fell backwards onto the couch. Keith had only just begun to process what had happened, his new body was incredible, he looked at his friend on his lap confused. Darren’s clothes had disappeared, he sat completely naked on top of Keith’s cock. Keith moaned loudly and instinctively wrapped his arms tightly around Darren. Darren tried to distance himself, he moaned uncontrollably, as he felt Keith filling his hole, while pulling him closer. Keith’s cock was now fully inside Darren. He impulsively moved his hand to his friend’s cock and began to jerk him off. Darren moaned loudly, he tried to make sense of the situation, but he felt an intense desire to please Keith. He put his hands over Keith’s arms and caressed them.

Keith’s desire to keep Darren close continued to grow, Darren felt a strange sensation, as his body began to feel tighter, he felt weaker. Keith felt Darren’s hole stretching and growing, his balls were being pulled into him. The two men continued to moan loudly as Darren continued to expand, his skin stretched out and covered Keith’s legs and torso, the two men tried to distance themselves, but it was too late, Darren completely covered Keith’s arms and legs, he grew further and covered his hands and feet, the two remained helpless as Darren covered Keith’s head. Keith couldn’t breathe. He passed out, when he awoke Darren wasn’t there. He looked down at his legs and noticed that he was wearing leather, he got up and looked in the mirror. He was wearing black knee high engineer boots, black leather breaches with white stripes on the side, a black leather belt, black leather gloves, a black leather Langlitz jacket, a brown leather shirt, a black leather tie and a black leather Muir cap. He couldn’t help but admire himself in the mirror, he looked great and the gear only made it better, his cock grew hard and he smiled in the mirror. He remembered his upcoming trip to Folsom and he grabbed his luggage. Darren remained helpless trapped as leather gear ,as his new owner forgot his existence, he remained permanently horny and objectified, as he was now permanently leather gear. Darren tried to fight it, but every thought in his mind turned to one thing, servitude. He was his master’s property now, and he couldn’t be happier.

[swappetf11]

The Disappearance of Private Rogers

Bit of a longer one! Wanted to capture all the hypnosis and race tf. Hope you enjoy!

Colonel Hawkins sat behind his desk, his weathered face set in a grim expression as he gestured for Garrett to take a seat. "Listen up soldier, we've got a situation that needs your attention."

"Yes sir, I'm all ears Colonel. What's the deal?" Garrett was always eager- ready to do what he needed for his country.

"There's been a...truce called with one of the major cartels. Part of the agreement is the release of some high-value prisoners, including someone close to their boss, a fella named Miguel." The Colonel tapped his fingers on his desk, “Miguel has gone missing from our custody. Officially, we don't know how."

Garrett's brow furrowed as he processed this information, his mind racing with possibilities. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his crisp Army uniform felt comfortable against his skin. Like it belonged.

"Missing? That's not possible, sir. Our facilities are secure." Garrett couldn’t understand how such a high-value target could go missing.

“Precisely. Which is why I want you to lead an investigation into Miguel's disappearance. You'll be working with a senior investigator - Dr. Logan Thorne. He's...experienced in these matters."

Something in the Colonel's tone gave Garrett pause, but he pushed the feeling aside. If the brass needed him on this, he'd see it through, no matter what. His duty was clear.

"I understand, sir." Garrett continued, “But are you sure I’m the best for the job? I’m not experienced in this kind of operation.”

"Private, it's simple really. Your track record speaks for itself. You're one of our most dedicated soldiers, always eager to follow orders without question." Hawkins leaned back in his chair, “You see things through to the end. And I only trust another man from Indiana.”

Garrett smiled, “I appreciate it, sir. I won’t question it and I won’t let you down.”

He always viewed Hawkins with great respect. The man taking on a mentorship role for the young private. Both born in small-town Indiana, both avid baseball fans- the man was like a second father to him.

"I knew you'd say that, son. That's why you were handpicked for this job." He released Garrett's shoulder and stepped back. "Dr. Thorne wanted me to give you these." Hawkins pushed a pair of headphones towards Garrett. "These headphones contain crucial information about Miguel. They’ll be invaluable to your mission."

Garrett took the headphones, placing them on his head.

