malebodyswapfiles

[malebodyswapfiles]

Opening Night

Stepping out of the shower, Jamie wiped off the condensation that had accumulated on the bathroom mirror. He stared at his reflection, moving his head from side to side as he touched his face, his hand brushing against his bristly beard. He inspected his facial hair, noticing how rampant he had let it grow.

Keep it or shave it off? Jamie pondered as he took out the hair trimmer. He then turned to look at his reflection again, this time taking a step back, allowing him to examine his whole self. 

Jamie frowned, pinching a bit of fat bulging out of his midsection, then cupping his pec with his hand, feeling it much more flabby than he preferred. He pulled at the thick jungle of hair lining his chest, while his eyes followed the happy trail going downwards towards his groin. 

“Might as well lean into the whole bear thing.” Jamie grumbled to himself as he turned on the trimmer, deciding to just trim the beard a bit. Once he was done he looked at the time, noting that it was almost time to leave.

Jamie had been planning on going to the grand opening of a new club in town. He was looking to unwind, have fun, maybe even meet a guy if he got lucky. After a stressful week at work he definitely needed it. What made Jamie feel uneasy however was that he was going alone. This would be his first time going out solo, something he would have preferred to have avoided, but unfortunately none of his friends accepted his offer to go out. But desperately needing to let loose after the hellish week, Jamie built up the courage to go. After taking a quick selfie with his attire of choice for the socials, Jamie headed on out.

It wasn’t long until Jamie’s Uber dropped him off in front of the club. A large neon sign hung at its entrance spelling out in huge letters “EUPHORIA”. Having second thoughts about going in alone, Jamie considered going back. Maybe just going to a bar instead. But knowing how disappointed he’d be in himself if he wimped out, Jamie once again summoned up the courage to head inside.

Jamie couldn’t even hear his own thoughts as he stepped inside the building. Loud music blared from every direction, the base from the speakers reverberated through Jamie’s entire body, causing his skin to tingle with every beat. For a club that just opened, the floor was already extremely sticky from all the spilled drinks. Jamie couldn’t help but think that he looked ridiculous as he took forceful steps while he made his way through the club.

Squeezing himself through a sea of sweaty bodies dancing to the music, Jamie eventually reached the bar, ordering himself one of his favorite fruity cocktails. The bartender looked him up and down before fulfilling his request. 

Over the next hour, Jamie would approach a few different men he found attractive, asking if they wanted to dance or if he could even buy them a drink, but unfortunately he’d be turned down every single time. Whatever confidence Jamie had would be shot to pieces by the time he returned to the bar as he solemnly ordered another drink.

“Striking out?” The bartender asked as he placed a napkin in front of Jamie, catching him off guard at his sudden intrusiveness. “Sorry but I couldn’t help but notice. I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“Yeah..” Jamie meekly responded, beginning to feel slightly embarrassed. He took a sip of his drink, the taste of alcohol feeling much stronger in this one. “I’m not unattractive am I?” He blurted out.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The bartender wasted no time responding. “I’d say you pull off the cub look quite well.”

“Cub?” Jamie was not quite sure how to respond to that comment. Not a bear or an otter or whatever other vernacular the queer community used to describe men of different body shapes. In his head, a cub denoted someone who lacked experience, a bit doe-eyed to the gay scene. Jamie was in his mid 30s, he was sure he’d be past that stage.

“You know, a young hairy guy, packing a bit of weight.” The bartender explained, oblivious to the fact that Jamie knew what he meant.

Before Jamie got a chance to respond, the lights inside the club began to dim and the loud, thumping music switched to a more electronic sound. Turning around, Jamie would notice some dancers coming up to the stage in nothing but skimpy underwear. One by one they took center stage, performing a quick little dance as the spotlight shone down on them. The club goers crowded around the stage, waving around dollar bills, those at the very front even sticking them in the waistbands of the dancers’ clothing.

One dancer in particular caught Jamie’s eye. An orange bandana matching an orange thong were the only things keeping the man clothed, something Jamie was especially thankful for as he gazed lustfully at the man’s lean and muscled body. Between the body rolls and bicep flexes, this dancer knew how to get the crowd going.

Jamie stared for a lot longer than he cared to admit. The man was obviously hot, but what Jamie took notice of was the sheer confidence the dancer emitted. Without hesitation he’d walk up to club patrons and perform these raunchy moves. He'd get as close to them without actually making contact. The smirk he’d give after people stuck dollar bills to the inside of his waistband particularly caught Jamie’s attention. He knew these people lusted after him, and was more than happy to prey on it.

“That’s Manny. He’s from Argentina, doesn’t speak a lick of English.” The bartender leaned across the bar, making it known that Jamie’s fixation on the man had become a bit obvious.

Jamie stared down into the drink swirling in his glass, his face turning red from the embarrassment of being called out. Did the bartender think that Jamie would have tried to make a move? Obviously never, that Manny guy was way out of his league. No way he'd ever give someone like Jamie the time of day. Instead of responding back, Jamie would just order another drink, hoping to drown the awkwardness.

By the time he was on his third, or maybe fourth, cocktail, Jamie found his tongue loosening. The bartender stood nearby, drying glasses and stealing glances at the increasingly tipsy patron.

“You ever... you ever look at someone,” Jamie began, words slightly slurred, “and think, I wanna be them?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the stage. The dancer Manny was still commanding the crowd with his sculpted physique and effortless confidence.

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “You mean Manny?”

Jamie nodded emphatically, the alcohol making him more honest than usual. “Yeah. I mean, look at him! He’s like... perfect. If I looked like that, I’d never strike out. Never worry about going out alone. People would just... want me, y’know?” He sighed, taking another sip of his drink.

“Careful what you wish for,” the bartender said, his tone light but his expression unreadable. "Let's get some water in you."

The bartender brought a glass of water, but not before the somewhat drunk Jamie blurted out again. "Actually, yeah. I do wish it! Make it so!" The bartender just sighed.

The rest of the night blurred into a haze. Jamie vaguely remembered mumbling more about Manny, something about wanting confidence, wanting to be seen. But soon, the club's lights seemed to melt into indistinct shapes, the music becoming distant. Darkness enveloped him.

Jamie’s eyes fluttered open, his senses overwhelmed by the unfamiliar. His skin felt tight, his muscles coiled like springs beneath smooth, hairless skin. The room spun briefly as he sat up on a cushioned bench, the faint thudding of music beyond the walls grounding him. He glanced down at his body and froze.

“What the...?” he muttered, his voice raspier and deeper than usual. He held out his hands, which were veined and strong, his forearms corded with muscle. Looking further, he saw his torso. Lean, rippling, and sculpted in a way he had only dreamed of. His stomach was carved into a set of perfect abs, his chest broad and chiseled. And then, there was the orange thong stretched across his hips, a strikingly familiar piece of clothing.

Jamie scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding as he stumbled toward the large mirror hanging on the wall. The man staring back at him was undeniably Manny, the same lean, confident dancer he’d been fixated on all night. His jaw dropped as he touched his face, his reflection mirroring his every move. It wasn’t just the body; it was him. Somehow, Jamie had become Manny.

“Oh my God...” Jamie whispered, the realization hitting him like a freight train. Memories of his drunken conversation with the bartender surfaced. I want a body like Manny’s. Was this some bizarre, drunken hallucination?

He stared at his reflection, unable to resist the temptation. His hands ran over his chest, down his abs, and along his biceps, marveling at the strength he felt. Confidence radiated from the sight, intoxicating and new. Jamie smiled, then smirked, experimenting with expressions that felt natural yet foreign.

Before he could indulge further, the door to the dressing room swung open. Jamie turned quickly, startled, and his stomach dropped at the sight.

His own body, slouched, sweaty, and clearly intoxicated, was being half-carried into the room by the very same bartender from before. His doppelgänger’s head lolled to the side, and when he spoke, it was with Manny’s voice, thick with an Argentinian accent.

"¿Qué hiciste? ¿Por qué eres yo?" Manny growled, though his words were slurred. His glare was sharp despite his inebriation.

Jamie blinked, he had no prior knowledge of the Spanish language yet those words came out effortlessly out of his own lips. "Manny? I'm sorry but I don't know what's going on." He looked at the bartender, hoping for some kind of explanation for all of this.

The bartender, still holding Manny upright, let out a sigh and set the man down on a nearby chair. “Alright, calm down, both of you.” he said, his tone exasperated. He looked directly at Jamie. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

Jamie’s mind raced, his new heart pounding. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Why am I... like this?”

The bartender crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m a genie,” he said plainly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “When you confessed your desire to have Manny’s body, well... I’m obligated to grant wishes. That’s my thing.”

Jamie’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. Why are you working as a bartender then? Drunks must spill their desires to you all the time?" He pointed at himself as he spoke.

"Job pays well." The bartender shrugged. "I usually cut people off before they get too rambly, but I didn't figure you'd be such a lightweight." He said a bit too honestly. “You wanted confidence, a body like his. So here we are. But..” he continued, glancing at Manny, “the swap wasn’t exactly consensual on both ends, so... it’s reversible.”

Manny groaned, his head in his hands. “Reversible? Por favor, hazlo ya.” he pleaded, his voice strained.

Jamie looked between the bartender and his own body, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He had never felt so good about himself, so powerful, so free of the insecurities that plagued him. But this wasn’t his life, it was Manny’s. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t live someone else’s life, no matter how tempting it was.

“Swap us back.” Jamie said firmly, though the words stung. “This isn’t right.”

The bartender nodded, a hint of approval flickering in his eyes. “Alright. As you wish.” He snapped his fingers.

The change was instant. Jamie felt his perspective shift, his body returning to its familiar tipsy state. He was back in his own skin, with all its imperfections, as Manny reclaimed his rightful form.

Manny groaned as he stood, shaking off the lingering effects of Jamie’s earlier drinking. He glanced at Jamie, his expression softening slightly. “Gracias.” he muttered before leaving the room.

Jamie turned back to the bartender, feeling a pang of regret as he ran a hand over his softer body. “Well.” he said, forcing a chuckle, “I guess that’s that.”

The bartender gave him a sly smile. “Not quite.” He snapped his fingers again.

A warm sensation coursed through Jamie’s body. He looked down in awe as his frame began to change, not into Manny’s, but something new. His muscles swelled, his chest broadened, his beard thickened, and a dusting of gray added a rugged charm. His torso became strong and harry, his arms powerful. He kept the same layer of fat, but the gained muscle added a much more masculine touch than before.

He looked in the mirror and saw not someone else, but a version of himself he had always dreamed of. His face had much more of a gruffness to it, there was no denying that he was a man in this thirties anymore. His hair was different, shaved down to the scalp, something Jamie never thought he could pull off. Jewelry manifested itself onto Jamie, completing his new look. Jamie couldn't do anything else but flex and admire the new person he had become.

“Consider this a gift,” the bartender said. “You didn’t have to give up Manny’s body, but you did. That deserves something.”

Jamie was stunned. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rich and deep.

“Now, go use that confidence,” the bartender said, motioning toward the door.

Jamie stepped out onto the dance floor, his new self commanding attention immediately. The very same men who denied his advances just earlier that night were now ogling at the muscle bear, but he paid them no mind. His eyes instead met those of a fellow muscular man across the room. The two gravitated toward each other, dancing close, the music pulsing around them.

When the man leaned in, Jamie didn’t hesitate. Their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss, and for the first time in a long while, Jamie felt truly alive.

[malebodyswapfiles]

It wasn't the place nor the food that brought Daniel to the pristine climate of the Philippines, it was fate, magic, and a little bit of misfortune.

He had travelled solo to the country after watching the same vlog and travel videos on repeat while stuck in hid 9-to-5 job at the local gas station. He wanted a change of pace, and after a long 16 hour flight, he landed just a couple hours before sunset.

One thing though, it wasn't in Manila, it was in some random island that he couldn't even find on the maps. Someplace called "Kubo Island". He swore it was a scam when he found it on some sketchy website, but it was worth the money, he thought. Maybe some sort of islet that was barely visible.

As he walked around, he found barely any structures outside of the equally questionable airstrip, though he did notice a lot of armed personnel just dotted all across. Feeling a little embarrassed at being the cliché "lost American tourist", he walked a little further onto a dirt path. He hadn't really booked in advance, thinking he'd find some hotel or really just someplace to set his belongings and sleep hen he wasn't walking around.

Walking deeper into the woods, he stumbled on a clearing filled with some simple huts, and he could barely discern the sound of men grunting and marching off in the distance. "Did I just accidentally book myself into a fucking military base?" he said to himself in utter confusion and mild amusement. He figured this was the sort of thing he'd tell over Reddit and get a billion comments talking about how dumb he was.

"Hoy!" A sudden deep shouting terrupted his chuckles as he turned and became face-to-face with two soldiers, sweaty and huffing. "You lost?" They continued, in a distinct accent. Daniel just nodded, as the two giggled and beckoned him to follow them. He couldn't help but notice how oddly giggly the two were, and talking amidst themselves in whispered Filipino, but whatever.

After a bit of walking into some more dense brush, he caught sight of a long concrete house. The sky was starting to become darker as the light from inside illuminated the air. Unlocking the door, the two quickly shoved Daniel inside as they quickly shut the door behind them. He was more weirded out than anything, but figured they were just being rowdy towards the utter fool he may have made himself look.

Looking inside, he felt his face turn red from more embarrassment as he realized they just pushed him into a sort of barracks.

The air was musty and smelled of sweat and dirt, but at this point, he was too over it. He just wanted to set his things down and get a little bit of shut-eye from the jet lag. Who cares if he was a fool, he thought to himself as he dodged the stares of the other soldiers. In a small part of his mind, he thought perhaps they were just taking pity on him, letting him stay there before actually getting to the touristy areas. Hell, maybe he'd even get a little ride from them if he managed to be friendlier.

He soon found a small empty bunkbed way at the back, and settled in for a bit. As he laid there, another soldier, this time wearing sunglasses, approached him. In his hands was a small dark-brown vial with the label "Suwero Pansundalo".

"Drink." He said, tossing Daniel the vial. "For health. Weather here, very bad." Daniel removed the cork and took a whiff, it just smelled of a few herbs. After a few breaths, he downed the vial and felt the cooling sensation rush down his gullet. It felt nice. Too nice.

He eventually found himself start to drift off, as the man slowly approached him, the smell of his sweat sending Daniel's mind into a state of disarray.

"Sleep pare, tomorrow, you will be fresh." The lights turned off, as Daniel's mind slipped. Daniel woke up with some sort of dull pain all over his body. He'd woken up last among everyone, as the barracks were dead silent and dark. "Shoot." He thought to himself, mustering up enough strength to push himself off the bed. That's when it hit.

