Blacking Out

I'm Carlos, and last night was supposed to be just another blowout with the boys. I'm 32, married to Maria for five years, but I still have this bad habit of partying too hard. Blacking out's my specialty. We started at the clubs downtown, shots flowing like water, bass thumping through my chest, sweat and cheap perfume everywhere. Maria hates it, always texting me to come home early, but I ignore her, chasing that buzz. After last call, we stumbled out and crashed this house party on the way home. Some random spot blasting reggaeton, bodies grinding, red cups spilling. I remember a girl in sheer white outfit dancing on a table, tits and ass on full display, everyone cheering. Then nothing. Lights out.

I wake up with a pounding head, mouth tasting like ash, sprawled on a stranger's bed. The house is trashed. Cups everywhere, confetti stuck to the floor, the air thick with stale beer and weed. Groans echo from other rooms, people stirring. My body's heavy, off-balance, like I've gained weight overnight. I sit up, and something shifts on my chest. Heavy, soft weights pulling me forward. I look down, and my heart stops.

Tits. Massive, round tits straining against a sheer white tank top, nipples dark and stiff, visible through the fabric. Below that, smooth stomach, wide hips, and legs in matching sheer pants that hug everything. No dick. Just a smooth mound, pussy lips outlined under the thin material. My hands. Slender, no calluses from work. I pat my face. Still me, buzz cut, goatee scratching my fingers. But everything else? That girl's body from the party.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, voice still my deep rumble, standing up shaky. The tits bounce with the move, sending a weird spark between my legs, a warm tingle in that new pussy. The pants ride up, fabric clinging to the curves, ass jiggling as I wobble to the mirror. Chaos erupts outside. Screams, curses. "My body's gone!" someone yells. "Who the hell are you?" another shouts.

I lock the bedroom door, as I stare dumbfounded at the mirror. My face looks back, confused as hell, goatee dripping sweat, but attached to this bombshell frame. Sheer top barely containing those huge tits, nipples poking like they're begging, the white material translucent enough to see every detail. Pants pulled low from sleep, exposing the top of that shaved pussy, lips puffy. I turn, ass round and firm, dimples showing through the fabric. "How am I going to explain this to my wife?" I whisper, voice cracking, hands cupping the tits absentmindedly. They're soft, heavy, flesh spilling over my palms, and fuck, it feels good, a throb building in the clit.

The door rattles. "FBI! Open up!" Voices outside, sirens wailing. I crack it open, peeking. Agents in vests swarm the house, leading people out, all with mismatched bodies screaming. A woman with her head on top of a man's body with a beer gut sobs. "Everyone at the party got swapped," an agent barks into a radio. "Heads intact, bodies jumbled. Looks like that serial swapper ring hit again."

Swapper ring? I remember flashes. Some shady dudes at the party, laughing, devices humming. They must've drugged us, mixed everyone up for kicks or some black market shit. My phone buzzes on the counter. Maria: Where the hell are you? Come home NOW!

Panic hits. I snap a quick pic in the mirror, tits out, ass framed, but delete it fast. Can't send that. The agent's pounding again. "Sir. Ma'am? We need to question you."

I pull the pants up, but they cling, pussy outline visible, tits heaving with each breath. The air smells like vanilla lotion now, probably hers, mixed with my sweat. My new clit aches, wet spot forming as I shift. How do I tell Maria I blacked out and woke up with a slut's body? She'll think I cheated, or worse.

The FBI hauls me out, tits bouncing, everyone staring. "Don't worry Sir, we'll get you back to normal as soon as we can," the agent says, but his eyes linger on my new curves too much. My new pussy throbbed. "What the fuck did I get myself into?" I grabbed my face and sobbed into my new hands.

Happy Holidays Everyone!

 Just wanted to wish everyone a merry holiday season and a Happy New Year in advance!

I will be off from making short stories for 2 weeks, but should be back early January!

In the meantime please don't forget to check out my youtube channel - https://www.youtube.com/@aimtfswaps for MTF Transformation content.

I have two new videos coming out on the weekend!

