Looks good on you

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

Swedish Pumps

I stumbled upon that damn device in a dusty box at a garage sale, some old guy's junk he probably didn't even know worked. It looked like a fancy remote, with buttons for "scan source," "target," and toggles for awareness levels. I figured it was a prank gadget at first, but curiosity got me. Tested it on a plant, but nothing happened until I accidentally zapped my roommate Miguel while he was crashing on the couch one night. One flash, and suddenly I had his body from the neck down, ripped abs, tan skin, and holy shit, a cock like a goddamn forearm. His head stayed the same on my old frame, but I freaked out, swapped back quick. Kept thinking about that dick (No homo) though, got major envy.

So I did what any man would do, bought myself one of those Swedish penis pumps online, the kind that promises inches if you stick with it.

Fast forward a couple weeks, and Miguel catches me in the bathroom one night, pumping away like an idiot. The guy's a Latino stud, short spiked hair, thick beard, always strutting around like he owns the place. He busts out laughing, calls me "Pump Daddy" every chance he gets. "Yo, bro, still trying to catch up to the big leagues?" he'd say, grabbing his crotch for emphasis. I gritted my teeth, but enough was enough. That device was calling my name.

Our busty MILF neighbor, Mrs. Ramirez, was outside gardening that afternoon, her massive tits straining against a yellow camisole top, ass like two pillows in those shorts, tattoos swirling down her forearms from her wild younger days. I scanned her as the source, heart pounding. Snuck back into the apartment where Miguel was passed out on the couch after a long shift, beer cans scattered. Aimed the device, hit target, and watched the magic.

His body rippled, shrinking in some places, ballooning in others. Chest swelled into those enormous tits, waist cinched, hips flared wide, legs toned and smooth. Tattoos appeared on his forearms, exactly like hers, and between his thighs, a shaved pussy formed, pink and perfect. His head stayed the same, spiked hair, beard, snoring away. I toggled awareness to "only user knows," meaning he'd think this curvy bombshell body was always his, everyone else too. I wanted to see macho Miguel navigate life with a MILF's curves, oblivious.

Took a nap in my room as well and woke up to shuffling in the living room. Door was cracked open now, but I'm sure I'd shut it earlier. I pushed it wider and there he was, half-sitting, half-standing on the red blanket covered couch, yellow spaghetti strap camisole yanked down, those massive tits spilled out, heavy and round, nipples dark and perky, jiggling with every move. He had my penis pump in hand, the clear tube end clamped right onto his new clit, pumping away like it was the most normal thing.

"Hey dude! Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he said in his deep voice, beard scratching as he grinned. "Just thought I'd borrow your pump. Looking a little small tonight, and I got that big date with Mindy, you know, the chick from the bar? Gotta get primed."

I bit my lip hard to keep from laughing, watching this bearded Latino guy with a woman's voluptuous body, tits heaving, trying to enlarge a clit he thought was his dick. The pump sucked and released, making that little nub swell, his shaved pussy lips glistening under it. He leaned back on the couch, legs spread, the yellow top bunched up, exposing everything.

"Go for it, man," I said, voice cracking a bit. "Pump it faster, dude. Really get in there."

He nodded, cranked the handle quicker. A low moan escaped his lips. "Ah, shit... I don't think this thing works, bro!" His legs buckled, thighs quivering, those huge tits bouncing as he stifled another groan, hand still pumping. Juices started leaking from his pussy, soaking the red blanket cover, the air smelling like sweet arousal mixed with his usual cologne.

"Well, something's working," I chuckled, shifting to hide my growing hard-on. Watching him like this, clueless, body reacting like a horny MILF, was hotter than I expected. His clit throbbed under the pump, pussy clenching visibly.

He caught his breath, eyes flicking to me, beard damp with sweat. "Dude, do you mind if I finish this in my room? Kinda weird you're staring like that."

I burst out laughing. "Go for it, my man. You're the one who started out here." He was already waddling toward his door, tits swaying, pump still attached, pussy lips shiny. "Just clean it good after, yeah?" I yelled.

He waved a tattooed arm without looking back, door clicking shut. I collapsed on the couch, dick throbbing, replaying the sight. Revenge tasted sweet, but damn, I might keep him like this a while longer.

The Scientist

The old scientist's lab reeked of ozone and chemicals, the kind that burned your nostrils and made your eyes water. He'd been tinkering for years, swapping traits between rats and dogs, watching them hump each other in confusion. But animals weren't enough. He needed humans. So he snatched Leroy off the alley where the big African American dealer slung his bags, large man, thick beard, tattoos snaking up his neck like vines. And Candy, the streetwalker on the corner, her voluptuous body inked and curved like a porn star's dream, tits heavy and ass round, always ready for the next john.