His heart pounded as his eyes almost froze in their tracks. His feet were different. Hell, even his clothes were different, replaced with some sort of uniform much like the rest of the other guys he'd seen so far. He hurriedly fondled the rest of his body, even fearing to look in the mirror. He felt he'd gotten much bigger. Fearfully looking down the rest of his arms, he'd found they'd taken on a shining copper-like hue, and he smelled quite funky too. His brain ran crazy. "Did I just-- did they just---" Mustering up enough courage to try and at least escape, he slowly walked towards the back door, hoping to not be seen. Taking a deep breath, he hurriedly hurdled through the back door. Big mistake. It led right next to another extension of the barracks. The men all paused as Daniel stood there frozen. Chuckles erupted into all out laughter as one of the men handed him his phone. Daniel took the phone with much hesitation before turning the screen around.

"You're one of us now! Sundalo ka na rin!" He exclaimed with a hint of schadenfreude as Daniel held onto the phone, his eyes frozen on the picture of his new body.

"Welcome to Kubo Island ser!"

************************************************************************

Danilo stared at the coffee mug as he stirred in the coffee grounds into the steaming hot water. It's been almost five years since that fateful day, and he'd lost all hope at even trying to escape. He'd been here for far too long, and had become a valuable member of the team. To be honest, did he really want to anyway?

He hadn't forgotten about his past life, but at this point he might as well have lived here his whole life. He got more and more used to speaking the local language, barking orders at the rest of his men, and often even enjoying his new life here. His bulge after all was quite an upgrade, stroking one off every few days or so. His new body has served him quite well, after all.

One of his comrades soon approached him, his phone in hand. They needed some new things to zhuzh up the website they designed, to help boost their numbers just a bit faster.

"Ser, ano gusto niyo sabihin sa camera?"

"Come to our island mga ser, you will enjoy it..."

[malebodyswapfiles]

Feel like switching bodies with an older bear today. Wake up and feel my bones creaking in my new 55 year old heavyset body. Rolling onto my strong beer belly just to feel what it’s like. I’ll share in the mirror and see his mature handsome face smiling back at me, brushing my hands through his wooly thick graying beard. I’m hairy as shit-face, chest, ass, even my broad back. Later in the day I’ll chug some beer and open up his phone, see all the hookup apps he has since he’s so horny all the time. Try to find a college twink to rail or another bear so we can rub our beards and tummies together. All the Viagra in my blood making my big uncle boner so big and hard, spraying all over myself as I grunt having jerked off 3 times in a row!

Maybe I can use one of your dads as a swapping partner!

[malebodyswapfiles]

Vacaciones

Benjamín

Había pedido mis vacaciones del trabajo con mucha anticipación y ya me las habían aprobado, pero el idiota de Carlos se me adelantó justo cuando faltaba una semana. No quisieron respetar mis fechas ya que él es el consentido del jefe, por lo que tomé una decisión drástica e intercambié nuestros cuerpos, así que ahora estoy tomando mi merecido descanso mientras Carlos se queda trabajando en mi puesto. Ojalá se divierta, yo me quedaré aquí disfrutando.

Carlos

Debí haber imaginado que ese idiota haría algo para desquitarse, pero nunca pensé que sería capaz de algo como esto.

Por su culpa debo seguir trabajando, nadie nunca creería que Benjamín y yo cambiamos de cuerpo, además quién sabe cuánto tiempo más me quedé así o si me vaya a devolver mi cuerpo, por lo que no puedo arriesgarme. Lo peor de todo es que no tengo los beneficios que me daba el jefe y me trata igual que a los demás, tengo que levantarme temprano y llegar a tiempo a la oficina. Espero que esto termine pronto, necesito urgentemente un descanso.

[malebodyswapfiles]

[malebodyswapfiles]

Hunk Possession

[malebodyswapfiles]

e-Swap (Part 2)

Read Part 1 by @swapery here.

Liam's POV:

It’s wild to look back on it now. Four years ago, I was just a cocky kid scrolling through Tumblr, indulging in bodyswap roleplays. I mean, it’s hot, right? The idea of becoming someone else, walking in their skin, living their life—it’s escapism at its best.

To be honest, though? What really turned me on the most was the idea of someone else wanting to take over my life. And this guy—Kristoph—he wanted to step into my shoes, take over everything about me, and, I don’t know… maybe live my life better than I could. That hit me somewhere deep.

Sure, I found Kristoph hot. Objectively speaking, he was attractive. He had this kind of rugged, manly charm—average height, short curly brown hair, a beard that was thick but didn’t quite fill in everywhere. In gay terms, he’d be an “otter,” though not the polished, Instagram-perfect kind. Still, there was something about him, something raw and real.

But what I found so hot wasn’t necessarily his looks. It was the roleplay itself. The back-and-forth, the fantasy of letting someone else become me—it was intoxicating. So I flirted with him, told him how hot he was and how much I wanted to be him too. It egged him on, made him want me even more. And that was harmless, right? That’s what roleplaying is for. It’s not real life. Nobody actually thinks they’re going to wake up in someone else’s body.

And who knows? If it hadn’t been for what happened next, I probably would’ve gotten bored after a few days and moved on. I’ve done it before. I’m a bit… boy-obsessive. A bit of a heartbreaker, if I’m being honest. Cute guys came and went. I was always onto the next. And, let’s be real, it usually worked for me because, well, I was even cuter.

But that’s not what happened.

---

I was completely thrown when I woke up one morning in Kristoph’s body. Like, how the fuck was that even possible? I stared at myself—well, at him—in the mirror, touching the unfamiliar beard, the broader shoulders, the chest that didn’t feel like mine. It didn’t make any sense.

The first thing I did was try to contact myself. I called my phone—my phone, which was now across the world in Australia, in Kristoph’s hands. No answer. I sent messages on Tumblr, over and over, desperate to get a reply, but it was like shouting into the void.

Confusion quickly turned to anger. As the hours dragged on, I couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that he must’ve done this to us somehow. He must’ve found a way. What other explanation could there be?

How could he do this to me? To us? Without even asking? Without telling me it was real?

Well… okay. He had asked, technically. And I had consented, in a joking way. But I thought it was all pretend. A game. Roleplay. Something to get off on—not… this.

Now I was out of moves. Totally stuck. Kristoph lived in England—or I guess I did now—and I lived in Australia. Or, well, he did. Either way, it wasn’t like I could just hop on a plane and go confront him. What was I even supposed to say? “Hey, give me my body back”? Impossible.

---

As I began to accept the fact that I was stuck in Kristoph’s body, resentment crept in. I hated how I looked. I mean, I know I’d flirted with him online—played it up, told him how hot I thought he was—but I didn’t actually want to be him. Not for real.

Honestly, I couldn’t stand his beard. It was scruffy, patchy, and felt like a chore to maintain. And in person? He was so much shorter than I’d imagined. That one photo he’d sent me had totally oversold him. His muscles were fine, I guess, but not as impressive as I’d hoped. Definitely felt like I’d been catfished.

And the worst part? He had no hot romantic prospects at all. No dates, no flirty DMs, no wild social life. The guy was a total dud. Meanwhile, I was stuck in his body while he got the better end of the deal.

It didn’t take long for me to start seeing his posts online. There he was, shirtless and flaunting my old twinky body for the world to see. He was out everywhere—hanging with my friends, partying, meeting people I didn’t even recognize. Hot, sexy guys who I could only assume were his latest hookups or maybe even a boyfriend.

At first, it made me furious. How could he be so bold, living my life like that? But slowly—bit by bit—I found myself getting turned on by those posts. Watching him, in my body, owning the life I’d built, looking amazing in photos, thriving without me… it did something to me.

He still wouldn’t reply to my texts, but it’s not like he’d blocked me on social media either. If anything, it felt like he wanted me to see it all. To flaunt it. After all, he’d been into bodyswap fantasies too—he probably loved the idea of me watching him live my life better than I ever could.

And damn, was he doing a good job. I started thinking about how well he was pulling it off. He didn’t need my help or guidance; he didn’t need anything from me at all. He’d just stepped into my shoes and thrived.

I couldn’t help it after a while—it turned me on. Seeing him so confident, so free, so successful in my life was like watching my biggest fantasy unfold before my eyes. It was frustrating. It was infuriating.

And it was so fucking sexy.

---

Eventually, I turned my focus to fixing up my new body, accepting that this situation was probably permanent. There wasn’t much else I could do.

At first, I tried to go back to my old look—the twinky vibe I’d always rocked. It felt safe, familiar. I shaved the beard and acted a bit more submissive, like I used to. But the more I leaned into it, the more wrong it felt.

It was almost like this body was resisting me, like it was pushing me to be something else. Something… jockier. Stronger. It was weird, but I couldn’t ignore it.

So I regrew the beard, but this time I made it work—neat, full, and intentional. Then I started trying out sports, just to see what stuck. Tennis, running, biking… I gave them all a go.

But the one that really clicked for me was rugby. Something about it felt right, like this body was made for it.

I threw myself into it. It was a lot of hard work—hours in the gym, changing how I ate, how I moved, how I carried myself. But over time, I started to see real results. The body I was living in became exactly what Kristoph had pretended to be all those years ago: a true muscle hunk.

It wasn’t just the body, though. Something about the discipline, the structure, the focus it took to transform myself—it all changed me, too. I started posting on social media, sharing my progress. And damn, the attention rolled in. Now I’ve got more hot guys sliding into my DMs than I can keep track of.

But here’s the thing—I’ve learned a lot about how to treat people, about how to navigate relationships. I’m not the boy-obsessive heartbreaker I used to be. That’s made the best ones—the guys who actually matter—want me even more.

Honestly? I’ve never felt more in control, more confident, or more like me.

---

That brings me to today. I just got an email telling me to check the messages on this old Tumblr account, one I’d almost forgotten I even had. It was from Liam.

I was surprised to see his name pop up after all these years. Part of me wondered what he wanted, but honestly? I didn’t even read it. And I’m definitely not going to respond. Why would I?

So consider this post my way of signing off for good. I’ve learned my lesson—I know better than to mess around on those forums ever again.

Besides, look at me now. I’m hot as fuck. Why would I ever want to be anyone but me?

[malebodyswapfiles]

Great Shift; We Didn’t Choose These Bodies…

Trevor:

I’m officially 2 months into the Great Shift and I’m about to go insane! You see before all of this craziness went down— I was a 18 year old scrawny gay boy who lived across the street. The body that seems to be now mine forever belonged to 47 year old Jason Dixon. He’s a handsome guy, works in construction, and has one son named Carson.

Now Carson, is someone I’ve known since I was young. He’s a couple years older than me and I hate to say it but he was kinda my sexual awakening. He was on the swim team and I remember seeing him in a speedo— something about it just woke me up. And now all of this time later I still get weak to the knees when I see him.

Now the hard part about all of this is that our community has chosen as a whole to “pretend” and live our lives in public as the body we are in.

Which can be hard given people have swapped with different genders, ages… it gets kinda weird. But when I’m out in public, I’m Jason. No one causes me Trevor anymore, well accept for Ben.

Ben is a guy who lived a couple blocks down from me, I really didn’t know Ben prior to the Great Shift. He was a middle aged gay guy who lived alone. And now he’s inside of Carson’s body.

We both now live under a house together that never belonged to us and are forced to pretend to be ‘father and son’ in public.

At home both of us have just really enjoyed each other’s company. We’re both gay and openly talk about guys, what we like about them, music, all kinds of stuff. The house is kind of our safe space to be ourselves.

Except him and I have one huge issue— we both are very attracted to each other’s bodies. Ben confessed to me one time while we were sitting on the couch together drinking a bottle of wine that Jason’s body is like the man of his dreams.

And I get it, Mr. Dixon is a good looking guy. I enjoy having his big muscled hairy body on a daily basis. Especially since he has a gigantic cock and a pair of sexy feet.

I guess they’re something he passed down to Carson because I can’t stop looking at them! I already had a foot fetish before this mess and I have to watch Ben strut around in his body… he never wears socks or a shirt or pants for that matter!

So what do I do in response? Well, I turned it up a notch. Not only did I strip down to less but I stopped wearing underwear around the house. I’ll free ball so he can see my sexy daddy junk flopping around as I walk. And boy did I get his attention!

He can’t take his eyes off of it!

That lead to the back and forth mirror selfies… both of sending more and more risky photos of each other.

And then came Ben placing Carson’s big smelly feet on my lap… I know he knows I have a thing for feet! He looks over at me with a very cheeky ton and says, “my feet are killing me! Could you rub them?”

And of course I said yes, I rubbed his feet for 15 minutes until I knew I couldn’t take anymore!

I hightailed it to the bathroom, locked the door, and wanked one out. I knew in that moment, I was done with games. I need to address this.

So that night, we sat on the couch after dinner watching a movie. I wrap my arm around him and he freezes up.

“Sorry need to stretch out a bit, I say to him.”

He acknowledges my excuse and leans his on me.

I start rubbing up and down his forearm softly wondering if he’s going to do something about it.

He says nothing… a few moments later, Ben puts his feet on mine and starts rubbing his toes back and forth.

I lift my head up and look at him. I kiss him on the cheek. He looks taken aback by it.

“Trev, you know we can’t.”

“And why the fuck not?”

“Because we are technically father and son…”

“That’s such a BS excuse, you flirt with me for weeks now. You and I aren’t related. Now these bodies might be but who the hell has to know?”

“Yeah but what if we get caught?”

“We won’t… now just relax.”

I grab his junk and lets out a yelp noise.

“You’ve toyed with me for too long Ben. You and I are going to explore every inch of each other starting tonight. You’re gonna come sleep in daddy‘s bed for now on do you understand?”

“Fuck…”

I pulled his pants down and fully expose him. I see his beautiful cock, really for the first time. It’s so hard and already leaking. I’ve bend my head down and gingerly lick become off of his head. I knew that been like to be dominated. We both shared our fantasies with each other. He’s always wanted some handsome hairy bearded muscular daddy to boss him around. And that’s what I’m gonna do.

“ Do you understand daddy‘s orders?,” I say to him. he knows his head. I grabbed his dick and play with the head of his cock, running my thumb back-and-forth on it.

“ I said did you understand daddy’s orders? I need to hear you.”

“Yes—“

“ yes what?”

“Yes daddy!”

“ good now let’s head to bed, daddy needs you to use that pretty mouth of yours on his massive cock.”

I pull off my shorts and out comes Jason’s massive dick that I know he’s been fantasizing for a long time now.

“ Trevor, this is so fucking hot. Thank you for doing this. I’ve been wanting the touch that body for so long. I wanna suck your cock so bad. I wanna feel up and down that hairy chest. I wanna smell those big manly feet. I want you to cuddle at night. God I’m so happy this is finally happening. Deep down since this whole swap thing happened it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Not only are you in the body of my dreams, but I really like you.”

“ fuck Ben! Way to kill the mood with that last part, I really fucking like you too. How about we just stick to role-playing and worry about our emotions later. Daddy’s worrying as fuck lol.” 

“ shit you wanna get really crazy what about if you’re sexy ass son talk to you tonight?”

“ that’s hot as shit you know I’m a bottom!”

“ yeah but you’re gonna have to tell me every now and then especially with that massive dick of yours.” 

