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Stacey and her team are chosen to fight an alien invasion
mind control possession transformation Futanari Superheroes body horror Body merge possession body merge scatological
by
smatster
· 18 Oct 2025
Stacey as team captain learns a new way to command her team
mind control
+3 more
1.4K
1
0
by
smatster
· 21 Oct 2025
Stacey uses her closeness to gain strength & control
possession
+3 more
752
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0
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Oblivious
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
1
1.6K
436
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Will and Claire become close to their siblings in a very intimate sense
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
body swap
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Vega's BEAUTIFUL face is destroyed by Chun Li so he replaces it.
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
body swap
+2 more
3
4.0K
327
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A witch is invited to a college party and offers a special game of Beer Pong. It is a very special version of hooking up.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
possession
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A man has intimate encounters with a Genie
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
magic
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Inspired by a Rere comic.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
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Stacey and her team are chosen to fight an alien invasion
mind control possession transformation Futanari Superheroes body horror Body merge possession body merge scatological
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· 18 Oct 2025
Stacey as team captain learns a new way to command her team
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Oblivious
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
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Will and Claire become close to their siblings in a very intimate sense
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
body swap
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6.3K
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Vega's BEAUTIFUL face is destroyed by Chun Li so he replaces it.
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
body swap
+2 more
3
4.0K
327
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0
A witch is invited to a college party and offers a special game of Beer Pong. It is a very special version of hooking up.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
possession
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A man has intimate encounters with a Genie
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
magic
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Inspired by a Rere comic.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
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Chapter by
smatster · 18 Oct 2025 -
Stacey as team captain learns a new way to command her team
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It all started during what should’ve been just another grueling practice session under the sweltering Texas sun. Sweat stung my eyes, and my muscles screamed in protest with every high kick and flip. I was Stacey Robinson, head cheerleader of the Northwood Wildcats, and we were running the pyramid sequence for what felt like the hundredth time.
That’s when the sky tore open.
Not with a crack of thunder, but with a soft, shimmering hum. A light, gentle as a sunbeam, descended, and out stepped a figure that looked less like an alien invader and more like a yoga instructor from a high-end spa. He was tall, slender, with skin that shimmered like mother-of-pearl and eyes the color of a calm sea. He introduced himself as Nagai, an emissary from a distant star.
“Stacey Robinson,” he said, his voice like a melody. “Your world is in grave, albeit peculiar, danger.”
We all just stared, too shocked to even drop our pom-poms.
He explained that an ancient cosmic ruler, a being of immense vanity and twisted ideals, was approaching Earth. Her name was Queen Adiposa, and her goal was to impose her own standard of beauty upon the universe: to make fat not just acceptable, but the only form of beauty, eradicating all others. Her method? A wave of transformative energy, preceded by an army of minions who looked… well, like unnaturally enthusiastic Planet Fitness trainers in their purple and yellow uniforms, forever chanting about “no judgement.”
“Your spirit, your power, your unity,” Nagai said, his gaze sweeping over my team—Chloe, Hannah, Zoe, Maya, and Brianna. “You six are the only ones who can stop her. You will become my champions. The Supersonic Pussy Rangers.”
We glanced at each other. The name was ridiculous. The situation was insane. But the look in Nagai’s eyes was dead serious.
A wave of his hand, and a flash of light enveloped us. I felt a surge of power, a buzzing energy that settled deep in my core. When the light faded, we were all clad in skintight suits. Mine was a vibrant, commanding red. Chloe got pink, Hannah yellow, Zoe a deep purple, and Maya a cool aqua. And then there was Brianna.
Brianna, already the bustiest of us by a mile, was… naked. But not just naked. Her suit was a shimmering, barely-there layer of light that did nothing to conceal her incredible figure. Nagai hadn’t been kidding about the name. Her breasts were so magnificently large, so breathtakingly full, they truly looked like they could swallow a person’s head whole.
“Your power will manifest when you face your enemy,” Nagai said, just as the ground shook.
Our first monster arrived. It was a hulking beast made of what looked like lumpy, pink flesh, with a single massive eye and a microphone headset. It was flanked by a dozen of those smiling, clapping Planet Fitness minions. “Let’s get this party started! No lunkheads, just gains!” one of them chirped.
