rowipott

[rowipott]

Prologue - A Deal with the Devil

Mr. Chen sat at his grand mahogany desk, the faint glow of his jade desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. In one hand, he swirled a glass of aged whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he leaned back in his chair. Before him lay a file marked Confidential—a dossier on JunHao, the man who had once been an untouchable icon of success, strength, and masculinity.

“JunHao,” Mr. Chen murmured, savoring the name like a delicacy. “You had it all, didn’t you? A thriving business, a loving girl, and a body that could make even gods envious.”

He glanced at the photo pinned to the top of the file. There JunHao stood, shirtless on a magazine cover, his sculpted physique the picture of perfection. The biceps that could stretch the seams of any suit, the chiseled abs, the confident smile—it all reeked of success, of invincibility. But Mr. Chen saw something else. Ambition. Greed. A man who had soared so high he never bothered to look down.

And that was where Mr. Chen came in.

He had orchestrated the entire downfall with surgical precision. Junhao’s business, a chain of high-end fitness centers, had been booming. But like many businessmen who thought themselves untouchable, JunHao had been careless with his partnerships. He hadn’t noticed when a shell company, quietly owned by Mr. Chen, began acquiring shares in his supply chain. He hadn’t realized when critical shipments of equipment were delayed or canceled, choking his operations.

Then came the financial strain, and with it, the loans.

“Desperate men make desperate decisions,” Mr. Chen muttered to himself, taking a sip of whiskey. He remembered the day JunHao had walked into his office, his broad shoulders weighed down by stress, his usual aura of confidence cracked.

“I need a loan,” JunHao had said, his deep voice betraying a hint of desperation.

Mr. Chen had leaned back in his chair, feigning concern. “A loan, you say? From me? The terms would have to be… unconventional.”

JunHao had hesitated, but he was a man with his back against the wall. He had signed the contract without reading the fine print. It was a devil’s bargain, one that Mr. Chen had designed with a very specific clause: in the event of the business fails, all of JunHao’s assets—all of them—would transfer to Mr. Chen.

It wasn’t just the gyms. Not just the properties or the accounts. It was everything JunHao had. Without him realizing, it included his body and the ownership to it.

————————————————————————

The collapse had been swift. Within months, Junhao’s business was in shambles. The loans he had taken to save it became an anchor, dragging him further into the abyss. And when the inevitable happened—when Junhao defaulted—Mr. Chen made his move.

He had summoned Junhao to his private estate, the contract in hand. Junhao, now a shadow of his former self, stood in the opulent office, his powerful frame visibly worn by stress. "Guess your business failed and everything of yours is now mine!"

“You can’t do this,” Junhao had growled, his fists clenched.

“Oh, but I can,” Mr. Chen had replied, his tone calm and cold. “You signed the contract. You agreed to the terms.”

“I’ll fight this in court!”

Mr. Chen had chuckled darkly. “You won’t get the chance. The clause is binding, immediate, and irrevocable. I don’t just own your business, Junhao. I own you.”

Before Junhao could react, Mr. Chen had signaled to his guards. They restrained the struggling man as Mr. Chen retrieved a small vial from his desk—a blend of ancient Chinese alchemy and cutting-edge bioengineering.

“This,” Mr. Chen said, holding the vial up to the light, “is your key to freedom—or, rather, mine.”

Junhao’s eyes had widened as the liquid was injected into his neck. He had thrashed against the guards’ grip, but it was no use. The process was instantaneous. A searing pain had coursed through his veins as his consciousness was pulled away from his body, drawn into a swirling void.

When Junhao woke, he found himself in a frail, elderly body, his once-pristine physique now a distant memory. Across the room, Mr. Chen stood in front of a mirror, marveling at his new form.

“This… is perfection,” Mr. Chen had said, flexing his biceps and running his hands over his chiseled abs. He turned to face Junhao, a smirk playing on his lips. “You should be proud, Junhao. Your body will be put to far better use in my hands.”

Junhao had screamed, lunging at Mr. Chen, but his new, weakened body betrayed him. The guards dragged him away as Mr. Chen laughed, his deep, commanding voice echoing through the halls.

“You should have read the fine print, Junhao,” Mr. Chen had called after him. “You’ve given me everything. And I do mean everything.”

Mr. Chen stepped out of the private chambers in only his underwear, feeling the weight of JunHao's powerful form. His every movement felt fluid, controlled, and effortless. It was a far cry from the frail, aging shell he had once inhabited. As he walked down the hallway, he marveled at the strength that now surged through his limbs, the sensation of each muscle flexing with the slightest movement.

He flexed his biceps—massive, round, and hard as stone—and let out a deep, satisfied breath. It was like a drug, this power. His former body, though fit, had never compared to the raw might he now commanded. These arms—these biceps—could easily crush anyone who dared to oppose him. The veins that snaked across his skin pulsed with vitality, evidence of his newfound strength. Every push, every pull, every lift was easier now, as if the world itself bent to his will.