“ well then I want a foot job. You know I like feet and you know what I like those feet. Which by the way, you’re such a dick for making rub them for like 30 minutes the other day. I literally had to run to the bathroom and jerk one out.”

“ ha ha I literally I knew it!”

“So you ready?”

“Yep!!”

[malebodyswapfiles]

First post at the start of this year and the last 2 where taken a week ago, getting back into the gym to add some more muscle to my frame, don't worry I will be eating more now 🐷

Also follow me on insta so we can chat more!

[malebodyswapfiles]

Swap syndrome 2: armpit addiction.

-damn heat… -

The time on my cell phone showed 2:05, the idiot Travis had made me wait but in a way that made me happy I would have to charge him $50 more for being late.

Today was a very fucking day at the gym, it was so hot that I had to change my shirt, but still the rancid aroma of sweat coming from my hairy armpits filled the interior with my car, I was in the same parking lot of the gym where it is only A couple of minutes had left a huge sweat stain on the floor.

But despite everything I loved my new life, after the great shift and finding myself in this boy's hot and muscular body, from the beginning I knew this was a good thing, when I woke up in Travis's bedroom and looked down to see two juicy pecs, a sculpted six-pack and long, hairy legs, the first thing I did was take out my huge cock that was hidden among a leafy bush of hair and give myself the best handjob of my entire life.

It had been a little over a year since that moment, I quickly got used to Travis' life, kept his muscles big and strong and all thanks to his tiny YouTube channel where he showed all his exercise routines, but that was all wasted talent for Travis' glorious, beautiful body.

I no longer had my college degree or anyone to turn to, yet I was able to easily make money from all these fags, who wanted to sleep with me and this body.

Still not in the same city where I used to live, I watched the news and learned everything that had been happening in the world and that the real Travis was out there in my tired, flabby 40-year-old office worker body.

A tapping on my car window brought me out of my thoughts, it was the real Travis I grimaced in disgust as I looked at my old face once more in front of me, I looked at the time on my phone once more, and now it was 2:07 that now meant $70.

The door of my car and Travis jumped inside it, his first action was to completely inhale the disgusting smell inside the car, after that he lunged at me trying to reach my armpits, After that he lunged at me trying to reach my armpits, but in one movement I moved his old, ugly face away from me.

-You know the rules Travis, first I want the bills-

He extended one of my hands while he took out his wallet and extended a small wad of cash. In one quick movement, I snatched the bills from him and began to count them one by one while a nervous expression formed on the real Travis's face.

-Are you fucking with me? Only $500? -

There was nothing left of the old confident Travis, the confident, outgoing boy had disappeared, in his place there was only a perverted faggot who paid me for a few minutes of my attention due to swap syndrome. When we swapped our bodies, I thought I would get rid of him to always, but this pathetic middle-aged man was clinging to me like a leech trying to get close to me with his twisted homosexual intentions. I didn't really care what he did with my old body, but I thought I could make some money a month by squeezing every penny of this situation.

-Please! Just, just 5 minutes! I had to pay this month's rent and my landlord told me that if I was late another month he would throw me out on the street.-

I rolled my eyes as Travis the bitch kept giving me stupid excuses about how hard it was to find a good job now that he was a middle-aged man and he was tired all the time from working so much.

-Okay, just shut your fucking mouth.-

I put my hand on his head and pushed him into one of my hairy pits and choked his nose with the sour sweat that was collecting in my armpits. The initial struggle quickly turned into pleasure, I could feel Tyler's breathing slow. He shook until he filled his lungs, his mouth savored the curly hairs of my armpit and sucked up the small drops of sweat with his dirty tongue as if he had crossed a desert.

Tyler's small hands slid to his crotch and he began to frantically massage his cock over his pants, occasionally Tyler would move away from my armpit to get some air and lick my muscular arms with his disgusting sticky tongue, I watched as they passed minutes on my cell phone and before 5 minutes had passed, Tyler's small wrinkled cock soiled his pants with semen.

I pushed Tyler away and a satisfied smile formed on Tyler's face, his chest rising and falling as he tried to recover from the addictive experience he had just experienced, a few hairs from my armpit had stuck to his face and a stain of sweat had formed on the collar of his shirt.

I didn't have time for this, this experience had made me horny, I wanted to unload the enormous amount of cum that wanted to escape from my huge hairy balls, but the disgusting man next to me was not worthy of this...nor did I have another $500

I extended one of my long, muscular arms and opened the door of my luxurious sports car.

-Now get out bitch, see you next week-

As soon as I clean every trace of Tyler from my car, I'll call some of my girls, so I can fill their pussies with my beautiful, hot seed.

This is a second installment of the swap syndrome story, but the only thing they share in common is the same syndrome that is spreading among those affected by the great shift, you can see more by visiting my Ko-fi page:

Hello, if you liked this story, and you want more, you can take a look at my new Ko-Fi page to see my most recent stories, see my new stories and support me to continue creating this hot content.

[malebodyswapfiles]

Nuevo look

Al principio creí que me gustaba el barbero de la esquina, siempre que iba a cortarme el cabello no podía dejar de mirarlo, me encantaba cuando me tocaba y acercaba su cuerpo al mío. Me encanta verlo cuando sale a la calle sin camisa, aunque es mi gusto prohibido ya que es muy diferente a mí y a los chicos que me gustan, que siempre son más formales, aunque sinceramente ya comienzan a aburrirme.

Con el tiempo me fui obsesionando con él, no podía dejar de pensar en su aroma, su pecho y sus piernas, me imaginaba sentir sus músculos y la textura de su piel. Pronto me di cuenta de que no solamente me gustaba, sino que era algo más; quería ser él. Así que decidí tomar su cuerpo.

Un día encontré un hechizo en internet e intercambié de cuerpo con él, lo que no sabía es que también tendría su personalidad y sus gustos, así que me decepcionó cuando quise ligar con otros chicos pero sólo me prendía pensar en mujeres. Me pregunto cómo se la estará pasando en mi cuerpo.

[malebodyswapfiles]

Six months as DeAndre

Full story here:

Six months into his life as D'Andre, the man who once was Bartholomew Sebastian Benjamin had settled into a routine that was as familiar as it was distant from his old life. The transformation had been so complete, so consuming, that even the faintest memories of his time as Bart seemed like a dream—a life that belonged to someone else entirely.

This morning was no different from the others. He woke up, the sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the modest bedroom. The woman beside him, whose name he didn’t know and didn’t care to remember, was still asleep, her arm draped across his chest. He gently moved her arm aside and slid out of bed, careful not to wake her.

As he stood by the window, he lit a cigarette, the flick of the lighter breaking the morning silence. The first drag of nicotine hit him, grounding him in the present moment. He raised his hand to his face, feeling the thick mustache that now adorned his upper lip. It was a sensation he had come to love—the roughness of the hair against his skin, a constant reminder of the man he had become. His facial hair grew rapidly, allowing him to change up his style whenever he felt like it. Some days he let his beard grow full and wild, other days he trimmed it down to a sharp goatee. But the mustache always remained, a permanent fixture that added to his rugged, masculine look.

He took another drag from his cigarette, his thoughts drifting as they often did in the quiet moments of the morning. He was saving up money, carefully putting aside what he could from his earnings at the construction site. It wasn’t for anything frivolous—D'Andrea had his eye on something specific. He wanted dreadlocks. The idea had come to him one day, and since then, he couldn’t shake it. The thought of long, thick dreadlocks cascading down his back appealed to him, a symbol of his new life and identity.

But even as he made plans for the future, there was a nagging question that lingered in the back of his mind. How long would he remain D'Andrea? He hadn’t heard from his grandfather since the day after his transformation, when he had been dropped off in this new neighborhood, this new life. The old man had simply vanished, leaving D'Andrea to navigate this world on his own.

From time to time, a distant memory of Bart would surface—a flash of a different life, a different name. But it was always fleeting, quickly fading as D'Andrea immersed himself back into the here and now. The truth was, he had no desire to live as Bart again. That life, those memories, felt foreign to him now, like a story he had read long ago but had no connection to. He was D'Andrea, through and through, and the idea of going back to being Bart was almost unthinkable.

He finished his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray on the windowsill. The woman in his bed began to stir, and he knew it was time to get her on her way. He had no interest in lingering attachments, no desire to complicate his life with anything more than a one-night stand. Each night, he went to the bar, found a willing woman, and brought her back to his place. And each morning, he sent her on her way, ready to start the cycle all over again.

After she left, D'Andrea headed to the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror, studying his reflection as he lathered up his face and carefully groomed his beard. The hair on his face was thick and coarse, growing in so quickly that he had to shave or trim it nearly every day. He worked the razor with precision, shaping the edges of his beard and trimming the mustache just right. The process was almost ritualistic, a moment of quiet focus that set the tone for the day.

Once he was satisfied with his grooming, D'Andrea headed to the closet to pick out his clothes for the night ahead. He chose a black, fitted t-shirt that hugged his muscular frame and a pair of dark jeans that hung low on his hips. The shirt emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the tightness of his abs, while the jeans showed off the powerful muscles in his legs. He slipped into his worn work boots—scuffed and well-loved, but still sturdy—and buckled his belt.

As he dressed, his thoughts turned to the night ahead. He would hit the bar, have a few drinks, and scope out the room for his next conquest. The thrill of the chase was something he relished—the way women’s eyes followed him, the way they leaned in closer when he spoke in that deep, accented voice of his. It was all part of the game, and he was damn good at playing it.

D'Andrea gave himself one last look in the mirror, running a hand over his freshly groomed beard, feeling the satisfying roughness against his palm. He adjusted his shirt, making sure it fit just right, and then he grabbed his keys and headed out the door. The night was young, and he was ready for whatever it had to offer.

The memory of Bart was nothing more than a whisper, a shadow that lingered on the edges of his consciousness. But D'Andrea was alive, fully immersed in this new life, this new identity, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

D'Andrea's days had settled into a rhythm that was as grueling as it was satisfying. Each morning began with the usual routine—waking up next to a different woman, sending her on her way, and then preparing himself for the long day ahead. Work was the cornerstone of his life now, something that gave him purpose and a sense of accomplishment that Bart had never known.

Today was no different. After his usual grooming ritual, D'Andrea headed out to the construction site. The work was tough—10 to 12 hours of backbreaking labor under the sun—but it was exactly what he craved. The physicality of it, the sweat, the dirt, the sheer effort of building something tangible, fed a part of him that had always felt starved.

His crew was predominantly black, a group of men who had earned his respect and who, in turn, respected him. They were a tight-knit group, bound by the shared hardships of their work and the unspoken understanding that they were all in this together. D'Andrea had earned his place among them not just through his work ethic, but through the way he carried himself—confident, capable, and always ready to stand up for himself and his crew.

During the lunch break, they gathered around in the shade, sharing stories and laughs. The conversation was easy, filled with the kind of banter that only comes from a group of men who’ve spent years working together.

"Man, you see the way Tyree was struggling with that load this morning?" one of the guys, Big Mike, said with a grin. "Looked like he was about to pop a vein."

Tyree, a lean, wiry man with a quick wit, shot back, "Yeah, well, at least I didn’t drop the damn thing like you did last week, Mike."

The group erupted in laughter, and D'Andrea chuckled along with them, shaking his head. "Y’all need to stop pickin’ on Tyree before he decides to drop somethin’ on y’all for real."

"Let ‘em try," Mike said, puffing out his chest playfully. "Ain’t nobody stronger than Big Mike."

"Yeah, yeah," Tyree said, rolling his eyes. "But when it comes to lifting the ladies off their feet, I got y’all beat."

The laughter continued, but D'Andrea was already thinking ahead to the evening. The workday would be long, but after it was done, he had plans. Maybe he’d hit the gym, pump some iron, and work off the stress of the day. Or maybe he’d skip it and head straight to the bar—his usual haunt—where he knew the night would end with another woman in his bed.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the construction site, the day finally came to an end. The crew packed up their tools, exchanged a few more jabs and jokes, and headed their separate ways. D'Andrea decided to skip the gym tonight; he had worked hard enough today, and the pull of the bar was stronger.

When he arrived, the place was already buzzing with energy. The bar was a familiar scene—dim lighting, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. D'Andrea nodded to the bartender, who slid him a beer as soon as he walked in. He took a sip, savoring the cold, bitter taste as he scanned the room.

"Yo, D!" called a voice from across the room. It was Reggie, one of his boys from the crew, sitting with a few others at a corner table. "Get over here, man!"

D'Andrea made his way over, shaking hands and exchanging fist bumps as he joined the group. They were all there—Reggie, Big Mike, Tyree, and a couple of others, all of them in various states of relaxation after the long workday.

"So, who you got your eye on tonight?" Reggie asked with a smirk, nodding towards a group of women at the bar.

D'Andrea shrugged, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "I’m just here to enjoy my beer and see what happens. But you know how it is, Reggie—when the right one catches my eye, I don’t hesitate."

Big Mike chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, you always got your pick. These ladies love them some D'Andrea."

Tyree leaned in, his voice low. "That’s ‘cause he don’t play no games. He sees what he wants, and he goes for it."

"That’s right," D'Andrea said, taking another sip of his beer. "Ain’t no point in waitin’ around. Life’s too short for that."

The night wore on, filled with laughter, drinks, and the easy camaraderie of men who knew each other well. D'Andrea listened to the stories being told, added a few of his own, and let the tension of the day slip away. But even as he enjoyed the moment, he was always aware of the undercurrent, the game that was always being played in places like this. The women at the bar weren’t just here for drinks—they were here for a good time, and D'Andrea knew he could provide that.

As the night progressed, he noticed one of the women, a tall, curvy beauty with a smile that could light up a room, glancing his way. He caught her eye, holding her gaze just long enough to let her know he was interested. She smiled back, a slow, deliberate smile that sent a thrill through him.

"Looks like D'Andrea’s about to make his move," Reggie said, nudging Tyree with a grin.

"Man, I don’t even know why y’all act surprised anymore," Tyree replied. "He’s got this down to a science."

D'Andrea grinned, finishing his beer and standing up. "Y’all hold it down. I got somethin’ to take care of."

He made his way over to the woman, his confidence evident in every step. The rest of the night unfolded as it always did—flirting, a few more drinks, and then the inevitable end back at his place. But as he got ready to leave the bar, he couldn’t help but feel a small tug of something deeper—a question that lingered in the back of his mind.

How long would this last? How long would he continue to live as D'Andrea, this man who seemed so far removed from who he had once been? The memory of Bart was distant, almost unreachable, but it was still there, buried under layers of new experiences and new identities.

But tonight wasn’t the night to dwell on those thoughts. Tonight was about the here and now, about the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of knowing he was exactly where he wanted to be.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, the woman on his arm, D'Andrea pushed those thoughts aside. He had a new life, a new identity, and he was damn good at living it. The rest would come in time, but for now, he was D'Andrea—a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it.