And as always, if you enjoy what I create, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi. 

https://ko-fi.com/hswap

Your support directly fuels the time and passion I pour into this work. Your generosity is an investment in future projects - and it truly makes a difference! 

With that said enjoy a couple of headswap images as my gift to you. Please feel free to use these in any story or caption you create; all I ask is for you to shout me out :)

Is that AI?

 

I'm Mike, and the last two weeks have been a weird mix of guilt and thrill. These random naked selfies started popping up on my phone from an unknown number. No head in any of them, just this insanely sexy woman's body. Full tits with perky nipples, slim waist flaring to wide hips, shaved pussy peeking in some shots, all posed in mirrors or beds. Not complaining at first. I rubbed one out to a particularly hot one where she was spreading her legs, that slick pink slit glistening, then deleted it quick. Made sure to erase every trace after, or so I thought.

One night I forgot. My wife Jenna caught it while borrowing my phone for directions. "Who the fuck is this slut?" she screamed, shoving the screen in my face. The pic was the body bent over, ass up, pussy lips puffy and inviting. I denied everything. "Babe, I swear, I don't know her! Must be a wrong number, some prank. I've been deleting them!" All the excuses poured out, but she wasn't buying it, tears streaming as she called me a cheating bastard. We fought for hours, her yelling about trust, me begging her to believe me. Finally, she calmed enough to say, "Fine. Contact this bitch and tell her to stop. Block the number after."

I didn't want to. Those pics were my secret guilty pleasure, that perfect body fueling fantasies Jenna didn't know about. But she was right, this had to end. I racked my brain for who could be pranking me like this. Greg came to mind. That perverted bastard from college, always pulling sick jokes, sending dick pics to randoms. But no, couldn't be. He was in the hospital after a bad car wreck two weeks ago, barely survived from what I heard.

I typed: Stop sending these pictures to me. I will be blocking your number now.

About to hit block when a reply buzzed in: Don't block this number bro! Its me Greg!

My heart skipped. You bastard, I got into a massive fight with my wife coz of you!

Sorry, he replied. 

How are you anyway? Heard you barely survived.

My body got absolutely crushed bro! I was technically dead. But there was an experimental trial that got me a new one.

Confused as hell, I shot back: What do you mean?

I'll show you, he typed. 

Then an image loaded. Same sexy body as before, topless tits heaving, black pants pulled down to expose that shaved pussy, black nails holding the phone for a mirror selfie. But this time, the head was visible. Greg's. Short dark hair, beard, his goofy grin staring back above those massive jugs, necklace dangling between them.

WTFFFF, I replied. Is that AI?

Come see for yourself, but if its not AI you need to eat me out ;) 

I stared at the pic, zooming in. Those tits looked real, nipples pink and stiff, pussy lips slightly parted like in the others, a hint of wetness. My cock stirred again, traitorously, even with Greg's face there. What the actual fuck was happening? Experimental trial? Like a body swap or some sci-fi shit?

I told Jenna it was Greg pranking me with fake pics, which cooled her anger. She knew what a weirdo he was. "I'm gonna visit him at the hospital, make sure he's okay," I said. She offered to come, but I waved her off. "Nah, babe, rest up. I'll be quick." Truth was, I had to see this myself. If it was real, holy shit. If not, I'd punch the prick for the trouble.

Rushed over to the hospital, heart pounding the whole drive. Signed in, found his room. Pushed the door open, and there he was, sitting up in bed, grinning. But below the neck, that body. Tits straining a hospital gown, curves filling the sheets, black nails tapping on his phone. "Bro! You came!" Greg's voice boomed, but then he shifted, tits jiggling, and crossed his legs, pussy probably throbbing under there just like in the pics.

"Is this... real?" I stammered, staring at his beard scratching the gown's collar, the scent of hospital antiseptic mixing with a faint feminine lotion.

"Totally, man. Docs hooked me up after the crash. New body, fresh start." He pulled the gown aside a bit, flashing one tit, nipple hardening in the cool air. "Wanna touch? Feel how firm they are"

My cock twitched, mind reeling. This was Greg, but that body I'd jerked to. What the hell had they done? I backed toward the door, mumbling excuses, but couldn't bare to walk out. I turned around staring at those curves, Greg grinning there with his tit in his hand. He then changed his position and spread his legs.