He grinned, eyes tracing the contours of his new physique in the mirror as he walked past. The chest—wide, firm, and densely packed with muscle—caught his attention. His pecs were like slabs of stone, firm and unyielding, pressing against the tight shirt he had chosen to wear. When he flexed, the movement was hypnotic, a showcase of sheer power. The depth of his ribcage felt more pronounced, the muscles more pronounced, each fiber finely sculpted to perfection. He could feel the strength of his lungs, the way they expanded and contracted with ease, fueling his movements.

His mind raced with the possibilities. In this body, he was capable of feats that would’ve been impossible in his former, weaker form. There was no limit to what he could do, no obstacle he couldn’t crush beneath his new strength. He felt like a god, a man whose very presence commanded the room. Every glance from a passerby, every flicker of acknowledgment from those around him—he could see the admiration, the envy, the lust in their eyes.

But it wasn’t just the physicality that set this body apart. It was the knowledge embedded in every fiber, every cell of this machine.

Now, Mr. Chen stood in front of the mirror in JunHao's—his— gym, his reflection a living testament to his triumph. He flexed his biceps, marveling at their sheer size and power, and smirked as he ran his fingers down the ridges of his abs. His servants were in awe of what he attained.

“This body,” he said to himself, his voice rich and resonant, “isn’t just a vessel. It’s a weapon. A masterpiece.”

Mr. Chen lifted the weight, a staggering amount, effortlessly. As the barbell rose and fell in perfect rhythm, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. Every inch of JunHao’s body was designed for optimal performance. His shoulders were broad and thick, built for lifting, carrying, and crushing. His legs were powerful pillars of strength, veins and tendons twisting beneath the skin as they absorbed the pressure with ease. His calves were muscular and solid, able to sprint for miles without tiring, propelling him forward with each step.

He was a walking weapon—a machine capable of destruction.

The gift of virility was perhaps the most intoxicating. Mr. Chen had always been a man who desired control over everything, and now, he had control over the most primal part of his new form. He could feel the sheer force of Junhao’s masculinity coursing through him, the power in his loins that seemed to radiate outward, a constant hum of energy that never faded. His once-feeble self had known nothing of this.

This was a different kind of strength.

It wasn’t just about physical satisfaction. It was about dominance—asserting control over the very essence of another person. The body’s virility wasn’t a mere function of attraction; it was a weapon, a means of asserting his superiority, of owning and controlling.

The mind that came with this body was just as powerful as its physical form. Junhao’s intelligence had been sharp—business savvy, ruthless in his own right. But now, those instincts and ideas had become Mr. Chen’s. He could feel it—the knowledge embedded deep within the muscle, the experience that came from years of competition, of pushing himself to the limits. Every decision Junhao had made, every business deal, every negotiation—it was all there, like an archive waiting to be unlocked.

Mr. Chen felt as though he were walking in the footsteps of a man who had already laid the path for success. Every strategy, every move he needed to make, was now at his fingertips. JunHao’s thoughts, his methodical and strategic way of thinking, now surged through Mr. Chen’s mind as though they had always been his own.

He could feel the instinctual knowledge of how to read people, how to control a room, how to exploit weaknesses. His ability to manipulate, to strategize, to make others bow to his will—it was second nature now.

Every touch felt electric, as if JunHao's body was awakening to its new owner, recalibrating itself to fit Mr. Chen like a finely tailored suit. Every nerve ending seemed to buzz, hyperaware of his movements, responding to his commands with an eagerness that was both exhilarating and addictive.

Running his hands over his chest, Mr. Chen marveled at the power beneath his fingertips. The solid ridges of muscle, the soft yet firm hairs brushing against his palms-it was all so alive. His previous body had been stiff, sluggish, and unresponsive, a constant reminder of his age. But this? This was perfection incarnate, and it responded to him like a finely tuned instrument.

He progressed to his bedroom and then on the full-length mirror that dominated the corner of his suite, captivated by the sight before him. Mr. Chen wanted to explore this new opportunity in private. As he flexed, his reflection seemed to shimmer with vitality, every muscle rippling beneath his skin in perfect harmony. The sheer control he had over this body was intoxicating.

But then, something unexpected happened.

A faint warmth began to build, spreading through him like a slow burn. It started in his chest, radiating downward with an intensity that took his breath away. By the time he noticed the faint wet spot forming on his underwear, it was too late to deny it-this body wasn't just alive; it was thriving, responding to his every whim with an energy that left him breathless.

"This... this is something else," he murmured, a grin spreading across his face as he pressed his palm against the damp patch, feeling the heat beneath. "You've really outdone yourself, JunHao."

Rather than being embarrassed, Mr. Chen reveled in the sensation. He let the feeling wash over him, leaning into the raw vitality that coursed through his veins. He flexed again, harder this time, watching in awe as his biceps bulged, veins snaking across his forearms like rivers of power. Mr. Chen moaned every so loudly as he groped his new cock. The wet patch grew slightly, and he couldn't help but laugh -a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the room.

"This is what it means to feel alive," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is what I've been missing."