We fought. It was chaos. We moved with a speed and strength we never knew we had, our colored suits leaving streaks of light in the air. We kicked and punched, our movements synchronized from years of practice, now amplified into something superhuman. We finally took the monster down with a combined energy blast.
But it wasn’t over. The fallen monster began to glow, its body reassembling and swelling, growing taller and taller until it loomed over the school, a five-story tall abomination of jiggling fat and distorted fitness enthusiasm.
“Now, Stacey!” Nagai’s voice echoed in my mind. “It is time!”
A belt of gleaming silver and red, engraved with strange symbols, appeared in his hands. He tossed it to me. I caught it, and without thinking, I slapped it around my waist. A click, a hum, and then… silence.
The world froze. The monster was a statue mid-roar. The minions were frozen in their mindless clapping. My team hovered in the air around me, their eyes glazed over, caught in Nagai’s powerful stasis.
I was lifted into the air. Chloe (Pink) and Zoe (Purple) floated toward me in a dreamlike daze. My legs, guided by an unseen force, slipped into their open mouths. I felt no resistance, only a warm, incredible pressure as my feet slid down, down, coming to rest deep within their stomachs. It was the strangest, most intimate sensation I’d ever felt.
Next, Hannah (Yellow) and Maya (Aqua) drifted over. My arms entered them, sinking into their bodies through their backsides up to just below my elbows. Their legs unwound themselves and wrapped tightly around my torso, locking into place. I could feel the muscles in their thighs tense against my sides.
Finally, Brianna—Naked—floated toward my chest. She pressed against me, her incredible softness moulding to my form. She wrapped her arms and legs around my own, locking us together, and then let her head fall forward, completely vanishing between the immense, soft pillows of her own breasts, pressed firmly against my chest.
I dropped back to the ground, the impact jolting through me. I could feel Brianna’s body on my front, her breasts bouncing with the landing. I tentatively tried to move.
I thought, step forward.
The movement came, but it wasn’t just my leg. It was Chloe’s and then Zoe’s legs moving in perfect unison with me, their bodies moving as extensions of my own. I was controlling them. I was them. I lifted my arms, and saw Hannah and Maya’s arms mirror the movement perfectly.
“This is your Megazord form,” Nagai’s voice explained, sound returning to my private bubble of time. “You are the core. You command their bodies as your own limbs. They will remember none of this. To release them, you must defeat the enemy. When it is weakened, you must yell ‘FINISHER!’.”
I practiced. A step became a mighty stomp from four powerful legs. A punch became a devastating blow from four clenched fists. The power was dizzying. I felt the distinct sensations from each of my teammates—the sleek strength of Chloe, the flexible power of Zoe, the explosive energy of Hannah, the steady grace of Maya, and the overwhelming, soft warmth of Brianna pressed against me.
“Now, Stacey,” Nagai said. “Finish it.”
Time slammed back into motion with a roar.
The giant monster swung a fist the size of a car at me. I—we—blocked it with a forearm, the impact resonating through our combined bodies. We fought, a giantess of flesh and power against a monster of fat. We were faster, stronger, unified. With a series of powerful blows, we weakened it, until it staggered, dizzy and disoriented.
Now.
I took a deep breath, the motion causing Brianna’s chest to rise and fall against mine.
“FINISHER!” I yelled, my voice echoing with the combined power of six girls.
We leaped, a phenomenal jump that carried our combined form high into the air. We twisted, aiming ourselves downward. The monster looked up, its single eye wide with confusion.
We came down on its head, not on its body.
We landed perfectly, with the soft, warm heart of our formation—Brianna—coming to rest directly over the monster’s head. It let out a muffled, gurgled roar, its head completely smothered, suffocated between the immense, world-encompassing softness of her vagina. It struggled for a moment, then fell still, beginning to dissolve into harmless pink mist.
The belt on my waist clicked. The world dissolved in another flash of light, and I was standing alone, back in my red ranger suit. My team stood around me, blinking, stretching.
“Whoa, did we do it?” Chloe asked, looking at the fading pink mist. “I blacked out for a second there. What a rush!”
They remembered nothing. But I remembered everything. The feeling of their bodies as my own. The incredible, intimate power.
And I knew, with a thrilling certainty that shot right through me, that this was only the beginning. Queen Adiposa would send more monsters. And each time, we would combine. Each time, I would feel that connection, that control.
And each time, I would make my teammates more… mine.
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