"I believe you owe me something," he said as he parted his pussy lips.

Looks good on you

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New age body trafficking

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Enjoy the Beard

I'm Jake, 28, and I've been dating Mia for two years now. She's a total boss babe, climbing the corporate ladder at her marketing firm, always dressed to kill in power suits that hug her curves just right. Massive tits, tiny waist, legs for days, and an ass that makes heads turn. We're crazy about each other, and tonight's supposed to be special. She's got a big presentation tomorrow, so we're role-playing in our hotel room to "practice her pitch." She's strutting around in that blue blazer over a black tank, black skirt flaring just enough to tease, nails painted dark, gold bracelet glinting. The room smells like her jasmine perfume mixed with the crisp hotel sheets, and my cock's already stirring watching her pose in front of the mirror.

"Babe, how's this look? Confident enough to close the deal?" she asks, hands on hips, tits thrusting forward. I nod, grinning from the bed, phone out to snap pics for her "motivation board." We're alone, curtains drawn, the hum of the AC the only sound besides her heels clicking on the floor.

Then there's a knock. "Room service?" I mutter, but we didn't order anything. Mia opens the door, and in steps this bearded guy, stocky with short dark hair, smirking like he owns the place. "Hey, I think you're in the wrong room," I say, standing up. He ignores me, eyes locked on Mia. "Love the outfit. Mind if I borrow something?" Before I can react, he grabs her hair and yanks. Her head pops off clean, like it's detachable. I freeze, brain short-circuiting. He sets her pretty face down on the dresser, then reaches up and pulls his own bearded head off, placing it on her neck with a click.

What the actual fuck? I lunge forward, but he's already scooping up her head, tucking it under his arm like a football, then bolts out the door. I froze. I'm left staring at Mia's body, now topped with his thick-bearded face, dark eyes blinking in confusion for a split second before she smiles at me.

"Babe? You okay? You look like you saw a ghost," she says, but it's his deep, rumbling voice, not her soft alto. The beard twitches as she talks, scratching against the black tank's neckline. Her tits heave with each breath, straining the fabric, nipples poking through like always, but that hairy chin bobs above them, making my stomach flip.

"Mia, your head! That guy...he stole your head! You've got his bearded face!" I'm yelling now, hands grabbing her shoulders, feeling her smooth skin, but the neck's sturdier, coarser hairs brushing my fingers.

She frowns, brows knitting under that neat black hair, and laughs low and gravelly. "What are you talking about? This is my face, you idiot. Stop messing around." She thinks I'm joking, turning back to the mirror, adjusting the blazer, tits jiggling as she poses with hands on hips, skirt swishing. "Come on, take the pic. I need to see if this screams 'power exec.'"

I can't breathe. The room reeks of her jasmine, but now mixed with his faint cologne, like musk and old spice clinging to the beard. She's oblivious, strutting closer, hips swaying, that perfect ass flexing under the skirt. "Babe, seriously, what's wrong? You were all over me five minutes ago." She presses against me, tits mashing soft and heavy into my chest, the tank's fabric thin enough to feel her hard nipples. My cock twitches despite the horror, responding to her body as she grinds lightly, pussy heat radiating through the skirt against my thigh.

But that beard scratches my collarbone as she nuzzles in, deep voice purring, "You wanna practice more? I could blow you for good luck." Her hand slides down, cupping my bulge, manicured nails grazing through my pants. I recoil, pushing her back. "No! Mia, look in the mirror! That's not you!"

She rolls her eyes, and grabs her phone from the dresser. "Fine, if you're gonna be weird." She snaps a selfie, tits out front, smiling that confident smile on his face, then shows me. "See? Same old me, beard and all. You don't complain about my beard when you're 7 inch deep into my throat! Now stop being a prick and fuck me already. I've got an early meeting."

