Blacking Out

I'm Carlos, and last night was supposed to be just another blowout with the boys. I'm 32, married to Maria for five years, but I still have this bad habit of partying too hard. Blacking out's my specialty. We started at the clubs downtown, shots flowing like water, bass thumping through my chest, sweat and cheap perfume everywhere. Maria hates it, always texting me to come home early, but I ignore her, chasing that buzz. After last call, we stumbled out and crashed this house party on the way home. Some random spot blasting reggaeton, bodies grinding, red cups spilling. I remember a girl in sheer white outfit dancing on a table, tits and ass on full display, everyone cheering. Then nothing. Lights out.

I wake up with a pounding head, mouth tasting like ash, sprawled on a stranger's bed. The house is trashed. Cups everywhere, confetti stuck to the floor, the air thick with stale beer and weed. Groans echo from other rooms, people stirring. My body's heavy, off-balance, like I've gained weight overnight. I sit up, and something shifts on my chest. Heavy, soft weights pulling me forward. I look down, and my heart stops.

Tits. Massive, round tits straining against a sheer white tank top, nipples dark and stiff, visible through the fabric. Below that, smooth stomach, wide hips, and legs in matching sheer pants that hug everything. No dick. Just a smooth mound, pussy lips outlined under the thin material. My hands. Slender, no calluses from work. I pat my face. Still me, buzz cut, goatee scratching my fingers. But everything else? That girl's body from the party.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, voice still my deep rumble, standing up shaky. The tits bounce with the move, sending a weird spark between my legs, a warm tingle in that new pussy. The pants ride up, fabric clinging to the curves, ass jiggling as I wobble to the mirror. Chaos erupts outside. Screams, curses. "My body's gone!" someone yells. "Who the hell are you?" another shouts.

I lock the bedroom door, as I stare dumbfounded at the mirror. My face looks back, confused as hell, goatee dripping sweat, but attached to this bombshell frame. Sheer top barely containing those huge tits, nipples poking like they're begging, the white material translucent enough to see every detail. Pants pulled low from sleep, exposing the top of that shaved pussy, lips puffy. I turn, ass round and firm, dimples showing through the fabric. "How am I going to explain this to my wife?" I whisper, voice cracking, hands cupping the tits absentmindedly. They're soft, heavy, flesh spilling over my palms, and fuck, it feels good, a throb building in the clit.

The door rattles. "FBI! Open up!" Voices outside, sirens wailing. I crack it open, peeking. Agents in vests swarm the house, leading people out, all with mismatched bodies screaming. A woman with her head on top of a man's body with a beer gut sobs. "Everyone at the party got swapped," an agent barks into a radio. "Heads intact, bodies jumbled. Looks like that serial swapper ring hit again."

Swapper ring? I remember flashes. Some shady dudes at the party, laughing, devices humming. They must've drugged us, mixed everyone up for kicks or some black market shit. My phone buzzes on the counter. Maria: Where the hell are you? Come home NOW!

Panic hits. I snap a quick pic in the mirror, tits out, ass framed, but delete it fast. Can't send that. The agent's pounding again. "Sir. Ma'am? We need to question you."

I pull the pants up, but they cling, pussy outline visible, tits heaving with each breath. The air smells like vanilla lotion now, probably hers, mixed with my sweat. My new clit aches, wet spot forming as I shift. How do I tell Maria I blacked out and woke up with a slut's body? She'll think I cheated, or worse.

The FBI hauls me out, tits bouncing, everyone staring. "Don't worry Sir, we'll get you back to normal as soon as we can," the agent says, but his eyes linger on my new curves too much. My new pussy throbbed. "What the fuck did I get myself into?" I grabbed my face and sobbed into my new hands.

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.

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.

Feel what she feels

I'm standing in the dining room, heart pounding like a drum, staring at this nightmare version of myself. My lover, Carla, the hot little apprentice witch I’ve been banging behind my wife’s back for months, is pacing in her baby blue blouse that’s unbuttoned way too low, tits almost spilling out. She looks pissed and scared at the same time.

And then there’s me. My own head, short spiked hair, neat beard, the one my wife kisses every morning, stuck on top of Carla’s exact fucking body. Same curvy hips, same heavy double-D tits straining against this skimpy black lace bra and thong set she loves wearing for me. My new tits rise and fall with every panicked breath, nipples already hard and poking through the sheer fabric because this body is so damn sensitive. Every shift of the lace sends little sparks straight to my new pussy, which is already getting slick.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Rick!” Carla hisses, waving her hands like she’s trying to swat the magic away. “I just wanted you to feel what I feel when you touch me, to know every spot that makes me wet. Not… not this!”

I look down at myself, at these smooth tanned legs, the curve of this fat ass in the mirror on the wall. I shift my weight and feel the thong ride up between my new cheeks, the string rubbing right against my asshole. My tits jiggle with the movement, heavy and full, and fuck, it feels good in the worst way. I grab them without thinking, just to steady them, and a moan slips out of my throat before I can stop it. The nipples are so hard they ache, and squeezing sends a hot pulse straight down to my clit.

“Stop groping yourself and help me fix this!” Carla snaps, but her eyes are glued to my chest, watching her own body react to my touch.

“I’m not groping, I’m… fuck, they’re sensitive!” I growl. I pinch one nipple through the lace and my knees almost buckle. My pussy clenches hard, a fresh gush of wetness soaking the thong. “How the hell do you walk around with these things?!”

Carla grabs her spellbook off the table, flipping pages frantically. “The reversal incantation should work. Stand still.”

She starts chanting, hands glowing faint purple, waving them over me. Nothing happens. The glow fizzles out like a dud firework. She tries again, voice rising, sweat beading between her tits. Still nothing.

“Shit. Shit!” She slams the book shut. “I must’ve bound it too deep. It’s stuck until the moon cycle resets or something. I don’t know!”

I glance at the clock. My wife’s due home any minute. She thinks I’m at a work dinner. If she walks in and sees me like this, head on Carla’s identical slutty body, both of us half-dressed and reeking of sex and panic…

“Change me back before my wife comes back home!” I yell, voice cracking. I grab Carla’s shoulders, my manicured nails digging in. My tits press against her blouse, nipple to nipple through thin fabric, and we both gasp at the contact. Electricity shoots through me, my pussy throbbing so hard I have to clench my thighs together.

I look down and see the dark wet spot spreading on the black thong. My clit is swollen, poking against the lace, begging for friction. I can’t help it. I slide one hand down, cupping my new mound, and the second my fingers brush the clit I whimper. It’s like a direct line to every nerve in this body.

“We don’t have time,” I groan, but I’m already rubbing slow circles, hips rocking forward.

Carla bites her lip, watching me finger her own pussy on my body. “Just… quick. Maybe if you come it’ll loosen the binding.”

I hear the front door lock click.

Too late.

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.