Fucked Twice

Devon, a chubby African American man, was fucked over by life—job gone, girl gone, now living in a cardboard shack in midtown. One day, he stumbled on a fight in an alley: a lanky dude in a crop top and a curvy bearded guy in a skimpy dress, brawling over a weird remote. It flew toward Devon; he snatched it and bolted. Hours later, he fiddled with it, accidentally swapping a hobo pal’s head with a jogger’s. Neither noticed, the jogger prancing off in the hobo’s stinky body, the hobo sorting cans in her sexy spandex. “What the hell?” Devon muttered. He had a plan: fuck over Brad, the racist prick who got him fired. Sneaking to Brad’s apartment, Devon peeked through the window and froze. Brad was pounding Rose, his stunning wife, in the kitchen, her tank top half-off, tits bouncing, no panties, pussy glistening under the fluorescent light.

Devon aimed the remote, thinking, Brad fucked me, now I’ll take his life. He hit the button, but Rose threw her head back in ecstasy, catching the beam. A flash blinded Devon, and suddenly he was inside, a tight heat gripping his crotch, hands squeezing his chest. Disoriented, he felt Brad’s cock sliding in and out of a pussy—his pussy. “What the fuck?!” Devon gasped, his deep voice clashing with Rose’s curvy body, her bare tits heaving in Brad’s grip, nipples hard as bullets. The kitchen reeked of sex—sweat, Rose’s floral perfume, and the musky slick of her cunt. A noise outside snapped their heads toward the window, both shocked. “Fucking peeping toms!” Brad growled, still buried deep, his hands kneading Devon’s new tits.

Devon’s bearded face twisted in panic, staring down at Rose’s body—his body now—her miniskirt bunched up, pussy stretched around Brad’s dick. “This ain’t right, man! I’m a dude! Stop!” he yelped, voice cracking as Brad thrust harder, the wet slap of skin echoing. Each pump sent jolts through Devon’s new cunt, clit throbbing against his will, juices dripping down his thighs. “Brad, I’m not Rose! Get off!” he pleaded, squirming, but his protests only made Brad grin, thinking it was kinky roleplay. “Oh, honey, you’re wild tonight,” Brad purred, pinching Devon’s nipples, making him gasp, a traitor’s pleasure spiking despite the horror. The air was thick with Rose’s arousal, Devon’s sweat, and Brad’s musky cologne, the counter digging into Devon’s hips as Brad railed him.

“Man, I’m Devon! You fired me, you fuck!” Devon screamed, but Brad just laughed, slamming deeper, the friction driving Devon’s pussy wild. His new tits bounced, skin slick, and he hated how good it felt, his cunt clenching around Brad’s cock. “Stop, I’m a guy!” he whimpered, voice drowned by moans he couldn’t hold back, his bearded face flushed with shame. Brad gripped his ass, spreading it, oblivious that he was fucking Devon’s head on Rose’s body. Outside, Rose—now with Devon’s chubby frame—fled, dropping the remote on the pavement, its buttons glinting, waiting for the next poor bastard.

Devon’s protests faded to gasps, his new pussy spasming, betraying him as Brad’s thrusts hit just right. “Fuck, honey,” Brad groaned, unaware he was balls-deep in his old coworker. Devon’s mind screamed to fight, but his body arched, tits heaving, cunt gushing, caught in a nightmare fuck he couldn’t escape. He couldn't believe it, Brad fucked him metaphorically and now he was being fucked physically.

Serial Swapper Victim #3

I’m Tim, 25, and I hit the fucking jackpot with Lisa. She’s the hottest chick in town—perfect face, killer tits, and an ass that could start wars. No clue how I bagged her, but we’re crazy in love, even if her OnlyFans pisses me off. She’s an exhibitionist, always posting raunchy pics and vids for her huge social media following, and I just deal with it. Today, she’s got on this insane outfit—black bra so small her aureolas peek out, sheer black panties, and a miniskirt that’s basically a belt. We’re in some empty lot for new content, her idea, and I’m snapping pics, my dick half-hard watching her pose. Her perfume—sweet coconut—fills the car, mixing with the hot leather smell.

We drive past this chubby, balding dude, maybe 40, with a greying beard, and his eyes light up like he knows Lisa from her vids. Typical fanboy shit. She’s used to it, striking poses—legs spread, tits out—while I click away, the guy creeping closer. He’s practically drooling, so I’m like, “Babe, let’s shoot inside the car.” She climbs in, sprawling across the passenger seat, legs wide, panties flashing her pussy, one hand on her head, tossing her hair. I’m framing the shot when this fat fuck leans in, and grabs Lisa's hair and pulls. Lisa's head pops off. What the hell? Then his other hand reached in, holding his big chubby head and he places it on top of Lisa's neck. 

