New age body trafficking

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I don't want them on me

We were messing around at the mall like idiots, my buddy Jaxson and me, testing out this weird remote I'd found on the street the other day. It was supposed to scan someone as the "source" and zap a target to match them, body-wise, but heads always stayed put for some glitchy reason. You could tweak who knew about the swap too, make it so everyone thinks it's normal, or just a few folks, or nobody at all. We'd been on a little spree, swapping random people for laughs, watching dudes waddle around with chick asses or whatever. Harmless fun, right?

Then we spot this sexy woman strutting by in a floral sundress, all curves and confidence, massive tits straining the fabric, hips swaying like she owned the place. "Yo, let's swap her with that fat guy over there," I whisper to Jaxson, the big African American dude with short hair and a beard, always acting tough. He's grinning, egging me on. I scan her quick, aim at the fat man, but some klutz barrels into me from behind. I spin, finger slips on the trigger, and bam, the beam hits Jaxson square in the chest. Worse, the jolt knocks the awareness dial. Now only me, Jaxson, and the woman know what happened, everyone else oblivious. The remote flies out of my hand, smashes on the tile floor, circuits sparking like fireworks.

The woman screams, her eyes wide as she pats down her new chunky body, then bolts off into the crowd. Jaxson stands there, frozen, looking down at himself. His head's the same, beard and all, but below? That voluptuous frame, smooth brown skin, those enormous tits heaving with every breath, wide hips filling out the sundress, and I catch a glimpse of thong underneath as he shifts. People stare, but to them, he's always been this way, some bearded guy with a bombshell body in a dress. They were more staring at his reaction. "What the fuck, man?" he hisses, voice deep but body language all wrong, hands flying to cup those massive tits like they're grenades.

We hightail it back to my place before security gets nosy. We crash on the couch in the living room, the AC humming, smell of takeout lingering from dinner last night. Jaxson's sitting there in that unlady-like way he always does, legs spread wide, but this time, his sundress riding up, giving me a full view of those thick thighs and the thong barely covering a shaved pussy. His beard scratches against the floral fabric as he leans forward, poking at his new curves. "Bro, you need to fix that remote of yours," he says, voice cracking a bit. "As much as I love tits, I don't want them on me!" He grabs them, squeezing, the soft flesh spilling over his fingers, nipples poking through the thin material. They jiggle when he lets go, and he stares, mesmerized.

"I'm on it, man," I mutter, eyeing the broken remote on the coffee table, pieces scattered. "Just give me time to solder this shit back together." But honestly, I'm half-distracted, watching him. He's African American tough guy one minute, now this curvy goddess the next. He leans back, legs still splayed, sundress hiked higher, thong outlining everything. His hand drifts down, absentmindedly tracing the fabric over that pussy, and I hear a low moan escape his lips. "Damn, this feels... weird," he breathes, beard twitching as he rubs harder, fingers pressing into the slit through the thong. The room starts smelling like arousal, that musky sweetness mixing with his usual cologne.

I should tell him to stop, right? Snap him out of it. But my cock's stirring in my jeans, watching my best friend lose himself in this borrowed body. His massive tits rise and fall faster, nipples hard now, and he slips a hand under the thong, gasping as his fingers find the clit. "Oh shit... what the..." Another moan, deeper, his hips bucking a little on the couch. The sundress slips off one shoulder, exposing more of those tits, heavy and round. He's rubbing circles now, beard damp with sweat, eyes half-closed, totally gone in the sensation. Pussy juices start soaking the thong, the wet sounds filling the quiet room.

I just sit there, frozen, hard as hell, pretending to fiddle with the remote. Part of me wants to fix it quick, get him back. But another part? Watching Jaxson, this macho dude, writhe and moan like a slut in heat? Fuck, maybe I'll take my time.

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 #2

 

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

 

This is a test!

 This is a test post to see how it looks on the template.