Hawkins continued. "Remember Garrett, discretion is key here. Not even your wife Sarah needs to know." Garrett nodded, a buzzing static filling his ears, "You're relieved of your other duties for the meantime and will be provided a private room. Questions, Private?"

"No questions, sir. I understand completely." Garrett's voice was steady despite the unease churning in his gut.

Hawkins nodded approvingly, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Good man."

_____

Garrett stretched out on his bed and settled into the privacy of his assigned quarters, the headphones continuing to buzz with static. And then...

..."subject name: Miguel Antonio Mortez..." 

..."born and raised in Juarez, Mexico. Grew up in the volatile El Chavo neighborhood..."

..."Miguel likes fast cars. He owns a black '68 Mustang that he worked on restoring..."

..."Miguel plays acoustic guitar when he wants to relax..."

..."A skilled fighter, Miguel honed his skills brawling on the streets of Juarez..."

“Guess this is useful.” Garrett mumbled, wincing at a dull ache developing behind his eyes, “Fuck...” He yawned and felt his eyes starting to close, “So... tired...”

________

There’s a ball. A soccer ball? He stares at it and then up. Tall buildings around him. A dirt field. Makeshift goalposts. A firm kick. GOAL!

A woman’s voice called out sharply in Spanish, “¡La cena está lista!”

Garrett turns- panting, he sprints inside, catching a fleeting glance in a cracked hallway mirror. He pauses... the face of a young Mexican boy stares back at him. Dark hair, brown skin, eyes that hold a fierce determination.

_______

Garrett jolted awake, his heart pounding as he sits up. He blinks away the last vestiges of sleep, and caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall opposite his bed.

The man staring back at him was unmistakably Garrett. His short blonde hair, the strong jawline accentuated by his clean-shaven face, pale skin. Relief washed over him as he mentally affirmed his own identity.

"That's right," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Garrett. Born and raised in the Midwest. Played baseball, not soccer. None of that was real."

Despite the logical reassurance, a faint unease lingered. Garrett took a deep breath, steeling himself as he placed the headphones back over his ears. The unfamiliar voice filled his head once more:

..."You were born on July 12th, 1990 in Juarez, Mexico..."

..."Miguel learned to play the guitar at the age of ten from his abuelo..."

..."You spent countless hours practicing guitar riffs, strumming away your frustrations..."

..."Miguel dreamed of one day singing lead for a big time band, his voice captivating"

A sharp knock at the door jolted Garrett from his trance-like state. Before he could respond, it swung open to reveal a tall, distinguished-looking man in his 50s with salt-and-pepper hair.

"Private Garrett?" The man's voice was smooth and authoritative. "I'm Dr. Logan Thorne, the senior investigator assisting you with the Miguel Mortez case."

Garrett stood at attention, wincing as another wave of pain lanced through his skull. "Sir, yes sir. Good to meet you, Doctor."

Thorne's keen eyes lingered on the headphones. "I trust you've been reviewing the files I provided. I'm sure you find them... educational." Dr. Thorne smiles, "Tell me about yourself, Private. I like to know about the people I work with."

"I... I grew up in..." Garrett paused, "The Midwest. I think? Yeah..." His voice lacked its usual conviction, laced with uncertainty instead.

"Is that all?"

"Uh well... I-I grew up...Juarez? No, that's not right..." He grips his head, "Small town. Flyover country. Had a... a ball field, I think?" He looks up at Dr. Thorne, "I played a lot of... sports. I think baseball, but..."

"Perhaps it would be wise for you to get some rest, Private. You seem... rather disoriented at the moment."

Garrett bristled slightly at the interruption, an irrational surge of anger flaring in his chest.

"Yes sir, probably a good idea," Garrett replied.

"And private. Please continue to wear the headphones. We'll touch base later today."

Garrett closed the door to his quarters and leaned against it heavily, his mind reeling. He took a deep, shuddering breath and began to recite the facts of his life like a desperate prayer.

"I’m Garrett... From... Indiana. Born and raised in a small town. Played baseball, not soccer. Married to Sarah. Served in the U.S. Army. I am American."