What the fuck did I smoke?! I rub my eyes, blinking, and when I look back, I nearly shit myself. Lisa’s body is still there—tits spilling, pussy outlined—but her head’s gone. Instead, it’s that bald dude’s head, his sweaty, bearded face staring and smiling at me.

“Babe, the photos! We just need a few more,” she says, but it’s his deep, gruff voice, not her sexy purr. I’m frozen, heart pounding, as she clears her throat, still posing, oblivious. “Tim, what’s wrong? Got something on my head?” She tries her cute frown, but on that chubby, bearded face, it’s fucking creepy, like a trucker trying to flirt. I lose it. “Lisa, you’ve got a man’s head! That bald fucker’s head!” She laughs, thinking I’m joking, and says, “No need to be a dick, Tim. What, you mad I didn’t give you head last night?” Her voice is all gravelly, and my skin crawls, but my dick’s confused, still half-hard from her body.

I spot the guy waddling away, Lisa’s perfect hair bouncing on his head, his fat ass jiggling. “I gotta chase him!” I yell, but she grabs me, swinging a leg over to straddle my lap. Her panties grind against my jeans, her pussy hot and wet through the sheer fabric, and I can’t breathe. “Tim, baby, I can give you head now if you want,” she says, those bearded lips inches from mine, her eyes—his eyes—locked on me. She nuzzles my neck, and I feel his scratchy beard, smelling like cheap aftershave and her coconut scent. I’m screaming inside, torn between wanting to fuck her and puking. Her tits press against me, aureolas peeking, nipples hard, and my cock betrays me, throbbing as she grinds harder.

 

He's so ready

Written from the POV of the girl:

I’m Tammy, 25, and I’m having the time of my fucking life with Ryan, this cocky dude I met on Tinder. That's him in the picture. He’s 25, cute in that frat-boy way, and thinks he’s God’s gift to women with his daily matches and nonstop dates. We clicked hard on our first date—dinner, drinks, me in a tight dress that showed off my banging tits and ass. I’m hot as hell, face like a model, body that makes jaws drop, but here’s the kicker: this ain’t even my original body. I’ve got this device, a little sci-fi toy that lets me swap parts with anyone, and nobody notices anything. I told Ryan I’m bi, leaning into it with a flirty wink, and he ate it up, his dick practically jumping at the thought. Clueless fucker had no idea what I had planned.

We’re at the end of the date, laughing outside the restaurant, my perfume—sweet peach and vanilla—mixing with his cologne. I lean in, kiss his cheek, and whisper, “I’m gonna fuck you next time.” He grins, thinking I’m just horny. I slip my hand in my purse, activate the device, and zap—our bodies swap, from the neck-down. My head’s now on his lean frame, his dick heavy in my new jeans, while his head’s on my curvy body, tits bouncing in my low-cut blouse. He doesn’t even blink, reality rewritten so he thinks he’s always been this way. “Night, Tammy,” he says, strutting to his car, my ass swaying under his clueless head. I smirk, feeling his cock stir. This is gonna be fun.

I’m chilling at home, sprawled on my couch, his dick hard just thinking about the swap. Ryan texts, all sweet: “Had a great night. Can I see you again?” I bite my lip, loving how oblivious he is. “Hell yeah,” I reply, then snap a pic of me grabbing his dick—my new toy—through his jeans. “Next time, I might give this to you,” I add, smirking. He’s probably drooling, not knowing he’s getting wet over his own cock. My phone pings, and holy shit, it’s a selfie from Ryan—his head on my body, stripped down to my white skimpy bra, tits spilling out, nipples hard as fuck. “I’m so ready,” he texts. “You’ll see the pussy next time 😘🐱.” I laugh, my new dick throbbing. 

I lean back, the room smelling like my vape and his sweaty jeans, imagining him in his apartment, feeling my tits jiggle over every move he makes. He probably shrugs it off, thinking he’s just packing on pounds, not noticing how my blouse shows off cleavage that’d make any dude hard. I bet he’s running his hands over my curves right now, his new pussy getting wet as he thinks about “getting laid.” Fuck, it’s hot knowing he’s playing with my body, clueless that I’m stroking his dick, planning to fuck him senseless next time. The device hums on my nightstand, ready for more games. Next date, I’ll show him what my new cock can do.