The next few months brought a shift in D'Andrea’s life, one that began subtly but grew more pronounced as the days passed. The holiday season was approaching, and with it came the warmth and tradition of Black family gatherings. These events were new to him in this life—Bartholomew had never been part of such vibrant, communal celebrations—but D'Andrea was quickly embraced by the families he had come to know in his neighborhood.

These gatherings were full of life: the smell of home-cooked meals, the sound of children laughing, the rhythm of music playing softly in the background. D'Andrea found himself drawn into the fold, welcomed as one of their own. There was a comfort in these traditions, a sense of belonging that he had never felt in his previous life.

During this time, D'Andrea decided it was finally time to get the dreadlocks he had been saving for. The process was long and meticulous, involving multiple sessions to twist and lock his hair. As his locks began to form, he felt a deep satisfaction—a sense that this transformation was another step in fully becoming the man he had embraced.

But as he moved deeper into this life, something unexpected began to happen. D'Andrea had always been a heavy smoker—cigarettes in the morning, cigars in the evening—but with the new year approaching, he decided to quit. It wasn’t an easy decision, but he wanted to take better care of himself, and smoking seemed like the first habit to go.

At first, the process was as challenging as he expected. The cravings were intense, and the habit was hard to break. But as he gradually cut down, something strange started to occur. Memories—faint at first, then sharper—began to resurface. Flashes of his life as Bart, and even as Bartholomew, broke through the haze that had settled over his mind since the transformation.

He’d be sitting at a family gathering, watching the kids play or listening to the elders talk, when suddenly, he’d remember something from his old life—a book he used to read, a place he used to go, or a conversation he once had as Bartholomew. These memories were unsettling, like ghosts from a past he had almost forgotten. The more he quit smoking, the more vivid the memories became.

It wasn’t long before D'Andrea started to piece things together. He realized that whenever he had a cigarette or a cigar, the memories would fade, the connection to his old life growing dim once more. But without the smoke, it was as if the potion that had transformed him was losing its grip, allowing Bart and Bartholomew to resurface.

One evening, after weeks of this unsettling realization, D'Andrea found himself sitting alone in his small living room, a cigar in one hand, unlit. He stared at it, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. This—this simple habit, this vice—was the key to maintaining his new life. The smoke kept D'Andrea in control, kept Bartholomew at bay.

He lit the cigar, inhaling deeply, and felt the familiar wave of calm wash over him. The memories of Bart and Bartholomew receded, like waves pulling back from the shore. He leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and closed his eyes. For now, he was still D'Andrea, still the man he had chosen to become. But the knowledge of what kept him anchored in this life weighed heavily on him.

As the holidays passed and the new year began, D'Andrea found himself at a crossroads. He loved his life, loved who he had become, but the return of those memories had shaken him. He wasn’t ready to let go of D'Andrea, but he also couldn’t ignore the creeping realization that the transformation wasn’t as permanent as he had once believed.

For now, he would keep smoking, keep the memories at bay. But the question lingered in the back of his mind: how long could he keep this up? And what would happen when he finally decided to quit for good?

Two years had passed since D'Andrea had first transformed, and his life had continued to evolve in ways he could never have anticipated. Physically, he had grown even more formidable. His dreadlocks, thick and well-maintained, now hung down to his shoulders, giving him an aura of strength and wisdom. His beard, which he still styled differently depending on his mood, had grown fuller, the mustache thick and prominent, curling slightly at the ends. His dark skin had the sheen of health and vitality, the result of years of hard labor and discipline in the gym. His body was solid, muscular, with broad shoulders and powerful arms that could lift almost anything. D'Andrea had fully become the man he had envisioned, but the transformation had come at a cost.

His family, the ones who had embraced him during those first holidays after his change, had grown increasingly concerned about his smoking habit. They didn’t understand why he continued to cling to it, especially as his children—two boys he had fathered and proudly claimed as his own—grew older. They would gently, sometimes not so gently, urge him to quit, to think of his health and his future.

"You know that stuff will kill you, D," his uncle said one afternoon during a family barbecue, the smell of grilled meats mingling with the sharp scent of D'Andrea’s cigarette smoke. "You got kids to think about now. Ain’t no reason to be risking your life for a bad habit."

D'Andrea took a long drag, feeling the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling slowly. "I know, Unc," he said, his voice steady, though there was a tension beneath it. "But it’s not that simple."

His uncle shook his head, frustration evident. "It’s always simple, man. You just gotta want it bad enough.”

But they didn’t know. They couldn’t know. The smoking was what kept him grounded, what kept him as D'Andrea. Without it, he feared the creeping return of Bart and Bartholomew—the memories, the old life, the person he no longer wanted to be. Every time he tried to quit, those memories would flood back, stronger than ever, threatening to pull him away from the life he had built. He couldn’t let that happen, not now, not when he had his kids, his family, his place in the world.

Yet, the life he had built wasn’t without its struggles. As D'Andre, he faced challenges that Bartholomew never had to worry about. At work, the racism was often subtle, the kind of insidious microaggressions that gnawed at him daily. Comments about his hair, his accent, or assumptions about his background were constant reminders that no matter how hard he worked, no matter how good he was at his job, there would always be those who saw him as less than.

"Hey, D, you sure you know how to handle this kind of equipment?" one of his coworkers asked one day, a smirk playing on his lips as if it were a harmless joke. "I mean, this ain’t no small-time gig."

D'Andre’s jaw tightened, but he forced a smile. "Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Just focus on your own work, and we’ll all be fine."

It wasn’t just at work. Even in his own community, there were moments when he felt the sting of racism. A look from a shopkeeper that lingered too long, a comment from a neighbor that cut a little too close to the bone. These were the things Bart had never had to deal with, but they were a part of D'Andrea’s daily life. He bore them with a kind of quiet strength, knowing that this was the price of living the life he had chosen.

His children were his solace, his pride, and his joy. They were too young to understand the complexities of their father’s life, but they looked up to him with wide, trusting eyes, and he knew that for them, he had to keep it together. They were his anchor, the reason he fought so hard to maintain the facade, to keep the past at bay.

But there were nights when the weight of it all became too much. Nights when he would sit alone in the dark, a cigar in one hand, and wonder how much longer he could keep going. He loved his life as D'Andrea, but the constant vigilance, the need to maintain the facade, was exhausting.

As time passed, he began to question whether it was worth it. Could he continue to live this way, constantly on guard, always hiding the truth from those he loved? The memory of Bart, of Bartholomew, was never far from his thoughts, always lurking at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for the moment when he would let his guard down.

In the end, D'Andre knew he had a choice to make. He could continue as he was, clinging to the smoking habit that kept him anchored in this life, or he could face the truth, accept the past, and find a way to move forward without the crutch that had become both his salvation and his curse.

One evening, after his children had gone to bed, D'Andrea sat outside, a fresh cigar in hand. The night was quiet, the sky clear, the stars bright above. He stared at the unlit cigar, feeling the weight of it in his hand. He knew what it represented, knew that as long as he kept smoking, he would remain D'Andre. But he also knew that the life he had built was fragile, built on a foundation that could crumble at any moment.

With a deep breath, D'Andre set the cigar down, unlit. He didn’t need it tonight. He didn’t need it to remember who he was, who he had become. And as he sat there, the memories of Bart and Bartholomew swirling in his mind, he felt a sense of peace that had eluded him for so long.

He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in years, he felt ready to face it—whatever it might bring. Whether he remained D'Andrea or became someone else entirely, he knew that he had the strength to endure, to rebuild, and to keep moving forward.

As the night wore on, the cigar remained on the table, untouched, a symbol of the life he had lived and the life he was ready to leave behind.

As D'Andrea made the difficult decision to quit smoking for good, he couldn't have predicted how quickly things would change. The transformation back into Bartholomew began almost immediately after he set the cigar down that night. It was subtle at first—a slight lightening of his skin, the thick dreadlocks beginning to feel heavier, almost uncomfortable on his head. But as the hours passed, the changes became more pronounced.

By the next morning, his reflection in the mirror was already different. His once dark, rugged skin was lightening, the strong features that had defined D'Andrea were softening, reshaping into the familiar contours of Bartholomew's face. His dreadlocks, once a symbol of his commitment to this life, were starting to loosen and thin out. It was as if his very identity was unraveling, reverting back to the man he had been before the potion.

Over the course of two days, the transformation accelerated. His muscles, built from years of hard labor, began to slim down, returning to the leaner frame of his previous self. His beard, once full and thick, receded into the clean-shaven look that Bartholomew had always maintained. The change was disorienting, not just physically but emotionally as well. Memories of D'Andrea’s life clashed with those of Bartholomew, creating a confusing blend of identities.

By the second evening, as Bartholomew stood in front of the mirror, he saw himself fully returned to the man he had been before the transformation. The face staring back at him was unmistakably his old self, yet there was a profound sadness in his eyes—an acknowledgment of the life he had left behind, the life of D'Andrea that he had come to love.

Feeling a sense of loss and confusion, Bartholomew decided to go to the one place that had always been a constant in his life over the past few years: the bar where he had spent countless nights as D'Andrea, surrounded by friends, laughter, and the familiar faces that had made him feel at home. But now, as he walked in, he felt like a stranger in a place that had once been so familiar.

The bartender, the same one who had served him for years, was cleaning glasses behind the counter when Bartholomew approached. He ordered his usual drink, though it felt strange to be doing so in this body, this form that no longer felt like his own.

The bartender, an older man with a grizzled beard and sharp eyes, set the drink down in front of him with a knowing smile. "You’ve come a long way, Bart," he said, his voice carrying a tone that was both familiar and deeply comforting.

Bartholomew froze, the name catching him off guard. "How… how do you know that name?"

The bartender chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down Bartholomew’s spine. "I’ve always known, Bart. You didn’t recognize me, did you? Not once in all these years."

Bartholomew stared at the man, his heart pounding in his chest. The bartender’s eyes, so sharp and knowing, suddenly seemed far too familiar. "Grandfather?" he whispered, the realization dawning on him.

The bartender—his grandfather—nodded slowly. "I’ve been watching over you, all this time. Guiding you, even if you didn’t know it."

Bartholomew felt a rush of emotions—anger, confusion, gratitude. "Why didn’t you tell me? Why let me live like this, thinking I was someone else?"

His grandfather sighed, leaning on the bar. "You needed to find your own path, Bart. You needed to know what it was like to live as someone else, to see the world through different eyes. But now, it’s time for you to come back, to be who you were meant to be."

Bartholomew shook his head, struggling to comprehend everything. "But D'Andre… he was real. I was real."

"And you still are," his grandfather replied gently. "D'Andrea is a part of you, just as Bart is. You’ve lived two lives, and now it’s up to you to bring them together, to take the lessons from both and move forward."

Bartholomew took a deep breath, the weight of his grandfather’s words settling on him. He looked around the bar, at the faces that no longer seemed to recognize him, at the life he had built as D'Andrea, now slipping away.

"What do I do now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

His grandfather smiled, a smile filled with pride and understanding. "You live, Bart. You take what you’ve learned, and you live the best life you can. The choice is yours, and it always has been."

Bartholomew nodded slowly, feeling a sense of clarity begin to form. He wasn’t just Bart or D'Andre—he was both. And as he left the bar that night, the echoes of his grandfather’s words followed him, guiding him toward a future where he could finally be at peace with who he was.

The transformation was complete, but the journey was just beginning.

[malebodyswapfiles]

Can you blame me for taking over someone like this? He was right there, ripe for the taking. It was just a regular workout for him, and a once in a lifetime stakeout as I looked to find my next jock to possess. When I saw him doing squats, exposing that perfect bubble butt for just a few seconds,I just knew I had to have his body!

The process itself didn’t take long. Just a few seconds and my soul was latched onto his. He blanked out, his body crumpled to the ground. There was an intense fight for a few minutes as he tried to cling on to control, but of course, he was no match for a body hopper as experienced as me.

Now, this perfect ass is all mine! The other hunks in the gym keep questioning why Jake has gotten so flirtatious recently. The seemingly homophobic jock suddenly grinding up on all of them and being extra touchy whenever he got the chance was definitely weird, but none of them even suspect that he’s locked away in his own mind with a 80 year old man at the wheel. I’ll make sure to milk this body for every drop it’s worth, before moving on to my next target.

[malebodyswapfiles]

Hector and Carlos

What really set Hector apart, though, was his confidence. He was the kind of man who knew how to command a room, or in this case, a job site, and he did it with an ease that Connor envied. Even with his broken English, Hector was smart, sharp, and clearly respected by his crew. He’d run his hands through his hair, wipe the sweat from his brow, and offer a quick, teasing wink whenever he caught Connor staring too long.

Connor was mesmerized. The two came from completely different worlds—Connor was a wealthy executive, spending his days in boardrooms and country clubs, while Hector lived a life of hard labor. But the more time Connor spent around Hector, the more he found himself drawn to the man.

At first, it started with small talk—Connor trying to find excuses to check in at the job site more often than necessary. He admired the way Hector worked, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt, and how he could switch between barking orders in Spanish and shooting a quick, playful smile at Connor.

One day, after a long day of flirting, Hector leaned against the railing and smirked at Connor. “Oye, jefe. You like what you see?” His voice was teasing, but there was something genuine behind his question.

Connor blushed, trying to laugh it off. “Maybe I do,” he said, his heart racing.

Hector shook his head with a grin. “You’re too nice, jefe. Too clean. You no fit here with us,” he said, looking down at his dirty clothes and then back at Connor’s perfectly pressed shirt.

It stung a bit, but Hector wasn’t wrong. They lived in two different worlds, and Connor wasn’t sure how to bridge that gap. But that didn’t stop them from growing closer. Over the following weeks, their flirtations became bolder, their touches more lingering, and soon enough, one night after work, they found themselves tangled up in bed at a cheap motel. Hector was everything Connor fantasized about—strong, dominant, and deeply passionate. For Hector, it seemed like just another fling, but for Connor, it felt like something more.

As the weeks went by, though, Hector’s insecurities began to surface. He’d brush the dirt from his jeans before getting into Connor’s car, look uncomfortable in fancier restaurants, and always seemed on edge when Connor talked about work. One night, after they’d been together for about two months, Hector finally voiced what had been bothering him.

“Connor, esto no va a funcionar,” Hector said quietly after they’d finished having sex. ("Connor, this isn’t going to work.")

Connor, still breathless, turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

Hector sat up, his face serious. “You… you too much for me. Your life, your world... is different. I don’t fit there.”

Connor reached for him, placing a hand on his arm. “Hector, that’s not true. We can make this work. I don’t care about the differences.”

But Hector shook his head. “No, jefe. I care. You no see it, but I feel it. We from different places. You… rich. I just work. This... no work.”

Connor was crushed. He couldn’t lose Hector. There had to be a way to make it work, to close the gap between them. That’s when the idea struck him—the DNA augmentation project his company was working on. It was still in the early stages, and no one had undergone a transformation as drastic as the one Connor had in mind. But if he could change himself, if he could become like Hector, maybe they could finally be together.