He sat on the edge of the bed, letting his hands roam freely, exploring every inch of his new form. The hard planes of his chest, the taut curve of his thighs, the firmness of his calves-each touch sent a jolt of pleasure through him. It was as if the body itself was rejoicing, celebrating its new owner with a symphony of sensations.

After a few minutes of indulgence, Mr. Chen was covered in JunHao's precious juices which reeked of testosterone, a testament to the new virility. A taste of it sent shockwaves of energy and flavors to his tongue as he forced himself to stand, steadying his breathing as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He wasn't going to let this body overwhelm him-not yet, anyway. There was so much to explore, so much to discover, and he wanted to savor every moment.

He changed into fresh clothes, opting for a tight-fitting shirt that showcased his physique and a pair of jeans that accentuated his powerful legs. As he left the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror one last time and couldn't help but to pose what he had.

"Let's see what else this body can do," he said to himself, stepping out into the night, ready to test the limits of his newfound strength and charm.

[rowipott]

Captions inspired by @/GreedyCorpo on Twitter

[rowipott]

Changing My Grindr "Category”

Ever felt that people just see a category when they look at you? Same. I had had enough of white guys messaging me on Grindr asking me for BBC. Did they not read that I am a bottom? One night, I kinda lost it, I guess. I played along and invited one of these guys over. I asked him how much he wanted my cock, making sure he was begging me for it. 

Then we played the game, I lit a spliff and started smoking. Something I never do, but he said he loved how chill black guys were with drugs. I laughed it off, waiting for the main prize. I said I wanted him to taste it, and wanted to exhale into his mouth. He agreed, horny as he was and I blew more than just smoke into him.

“Feel something?” I asked. He nodded. “Me too” I agreed as I could feel my soul detaching from my body.

Shortly after, we both got more and more lightheaded until we passed out. I woke up before him and left before he woke up. Man was he going to have a surprise when he looked down to see that big cock he was begging for in his crotch.

Meanwhile, I was enjoying having hair again, my slender body and peachy butt. Now I hope that my category is “horny slut looking for daddy” at the clubs tonight.

[rowipott]

The Swap Booth

“I can’t believe this worked!” I thought to myself as I studied my new reflection. I was still built alright, but my surroundings felt much larger than I was used to. The floor was closer and the ceiling much higher. I hoped it would all be worth it. Jack had consistently friendzoned me and I felt myself getting so obsessive. I managed to sneak a peek at his search history and thank God he didn’t use Incognito or whatever when watching porn. After that, it kind of made more sense as to why he wasn’t interested in me. I mean, the both of us being tops was one thing, but I certainly wasn’t his ‘type’ before…

It’s a shame this cock won’t be seeing any action. It looks like I’m packing a lot. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a test drive. They do say that these swap booths make you horny. My nipples are as sensitive af now, but no matter how hard I pump my new cock, I couldn’t see to cum. I took a look in the holdall that the previous owner brought with him. A dildo? I’m not sure I want to stick something that big in me. But fuck it, I’m curious. And damn, my hole was so stretchy. And it felt… so fucking good. And as soon as I thought of Jack fucking me like this, I came right up to my eyebrows. Man, now that I know what it feels like to be bottom, I never want to fuck anyone again. Not that I could now anyway, that just doesn’t turn this body on, but still, I just want to get filled now!

*

Not sure why that guy would want to give this up, but I’m not complaining. I think I’ve definitely got the better end of this deal. Bigger, taller, sexier. And I had had enough of bottoming. I wish I could have topped, but I just couldn’t make it work. And my small stature just made it awkward. I was jealous of how easy tops have it. No need to clean, watch what you eat, shave everything, the list goes on. Fuck, the idea of just turning up at some dude’s house, shooting my load in his mouth or ass and fucking off home again is getting me hard.

[rowipott]

More Than Car Trouble

I was on a business trip driving through a small town when my car started acting up.

I've never been here, and it's Sunday. And I don't really see too many businesses open.

I was able to get the car parked when I noticed a bunch of motorcycles in front of a bar.

A man driving a luxury car in a tailor-made suit walk into a biker bar was my first mistake.

I guess my breeding made me come across a little rough. And I may have not phrased my question incorrectly about an auto service.

I was told I have a seat.

A gentleman around my own age came to walk up. It seemed to be the leader of this group I was talking to.

Hey, Mr. Do you know where you are??

When you fancy city boys, coming in here demanding things. This is Sunday. Not too many places open around here.

He send two of his boys out to look at your vehicle and see if they can take care of it. They are mighty handy when it comes to engines.

I don't like the way he was looking at me. And I guess he picked up on that.

The next thing i know, there are more of his boys that where standing around me.

You really don't fit in here. He says to me. But that is a mighty fine suit your wearing. Wouldn't mide wearing it myself.

I would offer you a drink. But you need to fit in here better.

He nodded his head. The next I know. The boys were grabbing me.

They place me on the pool table, and they start undressing me from my suit until i'm naked. My watch and all are taken from me.

I hear buzzing sound, and my hair from my head has been shaved. My beard is being trimmed.