He paced the room, his boots striking the floor in a staccato rhythm. "Garrett. Midwestern boy. Baseball, not soc... football...? Not from Juarez. Not a criminal." He stares at the headphones, "Loyal soldier." He places the headphones on his head, the voice reverberating in his ears.

..."You served Papi with unwavering devotion, attending to his every carnal desire..."

..."You found pleasure in submitting to his whims, craving his praise and approval..."

..."You spent long nights kneeling before him, worshipping his body with lips and tongue, relishing the musky taste of his skin and the weight of his thick shaft pulsing in your mouth...”

...“He taught you submission... broke you and exposed who you really are...”

As the relentless voice continued, Garrett felt his eyelids growing heavy. Vivid images conjured, in his mind.

"Not me... Not this... I'm not..."

The words faded into a distant hum as Garrett surrendered to sleep, his head lolling forward.

_____

He’s standing before a nude figure, muscles rippling as his large hand lazily strokes an impressive length of hard cock.

Papi.

"Eres mío, mi amor," Papi purrs seductively in a husky Spanish accent. Dark eyes gleam with lust and possessiveness.

He turns his head away from Papi, his gaze travels downward, seeing himself reflected in the large vanity mirror...

A strikingly handsome young Latin man graces his eyes. Brown skin glowing under the dim lights, eyes the color of rich chocolate framed by thick lashes, wild obsidian hair tousled artfully. His torso is lean yet defined, with a dusting of coarse black hair trailing down from his sculpted pecs to disappear enticingly below the waistband of his jeans.

______

Garrett bolts upright in bed, his heart pounding as he leapt to his feet. He stumbled towards the mirror, grasping the edge of the sink for support as he stared at his reflection with wide, terrified eyes.

"What the fuck..." he breathed, running a trembling hand through his hair. "It was just a dream. Just a goddamn dream."

Garrett stared intently at his reflection, taking in every detail. Blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin - it was undoubtedly him. Although somewhat disheveled and unshaven. But as he gazed at his own face, a sudden flicker of doubt crossed his mind.

"Why does this feel... wrong somehow?" he muttered to himself, leaning closer to the mirror. "My skin... shouldn't it be darker? Brown maybe?" He gulps, "And my hair... wasn't it supposed to be black? Thicker?" He ran his fingers through the short, sun-kissed locks, confirming their familiar texture and length. Garrett's breath quickened as a confusing jumble of emotions flooded through him, "No, no, stop it!" he growled at his reflection, backing away from the mirror.

Without warning, the door burst open and two burly Military Police officers stormed into the room. They grabbed Garrett roughly by the arms, yanking him to his feet.

"Hey! What the hell is going on?" Garrett struggled against their grip, his heart racing with confusion and growing fear. "I'm Private Garrett, not some damn criminal!"

The MPs ignored his protests, dragging him out into the hallway. Garrett's mind reeled as he tried to make sense of the situation. Why were they treating him like this? What had he done wrong?

They shoved him into an office room where Dr. Thorne waited, his expression unreadable. The MPs forced Garrett into a chair before taking up positions on either side of the door.

"Dr. Thorne, what's the meaning of this?" Garrett demanded.

"At ease, Private Garrett." Dr. Thorne greeted him coolly, taking a seat across the table. Colonel Hawkins stood beside him, his face impassive, "This is...unorthodox, I agree. But I'm afraid we have some concerns that require us to take certain precautions."

Garrett gripped the sides of the chair tightly, his knuckles turning white. He opened his mouth to protest but hesitated, doubts clouding his thoughts.

"But I'm a soldier, aren't I? An American serviceman." His voice lacked its usual conviction. He squinted, trying to recall the specifics of his military career. Flashes of boot camp, basic training, deployed overseas...it all felt hazy, disconnected somehow, "Shouldn't I be treated with more respect? Right? I'm still... I'm a soldier... right?"

Hawkins and Thorne shared a knowing glance, a silent communication passing between them. Hawkins cleared his throat, fixing Garrett with a penetrating stare.

"The prisoner exchange has been expedited, Private. It will occur tomorrow at 0600." He produced a small pill bottle from his pocket, setting it on the table with a soft click. "These will help sharpen your concentration and recall. Take them as directed."

“No... this isn’t...” Garrett gripped his head, “Please, something isn’t right... Colonel?”