A few days later, Connor sat across from Dr. Redding, the head of the project. “I want to volunteer for the study,” he said, his voice steady. “But I want something specific.”

Redding raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And what would that be?”

“I want to change... completely. I want to look like someone who fits in Hector’s world—a Spanish-speaking construction worker. I want to understand what his life is like. I want to be one of them.”

Dr. Redding looked at him skeptically. “You understand this isn’t just a physical transformation. Your mind will adapt to your new identity in ways we can’t fully predict. There’s no guarantee that you’ll still feel like yourself after this.”

“I understand,” Connor said, his determination unwavering. “I need this.”

Before the transformation, Connor was the picture of a wealthy executive. He was in his mid-thirties, with a slim, athletic build. His blond hair was neatly styled, and he was always clean-shaven, his skin smooth and pale from years spent behind a desk. He dressed in expensive, tailored suits or pressed shirts, his appearance always impeccable. His hands were soft and manicured, a far cry from the rough, calloused hands of the workers he oversaw. His voice was smooth, professional, and he spoke with the easy confidence of someone who had always lived in comfort. His blue eyes, though sharp, carried a softness that reflected his sheltered life.

The transformation process was grueling. The serum they injected into his bloodstream worked quickly, altering his DNA at a cellular level. On the first day, Connor’s muscles began to twitch and expand, his skin darkening as the pigmentation changed. He could feel his bones stretching, his body growing larger and more muscular by the hour. His once-slim frame thickened with muscle, his shoulders broadening, his chest filling out. His arms became solid and powerful, and his thighs grew thick and strong. His skin, once pale, deepened into a warm, rich tan, as if he had spent years working under the sun.

His face changed too. His once-blond hair turned dark, thickening into coarse, black strands. His clean-shaven face was soon covered with a thick, black beard, which framed his newly defined jawline. His nose broadened slightly, and his lips became fuller, giving him a rugged, masculine appearance. His hands—once smooth—became rough and calloused, the hands of a man who worked with tools and heavy equipment every day. His posture changed as well—he stood taller, his chest pushed out, his movements more deliberate and confident.

When he looked in the mirror after the first wave of changes, he barely recognized himself. His reflection showed a man who could easily pass as one of the workers on the job site, not the clean-cut executive he had been. But the transformation wasn’t just physical. As the days went by, Connor—now calling himself Carlos—found his thoughts shifting. Spanish came to him naturally, and his accent shifted as well. His voice, once smooth and polished, had deepened into a rough, gravelly tone. Even when he spoke English, it was laced with a distinct Latin accent. He found himself craving beer at the end of a long day, enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin, and even feeling a strange comfort in the sweat and grime that came from physical labor.

By the time the transformation was complete, Carlos was indistinguishable from the other workers. He stood in front of the mirror, running his hands over his new, muscular body. His chest was covered in a thick mat of dark hair, and his broad shoulders gave him a powerful presence. His abdomen was firm, with defined abs beneath the layer of muscle. His arms were thick, his hands strong and capable, and his legs—once lean—were now muscular pillars of strength. Even his groin had changed. He stared down at his now uncircumcised penis and couldn’t help but laugh, knowing Hector would have something to say about that.

Carlos sat in the meeting room, feeling the weight of his shorter, stockier frame settle into the chair. His muscular build, now much broader than it had been as Connor, made the seat feel small and confining. On the table in front of him sat his black cowboy hat, a perfect complement to his rugged new look. His *botas picudas*—sleek black leather boots with long, exaggerated pointed toes—tapped lightly against the floor. The room was filled with members of the executive team and the transformation scientists, all eager to hear how well the DNA augmentation had gone.

Dr. Redding, leading the meeting, smiled and gestured toward Carlos. “Carlos, how are you feeling? The transformation seems to have gone well, but we’d like to hear your thoughts.”

Carlos scratched his thick mustache still adjusting to the sensation of the coarse hair on his face, and nodded. His response came naturally in Spanish, now his primary language. “Todo bien, doctora. Me siento fuerte... como si hubiera nacido así,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. ("Everything’s good, doctor. I feel strong... like I was born this way.")

One of the executives looked toward the translator sitting nearby, ready to interpret when needed. Carlos’s accent was thick, and while he could still speak English, he naturally reverted to Spanish. The translator began to relay his words as the executives leaned in to listen.

Dr. Redding, intrigued by his progress, asked, “And how are you adjusting to the language? Are you finding English more difficult?”

Carlos thought for a moment before answering. “El inglés... sí, lo puedo hablar, pero... me siento más cómodo hablando español ahora. Las palabras me vienen más fácil en español.” He shrugged slightly, his dark eyes shifting to the translator. ("English... yes, I can speak it, but... I feel more comfortable speaking Spanish now. The words come easier in Spanish.")

The translator echoed his response, and the executives nodded, clearly impressed. It wasn’t just that Carlos had learned a new language—he had completely assimilated into a new culture and identity. He wasn’t simply speaking Spanish; he had adopted the mannerisms, dialect, and even the attitude of a Mexican laborer.

“And how about your life outside of work?” another executive asked. “How are you adapting?”

Carlos smiled and leaned back in his chair, resting his muscular arms on the table. “Fui a comprar ropa en tiendas locales. Compré camisetas ajustadas, jeans apretados... y estas botas picudas,” he said with a grin, lifting his foot slightly to show off the pointed black boots. "Son hechas a medida. Quería algo que destacara cuando salgo a los bares." ("I went shopping in local stores. I bought tight T-shirts, tight jeans... and these pointy boots. They’re custom-made. I wanted something that would stand out when I go to the bars.")

The translator conveyed his words, and a few executives chuckled. Carlos was clearly embracing his new identity in every way.

Dr. Redding scribbled down notes. “And you weren’t much of a beer drinker or smoker before, were you?”

Carlos shook his head, laughing a little. “No, Connor no lo era. No me gustaba la cerveza ni los cigarros. Pero ahora... es diferente. Me encanta tomar una cerveza después del trabajo y fumar un cigarro. Es parte de quien soy ahora.” ("No, Connor wasn’t. I didn’t like beer or cigarettes. But now... it’s different. I love having a beer after work and smoking a cigarette. It’s part of who I am now.")

The translator’s words filled the room, and the executives exchanged impressed glances. Carlos wasn’t just playing a part—he was living it. His cravings, habits, and even his preferences had changed as part of the transformation.

Dr. Redding leaned forward, looking over her notes. “What about your truck? I heard you made a purchase.”

Carlos’s face lit up with pride. “Sí, compré una Chevy Silverado de un concesionario mexicano. Tiene un sistema de escape de tubo recto. Suena increíble cuando la manejo,” he said, clearly enjoying the attention. ("Yes, I bought a Chevy Silverado from a Mexican dealership. It has a straight pipe exhaust system. It sounds incredible when I drive it.")

The translator relayed his words, and one of the executives smiled. “So, you weren’t much of a car guy before, but now you’ve got a truck with a straight pipe exhaust?”

Carlos nodded, the grin still on his face. “Antes no me importaban los coches, pero ahora... me encanta conducir esa camioneta. Me siento en casa detrás del volante. Es perfecta para mí.” ("I didn’t care about cars before, but now... I love driving that truck. I feel at home behind the wheel. It’s perfect for me.")

The executives were clearly impressed with how far Carlos had come. The physical transformation had been a success, but it was the cultural assimilation that had truly exceeded their expectations. Carlos wasn’t just speaking the language—he had embraced the life, the habits, the clothing, and even the mindset of his new identity.

Before the meeting ended, Carlos reflected on how far he had come. “Es más de lo que esperaba. Siento que este soy yo ahora. No pienso como antes... todo es diferente, y para mejor.” ("It’s more than I expected. I feel like this is who I am now. I don’t think like I used to... everything is different, and for the better.")

The translator finished, and Dr. Redding smiled. “Thank you, Carlos. Your progress has been remarkable.”

Carlos stood, adjusting his cowboy hat as he placed it back on his head. “Gracias por todo,” he said with a nod before heading out. ("Thank you for everything.")

As Carlos left the building, he walked confidently toward his black Chevy Silverado, parked in the lot. The truck gleamed in the sunlight, the straight pipe exhaust ready to growl as soon as he started it. He climbed into the driver’s seat, his *botas picudas* resting on the pedals, and fired up the engine. The deep roar of the exhaust filled the air, and Carlos couldn’t help but smile. With his cowboy hat on and the powerful truck beneath him, he felt more like himself than ever before.

Connor was a distant memory now. Carlos Alvarez was living his life, and he was thriving in every way.

The next morning, Carlos woke up early, excitement and nerves mingling in his chest. Today was the day he would start his new job on Hector’s crew. He had spent the last week adjusting to his new body and mindset, and now it was time to put everything to the test. As he got dressed, slipping into his blue work shirt, sturdy jeans, and steel-toe boots, he could feel the weight of his transformation settle in. This was it—he was no longer Connor, the executive overseeing the construction project. He was Carlos Alvarez, a laborer ready to work alongside Hector and the rest of the crew.

Before leaving, Carlos grabbed his hardhat and tool belt, making sure everything was in place. He admired himself in the mirror for a moment, noting how natural the outfit looked on him. The man staring back at him was nothing like Connor. Carlos’s thick black beard was neatly trimmed, his skin bronzed from the transformation, and his body solid, built for the kind of physical labor that now awaited him. He tipped his cowboy hat once, just for good measure, before heading out the door.

He climbed into his black Chevy Silverado, the truck towering over the street with its lift kit and custom rims. The straight pipe exhaust rumbled to life as he turned the key, the powerful sound making him grin. Blasting his favorite Spanish music from the stereo, Carlos pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the job site. He drove with the windows down, the wind whipping through the cab, the heavy beat of *norteño* music setting the tone for the day. Everything felt perfect—the truck, the music, the job waiting for him—it was all a part of the new life he had fully embraced.

When Carlos arrived home that evening, still buzzing from the excitement of his new job, he decided to take a moment to fully admire his body in the privacy of his apartment. He stripped off his work clothes, letting them drop to the floor as he stood in front of the mirror. The changes were still surreal, but every time he looked at himself, it felt more and more like this was who he was always meant to be. His muscles, defined and solid, stood out beneath his tanned skin. His chest was broad, his shoulders strong, and his legs thick and powerful from years of hard labor—except, of course, those years had never existed. Yet, in every way that mattered, they had become real to Carlos.

His eyes trailed down his body, focusing on the area that had surprised him the most—the fact that he was now uncircumcised. Having been circumcised all his life as Connor, it was strange at first to adjust to this new part of himself. But now, Carlos instinctively knew how to take care of it, even if he had never done it before. He took his time, learning how to properly clean and maintain himself, feeling a new sense of pride and comfort in his body.

His beard, thick and full, required regular attention as well. Despite never having grown one before as Connor, he found that trimming and maintaining it came naturally to him. He enjoyed the process, the precision of shaping the beard and keeping it neat. Still, he decided to visit a local Mexican barbershop to fully experience what it was like to be a part of the community he had now embraced. The barber greeted him with a warm smile, offering a handshake and complimenting Carlos’s thick beard as he sat down for a trim.

"Buen trabajo, compa," the barber said as he admired his work, patting Carlos on the shoulder. ("Nice job, man.")

Carlos looked at his freshly groomed face in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. “Gracias, hermano. Me veo bien,” he said with a grin. ("Thanks, brother. I look good.")

The next morning, Carlos woke up early again, ready for his first official day on the job with Hector’s crew. He slipped into his blue work shirt and pulled on his steel-toe boots, feeling the weight of the day ahead. His tool belt sat ready by the door, and he grabbed it before heading out. As he climbed back into his Silverado, the rumble of the engine filled the air once more. The drive to the site was short, and the excitement from the previous day still pulsed through him.

When he arrived at the job site, the men were already gathering, some of them drinking coffee and laughing as they got ready for the day. Carlos parked his truck, grabbed his hardhat, and walked over to join them. His boots crunched on the gravel as he approached, his tool belt slung over his shoulder.

One of the workers looked up and gave him a nod. “Tú debes ser el nuevo, ¿verdad?” he asked, eyeing Carlos’s strong build and confident stance. ("You must be the new guy, right?")

Carlos smiled and nodded. “Sí, soy Carlos. Encantado de conocerte,” he said, shaking hands with the man. ("Yeah, I’m Carlos. Nice to meet you.")

As he was introduced to the rest of the crew, Carlos felt a sense of belonging he had never experienced before. These were his people now—men who worked hard, laughed easily, and lived life fully. He fit in perfectly, and the thought of working alongside Hector without revealing his true identity made the day feel even more exciting.

As the work began, Carlos felt completely at home. The weight of the tools in his hands, the feel of the sun on his skin, the camaraderie with the other workers—all of it felt right. He wasn’t Connor anymore. He was Carlos Alvarez, and this was his life now. And as the day wore on, he couldn’t help but look forward to what the future held—both on the job and, more importantly, with Hector by his side.

Carlos kept a detailed log of his daily experiences, as required by the transformation doctors, and reported in weekly for checkups to ensure the physical and cognitive changes were stable. Though he had adapted seamlessly into his new life as Carlos Alvarez, the doctors still wanted to monitor his progress carefully. Each week, Carlos would drive his Chevy Silverado back to the lab, his body language and demeanor now fully ingrained with the habits of his new identity. He would talk with the staff in his natural Spanish, his thick accent and broken English surprising no one anymore.

In his log, Carlos wrote about his first couple of days on the job. The physical work felt surprisingly natural to him, as if his muscles had always been trained for this. He had been put on Hector’s crew, and every time he worked near him, Carlos couldn’t help but flirt subtly. At first, it was nothing more than casual compliments in Spanish.

“Ese brazo que tienes está fuerte, Héctor. ¿Cómo consigues tanto poder?” Carlos joked one afternoon, watching Hector lift a heavy load with ease. ("That arm of yours is strong, Hector. How do you get so much power?")

Hector laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow as he glanced over at Carlos. “El trabajo diario, compa. Tendrás lo mismo si sigues con nosotros,” he said, flashing a playful smile. ("Daily work, man. You’ll get the same if you stick with us.")

Carlos couldn’t help but let his gaze linger a little too long on Hector’s strong, tanned body. Hector was everything he had been attracted to when he was still Connor—confident, handsome, with that natural masculinity that drove Carlos wild. But now, it felt different, like they were equals. Still, Hector didn’t seem to pick up on the hints, or perhaps he was simply choosing to ignore them.

Over the next few days, Carlos and Hector developed a comfortable rhythm at work. The physical labor was tough, but Carlos thrived on it, and his banter with Hector became more frequent. Carlos wasn’t shy about throwing in compliments or making suggestive comments, but Hector always kept things professional, laughing them off with his usual easy-going charm.