The gentleman who is doing all the talkings started taking off his clothes.

He's holding my underwear in his hand, saying mighty fancy. And he put him on. As I am being held down naked on the table. He started dressing in my suit. He towered over me wearing all my clothes. This is a nice fit.I think I'll keep it.

Boys, he's a guest. Put him in my clothes, i've got more.

He's sitting at the table. Watching them get me dressed in his leather.

See him in my suit . Wearing my watch. Right down to my underwear.

His boy's finished pushing his boots onto my feet. They just putting his sweaty socks on me. For his boots, I just lucky i'm the same size as him

That let me lose from the table

They had shaved all the hair from my head. Trimming my beard down to all most stubble. Dressing me in his sweaty leather clothes. Lucky for me. I was in just as good as in shape as he was. I did it was good in him.

He looks at me. He says: My learher do fit you fine. You can keep them cause i'm keeping your suit.

And you definitely do fit in mine. He pours a shot and puts it in front of me.

At the same time, the two gentlemen return from outside.

One whispers something to him.

I guess everything's all taken care of.

They got your car running. And I'll take all this as payment. As he glided his hands down the suit he took from me.

I can't believe what just happened.

I was stripped of my clothes and dressed in this man leather gear. As he sits there wearing my tailor-made suit. Right down to my socks and underwear. He takien my watch. A whole time with a smile on his face as they shaved the hair from my head.

He said to me that I was more than welcome to stay as he hands me my wallet and cellphone. Says my keys are in your car.

I'm glad they didn't open the trunk. They probably found my suitcase and my other suits. They probably take all of them, too.

I shook his hand. I need to hit the road. I have to work in the morning.

Thank your boys for fixing my car.

I can't believe i'm walking out of here dressed like this. My beautiful suit taken.

His clothes do fit me. Quite well. I may add. But I can not conduct business like this. The next available stop, i'm willing to switch into another suit.

I turned back to the man. You're really look fine in my suit. You do wear it well. Thank you for the gear. I'll see you on the return trip and buy a beer.

He smile and waves. says, looking forward to it. Now that you're fit in here.

[rowipott]

Imagine if... (1)

Imagine there is some random guy on Grindr who keeps writing to you. He not unattractive, but he’s just not your type and seems a little creepy from the way he writes so you just don’t respond.

The next day, you’re no longer in your young, slim body but you’re in his! You’re so hairy now and you can scratch your thick beard. You must easily be 40 now. You start feeling a little horny so you open Grindr. You look at the muscle hunks that you like but somehow you’re not interested in those. Your new body betrays your mind and you keep looking at the cute twinky boys. Somehow anyone older than 24 is a turn off for you now. You try and ignore it and do something else, but you’re just so horny now. 

Your mind says it’s a bad idea, but your body is stronger. You write to some cute twinks. “Hey boy, looking cute”. Most don’t respond. Normally you’d stop here, but you’re too horny. You can’t help it. You send some unsolicited dick pics. “Wanna sit on daddy’s lap?”

And that’s how you became one of those creepy guys on Grindr.

[rowipott]

Revenge of The Nerd Part 2

Brock:

So it’s been one full day living Justin’s life. I’ve finally calmed down— well for the most part.

For the last hour I’ve been going through his stuff.

For starters, we have his poster:

Some kind of cartoon? Not really sure what’s going on here.

I also found this outfit which I about died laughing at it.

Whatever Naruto is he seems to love it.

And finally we have this wall all of these posters along with this Pokemon hat.

He’s definitely a nerd. That’s for sure.

Although apart of me his started to feel guilty for the way I treated the guy.

I mean granted he did just steal my body from me. Which isn’t cool.

But I’ve done a lot of messed up things to him. So I guess I’m starting to understand why he did it what he did.

What’s been really hard about being in his body is well— his sexuality.

I didn’t notice anything about it until I was laying in his bed.

I had my practice that I knew he missed on my brain. But for some reason, my mind started to wonder…

I thought about all of bros in the locker room getting ready. All of the sweat, dirty gym socks, jockstraps… geez here I go again!

I need to get this gay stuff to get out of my head!

Well I’m going to call it a night, hopefully tomorrow Justin will be willing to talk about everything…

The Next Morning…

So this morning I got a text from Justin.

“You have to go into my shift for work today. I’m supposed to be there in 2 hours.”

I don’t want to do this! I don’t even know what he does for a living. I messaged him back.

“Fine. Where do I go and do I have to wear.”

Justin: “I have a couple of button down. Here’s the location.”

I click on the location he sent and it pulls up a vintage clothing store a couple of blocks away.

I get dressed and start heading that way. But I have to say, Justin doesn’t look half bad when he dresses like this:

I mean I still look like a gay dweeb.

But it’s definitely better than the Japanese cartoon shirts he used to wear when we were at school together.

I roll in just in time for the shift to start. And it’s pretty easy work.

Just folding clothes, checking clients out, basic stuff.

I decided to send Justin a text.

