Complimentary Desserts

Dale and Matt, best friends and roommates, swaggered into a trendy new restaurant across from their apartment, phones ready to film their latest influencer hustle: scamming free food. Their plan? Pose as a gay couple to snag complimentary desserts for “anniversary” couples. Outside, they recorded a quick intro, Matt hyping their scheme to their followers, oblivious to a rogue swapper—a wiry dude with a creepy smirk—eavesdropping nearby. He followed them inside, his device humming in his pocket. The host seated them in a dimly lit booth next to a hot couple, the woman stealing their breath—long legs, a black spaghetti strap sundress barely holding her massive tits, and sexy arm tattoos snaking up her skin. Her cleavage gleamed under the soft lights, and both guys stole glances, dicks twitching despite their act.

They played their roles, giggling and touching hands whenever a waiter passed, filming content to sell their “couple” vibe. Dinner was decent—steak, wine, the works—and the free dessert landed: a rich chocolate cake drizzled with caramel. Dale propped his phone to record Matt, who was mid-rant about their free-food wins, fork loaded with cake. A sudden flash blinded them, like a camera bulb popping. Dale blinked, vision clearing, and his jaw hit the floor. Matt’s head—short brown hair, scruffy jaw—was still there, but his body was the woman’s from next door. The sundress hugged her curves, tits spilling out, tattoos vivid on her arms, and a musky hint of her perfume—jasmine and sweat—wafted over the table. Matt kept talking, oblivious, shovelling cake into his mouth.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Matt asked, pausing, his voice still his but softer, flirty. Dale leaned in, heart racing, whispering, “You’ve got a chick’s body, man!” Matt glanced around, confused, then grinned. “Babe, what you talking about?” Dale recoiled at babe, his skin prickling. The swapper had fucked them—swapped Matt’s body with the woman’s and rewritten reality. Now Matt and Dale were boyfriends, lovers, while the woman and her guy were just pals. Matt scooped more cake, moaning, “Free shit’s the best, babe. Taste this, it’s to die for!” He held out his fork, but Dale was frozen, staring at Matt’s cleavage, nipples poking through the dress, his new tits jiggling with every move.

Matt’s eyes narrowed, catching Dale’s stare. “What’s wrong, babe? You look like you saw a ghost.” He slid a hand under the table, fingers brushing Dale’s crotch through his pants, making him jump. “This cake’s got me hot inside,” Matt purred, rubbing up and down, his new pussy tingling under the sundress, its wet heat seeping through the fabric. The restaurant smelled of chocolate, wine, and Matt’s new arousal, the booth’s leather creaking as he leaned closer. “Let’s make another kinda video later,” he winked, licking his lips, his hand squeezing Dale’s cock, which—fuck him—stiffened despite the horror.

Dale’s mouth was dry, his brain screaming. Matt’s new body was his wet dream—tits, ass, those tattoos he’d jerk off to—but his best friend’s head on it? Wrong, so fucking wrong. The couple next door ate on, unaware their lives had flipped. The swapper was gone, his chaos sown. Matt’s hand kept stroking, his pussy soaking the dress, the air thick with his scent and the cake’s sweetness. Dale’s phone kept rolling, catching Matt’s flirty moans, his oblivious seduction, while Dale sat, trapped in a new relationship with his bestfriend and a body he’d kill for to fuck, wondering what the hell happened.

Man where it counts

Carl, a balding 45-year-old salesman, slumped on his hotel bed in LA, his wrinkled suit jacket tossed aside, tie loose, and a panicked sweat beading on his forehead. He stared down at his naked body, heart hammering—his hairy, sagging upper half ended at a smooth, feminine waist, leading to the toned thighs and shaved pussy of a young woman. The lips glistened under the dim hotel lamp, a musky scent wafting up, mixing with the stale whiskey and cigarette smoke in the room. His phone buzzed—his wife, Karen, calling—but Carl couldn’t move, frozen by the sight of the pussy between his legs, his cock gone, stolen.

He’d been on a business trip, reeling from losing a major client, his bonus fucked. At the hotel bar, drowning in cheap bourbon, he met Vanessa—mid-20s, stunning, with tits spilling out of a red dress and an ass that screamed “fuck me.” She bought him shots, her perfume—spicy jasmine—clouding his head, her laugh making his dick twitch. Carl, half-drunk, didn’t question why she was into him; he just followed her to his room, her hips swaying, promising a night to forget his failures. In the room, she stripped him, her hands teasing his chest, lips grazing his ear. “I’ve always wanted to be a man where it counts,” she purred, confusing him, but his cock was too hard to care.