Leroy woke up strapped to a table, seething. "You crazy old fuck! Let me go or I'll gut you!" His voice boomed, muscles straining against the bonds. The scientist, greying hair wild, glasses perched on his nose, just chuckled. Candy was out cold next to him. "Relax, boy. You're going to be part of something revolutionary! This device is gonna swap you two. Your head on her body, but with her mind and that insatiable sex drive. You'll think you're just on the job, fucking me for a fat payday." The scientist smiled as he held out his device. Leroy spat curses, threats of violence, but the scientist flicked the switch. A hum, a flash, and Leroy's world spun.

When he came to, everything felt wrong, but right. His head was still his, beard scratching at his collarbone, but below? Soft, curvy flesh, tits bouncing free, pussy throbbing with need. Tattoos from Candy's ribs peeked out on his new skin. He blinked, but the thoughts weren't his. "Gotta work, gotta get paid," he muttered in his deep voice, standing naked, hips swaying like he'd done this a thousand times. The scientist led him to the bedroom, the air thick with anticipation. Leroy pushed the old man onto the bed, climbing on top, that voluptuous body straddling him. The scientist's cock slid into the slick, tight pussy, and Leroy moaned, grinding down professionally, tits slapping against his chest with each bounce.

"Fuck yeah, daddy, you like this wet cunt?" Leroy growled, it was his voice but it was Candy's words spilling out, her nympho hunger driving him. The scientist groaned, hands gripping those wide hips, feeling the heat, the wetness coating his dick as Leroy rode him hard. Sweat beaded on the curvy body, the smell of sex filling the room, musky and raw, mixed with Candy's cheap perfume clinging to the skin. Leroy's beard bobbed with each thrust, tattoos flexing as he worked, pussy clenching around the shaft, juices dripping down onto the sheets.

But then, mid-bounce, something snapped. The mental fog lifted like a curtain ripping. Leroy's eyes widened. "What the... fuck?" He looked down in horror, seeing his own bearded face staring at massive tits jiggling, his new pussy stuffed full of dick, sliding up and down. The sensation hit him, the stretch, the fullness, the building pressure in his clit. "You sick bastard!" Rage boiled over. His hands shot to the scientist's throat, squeezing hard, as he choked the old man. The scientist gasped, face turning red, but he bucked his hips wildly, pumping faster into that stolen cunt.

Leroy's grip tightened, vision blurring, but the thrusts hit deeper, grinding against spots that made his body betray him. "No... stop... ah fuck!" A wave built, unwanted pleasure crashing through him. The scientist pounded relentlessly, feeling the pussy spasm around him. Leroy's hands shook, the orgasm ripping through, powerful and humiliating, his curvy body writhing, tits heaving, pussy gushing as he came hard, screaming in his deep voice. Stars exploded, muscles clenching, leaving him limp for a second.

The scientist shoved him off, scrambling away, lungs burning. He ran for the door, heart pounding, locking it from the outside, as Leroy collapsed in a heap, horrified and spent.

Don't you want your wife back?

 I’m on my knees at the foot of the bed, heart hammering so hard I can taste metal. The bedroom still smells like her vanilla body lotion. And there he is, that smug motherfucker Vince from accounting, the prick who’s always hated me, on all fours in the middle of our mattress wearing my wife’s stolen fucking body like it’s his favorite new toy.

His head (short salt-and-pepper spikes, trimmed goatee, that same shit-eating grin he wears in meetings) looks ridiculous bolted onto Sarah’s perfect hourglass frame. Her heavy tits dangle beneath him, fat and round, nipples dark and stiff, swaying like ripe fruit every time he shifts his weight.

He locks eyes with me and gives a little bounce on the mattress, making those gorgeous tits slap together with a wet, meaty sound.

“Aww, what’s wrong?” he mocks in his gravelly voice. “Don’t you want your wife back?”

Another bounce. The tits jiggle harder, nipples tracing lazy circles in the air. I hear the faint creak of bedsprings and the wetter sound of Sarah’s pussy, my wife’s pussy, dripping onto our sheets because this bastard is getting off on teasing me.

He crawls closer, ass in the air, back arched like a bitch in heat. Her long hair is gone, replaced by his short spikes, but everything else is pure Sarah: tiny waist flaring into wide hips, thick thighs trembling, that perfect heart-shaped ass I used to slap red now flexing under his control.

“Fuck, these things are heavy,” he groans, reaching one manicured hand up to grab a hanging tit. He squeezes hard, milk-white flesh spilling between his fingers. “Bet you miss sucking on these, huh? Miss sliding your cock between them while she moaned your name?”

He laughs, low and dirty, then slaps the underside of the breast so it bounces wildly. The smack echoes. My cock jerks traitorously in my jeans even as my stomach churns.

He drops his chest lower, dragging those stiff nipples across the sheets, then looks back over his shoulder at me, goatee scratching against Sarah’s smooth shoulder.