Figured it’s worth giving an update, maybe I’ll get some brownie points? I don’t know…

“Shift’s going good. Let me know your full schedule. And I’ll make sure to be here on time everyday.”

I get a text back from him: “Thanks. It’s Monday-Friday, same times as today.”

It was a short response but at least it wasn’t negative. God, I wonder what he’s doing right now— I hope he’s not doing anything that could mess up my scholarship.

Or worse… he could try to do some gay stuff with one of my friends.

God, I can’t even think about that. The humiliation would be too much to take—

That’s when a customer walks in. A guy around my age.

He was a little taller than me and notably fit. Not as fit as my body but I could tell that he goes to the gym.

What fascinated me was his curly brown hair and the way he carried himself.

That’s when he came up to the counter.

“Hey, this is my first here. Do you mind showing me around?”

His voice had this raspy tone to it. That’s when I noticed he was waiting for me to speak.

“Oh! Uh sorry, of course. Let me show you around. Anything you’re looking for in particular?”

“Nah man, maybe some cool vintage shirts.”

“Oh nice well I have a bunch over here.”

I walk him over to the shirt aisle and watched breeze through different shirts.

I wasn’t sure what it was about him but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

“What do you think?” He says holding up a shirt.

“I like it, you wanna try it on?”

“Sure!”

I get him to the dressing room and he starts talking to me outside the door.

“I’m Dev by the way.”

“Oh I’m— Brr—Justin.”

“Haha nice to meet you.” he says coming out of the dressing room.

“Thoughts?” Dev does a full circle in the shirt. And he does look good in it.

“You look really good.” Oh Jesus, Brock what are you thinking? Now this guys going to think I’m in to him.

He blushes and says, “Thanks man.”

“Sorry didn’t mean— I uh— sorry.”

“Nah, you’re all good. Wanna check me out?”

“What?!?”

“Like the shirt haha. I have to pay for it.”

“Oh right!”

We head back to the counter and I grab Justin’s keys to unlock the cash register.

“That’ll an even $20.”

He hands me over the cash.

“Do you like Pokémon?” he says gesturing to the key chain on Justin’s key ring.

“Yeah kinda nerdy right?”

“Not at all, I love Pokémon. Say— what are doing after this shift?”

“Oh… I have a thing right after.”

“Well let me see your phone.” he says to me.

And I wasn’t sure why but I handed it to him.

“Here’s my number, if you do end up free later. Call me.”

“Okay yeah for sure dude.”

God, this is so embarrassing! Im literally stumbling over words right now.

He starts walking out the door but turns around.

“Hey Justin.”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re pretty cute.”

I blush and say, “ You too man.”

With that he heads out the door.

My god! Did I just say ‘you too man’ ? What hell has gotten over me?

I pull up his contact and see his full name. Dev Bryant.

I went to pull him up and found his Twitter. And the first thing I see is a photo of him shirtless.

“Wow” I stare at the picture for a little too long.

And I even contemplated about texting him.

That was until I came back to reality.

“This isn’t my life. I’m not gay. I’m on my college football team.”

I pull his contact up again. I see the text button. It’s so tempting….

“Screw it!”

I texted him and said, “Hey it’s Justin.”

And I immediately put the phone on the counter and flipped it over.

My shift wasn’t too far from being over and I couldn’t shake the thought from my brain.

Am I actually about to go on a date with a dude?

[rowipott]

Swap Accident: James & Coach

James:

So this is me, I’m your pretty average guy just trying to make it through school. I had good friends, normal family, and a normal life.

But all of that changed one day. The day our campus made a mistake.

You see I and Coach Andre just so happen to cross paths at a perfect time for our science department to make a huge mistake.

I was walking along campus and just picked up my lunch when I was stopped by Coach Andre.

I had class with him and been a bit hard on me lately. But I can’t help that I’m not that physical of a guy.

He started in on my about my participation.

“James, if you don’t participate it’s going to start reflecting your grades.” he said to me sternly.

Before I could speak a giant but came at me.

My eyes widened as I felt waves of shock.

The next thing I know I’m on the ground. A couple of staff members rush over to us.

All I could hear is the faint noise of, “Are you okay?”

I open my eyes for a second and quickly closed them.

The moment I wake up. I felt funny to say the least.

When I finally started to take in everything I noticed my surrounding were different.

This isn’t my room… where am I?

I turn to the dresser next to me and see a note that says, “Please call me when you wake up.” including a phone number.

“What the hell? Wait, my voice!”

That definitely not my voice!!

I pull the covers off of me and look down to a body that definitely doesn't belong to me.

My skin was tanner and my chest was covered in dark hair.

I could tell by my frame that I was older…

I head to the bathroom and get a glimpse of myself. That's when I saw exactly who I was... A very familiar face.

“I’m…I’m… Coach Andre…”

I head back to what I assume is his bedroom.

I felt panic run over me. How is this possible? What am I going to do?

But then another feeling came up.

“I’m literally Coach Andre.”

Coach may be a bit of a hard ass but he is a good looking guy.