Vanessa pushed him onto the bed, her dress hitting the floor, revealing a shaved pussy and curves that made his mouth water. She straddled him, grinding her wet cunt on his thigh, the heat and slickness driving him wild. “Ready to fuck?” she whispered, pulling a small device from her purse—a sleek, sci-fi remote. Carl laughed, thinking it was a toy, but she aimed it at him, her eyes glinting. A flash of light hit, and a tingle ripped through his lower half. Before he could react, Vanessa moaned, her pussy vanishing, replaced by his cock and balls, now swinging between her legs. Carl’s lower half morphed into hers—smooth, tight, with a pussy that throbbed instantly.

“Time to fuck you,” Vanessa growled, her new dick hard. She pinned him, sliding his old cock into his new cunt, the stretch making Carl gasp, pleasure and panic colliding. Her thrusts were brutal, his flabby pecs—jiggling as she pounded, the bed creaking, the room reeking of her jasmine and his sweat. “No, wait!” Carl slurred, but his pussy clenched, betraying him, juices soaking the sheets. Vanessa came, his cock pulsing inside him, and Carl passed out, overwhelmed, the whiskey and shock pulling him under.

He woke naked, alone, his new pussy aching, lips swollen from the fuck. Vanessa was gone, along with his lower half—she’d wanted a man’s cock and took it, leaving him her cunt. The phone buzzed again, Karen’s name flashing. Carl’s hands shook, feeling the smooth thighs, the slick folds, his fingers brushing his clit, sparking a jolt that made him moan. 

How do you tell your wife you’ve got a pussy now? The hotel room’s stale air choked him, Vanessa’s scent lingering like a taunt. 

Stealth Control: Protest

I’m Emily, 23, a fierce advocate for women’s rights, and today’s bullshit has me raging. We’re ten women at this sleazy tech company, all hired for our looks, treated like eye candy while the bosses pay us peanuts. Enough’s enough, so we’re protesting outside the office, chanting for equal pay, our signs high. Then these assholes blast us with a fire hose—cold water soaks my blouse, plastering it to my tits, my skirt clinging to my thighs. Just a cheap tactic to shut us up, I think, spitting water, tasting a faint metallic tang. What I don’t know is it’s laced with stealth-control nanobots, and I’ve swallowed a shit-ton, being front and center.

Furious, I storm into the building, my heels clicking, water dripping from my hair, smelling like wet cotton and iron, weird. In the elevator, a shiver hits me, sharp and icy, like I’m standing in a freezer. Must be the wet clothes and AC, I tell myself, shaking it off. The mirrored wall shows my soaked reflection—blouse see-through, nipples hard as diamonds. I smile, weirdly smug, and grab my tits, squeezing their heavy softness. “Oh my god, she’s hot,” I say, voice low and lecherous. Just hyping myself up for the bosses, I think, my fingers lingering, sending a jolt to my pussy.

The elevator dings, and I step out, wobbling in my heels like I’ve never worn them before. The office floor’s full of guys—catcalls and whistles hit me like a wave. “Pigs!” I snarl in my head, but my lips curl into a grin, and I yank up my blouse, flashing my bare tits, nipples stiff in the cool air. “Like what you see, boys?” I yell, my voice bold and slutty. That’ll show ‘em, I think, strutting toward the CEO’s office, my wet pussy throbbing, soaking my panties. My brain’s screaming this is right, a feminist power move, but it’s all lies.

I burst into the CEO’s office, and there he is—slumped in his chair, some weird headband on his skull, passed out like a drunk. “There’s my ugly body!” I sneer, thinking I’m roasting him. My eyes flick to the corner mirror, and I start peeling off my clothes—blouse, skirt, bra, panties—tossing them in a wet pile on the floor. Naked, I stare at my reflection like it’s a porn star’s body—curvy hips, perky tits, pussy glistening. Had to get out of those wet clothes, don’t wanna get sick, I tell myself, but my hands grab my tits, kneading roughly, thumbs flicking my nipples.

I hop onto the CEO’s desk, legs spread, and start furiously rubbing my pussy, fingers plunging into my slick, tight hole. “Fuck yeah,” I moan, my clit pulsing under my thumb, wet and sensitive. This’ll show that bastard for soaking us; I'll soak his desk, I think, my brain twisting it into revenge. 

What I don’t know is that the CEO’s in my head, feeling my pussy clench, while I'm justifying everything he's doing as my own actions. My fingers move clumsily, like it’s my first time touching my vagina, and I’m dripping, the desk slick with my cum. Somewhere, I hear moans—my coworkers, also dosed with nanobots, are getting off in other offices, some bold enough for the meeting rooms, controlled by the COO and other C-suite creeps. 

I’m lost in my own orgasm, screaming, thinking it’s my feminist fury, while the CEO’s jerking me like a puppet.