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.