Even through all of this rudeness… a part of me has found him attractive. In like that hot uncle kind of way.

I grinned and looked down at Coach’s body. His physique isn’t bad.

He even has a cute face too…

I start giggling to myself.

“This is insane! I can’t be— but I am.”

Then I had another thought… I look down at coach’s crotch.

Would it be inappropriate for me to check out Coach Andre’s equipment. I mean… it is mine at at the moment.

I turn to coach’s phone and saw no new messages or missed calls… maybe I can take a second.

No, James! You need to figure out what’s going on.

But what if I’m only in his body temporarily…

Screw it!

I unbuckled coach’s pants and pulled them off.

I can in his thighs, thick and covered in the same dark hair as his chest.

I look down at coach’s feet. Way bigger than my size 10s.

I run my borrowed hands down his legs until I’m at his feet.

I bring one up to my nose. I could feel myself getting hard.

I thought of the dirtiest thing I could do in that moment.

I use coach’s tongue to lick every inch of his foot.

I reach into his boxers and a huge 11 inch dick plops out.

“Oh my god!!”

I take off his underwear and brought them up to my borrowed face. The smelled of his manly musk.

I lay back with his underwear and start pleasuring my new body.

Meanwhile…

Coach Andre:

Oh god, what the hell happened? All I can remember is talking to that shrimpy kid in my class.

Uhhh what a minute? Where am I?

What the… my arms are so….pale and thin…

I get out of bed and looked down at my frame.

This isn’t mine!!!

I run to the bathroom of whoever’s house I’m in and—-

“AHHHHHH!!!!!!”

“What the hell?”

But how? How am I in this kids body??!

I run back to his room.

That’s where I see a note on the table saying to call when I wake up.

I dig around the room for James’s phone.

I call number and here a voice say, “You’re awake.”

“I sure f*^% am! You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I take it your Coach Andre.”

“Yes! Well…” I turn to the mirror. “Maybe not this second. But yes!”

[rowipott]

.

[rowipott]

No please please stop I don't want to

SORRY BUD I AM IN CONTROL NOW. GUESS YOU SHOULDNT PICK ON QUEERS.

I promise I won't I will stop

OH YOU ARE RIGHT ON THAT. YOU ARE GOING TO DO MORE THAN THAT. TONIGHT YOUR GOING TO FUCK MY BOYFRIEND, YOU KNOW THE QUEER YOU MADE FUN OF.

what? No!!!!!!!!!

OH FUCK YES YOU ARE AND I AM GOING TO MAKE SURE YOUR BODY LOVES IT. YOU WILL FEEL EVERY THROB AND PLEASURE AS IF IT WAS YOUR OWN

no I'm not gay please stop

NO CAN DO BUD. I ALREADY HAVE YOU GEARED UP FOR THE NIGHT. NOW LETS FIND THE GUY THAT GOING TO FUCK YOU WHILE IM FUCKING MY BOYFRIEND. ITS GOING TO BE QUITE THE PARTY. AND YOU KEPT THIS BODY IN SUCH NICE SHAPE, TIME TO TEST IT AND STRETCH IT OUT TOO

noooooooooooooo!!!!

OH YEAH. YOU MINE AS WELL ENJOY THE RIDE. I KNOW IM GOING TO.

[rowipott]

The Janitor: Fernandez's body

I work as a Janitor at a gym, but that's not my real job, I just use the job as a Janitor to get easier acess to the prime meat, and by prime meat, I mean hot muscular men. There's no better place to harvest them than at the gym's locker room.

It's been a while since I've found a perfect specimen like Fernandez. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and he has a nice package.

I've been watching Fernandez for a while now. He's always here, every day at the same time. I've studied his habits, his working out routine. I know when he showers, when he changes. And today, I've decided it would be the day I turn him into my next wearable bodysuit.

I watched him walk to the locker room, his body covered in sweat. I followed him and as soon as I entered, I saw him taking his clothes off, he was ready to take a shower. I smirked and quickly put a sign outside the door, written "Do not enter: Men's locker room closed for cleaning"

I took a small technological gun device out of my cart and pointed it at Fernandez. However, I soon realized that I had forgotten to reconfigure the device since the last time I used it. Before I could fix it, Fernandez noticed me.

"Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" He shouted, walking towards me, and before I could activate the device, he quickly punching me in the face, making the device fall off my hand. He continued kicking me and calling me names. But I managed to reach for the device and pulled the trigger, this time hitting him with an orange glowing ray, making the man fall to the floor and start to deflate the second he was hit.

I was a little angry at him for the bruises, so I stomped on his face and abs to empty him faster. As the process finished, I took a step back, admiring my handiwork. Fernandez's body has been reduced to a sleek, form-fitting bodysuit, his every curve and muscle preserved. I couldn't help but feel a surge of power and desire course through me as I reached out and touched the bodysuit, running my fingers over the defined abs pecs for the first time.

That's when I noticed a tiny orange slime crawling out of his mouth.