“Tell you what,” he purrs, voice thick with lust, “beg real pretty, and maybe I’ll let you watch me fuck your wife’s body with my fingers first. Maybe I’ll even let you taste how sweet her cunt still is when I’m done.”

I’m frozen, cock throbbing, tears burning my eyes, watching the love of my life reduced to a smirking, jiggling fucktoy wearing the face of the man I hate.

And the worst part? Some sick, broken part of me wants to crawl forward and bury my face between those thighs just to feel her one more time, even if it’s him moaning when I do.

Go fuck yourself

Kofi stood there, the cool evening air doing little to douse the fire raging in his gut. His ex, Sarah, with her audacious curves and those sinful tattoos that danced around her navel and snaked up her right leg, just kept staring at him. He’d just told her it was over, laid it out as gently as he could, but gentle didn't seem to compute with Sarah. She was wearing these denim short-shorts that were practically painted on, just enough fabric to call them shorts but they rode up her ass so high they were basically panties. Her white cropped cardigan, tied right in the middle, left her navel on full display, and a sliver of underboob peeked out from the thin fabric. Even in his anger, Kofi couldn't deny she was a goddamn goddess. Or was a goddess, he corrected himself with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You really think this is how it ends, Kofi?" Her voice, usually a soft purr, was now a low growl, a rumble that vibrated through the humid air. He just shrugged, trying to project an indifference he didn't feel. Fuck, she was hot, even when she was pissed. He had no idea, not a clue in his thick skull, that Sarah was a practicing witch, that her anger was a crucible of dark power simmering beneath that enticing exterior.

"Yeah, Sarah. It's over. I'm done." The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Her eyes, usually a sparkling blue, seemed to darken, flecks of gold appearing in their depths. A faint shimmer, almost imperceptible, rippled around her. Kofi blinked, chalking it up to the setting sun playing tricks on his eyes. Then, a sudden, jarring thump reverberated through his entire being. It felt like his insides had dropped to his feet, a weird, unsettling lurch. His eyes instinctively darted down.

A gasp, sharp and involuntary, ripped from his throat. Gone were his strong, muscular legs, his familiar dick nestled comfortably in his boxer briefs under his jeans. In their place, the impossibly smooth, tattooed thighs of Sarah, encased in those ridiculous, yet undeniably sexy, denim shorts, stretched out before him. His hands, now oddly pale and slender, instinctively flew down, pressing against the firm, peachy globes of her ass, outlined perfectly by the tight fabric. Then he ran them up his now smooth, tatted navel and cupped the impossible breasts now on his chest, feeling the erect nipples through the thin fabric of the cardigan he now wore. A strange, moist heat, alien yet immediately intoxicating, was pooling between his new legs. His cock, his old cock, was… gone. Just a smooth, soft mound where it should have been and a large set of tits on his chest.

He looked up, frantic, his eyes wide with a horror. Sarah stood before him, her face still radiating fury, but now, beneath her neck, was his body. His thick, muscled torso, his wide shoulders, clad in his usual worn t-shirt and jeans. 

"What the fuck, Sarah?!" Kofi bellowed, his voice cracking with disbelief. "Give me back my dick! What did you do, you crazy bitch?!" He stumbled forward, his new, slender legs feeling like foreign stilts beneath him, the denim shorts clinging uncomfortably to his new ass.

Sarah just smirked, a cruel, triumphant twist of her lips. She reached down, her now thick fingers, fumbling with the waistband of her jeans. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled them down, revealing Kofi's old cock, dark and flaccid, resting against her inner thigh.

"You want it back, Kofi?" she purred, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. She took a step closer, her bare feet pressing into the rough pavement. Kofi stared, mesmerized, utterly helpless as she began to chant, a low, guttural murmur that seemed to warp the very air around them. He couldn't make out the words, but a sickly green light, faint but undeniable, began to emanate from her hands as they wrapped around his former member.

He watched, horrified and morbidly fascinated, as she pulled. Gently at first, then harder, her fingers gripping his cock. It stretched, elongated, and then, with a sickening pop, it pulled completely free, detaching from her old body. It didn't bleed, didn't leave a gaping wound. Instead, as she held it aloft, it began to twist, the familiar flesh hardening, until it was nothing more than a smooth, perfectly formed, dark-colored dildo.

Sarah giggled, a harsh, unfeeling sound. She tossed the dildo into Kofi's trembling, new, delicate hand. "Here," she sneered, the words laced with pure malice. "Go fuck yourself."

She spun on her heel, and began to walk away. She laughed, a high, mocking sound that echoed in the twilight as she strutted away, leaving Kofi standing there, a hot, throbbing wetness spreading between his newly acquired thighs, and a dildo in his hand that was once his own cock. The worst part was, he could feel his new body actually aching for him to shove the dildo in his new pussy. He just stared in shock as Sarah disappeared through the hallway.

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.

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.

Second Youth