“Don’t disappoint me, son.”

His voice was cold, somewhat strained. Garrett frowned, a sense of failure welling up inside him. He didn’t want to disappoint- he was a good... soldier? Lover? Garrett shook his head.

"You must continue listening to the headphones, absorbing every detail. The information is... vital to the success of the operation."

Garrett eyed the pills warily, his stomach churning with unease. Something about their demeanor, the urgency in their voices, set his nerves on edge. He nodded slowly.

The MPs escorted Garrett back to his room, their grips firm on his arms. As soon as they crossed the threshold, they spun him around and shoved him inside none too gently. The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding clang.

Garrett reached for the handle, twisting it frantically. It wouldn't budge. Locked. Panic started to rise in his throat as the realization sank in - he was trapped. Like a prisoner... Like Miguel... He shook his head.

“Just need to complete the mission.” He whispered, “Just finish the mission...” Despite every fiber of his body telling him no, he places the headphones on his head.

..."You existed only to serve Papi, to bring him pleasure in every way imaginable. Every inch of your body was his to claim, to mark with his touch and ownership..."

..."You ached for his domination. The delicious stretch of his thick cock splitting you open, claiming you most deeply, was heaven..."

..."Being his obedient little bottom, gagging on his cock, hole stretched and leaking his cum - that was your highest purpose...”

Garrett's breathing grew heavier as he listened to the sordid details, his body responding despite his mind's resistance. With shaking hands, he swallowed several of the pills. Warmth radiates from within him and he feels compelled to strip out of his clothes.

“Fuck...” He grunted, staring at his hardening cock.  

He grips it firmly, trying desperately to focus on thoughts of Sarah, on the love and familiarity she represented. But the vivid images of Papi, of submission and raw passion, kept intruding.

"Papi... mi amor..." The words slipped out in a breathy moan before Garrett could stop them. The headphones whispered filthy promises in his ear, urging him deeper into fantasy.

He barely noticed the door burst open. Colonel Hawkins strode in followed by Dr. Thorne and two stone-faced MPs. They carried a strange object between them - a folded, nude rubber bodysuit.

Garrett gaped at the lifelike construct, his pulse racing. The suit was crafted to resemble a stunningly handsome young Latino man, with olive-toned skin and a light smattering of dark chest hair. Intricate tattoos coiled along sinewy arms and a broad, muscular back. Jet-black hair, thick and glossy, adorned the perfectly formed head.

“That...”

An intense wave of recognition crashed over Garrett as he drank in the features of the figure. It was unmistakably the man from his dream - Miguel. Garrett's breath caught in his throat.

"Que demonios es esto?" Garrett's voice cracked, desperation evident. "Why does it look like... like him? Like me...?" He trailed off, realizing the implications, "My name is... was... Garrett. Midwestern boy. Baseball. Army. Right?"

"The pills help release the necessary bodily fluids to allow for proper bonding." Dr. Thorne says to Hawkins and the MPs, "Please help Garrett into the suit."

A second later, the MPs roughly grabbed Garrett's legs, forcing them into the waiting limbs of the rubber suit. As the material enveloped his skin, Garrett gasped at the sensation - it felt almost alive, conforming to his contours. Bonding tightly to his skin... sinking into his pores...

"No please! Don't! Arghhhh." Garrett cried out, trying to pull away. But the MPs held him fast, their grips iron-tight as they slowly worked the suit up his torso.

"You see, Miguel was selected for Operation Rising Phoenix." Dr. Thorne said, "His memories, intimate details were saved. And his body was converted into this suit. He could’ve been used by an operative to go undercover."

"Unfortunately, or fortunately, the truce was made." Hawkins sighed, "But we couldn't return him in well... that state." He looked down at Garrett with pity, "So to ensure the deal can be completed, we needed Miguel back."

Garrett thrashed and bucked as the MPs forcibly pulled the rubber suit up his body, covering his abdomen and starting on his chest.

"Déjenme ir! Por favor, quiero ver a Sarah! Quiero vivir mi vida! No hagan esto!" Garrett’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his cut cock was encased in Miguel’s uncut member, sending waves of new pleasure radiating up his spine, “Oh fuckkkkkkk..... Papí... I need you... please..." Garrett whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to block out the unwanted thoughts and sensations flooding his mind.