I'm shaking, bile rising, but her body's so familiar, curves begging, that musky arousal scent wafting up as she spreads her legs a bit. The swapper's long gone, probably jerking off with her pretty head on his body somewhere. My phone buzzes, a text from an unknown number. I look and there's a picture: Mia's gorgeous face on the bearded guy's stocky frame, his hand on a bulging cock, caption: "She finally has a real dick in her hand. More pics coming - enjoy the beard on your nuts when she blows you!"

I nearly drop the phone. Mia's already stripping the blazer, tits bouncing free in the tank, oblivious, pulling me toward the bed. "Come on, babe. Let's make this night memorable." Her deep voice echoes, beard framing those plump lips as she licks them. I'm trapped, cock hardening against my will, wondering if I can even touch her without puking. What the fuck do I do now?

Rogue Swapper - Long Flight

 

I'm Ryan, and I'm cutting it way too close at the airport. My flight's boarding in minutes, and I hate being last. I always race to be first so I can snag overhead space for my bag without fighting anyone. Sprinting through the terminal, shoes pounding, heart racing, carry-on thumping against my side. The gate's in sight, thank fuck.

I barrel around a corner and slam right into someone. A hooded guy stumbles back, and next to him a voluptuous woman in a tight black sweater yelps, her massive tits jiggling from the impact. "Shit, sorry!" I mutter, barely slowing down, charging past them toward the gate. A sudden flash blinds me, bright as hell, like a camera went off in my face. I blink hard, vision spotting, but keep moving. I stumble momentarily in my heels, maybe I should have worn shoes, but adrenaline's pumping so I ignore it.

I reach the gate, panting, hand over my ticket. The attendant scans it, smiles big. "Welcome aboard, ma'am. Right this way." Ma'am? I shoot her a look but brush it off, probably just a mix-up. Everyone in line stares as I board, eyes lingering too long on my chest, whispers I can't quite catch. Weird, but whatever, I'm on the plane, that's all that matter to me.

Overhead bin's half full already, I knew I should have left earlier. I hoist my bag, struggling more than usual, arms straining. Damn, I need to hit the gym harder, I think, finally shoving it in. Straighten my outfit, this black cardigan thing over a gray top, feels snug across my chest. I slide into my aisle seat and the middle guy glances over and mutters under his breath, "Great, I'm sitting next to a trans." What the actual fuck? I try to ignore him, cross my arms over my chest, feeling a little self conscious.

Flight takes off smooth and the cabin lights dim. Once we're cruising, I grab my toiletry bag and head to the lavatory to freshen up. I lock the door, the tight space smelling like sanitizer and recycled air, turn to the mirror and look at myself.

My face is tired, baggy eyebags, short dark hair and stubble. I look pass my neck to my hourglass curves, smooth skin, massive tits barely contained by this gray tank, and my black cardigan open. I pull the tank down a bit, watching my tits spill out, heavy and round, nipples dark and perky. Hands cup them instinctively, flesh soft, warm, a jolt shooting straight between my legs when I squeeze. How can anyone mistake me for a woman with these? I pat between my legs, my newly shaved pussy lips, puffy under my tight jeans, a faint dampness seeping through. Can't wait to get home to my partner.

Then I think about it more, why's everyone acting so strange? Flight attendants calling me ma'am, that asshole seatmate whispering trans like I'm some freak. Are they all Idiots? They see a guy with killer tits and a cunt and they think he's a woman? The fuck? Whatever.

I fish out my phone, angle it for the mirror. Pull the tank lower, tits fully out now, nipples hardening in the cool air, goosebumps racing over the cleavage. Snap a few selfies, one squeezing them together, another pinching a nipple, biting my lip at the spark that hits my clit. I hike the cardigan off one shoulder for a better shot, tits heaving with each breath.

Perfect. Gary's gonna lose it when I send these after landing. "Miss you, babe," I'll caption them. Maybe add a tease about joining the mile-high club next time he's with me. I tuck the girls back in, their mass straining the fabric. I unlock the door, and with my heels clicking, I head back to my seat, ignoring the stares again. People are so judgmental! Can't a guy have nice tits without the drama?