Where's my money?

Mitch stumbled into his trashed apartment, the stench of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey hitting him like a punch. His heart raced—Jenny should’ve been home. “Jenny?!” he called, voice cracking. “In here!” she screamed, panicked, from the bedroom. He barged in, only to be grabbed from behind by a massive thug, his arm like a steel trap. On the bed sat Don Juan, the loan shark Mitch owed big, his slicked-back hair and goatee framing a cruel smirk. His suit jacket hung open, no shirt, revealing white chest hair and faded tattoos on sagging skin. Jenny knelt on the floor, another goon gripping her, her nightgown slipping to expose her cleavage and shaved pussy, her eyes wide with terror.

“Where’s my money, Mitch?” Don Juan asked, voice calm as death. Jenny’s head snapped up. “What’s he talking about?!” she yelled. Mitch’s throat tightened. “I don’t have it, Don. Gimme a couple weeks,” he pleaded. Don shook his head, launching into a speech about deadbeats, his gold rings glinting. “Maybe you need motivation to move faster,” he said, standing. Mitch’s blood ran cold. “Don’t hurt my wife!” he shouted. Don’s smile was pure venom. “Hurt her? No, no. Your wife’s gorgeous—perfect body. I’d never.” He caressed Jenny’s cheek, her skin soft under his calloused fingers. She spat, “I’ll never sleep with you, you disgusting old man!” Mitch begged, “Please, Don, don’t touch her!”

Don sat back, legs spread. “I want her body, Mitch. I always get what I want. Don’t worry, I’ll return it when you pay me.” Confusion hit Mitch and Jenny—what the fuck did that mean? Then Don’s body shimmered. His white chest hair receded, his wrinkled torso slimming. Mitch gaped as Don’s flat chest ballooned into Jenny’s perky tits, nipples poking through the suit jacket. Jenny shrieked, and Mitch’s eyes darted to her—white hair sprouted on her chest, her full breasts deflating into sagging pecs, her nightgown hanging loose on Don’s bony frame. “What did you do to her?!” Mitch roared, struggling against the goon’s grip. Don laughed, the swap finishing—his goateed head now atop Jenny’s curvy body, her tight pussy hidden under his suit pants, while Jenny sobbed, her pretty face on Don’s wrinkled, tattooed husk.

Don ran his new hands over his stolen tits, squeezing them, then slipped a finger into his new pussy, moaning. “What a body,” he purred, the room reeking of Jenny’s floral perfume and his own cigar breath. “Changed my mind, Mitch. Take as long as you need to pay. I’ll take good care of this.” He leaned forward, shoving his new cleavage in Mitch’s face, a nipple slipping free, hard and pink. “Bet you’ll miss these,” he taunted, the musky scent of Jenny’s arousal sickeningly familiar. Jenny’s sobs grew hysterical, her new bony hands clawing at the nightgown, Don’s old cock limp beneath it.

The goons tossed Mitch and Jenny to the floor, their bodies colliding in a heap. Mitch hugged her, feeling Don’s brittle, hairy frame under her tear-streaked face, the nightgown damp with her sweat and fear. “Swap her back, you fuck!” Mitch screamed, but Don just laughed, adjusting his suit over Jenny’s curves, her ass straining the fabric. “Pay me, and we’ll talk,” he said, strutting out, his new tits bouncing. Mitch clung to Jenny, her old man’s body trembling, the apartment’s stench of ruin choking them as they screamed after Don, their lives fucked beyond repair.

Win Win

Angelo slouched in his dingy apartment, the glow of his laptop casting shadows across his pitted face, his black tank top clinging to his sweaty chest. Fired from his accounting job because Mia—that brainless, busty bitch—fucked up the books and pinned it on him, he was broke and pissed. Her big tits and pouty lips had the all-male bosses eating out of her hand, while Angelo got the boot. “Fuckers,” he muttered, the room reeking of stale pizza and his own BO. But Angelo wasn’t just some chump—he was a shapeshifter, and Mia’s betrayal sparked a wicked plan. Using his powers and seething hatred, he’d transform into her, start an OnlyFans and cam service, and make bank while torching her reputation. Win-fucking-win.