He opened them again to find the MPs standing over him expectantly. Looking down, he wasn’t greeted by his pale skin or light hair. His muscles leaner... more toned... skin darker... the body of Miguel. One of the MPs seized Garrett's chin, forcing his head still as he stretched the mask over Garrett's face. Garrett shuddered violently as the elastic material sealed over his skin.

"There, there. It fits perfectly." Hawkins nodded in satisfaction as he examined the encased man closely. The rubber flesh clung to his curves, indistinguishable from real skin save for a subtle sheen.

“Are you sure...”

“Colonel, the Private’s eagerness to please blends nicely with Miguel’s psyche. They were a perfect match to allow for seamless integration.” Dr. Thorne lifts up the headphones, gently placing them on Garrett’s ears, "Just relax you’ve done so well."

"Sarah... please, I'm sorry, No sé qué me pasa..." Garrett's voice broke.

He doesn’t register the men leaving. Only able to run his hands over the rubbery surface of the suit encasing his body. His fingers dug into the pliant material as he tried to ground himself, to cling to his fading sense of self.

"Mi nombre es Garrett... soy americano... army..." He mumbled deliriously, his eyelids fluttering. But the litany of his own name sounded hollow, drowning beneath the tidal wave of new memories crashing over him.

Miguel, Papi, Juarez... the fragments swirled in his mind, threatening to overwhelm his last threads of resistance. A smile forms on his face.

As the lines between his lives blurred, Garrett clung to one final, desperate thought before surrendering to unconsciousness.

“I... I'm still here... Inside. I’m still... me...right?”

______

The first rays of dawn filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the sleeping form sprawled across the bed. As the light increased, Miguel stirred. He stretched languidly, the sheets sliding off to reveal his bare chest and toned abs.

“Mierda...”

Miguel sat up slowly, running his hands over his arms and torso, marveling at the feel of his own smooth, warm skin. Nothing but skin... his skin...

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding naked to the full-length mirror. Miguel turned this way and that, admiring the play of muscle under tanned skin, the intricate lines of his tattoos. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he appreciated his own beauty.

“Hoy es el dia.”

Colonel Hawkins entered the room flanked by MPs, “Good morning.”

He stopped short when Miguel turned toward him with a blank expression, clearly not comprehending the English greeting.

“I forgot you don’t speak English anymore.” Hawkins lamented.

Miguel squared his shoulders instinctively, his posture radiating street-honed defiance. "¿Qué mierda queréis ahora, putos?" He gestured angrily at the soldiers. "Me tenéis aquí como animal enjaulado mientras mis hermanos están fuera luchando por lo nuestro!"

"Still got that fire, eh Miguel? Must mean the conversion took properly."

_____

The heavily guarded exchange point buzzed with tense activity as Miguel was led out, his wrists shackled. His dark eyes darted around furtively, drinking in every detail. There, standing tall amidst the armed escort, was a striking figure - Papi. His chiseled features split into a radiant grin as his gaze locked with Miguel's.

"Mi amor!" Papi called out, reaching for him. "Ven acá, mi chico malo."

Miguel surged forward as far as his restraints would allow, straining towards his lover. The second the shackles fell away, he was in Papi's arms, crushing his body against the solid warmth he knew so well. The display of submission, of pure unbridled love, was an unexpected sight. But they didn’t care who saw.

"Papí..." Miguel breathed, nuzzling into the crook of Papi's neck.

Hours later, Miguel lay tangled in sweat-slicked sheets, Papi's powerful body curled protectively around him. The events of the day replayed in his mind - the confusion, the fear, the overwhelming rush of memories and sensations. But now, nestled in his lover's embrace, everything felt right. He smiled and looked up at his lover.

Miguel tilted his head to place a tender kiss on Papi's stubbled jaw. "Te amo, Papí. Soy el hombre más afortunado del mundo tenerte."

His voice was low and thick with emotion, the words flowing in their native Spanish as naturally as breathing. In this moment, lost in Papi's scent, his touch, the familiar cadence of their lovemaking... Miguel knew he was exactly where he belonged.

[swappetf11]