The weekend came quickly, and the crew decided to go out to a local Mexican bar to blow off steam and listen to live music. It was the kind of night Carlos had always imagined—one filled with beer, loud music, and camaraderie. Carlos had written in his log earlier that week about how he felt increasingly comfortable in his *botas picudas* and traditional Mexican attire. Tonight, everyone was dressed up—tight-fitting jeans, large belt buckles, and cowboy hats. Carlos, with his custom pointy boots and black hat, fit right in. The transformation had left no part of his old self behind, and he felt completely at ease among his coworkers.

The bar was packed with locals, and the smell of beer and tequila filled the air as the band played a lively *norteño* song. Carlos, along with the other men, leaned against the bar, their voices rising with the music as they cheered and clinked bottles together. Carlos couldn’t help but notice Hector across the room, laughing with some of the other workers. His strong arms were crossed over his chest, his boots tapping along to the rhythm of the music.

As the night wore on, Carlos found himself standing beside Hector, both of them slightly buzzed from the beers. The energy of the live music buzzed through the bar, and they both swayed a little to the beat, their boots scraping the worn wooden floor.

“¡Te ves bien esta noche, Carlos!” Hector called out over the music, smiling. ("You look good tonight, Carlos!")

Carlos grinned, tipping his cowboy hat. “Gracias, Héctor. Tú también. Siempre te ves bien.” His voice was playful, but there was an edge of sincerity behind it. ("Thanks, Hector. You too. You always look good.")

Hector gave him a sideways glance, his smile fading just a little as he leaned closer. The music was loud, and Carlos could feel the warmth from Hector’s body as he stood next to him. They were so close now that Carlos’s heart began to race.

“You sabes que eres guapo, ¿verdad?” Hector said suddenly, his tone quieter, almost thoughtful. ("You know you're handsome, right?")

Carlos’s breath hitched slightly. He hadn’t expected Hector to say that. He turned to look at him, feeling a spark of excitement. “¿De verdad piensas eso?” he asked, his voice a little softer now. ("Do you really think that?")

Hector nodded, but there was something else in his eyes. A hesitance. “Sí, pero... mi corazón está en otro lugar.” He paused, taking a long sip of his beer. "Hay alguien más, alguien que no puedo tener." ("Yes, but... my heart is somewhere else. There's someone else, someone I can't have.")

Carlos’s chest tightened. He knew instantly who Hector was talking about—Connor. The old Connor, the executive who had disappeared from Hector’s life after their brief relationship. Even though Carlos *was* Connor, Hector didn’t know that. All Hector saw now was Carlos Alvarez, a new man in his life, someone attractive but not the person he had feelings for.

Carlos tried to mask his disappointment, leaning back against the bar. “Esa persona... ¿es alguien que conoces bien?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, though his heart pounded in his chest. ("That person... is it someone you know well?")

Hector looked at him, his face softening. “Sí. Lo conozco muy bien... pero no es alguien que pueda tener. Ya no está en mi vida.” ("Yes. I know him very well... but he’s not someone I can have. He's not in my life anymore.")

Carlos felt a pang of guilt but pushed it aside. “Bueno, las cosas cambian,” he said, offering Hector a small smile, though the weight of the moment lingered between them. ("Well, things change.")

Hector returned the smile, though his expression was more melancholy now. “Tal vez,” he said softly, clinking his beer against Carlos’s bottle before looking away, his mind clearly somewhere else. ("Maybe.")

Carlos stood there beside Hector, watching the man he cared for, knowing that, for now, Hector’s heart belonged to someone he thought was gone forever. But Carlos was still here, and he wasn’t going to give up. Maybe things really could change.

The night continued, the music loud and the drinks flowing, but the conversation between Carlos and Hector left an unspoken tension in the air. For Carlos, the evening had been bittersweet. He had gotten closer to Hector, but there was still so much left unsaid—and so much more for Hector to learn.

The next morning, Carlos woke up groggy and hungover from the night before. His head pounded, and the taste of beer lingered on his tongue. He groaned, rolling out of bed and stretching his sore muscles, which ached not just from the hard work of the past week, but from the fun and excitement of the previous night. He rubbed his face, feeling the familiar roughness of his beard, and smiled as the memories of the night at the bar came back to him. It had been a good night, even with the bittersweet conversation with Hector.

Carlos was used to waking up early—his body had adjusted quickly to the routines of his new life—but today, he decided to take it easy. The morning sun filtered through the blinds, and he made himself a simple breakfast of tortillas, eggs, and beans, the kind of meal he had grown to enjoy since embracing his new life. Connor would have gone for something healthier, more refined, but Carlos craved hearty, traditional Mexican food now. As he ate, his mind wandered to what he would do with the rest of his day.

After showering and cleaning up, Carlos felt the urge to further embrace his Mexican heritage. He had noticed more and more over the past week how deeply ingrained the traditions were in his daily life, and today, he decided to fully dive into them. One thing he had seen around the neighborhood, especially among his coworkers, was the custom of getting their last names displayed in large letters on the back of their trucks. It was a symbol of pride, of family, and it was something Connor had never understood—but as Carlos, it made sense. It was a way to show who you were, where you came from.

Carlos hopped into his lifted Chevy Silverado and headed to a local custom decal shop. As he walked in, the guy behind the counter greeted him warmly.

“¿Qué tal, compa? ¿Cómo te puedo ayudar hoy?” the man asked, leaning on the counter. ("What’s up, man? How can I help you today?")

Carlos smiled. “Quiero poner mi apellido en la parte de atrás de mi camioneta. Algo grande, que destaque,” he said confidently. ("I want to put my last name on the back of my truck. Something big, that stands out.")

The man nodded approvingly. “Buena decisión. ¿Cuál es tu apellido?” ("Good decision. What’s your last name?")

“Álvarez,” Carlos said proudly, feeling the weight of his new identity as he spoke. "Carlos Álvarez."

The man jotted down the details and soon got to work. Carlos watched as his last name was printed in big, bold white letters, carefully affixed to the back of his truck. As he stood there, watching the letters take shape, he felt a deep sense of belonging, something Connor had never truly understood. Now, his truck wasn't just a vehicle—it was a part of who he was. The name "Álvarez" shone proudly on the tailgate, a symbol of his new life and identity.

Later that afternoon, Carlos drove around town, feeling a sense of pride every time he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and saw his last name in big letters on the back of his truck. It was such a simple thing, but it meant so much. This truck, this life—it all felt real, like something he had earned. The roar of the straight pipe exhaust filled the streets as he cruised, nodding to a few locals who recognized him. His music blared, loud and joyful *norteño* tunes that he had come to love.

By the time the evening rolled around, Carlos was ready to go out again. His hangover had faded, and the energy from the day gave him a renewed sense of freedom. He decided to head to another local Mexican bar, a place known for its live music and dancing. Tonight, he wasn’t going to hold back—he wanted to be fully free, fully Carlos.

Carlos dressed in his best clothes—tight jeans that hugged his muscular legs, his custom *botas picudas*, and a fresh plaid shirt that accentuated his broad chest and strong arms. He topped it off with his black cowboy hat, tilting it just right before heading out the door. The night was warm, and the streets were buzzing with energy as he drove toward the bar, his truck rumbling through the neighborhood, the sound of the exhaust bouncing off the walls.

When he arrived, the bar was already packed. The band was playing lively *banda* music, and people were on the dance floor, moving to the rhythm of the trumpets and accordions. Carlos made his way to the bar, where he ordered his favorite beer—Modelo. It had quickly become his go-to drink, something that felt right for him now. Connor hadn’t been much of a drinker, but Carlos enjoyed the taste of a cold beer after a long day of work. It was part of the culture, part of the way he fit in with the other guys.

He took a long sip, savoring the cold, crisp taste of the Modelo, before heading out to the dance floor. The music was infectious, and as Carlos moved to the beat, he felt completely at ease. He danced with several women throughout the night, their laughter filling the air as they twirled around him, but he couldn’t shake the lingering thoughts of Hector. Even though Hector had made it clear that his heart belonged to someone else, Carlos still felt a connection between them. Maybe it was something he could work on over time, or maybe he would just have to accept it. But tonight, he wasn’t going to dwell on it. Tonight, he was free.

As the night wore on, Carlos drank more than he normally would, enjoying the lively atmosphere and the freedom that came with being fully immersed in his new life. The music, the people, the beer—it was everything Connor never experienced, but it felt so natural to Carlos now. He was no longer an outsider looking in; he was part of the culture, part of the world he had always admired from afar.

After long, grueling 12-hour shifts, Carlos had fallen into a rhythm. Sometimes, after a particularly tough day, he’d meet up with a few of the guys for a cold beer at a nearby cantina. It was always an easygoing time—relaxing after the intensity of work, exchanging jokes, and enjoying each other’s company. He found himself getting closer to the crew, but no one had quite gotten under his skin like Hector. Still, Hector kept his distance, never quite taking Carlos’s advances seriously, and the frustration was starting to build.

One Saturday night, after a week filled with extra-long shifts, Carlos decided he needed more than just a few beers. He was worn out from work but also restless, his mind lingering on Hector and the emotional rollercoaster of the past month. He headed out to one of the more lively local bars, the one he knew wasn’t frequented by his coworkers. He dressed up in his usual tight-fitting jeans, plaid shirt, *botas picudas*, and his signature cowboy hat, ready to blow off steam.

The bar was crowded, the familiar sounds of *banda* music filling the room as the place buzzed with energy. Carlos ordered his usual—a Modelo—and found a spot at the bar, watching the dance floor as people swayed and laughed. He felt freer in this place, away from the watchful eyes of his crew, and he wasn’t thinking too much about what the night might bring.

After a couple of beers, he loosened up, enjoying the music and chatting with some of the locals. As the night progressed, he caught the eye of a guy standing at the end of the bar—dark hair, tanned skin, and a confident smile that matched Carlos’s own energy. They exchanged glances a few times, and before long, the guy walked over, introducing himself as Mateo.

Carlos grinned, tipping his hat in greeting. “Carlos,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

There was an immediate connection, and soon they were talking over beers, their conversation flowing easily. It felt good to be noticed, to be desired. Mateo wasn’t like the guys on the crew—he wasn’t holding back.

As the night wore on and the beers kept flowing, the two of them moved to the side of the bar, where the crowd was a little thinner. The music thumped in the background, and the atmosphere was hazy with excitement and alcohol. Carlos wasn’t thinking about anything but the moment. They leaned in closer, their conversation turning flirtatious, and before Carlos even realized it, he found himself making out with Mateo against the wall of the bar, their bodies pressed together in the heat of the night.

For a few minutes, nothing else existed but the taste of beer on Mateo’s lips and the feel of his hands on Carlos’s chest. It was a release, a way to let go of all the frustration he had built up over the weeks of pining after Hector.

But as the moment cooled and the music continued to pulse around them, guilt began to creep in. Carlos pulled away, his breath heavy, suddenly aware of what had just happened. He glanced around, relieved to find that none of his coworkers—or worse, Hector—were anywhere in sight. No one had seen him, but the guilt settled in all the same.

He took a step back, brushing a hand through his beard, his mind racing. “Mateo... I think I need to go,” Carlos said, his voice low and a little uncertain now.

Mateo looked at him curiously but nodded. “No te preocupes. Fue divertido,” he said with a shrug, giving Carlos a knowing smile before stepping away. ("Don’t worry. It was fun.")

Carlos watched him disappear into the crowd, a wave of mixed emotions washing over him. Part of him had enjoyed the moment—it was fun, freeing—but the guilt stuck with him, especially when he thought about Hector. He wasn’t sure why it felt wrong, but it did.

Thankful that no one he knew had seen him, Carlos finished the rest of his beer quickly and left the bar. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, and he breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. He walked to his truck, the sound of his *botas picudas* clicking against the pavement, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The rumble of the straight-pipe exhaust filled the quiet street as he drove home, the weight of the night’s events sitting heavy on his mind.

As he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, Carlos couldn’t help but feel torn. He had felt something with Mateo, something real in the moment, but it hadn’t been what he truly wanted. His thoughts drifted back to Hector, the man who still occupied his mind, no matter how hard Carlos tried to forget.

Carlos sat across from Dr. Redding during his routine check-in, feeling more at ease in his new skin than ever before. The sterile clinical room contrasted starkly with the gritty job sites and the modest life he had come to love. His thick beard and tanned skin, along with his muscular frame, were a far cry from the polished, preppy version of himself he once was. Carlos Alvarez was no longer just an experiment—he had become real.

Dr. Redding clicked her pen and looked up from her notes. “Well, Carlos, everything looks good. Physically and cognitively, you’re in excellent shape. But we need to talk about the future.”

Carlos leaned back, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Redding studied him. “Have you thought about when—or if—you want to return to your life as Connor?”

Carlos hesitated, staring down at his hands. The idea of going back to being Connor felt distant, like something from another life. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’d want to go back,” he said finally, meeting her eyes. “I’ve been Carlos for nearly three months now, and I feel like this is who I’m supposed to be.”

Dr. Redding nodded, making a note but not pressing the issue. “That’s understandable. We’ll continue the regular check-ups, and if anything changes, let us know.”

Carlos left the clinic that day with a clearer sense of purpose. He didn’t miss being Connor. He had found something real, something meaningful in his life as Carlos Alvarez—a modest, hardworking laborer with strong ties to his community and a growing connection with Hector.

Carlos’s moves toward Hector had become more assertive over the weeks, and the subtle flirtation had shifted into something bolder. Carlos would brush his hand against Hector’s arm at work, offer lingering looks, and compliment him more directly. Hector had always been wary of the advances, laughing them off or gently avoiding anything too serious. But Carlos could tell that the tension between them was growing stronger.

One evening, after a particularly long shift, they found themselves alone on the job site. The sun was setting, casting a golden light over the equipment and stacks of lumber. Carlos lit a cigarette, the smoke swirling in the fading light, and offered one to Hector.

“Gracias,” Hector said, taking it and leaning back against a stack of lumber. They smoked in silence for a while, the air thick with unspoken words and charged energy.

Carlos glanced at Hector, his voice low. “Héctor, llevamos semanas bailando alrededor de esto. Sé que tú también lo sientes,” he said, taking a step closer. ("Hector, we’ve been dancing around this for weeks. I know you feel it too.")

Hector exhaled slowly, glancing sideways at Carlos. His face was hard to read, a mix of uncertainty and something else. “Carlos... no sé lo que quiero. Ha sido complicado,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. ("Carlos... I don’t know what I want. It’s been complicated.")

Carlos placed a hand on Hector’s arm, his touch firm but gentle. “No tiene por qué ser complicado. Sabes lo que quieres,” he said, moving closer. ("It doesn’t have to be complicated. You know what you want.")

Hector hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed, dropping his cigarette and stepping closer to Carlos. “Carlos... tienes razón,” he murmured, his resistance finally fading. ("Carlos... you're right.")

Without another word, Carlos pulled Hector into a kiss. It started slow, tentative, but quickly deepened as months of tension gave way to desire. Their bodies pressed together, the warmth between them undeniable. Hector kissed him back, hard, as if releasing all the emotions he had kept bottled up.