I smirked and grabbed the tiny goop between my fingers, if you looked closely you would see it moved very slowly like a slug. I usually flush them down the toilet, but I would need this one, so I put it on the floor as I knew it wouldn't go anywhere. I then grabbed the deflated skin from the floor and walked inside a shower stall — Just for precaution.

After I took off my uniform, I grabbed the empty muscle husk by the head and admired his body, specially his big package that even without anything stuffing it inside it was still huge.

With a satisfied grin, I slip the bodysuit on, for last, when I put his head over mine, I looked in the mirror. But it didn't looked natural, I just wasn't as fit as Fernandez, I didn't had big muscles to fill his skin. Some parts looked too stretched like my belly and face, and my dick only stuffed half of his huge shaft.

But this could be fixed. I grabbed the device, changed the settings and shoot the ray at myself — This time a blue glowing ray fired from the device.

I felt a tingling sensation as I watched in the mirror my big belly starting to disappear and instead form abs and big pecs. The skin that was once stretched, now started to grow muscles to the sizes that they were originally. I was looking just like when Fernandez entered the showers.

I changed the settings of the gun one last time and pointed it at the tiny goop on the floor. Once I fired the blue ray at it, the goo started to grow and started to shape itself into a human body: My original body.

It looked exactly like me. And it just kept standing there, looking at me with a blank face.

"Put on the janitor's uniform and clean the locker room, then go home and stay inactive until the next day, when you will return to work." I commanded.

"Yes Master" My copy responded with a blank face expression, it was actually the essence of the real Fernandez, only now he was turned into a mindless slave goo that could take any form that I wanted. He would cover as me while I was out having fun in Fernandez's body.

"But before, I want you to turn into a red underwear"

"Yes Master" The 'janitor' said and started to shrink and change its color, until it was nothing more than a red underwear on the floor. I grabbed it and put it on. It looked really good on me, so with Fernandez's phone I took a photo in the mirror.

I decided to put his sweaty gym clothes back on and return to the main gym. It was really hot to work out my new muscles while wearing the real Fernandez.

[rowipott]

Timeless Devotion Pt. 1

23 to 70 a BSDM transformation.

The dim hum of the air conditioner mixed with the soft clink of a whiskey glass being set down. It was a quiet evening in their shared loft—an intimate space lit by the soft glow of Edison bulbs strung along the exposed brick walls. The air was thick with anticipation as Jackson leaned back in his leather chair. At 55, he was a wall of muscle, his frame carved from decades of lifting and rigorous discipline. His head was shaved smooth, glistening under the soft light, and his predominant horseshoe mustache sat thick and proud above his lips, accentuating the hard cut of his jaw.

"Come here, Micah," Jackson’s voice was deep, gravelly, and rich with authority. His words were never rushed—they didn’t need to be.

Micah, slender and wiry, stood in the doorway. At 23, he was everything Jackson had been drawn to—youthful, with a body that was smooth, pale, and lithe. His wavy hair fell over his forehead in a tousled mop, and his boyish features were accentuated by a shy but knowing smile. He wore nothing but a pair of snug briefs that framed his slim hips. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he obeyed, padding barefoot across the room.

"Yes, Sir," Micah whispered, eyes cast downward.

Jackson reached out, fingers brushing over Micah’s arm before trailing up to cup his chin, lifting his face until their eyes met. Micah’s breath hitched. That unyielding stare always melted him, made him feel small and protected at the same time.

"You’re perfect just the way you are," Jackson murmured, thumb brushing Micah’s cheek. "But I think it’s time to push deeper. Are you ready?"

Micah nodded without hesitation. "Yes, Sir. I trust you."

Jackson’s lips curled into a small but satisfied smile. He rose to his feet—towering, imposing—and walked to the closet. He pulled out a custom leather harness, straps worn but polished to perfection. "Let’s start with this."

Micah’s eyes widened slightly as Jackson approached. The smell of leather was intoxicating as Jackson fastened the harness around Micah’s slim torso, adjusting the buckles with care.

"How does that feel?" Jackson asked, his hands lingering on Micah’s waist.

"Good… snug," Micah replied, already feeling his pulse quicken at the sensation of the firm leather against his skin.

Jackson's strong arms wrapped around Micah from behind, pressing their bodies together. Micah could feel the hardness of Jackson’s broad chest, the sheer mass of him overwhelming but thrilling. Jackson’s deep inhale rumbled through his body, and Micah leaned into it, craving more of the warmth and weight that only his master could give.

Jackson’s hand drifted down to Micah’s hip as he guided him to the mirror. "Look at yourself," he commanded gently.

Micah’s gaze flicked up, and he saw them together—his lithe frame contrasted by Jackson’s broad bulk. Jackson stood behind him, all raw muscle and dominance, his arms crossed over Micah’s chest in a way that screamed ownership. The sight made Micah’s knees weak.

"You belong here, boy," Jackson whispered, lips brushing the shell of Micah’s ear.

Micah exhaled, his skin prickling. "I do, Sir. I feel… safe."