Every night, Angelo fired up his laptop, the hum of the old machine mixing with the faint musk of his unwashed sheets. His viewers—horny dudes and curious creeps—flooded the chat, dropping tips for “Mia” to strip or finger herself. Angelo smirked, his eyes lighting up as he focused on her image in his mind—long black hair, massive rack, tight ass. He tugged his short hair, and his body shimmered, bones cracking, skin stretching. In seconds, he was Mia from the neck down, his male head replaced by her flawless face, brown eyes, and full lips. His tank top strained over her perky tits, nipples poking through like little sluts, and his boxers morphed into a lacy thong, barely covering her shaved pussy. The air shifted, now thick with her sweet, musky scent, like candy and sex.

Leaning forward, Angelo displayed Mia’s cleavage, those heavy breasts spilling out, jiggling with every breath. “Like what you see, boys?” he purred in her sultry voice, the chat exploding with heart-eyes and cash. He ran his hands over her curves, squeezing her tits, pinching her nipples until they ached, a wet heat blooming in her pussy. The thong was soaked, sticking to her lips, and he spread his legs, giving the camera a peek at the pink slit. “Who wants me to play?” he teased, slipping a finger inside, the slick squelch drowned out by the laptop’s fan. His viewers went wild, tips pouring in—$50, $100, $200—while Angelo moaned, her pussy clenching, his male mind reveling in the cash and revenge.

Mia, oblivious, was getting heat from her world. Her church-going mom called, sobbing, “Why’re you doing porn, honey?” Her best friend texted, “Girl, OnlyFans? Really?” Mia, clueless, swore it wasn’t her, but no one bought it—Angelo’s shapeshifting was too perfect, her face and body unmistakable on the streams. He’d film for hours, transforming back to his sweaty, tank-topped self only when the cash slowed. His bank account swelled, enough to cover rent, bills, and a new gaming PC, while Mia’s life crumbled. He’d seen her at the grocery store once, face red from arguing with a cousin about her “side hustle.” Angelo just grinned, his cock twitching at the chaos he’d sown.

Tonight, he leaned closer to the webcam, Mia’s tits heaving, a dildo in hand. “Ready for a real show?” he asked, her voice dripping honey. The chat roared, money flooding in. Angelo slid the toy into her pussy, gasping as it stretched her, the room smelling of sex and triumph. Mia’s name was mud, and his wallet was fat—revenge never felt so fucking good.

This is the life

Brad lounged in the plush LA hotel room, his chunky frame wrapped in a white bathrobe, the scent of lavender bath salts clinging to his damp skin. John had dragged him on this trip, promising to cover flights and lodging, but failed to mention they’d be sharing a room. Whatever, Brad thought, it’s free. While John was out “handling business,” Brad milked the amenities—soaking in the tub, ordering room service burgers, the works. His hairy chest peeked through the robe’s loose tie, and the AC’s hum mixed with the faint tang of greasy fries on the nightstand. John burst in, clutching a small box, his eyes glinting with something unhinged. Brad, toweling off in the bathroom, didn’t notice until John called him out.

“Dude, this is the life,” Brad said, strutting into the room, robe flapping, his gut jiggling. Then he spotted the sleek, remote-like device in John’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked. John’s grin was all teeth. “This, my man, changes people on a molecular level. Connects to my thoughts, transforms anyone I want.” Brad snorted, his laugh echoing off the tacky wallpaper. “Hope you didn’t blow your cash on that scam.” John’s smirk widened, dangerous. “Let’s try it then.” He aimed the device at Brad, picturing Rachel, his ex—blonde, curvy, with tits that could stop traffic.

Brad played along, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh no, please don’t shoot me!” he mocked, voice dripping sarcasm. John pressed the button, and a blinding beam of light shot out, slamming into Brad’s chest. He froze, head tilting back like he was about to sneeze, eyes squeezed shut. His short, dark hair surged outward, lengthening into golden waves that cascaded past his shoulders. The robe parted as his body reshaped—his gut sucked in, hips flared, and two massive, perky tits ballooned out, nipples hard under the cotton. His cock vanished, replaced by a slick, shaved pussy, its musky scent cutting through the room’s stale air. In seconds, Brad was Rachel from the neck down, her creamy skin glistening, the robe barely containing her curves.

Brad’s eyes snapped open, and he stumbled, tits bouncing, the robe slipping to reveal a deep cleavage that smelled faintly of lavender and new, feminine sweat. “What the fuck?!” he screamed, his voice still his own—gruff, panicked—but clashing with the bombshell body below. He grabbed his new breasts, squeezing their soft weight, then reached down, fingers brushing his pussy, wet and throbbing. “John, you sick fuck, what did you do?!” John leered, stepping closer, the device dangling in his hand. “This is why I brought you, buddy,” he said, his voice low, lecherous, eyes raking over Brad’s stolen curves. The room reeked of sex already, the carpet muffling John’s steps as he closed the gap.