After the kiss broke, they stood there, breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. “Esto ha tardado mucho,” Hector whispered, his hands gripping Carlos’s shirt. ("This has taken too long.")

“Sí, pero finalmente estamos aquí,” Carlos replied, kissing him again, more urgently this time. ("Yes, but we’re finally here.")

They left the job site together, heading back to Carlos’s apartment. The tension between them had shifted into something electric, something unstoppable. The moment they were inside, their hands were on each other again, their kisses growing hungrier. They made their way to the bedroom, clothes discarded in a trail behind them. The night was filled with passion, their bodies moving together with an intensity that had been building for months.

Afterward, as they lay in bed, their bodies tangled in the sheets, Hector seemed lost in thought. His hand rested on Carlos’s chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns across his skin.

“Carlos... hay algo en esto que se siente... familiar,” Hector said quietly, his brow furrowed in thought. ("Carlos... there's something about this that feels... familiar.")

Carlos tensed slightly, not expecting this. “¿Familiar? ¿Cómo?” he asked, his voice cautious. ("Familiar? How?")

Hector’s gaze searched Carlos’s face, as if trying to piece something together. “No sé cómo explicarlo, pero... había algo en la manera en que me tocabas, en cómo... hicimos el amor. Me recordó a alguien,” Hector admitted, confusion in his eyes. ("I don’t know how to explain it, but... there was something in the way you touched me, in how we made love. It reminded me of someone.")

Carlos’s heart pounded in his chest. He had hoped this moment wouldn’t come so soon, that Hector wouldn’t connect the dots. But now, faced with Hector’s suspicions, he didn’t know how to respond. He chose his words carefully. “A veces nuestras almas reconocen algo... incluso cuando no lo entendemos completamente,” Carlos said softly, not wanting to lie but not ready to reveal the full truth either. ("Sometimes our souls recognize something... even when we don’t fully understand it.")

Hector’s frown deepened. “¿Tú también lo sientes? Como si ya hubiéramos estado juntos antes,” he asked, his voice quieter now. ("Do you feel it too? Like we’ve been together before.")

Carlos hesitated, then nodded. “Sí, lo siento. Pero tal vez algunas conexiones no tienen una explicación lógica. A veces simplemente... están ahí,” he said gently, brushing a hand through Hector’s hair. ("Yes, I feel it. But maybe some connections don’t have a logical explanation. Sometimes they’re just... there.")

Hector seemed to accept this, though the confusion didn’t entirely leave his face. He sighed, resting his head against Carlos’s chest again. “Tal vez tengas razón,” Hector whispered, though Carlos could tell the wheels were still turning in his mind. ("Maybe you're right.")

As Hector drifted off to sleep, Carlos lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The familiarity Hector had felt during their intimate moment wasn’t just a coincidence—it was real. The man Hector had fallen for all those months ago, the one he couldn’t have, was lying beside him now, but Hector didn’t know it. Carlos wondered how long he could keep this secret, or if it was even fair to Hector to hide the truth.

For now, though, Carlos held him close, trying to enjoy the moment for what it was. He wasn’t ready to let go of this life, or of Hector, just yet.

The next few weeks between Carlos and Hector were filled with intense passion and heat, their connection deepening with every stolen glance and every moment of intimacy. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, finding moments of desire even after the longest, most grueling days on the job. Carlos had never felt more alive—or more content in his body. It felt like his life had finally aligned in a way that made sense, and Hector was at the center of it.

One night, as they lay together after another passionate encounter, Hector was running his hand over Carlos’s jawline, his fingers tracing the line of his thick beard. He admired Carlos’s face, the strong, rugged features that fit perfectly with his new identity.

“Sabes, tienes una mandíbula increíble,” Hector said softly, grinning up at Carlos. “Me pregunto cómo te verías con solo un bigote.” ("You know, you have an amazing jawline. I wonder how you’d look with just a mustache.")

Carlos raised an eyebrow, feeling a twinge of surprise. He had always kept the full beard since his transformation, but Hector’s suggestion stirred something in him. “¿De verdad crees que me vería bien?” Carlos asked, already imagining the change. ("Do you really think I’d look good?")

Hector grinned, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Oh sí, definitivamente. Creo que sería sexy,” he teased, his voice low. ("Oh yes, definitely. I think it’d be sexy.")

The next day, Carlos couldn’t get the thought out of his head. He’d always been confident in his beard—it was a symbol of the rugged, hardworking man he had become—but now, the idea of changing it for Hector sparked excitement in him. So, by Friday, when Carlos made his weekly visit to the barbershop, he was ready.

As he walked into the familiar space, Jorge, his usual barber, greeted him with a friendly nod. “¿Qué tal, Carlos? ¿Lo mismo de siempre?” ("How’s it going, Carlos? The usual?")

Carlos shook his head, grinning. “No esta vez, Jorge. Quiero algo diferente. Solo el bigote. Quita la barba,” he said, feeling a thrill run through him at the thought of the change. ("Not this time, Jorge. I want something different. Just the mustache. Take off the beard.")

Jorge raised an eyebrow in surprise but smiled, clearly impressed by Carlos’s boldness. “Vaya, te vas a ver diferente, compa. Vamos a hacerlo.” He gestured for Carlos to sit in the chair. ("Wow, you’re going to look different, man. Let’s do it.")

Carlos leaned back in the chair, feeling the familiar buzz of the clippers as Jorge began to trim away the thick beard. As the hair fell away, Carlos felt a sense of anticipation building. He had never had just a mustache before—it was unfamiliar territory, even for Connor. But for Carlos, it felt like the next step in fully embracing his new life.

Once Jorge was done, he handed Carlos a mirror. Carlos stared at his reflection, taking in the sharp contrast of his strong jawline now exposed and the thick, dark mustache that framed his upper lip. He tilted his head, putting on his black cowboy hat and smiling at the man staring back at him.

“¿Qué tal?” Jorge asked, stepping back to admire his work. ("What do you think?")

Carlos grinned, running a hand over his newly shaven jaw. “Me veo increíble. Gracias, Jorge,” he said, fully excited by the transformation. ("I look incredible. Thanks, Jorge.")

As he left the barbershop, Carlos felt a surge of confidence. He looked good—better than he expected—and he couldn’t wait to see Hector’s reaction. The moment he got back home, he sent Hector a picture of his new look.

When they met up later that evening, Hector’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw Carlos. “Dios mío, Carlos, te ves tan bien,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. Hector reached up, tracing a finger along Carlos’s jawline, clearly impressed. "Ese bigote te queda perfecto. ¿Lo hiciste por mí?" ("My God, Carlos, you look so good. That mustache suits you perfectly. Did you do this for me?")

Carlos smiled, leaning in to kiss Hector softly. “Claro que sí,” he murmured, his voice full of warmth. "Me dijiste que te gustaría, así que lo hice." ("Of course. You said you’d like it, so I did it.")

Hector’s grin widened, and he pulled Carlos closer, kissing him deeply. “Eres perfecto,” he whispered between kisses, the heat between them flaring up again. ("You’re perfect.")

Later that week, Hector invited Carlos to a family event—a *quinceañera* for his sister, a celebration Carlos knew was a huge deal in Mexican culture. The two of them decided to go all out for the occasion, visiting a local tailor to have outfits made specifically for the event. They spent hours picking out fabrics, trying on different styles, and laughing together as they planned their looks. Carlos chose a classic charro-style suit, the intricate embroidery and bold design a perfect reflection of the proud Mexican heritage he had embraced. Hector, of course, looked equally stunning in his tailored suit, and the sight of them together made Carlos’s heart swell with pride.

As they left the tailor, their suits set to be ready in a few days, Hector suggested they stop by a local cigar shop to pick up a few cigars for the event. It was something they hadn’t done before, but Carlos was eager to experience it with Hector.

Inside the shop, the rich scent of tobacco filled the air, and Carlos felt a surge of excitement as they browsed the selection. Hector picked out a few cigars, explaining to Carlos the subtle differences in flavor and quality. As they stood there, picking out their cigars for the celebration, Hector grew quiet, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

“Carlos,” Hector began slowly, glancing at him. “Hay algo de lo que no te he hablado. Algo que ha estado en mi mente últimamente.” ("Carlos, there’s something I haven’t talked to you about. Something that’s been on my mind lately.")

Carlos raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift in Hector’s tone. “¿Qué pasa?” he asked, his voice gentle. ("What’s wrong?")

Hector sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Había alguien en mi pasado... alguien con quien disfruté mucho, pero que ya no está en mi vida. Se llamaba Connor. Era diferente a ti, pero a veces, no puedo evitar pensar en él,” he admitted, his eyes downcast. ("There was someone in my past... someone I really enjoyed being with, but who isn’t in my life anymore. His name was Connor. He was different from you, but sometimes, I can’t help but think about him.")

Carlos felt his chest tighten, hearing his old name spoken by Hector. He had known this conversation would come eventually, but it still caught him off guard. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“¿Qué pasó con Connor?” Carlos asked softly, wanting to understand Hector’s feelings more clearly. ("What happened with Connor?")

Hector sighed again, looking up at Carlos with a mix of sadness and confusion. “No sé exactamente. Simplemente... se fue. Y me he preguntado por qué. Tal vez nunca fue el lugar correcto para él,” he said quietly. ("I don’t know exactly. He just... left. And I’ve wondered why. Maybe this was never the right place for him.")

Carlos swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the truth pressing against him. He wanted to tell Hector everything, to explain why Connor had left and how he was standing in front of him now as Carlos. But for now, he simply nodded, knowing that the time for full honesty would come. He wasn’t ready to let go of this life or of Hector. Not yet.

As they left the cigar shop, their chosen cigars in hand, Carlos felt a bittersweet sense of understanding. He had done everything he could to become the man Hector needed—and yet, some part of Hector was still holding onto the past.

But as they walked side by side, Carlos couldn’t help but smile. He had built something real with Hector, and even if the shadow of Connor still lingered, Carlos knew that what they had was just as real—if not more so.

The *quinceañera* would be a celebration of family and culture, but for Carlos, it would also be another step toward fully embracing the life he had chosen. And with Hector by his side, Carlos knew that this was where he truly belonged.

Nearly six months had passed since Carlos had fully stepped into his new life. As the days turned into weeks, he found himself growing more attached to everything about being Carlos Alvarez—his job, his modest life, the close-knit community, and most of all, Hector. Every day, the weight of his old life as Connor faded a little more, but he knew deep down that there was something he had to confront. The looming *quinceañera* this weekend would be a major event, but Carlos couldn’t shake the thoughts that had been swirling in his head recently.

He stood in front of the mirror in his apartment, adjusting the details of the charro suit he had picked up for the occasion. The suit was nothing short of stunning—black with intricate silver embroidery along the sleeves and down the pant legs. A wide belt with an ornate silver buckle cinched his waist, and the fitted jacket accentuated his broad, muscular frame. The silver buttons gleamed under the soft light, and the tailored fit made him feel powerful, confident, like he had always belonged in this life.

Carlos carefully placed his black cowboy hat on his head, tilting it just right, then stood back to admire himself. The final touch was his proud mustache, now a permanent fixture on his face, framing his jawline perfectly. He looked every bit the part of a man deeply rooted in Mexican culture—a transformation that had started as a trial, but now felt like home.

Hector had picked up his own suit earlier, and Carlos couldn’t wait to see him in it. They had laughed and joked during the fittings, but tonight would be different. Tonight, they were stepping into a family celebration together, and that meant more than just a fun night. It meant Carlos was fully integrated into Hector’s life—his family, his traditions. And yet, beneath the surface, Carlos knew that something needed to change soon.

The *quinceañera* was held at a beautiful outdoor venue, strung with lights that glowed softly in the evening air. As Carlos arrived, he spotted Hector across the courtyard, dressed in a deep navy blue charro suit that contrasted sharply against the twinkling lights. The silver embroidery on his jacket shimmered as he moved, and Carlos couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride seeing him. Hector looked breathtaking, his strong features framed by the dark, sleek lines of his suit.

“Carlos,” Hector called out, his voice warm as he approached. “Dios, te ves increíble,” he said, his eyes gleaming as he took in Carlos’s appearance. He reached up, tracing a finger along the edge of Carlos’s mustache. “Ese bigote te queda mejor de lo que imaginaba,” he teased, his voice low. ("God, you look incredible. That mustache suits you even better than I imagined.")

Carlos grinned, pulling Hector in for a quick kiss. “Y tú también te ves guapo, Héctor. Estamos listos para impresionar,” he said, his hand resting on Hector’s chest, feeling the warmth between them. ("And you look handsome too, Hector. We’re ready to impress.")

The night progressed as beautifully as expected. The *quinceañera* was full of joy and laughter, music, dancing, and family celebrating together. Carlos and Hector danced among the crowd, their boots tapping in time with the live mariachi band. Carlos couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of belonging. This was what he had been searching for all along—something real, something rooted in love, family, and tradition. Hector’s sisters, his parents, and extended family all welcomed Carlos as if he had been a part of their lives forever. It was perfect.

Yet, despite the happiness of the night, something weighed on Carlos’s mind. He couldn’t keep living this lie forever. For months, he had known that he would eventually need to tell Hector the truth about his past, about who he really was. And recently, Dr. Redding had made it clear that Carlos couldn’t remain in this beta trial much longer. The DNA augmentation was designed as a temporary change, a test, and the doctor was worried about the long-term effects if Carlos remained in this state for more than a year.

Carlos glanced at Hector, who was laughing with his sisters as they all shared a drink together. Hector looked so at ease, so happy, and Carlos felt a knot tighten in his chest. He had built a life with this man, but it was based on a foundation that wasn’t entirely real. Could he risk losing it all by telling Hector the truth?

Later that night, after most of the guests had left and the music had quieted down, Carlos and Hector found a quiet spot outside, sitting together under the stars. The cool breeze felt refreshing after the warmth of the party. Hector leaned back, pulling Carlos closer, his arm resting around Carlos’s shoulder.

“Te he visto pensativo toda la noche. ¿En qué estás pensando, Carlos?” Hector asked softly, his voice full of concern. ("You’ve been thoughtful all night. What are you thinking about, Carlos?")

Carlos took a deep breath, staring up at the sky. He didn’t want to ruin the perfect evening, but he knew he couldn’t avoid the conversation any longer. “Héctor... he estado pensando mucho últimamente,” he began, his voice quiet but steady. "Sobre nosotros. Sobre esta vida." ("Hector... I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About us. About this life.")

Hector furrowed his brow, turning to face Carlos fully. “¿Qué quieres decir? ¿Algo anda mal?” ("What do you mean? Is something wrong?")

Carlos sighed, feeling the weight of the words he was about to say. “No es que algo esté mal. Es solo que... no puedo seguir siendo Carlos para siempre,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "Hay cosas que no te he contado." ("It’s not that something is wrong. It’s just that... I can’t keep being Carlos forever. There are things I haven’t told you.")

Hector frowned, concern flooding his features. “¿De qué estás hablando, Carlos?” ("What are you talking about, Carlos?")

Carlos looked into Hector’s eyes, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on him. He had to tell him—soon. But not tonight. Not here, in the middle of this celebration. “Solo... hay cosas que no he compartido contigo, cosas sobre mí,” Carlos said gently, brushing a hand along Hector’s cheek. "Pero te prometo que te lo diré cuando sea el momento." ("Just... there are things I haven’t shared with you, things about me. But I promise I’ll tell you when the time is right.")

Hector studied him for a moment, his eyes softening. He nodded slowly, clearly sensing the gravity of Carlos’s words. “Confío en ti, Carlos. Cuando estés listo,” he said quietly, leaning in to kiss Carlos gently. ("I trust you, Carlos. Whenever you’re ready.")

As they sat together under the stars, Carlos felt a mixture of relief and fear. He knew that he couldn’t stay as Carlos forever—the doctor’s warnings echoed in his mind—but he didn’t want to give up the life he had built. Perhaps there was a way to remain Carlos indefinitely, to keep living this life that felt more real than anything Connor had ever experienced. But for now, he would enjoy the time he had with Hector, knowing that the truth was waiting, just around the corner.

Carlos had fallen into a steady routine over the months, documenting his daily life as part of the ongoing beta test. Every night, after the long hours spent at the construction site and the passionate moments he shared with Hector, he would sit down at his small kitchen table and write in his journal. The transformation doctors had provided him with specific prompts to follow: notes on any physical or mental changes, emotional fluctuations, or anything else that might seem unusual as part of the DNA augmentation trial.

Physically, Carlos felt strong and capable. His body had fully adapted to the rugged, muscular frame of a blue-collar worker. Emotionally, things were more complex. His relationship with Hector had grown deeper, more intimate, but so had the weight of the secret Carlos was carrying. Every time Hector looked at him with love and trust in his eyes, Carlos felt the pressure to tell him the truth—the truth about his past as Connor and the experimental nature of his transformation.

The months rolled by, the construction project nearing completion. The crew admired Carlos’s work ethic, and Hector and Carlos spent nearly every free moment together. They often shared beers after long shifts, cooking simple meals at Carlos’s apartment or going out dancing on the weekends. Hector had even begun spending nights at Carlos’s place, their connection solidifying with each passing day.

One day, after a particularly exhausting day on-site, Carlos invited Hector over. They planned to spend a quiet evening together, sharing a meal and unwinding. As they cooked dinner together, Hector casually explored Carlos’s apartment, glancing at the few photos on the walls and the modest decor that filled the small space.

Carlos, distracted by cooking, didn’t notice when Hector wandered into the bedroom and found a leather-bound journal sitting on the bedside table. It was the one Carlos wrote in nightly for the doctors—filled with his thoughts, feelings, and observations about the transformation.

Curiosity got the better of Hector. He flipped open the journal, his eyes scanning the first few lines. At first, the entries seemed innocent enough—reflections on Carlos’s day, thoughts on their growing relationship. But as he read further, the words became more confusing. The entries mentioned changes—physical, mental, and emotional—things that seemed too deliberate, too clinical.

Hector furrowed his brow as he continued reading.

“*Day 142: No noticeable physical changes today. Muscle mass remains consistent. Mentally, I feel more at home in this body, but there are still moments where I think of my past as Connor. The weight of the secret is growing heavier, especially with Hector spending more time here. He’s starting to notice little things, I think. But how do I explain something this big?*”

Hector’s heart raced as he read the name *Connor*. His mind flashed back to the conversation they’d had months ago, where Carlos had vaguely hinted at things he hadn’t shared yet. But now, the pieces started to fall into place. Carlos wasn’t who he claimed to be. His mind raced with questions—who was Connor? What was this transformation?

Carlos, unaware that Hector had found the journal, called out from the kitchen. “¡Héctor, la comida está lista! ¿Vienes?” ("Hector, dinner's ready! You coming?")

Hector snapped the journal shut, his hands trembling. He didn’t know what to think. The man he had fallen for, the man he had trusted, was hiding something huge—something that had been lurking in the background for months. Slowly, he placed the journal back on the table and made his way to the kitchen, trying to compose himself.

As he entered the room, Carlos looked up with a warm smile. “Todo listo. Espero que tengas hambre,” he said, setting the food down on the table. ("All set. I hope you're hungry.")

Hector forced a smile, but his mind was spinning. He couldn’t confront Carlos just yet. Not until he understood more. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and nothing would be the same until he got the answers he needed.

They sat down to eat, but Hector’s mind was elsewhere, his eyes drifting between Carlos and the journal he had just read. He felt a pang of hurt but also an overwhelming sense of confusion. He had to figure out what the truth was—and soon.

For now, though, Hector would keep his discovery to himself, waiting for the right moment to bring it up. As much as he loved Carlos, trust had been shaken, and that trust would have to be rebuilt, piece by piece.

[malebodyswapfiles]

Playing in the Attic

Kenton:

Chris and I are cousins (the youngest in the family), our whole family is gettin together this weekend at my Uncle Al’s house for his big birthday celebration. I was so excited to see Chris that I talked my dad into letting me come stay with them a night early. Al (my dad’s older brother) is Chris’s dad and when I got there I was surprised to see that my other uncle Tim (my dad’s younger brother) came to stay early as well.

Chris and I were having a good time catchin up but then Chris brought up how his dad never lets him go into the attic.

So curious me, talked Chris into going upstairs. We waited until we knew Uncle Tim and Al were too busy to notice that we snuck upstairs.

Both of us sneaked our way up and opened the door. We quietly shut it behind us and giggled out of excitement to see what’s upstairs.

Once the door was shut, we found a light to turn on. And both of us were surprised to only find one small box.

“What the heck? What do you thinks in it?” I said to Chris.

“I don’t know, should we open it?”

I gave him a mischievous grin and said, “we made it this far!”

I walked over and carefully took the lid off. Inside was an old lookin statue.

“Booo!!! That’s not exciting at all!”

I grab it and show it Chris and immediately felt strange. Chris touches it as well.

And that’s when things got crazy!!!!

One second we’re upstairs. And the next the second I’m in his living room looking at Uncle Tim.

I look down and notice my tummy is huge! So arms and my feet!!!

I wiggle my toes just to make it’s not a dream.

I look over at Uncle Tim and he looks just as confused as me!

“Uncle Tim?”

Uhhh no…. Dad?”

“Nope!,” I say back to him.

That’s when I start to put some of the pieces together.

I get up and go to the closet mirror I could find. That’s where i see my Uncle Al staring back at me!

“Holy crap!!!,” I say out loud giggling.

I turn over to Uncle Tim, “it’s me Kenton!”

“Kenton!!! I’m Chris or I guess—“ Chris looks at his new reflection seeing Tim’s face looking back.

“IM UNCLE TIM!!!”

We both grin excited about our new discovery.

“Wait a minute what about our bodies?!?”

We both dash up to the attic and see both of our bodies lying on the ground.

“Wow! That’s freaky!”

“So where is my dad and Tim if they aren’t us?”

“I don’t know maybe they’re still in here with us but we’re in control?”

“Freaky!!”

“Here grab your body and I’ll grab mine. Just don’t touch that status.”

“Haha okay!”

We both carefully pick ourselves up and it’s so funny carrying myself. I’m so light with Uncle Al’s big arms.

We place our bodies in bed and head back downstairs.

That night was the most phone I think I’ve had in a long time!!

Chris and I went out on the town. We went shopping, I bought Uncle Al a couple of things I thought he’d look cool in. I also got Chris all of the video games he’s wanted the last of couple months since I’m now his dad.

After we got dinner and I tries sushi for the first time. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it but Chris and Al eat here all of the time. Even the waiter knew Uncle Al’s order.

I didn’t want to make it weird so when he asked me if I’m going to have ��my usual’ I said sure!

It was actually pretty good!

That night Chris and I got into some bathing suits and went into the hot tub together. We even both had a couple of beers which I kinda liked as well.

By 3 am both of were so tired, Chris and I went upstairs to bed. We both tugged off our clothes and was surprised that Chris got completely naked in Tim’s body.

I looked at him from head to toe, covered in hair— I pull off Uncle Al’s bathing suit and his junk came flying out.

“Kenton!! I don’t wanna see all of my dad!!”

“Well you started it!”

Chris and I laid in bed together. I couldn’t help but stare at both of our naked bodies. I kinda liked the way we looked.

I looked at Al’s big feet and rubbed them against Tim’s big feet.

Chris gave me a look and I said, “what??? These big feet are cold! I was hopin I could warm them up with yours.”

“Ugh fine!”

We wrapped our new big feet together. And I felt a rush go through me. I looked at his hairy belly, I wanna run my fingers through it but I stopped myself.

“You ready to go to bed?”

“Yeah I’m sleepy!”

The next morning I wake up and looked down at myself. I’m still uncle Al, I look over and Chris in Uncle Tim’s body still sleeping.

I pull back the covers and look at Al’s junk. I get a little handsy and start playing with it.

I try to slow myself down but it feels sooo good.

I watch my uncles big hands go back and forth. I rub his big feet together and rub my other hand up and down his hairy chest.

I tug faster and faster about 15 minutes until I make a mess everywhere!

Chris wakes up and doesn’t seem to notice the mess I just made.

He grins at me with half open eyes and says good morning. He gets up and heads to the bathroom. I guess he had to go real bad.

I get up as well and I pass the other room. I can hear Chris, he’s making a lot of noise in there.

I carefully crack the door open and see he’s standing in the shower tugging away at Tim’s junk!

I back away from the door and let him finish up.

Today’s the day everyone is coming over so I knew our fun had to end.

Chris walks out and I tell him we should probably get dressed and try to figure out the statue.

After we get ready both of us head back upstairs. I look at the statue and without much of a plan I say to him, “I guess let’s just grab it?”

We grab it and the same time. I feel kinda funny again but nothing happens!

“Well… that’s not good,” he says to me.

We both go back downstairs…

That’s when we hear voices coming from Chris’s room… it’s our voices!

2 months later…

So… turns out that when we touched that statue that just put Uncle Al and Tim right into our bodies.

We were in sooo much trouble! Especially when we found out that we couldn’t switch back to our bodies for an entire year!

Soo now im uncle Al for a very long time and Chris is gonna be Tim for a while as well.

But it’s all good, neither Al or Tim are mad at us anymore. No one in our family knows about it outside of us. So Tim lives full time with me in Chris’s body.

And the best part is Chris comes over every weekend! And we still get have a lot of fun even if Uncle Tim gets annoyed with us. Who cares! We’re the ones in charge now!

[malebodyswapfiles]

So I know this is wrong but I have a little secret that I’ll never share with my roommate. Which is that on some nights when he goes to bed…

I’ll float out of my body and straight into his. The first few times I did it, I thought it was fun just laying in his bed— rubbing his cock, sniffing/licking his feet, I even experimented with his hole a few times.

But what I recently discovered is how much I enjoy playing around with my body while I’m inside of his… I don’t know it’s so hot to me. Putting his mouth on my toes,licking each foot.

I’ll eventually suck my cock… but I’m going to enjoy my feet first!

[malebodyswapfiles]

The Roomate

Content Warning: Weight Gain

Tyus was for and athletic throughout his life, being on the football, wrestling and track teams in high school. Tyus was at college on a varsity football scholarship, he was just getting to campus for his first day when he met his roomate. He was surprised to find that his roommate was a 36 year old slobbish man to be his roommate. The man was wearing a tight blue polo, his fat guy and soft chest clung to the fabric. The shirt was stained with different stains.

“Nice to meet you” *BURAAAPP* The man belched loudly. “I’m Brayden.” Brayden pulls down his shirt as it rides up his belly.

Tyus was disgusted by his roomate, he was hairy, bald, fat… a total cock block. “I’m Tyus… you’re not what I expected for a roommate.” Tyus puts some bags down, he noticed that Brayden was very musky and the room was filled with it.

Brayden scratched his soft double chin “You’re exactly what I expected, a young fit jock.” Brayden got closer, his musk started to fill Tyus’ nostrils fogging up his brain. “Can get anyone with a flex from his toned arms, always showing them off with an athletic tank top.” Brayden put a hand on Tyus’ abs, rubbing them from under the shirt. Tyus wanted to push the fat perv away but he was sluggish. “Come sit down with me” Tyus noticed that there was a disgusting stained couch in the dorms living area, Brayden pushed Tyus right down onto the cum stained cushions.

The musk was making Tyus more submissive and agreeable to Brayden’s lifestyle. “ Oh uh wow… you smell… dis-“ Tyus had a hard time saying it, his cock beginning to twitch in his workout shorts.

“I know I’m smell great don’t I?” Brayden wafted his musk over to Tyus. “What do you like to eat, Tyus?”

“Oh I usually just eat lean meat and vegetables…” Tyus felt odd about what he was saying, he started to feel like that wasn’t true.

“Oh but you look like a man who really loves doughnuts, right” Brayden took out a dozen doughnuts and started shoving them into Tyus’ mouth.

“No I don-mphhhhh” Brayden moved Tyus’ hands to his fat belly.

“You feel that? You love that soft fat pig belly.” Brayden shoved another doughnut into Tyus’s mouth.

Tyus’s body began to swell with fat, bite after bite, covering his once toned abs. His flabby belly pressed against his tank top, his chest softening and become plump moobs. This looks down at his blubbery body, a mix of arousal and fear caused his cock to stiffen in his shorts. “Oh my god…” Brayden forces another doughnut into Tyus’s moth “I’m getting so…” Tyus felt his belly gurgle as he let out a loud belch. “UUUUrrraaaaPPP”

“You’re becoming a fat piggy” Brayden squeezes Tyus’s left moob while forcing new junk food into his mouth, Tyus began to sweat from under his moobs. “oh damn you plumped up nicely, let’s keep going” Brayden pulled out unlabeled jars of a chocolaty thick fluid, he shoves a funnel into Tyus’s mouth and pours the mixture into his mouth. It tasted so sweet and decadent, and it was causing Tyus to swell quickly.

“S-stop… I’m getting so f-fat!” Tyus’s alarm went away as he put his hands on his fat belly, he couldn’t help but play with the soft mass of blubber that had replaced his abs. Tyus didn’t know it but he had grown a double chin, softening and removing his once sharp jawline. Tyus tried fighting, but Brayden’s musk was too much for him to handle. Tyus’s body swelled, growing a light dusting of body hair. Brayden started to remove his tank top and shorts to show off the whale that had replaced the jock.

“Oh how do you feel piggy? Feel like being my submissive slob??” Brayden shook Tyus’s belly, causing it to jiggle, a sensation that was foreign to Tyus.

“I- I-“ Brayden gave Tyus’s nipple a tug, causing a surge of pleasure that made Tyus’s cock shoot a load. “I am your submissive piggy” Tyus moaned as he left a wet spot on the couch. Tyus’s mind went completely submissive and dumb, the muscled jock that was there minutes ago no longer existed, only a dumb obese pig.