Brad’s new ass jiggled as he backed up, the robe riding up to flash his pussy, its lips glistening under the cheap hotel lighting. His heart pounded, mixing panic with a traitor’s heat—his new cunt ached, nipples stiffening as John’s gaze burned into him. “Change me back, man!” Brad pleaded, but John just laughed, tossing the device onto the bed. “Not yet, Rachel. Let’s have some fun first.” Brad’s throat tightened, his new body betraying him, pussy dripping onto the robe’s hem. The city hummed outside, but in that room, it was just them—John’s twisted grin, Brad’s horrified stare, and a body that screamed to be fucked, whether he wanted it or not.

Gym Junkie

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Lost in the music now

 

Serial Swapper Victim #2

 

Walk Again

 

Rouge Swapper

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Second Youth

Just Chilling

I’m Trey, sprawled on my couch, legs wide like I own the place, sipping a grape juice box like it’s a damn beer. It’s Saturday, my day to do fuck-all, and I’m half-watching some basketball highlights on my 75-inch TV. The apartment’s quiet, just the hum of the AC and the faint smell of the pizza I demolished last night. I’m in my zone, faded tee and basketball shorts, not a care in the world. 

Then—pop—the window’s open, and before I can even look up, there’s this blinding pink flash, like someone set off a neon firecracker in my face. My skin buzzes, hot and prickly, and I hear footsteps bolting away outside. “What the fuck?!” I shout, dropping the juice box. It splatters on the floor, purple shit everywhere, but that’s the least of my problems.

I blink, trying to clear the spots from my eyes, and my body feels… wrong. Light. Soft. I look down, and my heart damn near stops. My chest’s ballooned out into two perky tits, straining against a flimsy white sundress I sure as hell wasn’t wearing a second ago. My arms are slim, pale as fuck, with delicate little hands tipped with pink nails. My legs—spread wide like I’m still chilling like a dude—are now smooth, creamy, and way too short. The sundress is hiked up, and I’m flashing a pair of white panties, stretched tight over a pussy that’s definitely not mine. I can feel the air on it, cool against the damp heat already building there, and the scent hits me—sweet, musky, like some chick’s perfume mixed with raw arousal. “No fucking way,” I mutter, my voice still deep, still me, but sounding all wrong coming from this tiny, curvy body.

I slam my legs shut, but the panties rub against my new clit, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through me, making my tits jiggle. “Shit!” I yelp, grabbing at them, feeling their soft weight, the nipples hardening under my fingers through the thin fabric. My whole body’s buzzing, like it’s wired for something I don’t understand. I stumble to my feet, the sundress swishing around my thighs, and catch my reflection in the TV screen. My head—dark skin, short fade, goatee—looks fucking ridiculous on this petite white chick’s frame, all curves and smooth skin. My ass is round, filling out the dress, and every step makes it bounce, sending sparks straight to my crotch. I’m sweating now, the room smelling like grape juice, my cologne, and this new, feminine musk that’s driving me nuts.

I rush to the window, my bare feet slapping the floor, tits swaying like they’ve got a mind of their own. Nobody’s out there—just the empty street, a stray dog sniffing around. “Who the fuck did this?!” I yell, my voice echoing, but there’s no answer. My phone’s still on the couch, so I grab it, fumbling with these dainty fingers, and try to call my boy Marcus. Maybe he’ll know what’s up. But when I unlock the screen, my lockscreen’s different—not my usual pic of my car, but some selfie of a white chick in this same sundress, smiling like an idiot. My head looked photoshopped onto it, and I drop the phone like it’s cursed. “Nah, nah, nah, this ain’t happening,” I mutter, pacing back and forth. The friction’s too much, and I’m fighting not to moan, my new pussy throbbing like it’s got its own heartbeat.

I flop back on the couch, legs spreading again without thinking, the sundress riding up to flash those panties. I can smell my own arousal now, thick and heady, and it’s fucking with my head. My tits are heaving, the dress clinging to my sweaty skin, and I’m torn between freaking out and… touching myself. 

All I can think is now is, how is this possible and what the fuck do I do now?

Girls have way more fun

 

The Artifact