"Good. Let’s take it further." Jackson reached for a cigar from the nearby humidor—a ritual he had perfected over the years. He cut it, placed it between his lips, and lit it, the sweet aroma of tobacco wafting through the room. The first puff sent a thick stream of smoke curling in the air.

Micah swallowed, his throat tightening at the sight of Jackson with the cigar. Jackson was the epitome of masculinity—each deliberate drag punctuated his authority. Micah’s eyes flitted between Jackson’s rugged face and the lazy, confident curl of smoke leaving his lips.

Jackson caught Micah staring and chuckled. "You like watching me, huh?"

Micah nodded, cheeks flushing. "You’re… everything, Sir."

Jackson guided Micah to the edge of the bed, the rich scent of smoke enveloping them. "I think it’s time you understand what it feels like," Jackson said, his voice low but firm. He extended the cigar toward Micah.

Micah hesitated for only a second before taking it, cradling it between his fingers the way he’d seen Jackson do countless times. His lips wrapped around it, and he took a small drag. The taste was earthy and heady, making his tongue tingle.

"Good boy," Jackson praised, brushing his thumb over Micah’s lower lip to catch a stray bit of ash. Micah’s heart soared at the praise, his chest tight with pride and excitement.

Jackson leaned down, pressing a slow, possessive kiss to Micah’s neck before whispering, "You’re mine. You know that, don’t you?"

Micah’s body shuddered at the declaration. "Yes, Sir. I’m yours."

Jackson’s fingers explored the leather harness, pulling the straps taut. Micah’s body bent to Jackson’s will, eager to please. Every touch, every word between them was charged with trust and desire.

Hours passed in a haze of shared breath, smoke, and whispered commands. By the time the air began to cool, Micah lay sprawled across Jackson’s chest, their bodies slick with sweat. Jackson ran a hand over his boy’s back, his thumb tracing slow circles as Micah drifted somewhere between bliss and sleep.

The loft was quiet except for the soft rustle of the leather couch as Jackson adjusted his position. The air was thick with the comforting scent of cigar smoke and the afterglow of another quiet, intimate evening. Micah lay draped across Jackson’s lap, tracing lazy patterns on his master's broad chest.

Micah had always wanted to go further, to deepen their bond and to surprise Jackson in ways that would ignite their shared passions. Jackson was a man of precision and ritual, but Micah loved the unpredictability that came with creativity. Tonight, as he rested there, a thought bubbled up that had lingered at the edges of his mind for months.

"Sir?" Micah began, his voice soft but deliberate.

Jackson hummed, running a hand through Micah’s hair. "Hmm?"

"I want… to become someone else for you. Really transform." Micah’s voice trembled with excitement. "I want you to watch me… age. I want to be an old man for you."

Jackson's fingers paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing with curiosity before a slow, approving smile spread beneath his mustache. "Micah," he rumbled, "you have no idea how long I’ve wanted that."

Micah’s heart skipped a beat. "Then let me do it. I want you to watch me go from your boy to your old man."

Jackson exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his eyes twinkling. "We’ll take our time. Start simple. Build it out."

The following evening, Micah stood in front of the bathroom mirror with an array of supplies spread before him: contour palettes, aging cream, and wrinkle stippling tools. Jackson sat nearby in the leather armchair, cigar in hand, watching with fascination.

Micah began by applying subtle shadows to the hollows of his cheeks and beneath his eyes. He mixed grays and browns to feather at his temples, giving the illusion of thinning, graying hair. He painted fine lines across his forehead and the corners of his mouth, making his youthful features sag ever so slightly.

Jackson leaned forward, studying Micah’s reflection. "Damn," he muttered appreciatively. "You’re good at this."

Micah smiled, though the effect looked somber in the mirror now. "Just wait."

He added soft latex wrinkles across his brow and around his eyes. When he moved, the slight tug of the latex made him look like a man with decades of life behind him. Finally, he brushed a light powder over the entire effect to dull the shine.

When he turned to Jackson, he saw the man’s eyes darken with that familiar, burning intensity.

"Not bad for a first attempt?" Micah asked, his voice cracking as he tried to sound frailer.

Jackson stood and cupped Micah’s jaw, brushing a thumb over the "weathered" skin. "Not bad at all… but we can push this further."

Over the weeks, their process became more refined. Jackson would sit behind Micah, steadying him as they experimented with prosthetics and wigs. Micah loved the closeness—Jackson’s steady hands smoothing the latex onto his neck, his master’s low voice murmuring directions.

They invested in custom props: a silicone bald cap that Jackson lovingly applied with spirit gum, making Micah’s hairline recede to mimic a thinning scalp. Jackson took his time, brushing the edges until it looked seamless. They added sagging jowls and loose skin around Micah’s neck.

Then came the beard. Micah had picked out a long, silver-gray one, trimmed meticulously to resemble the beards of old men they’d seen during their walks in the park. Jackson insisted on brushing it out himself, smoothing the strands until it looked natural.

Micah stared at himself in awe as Jackson placed wire-rimmed glasses on his nose. "Look at you," Jackson whispered, almost reverently. "Seventy never looked so damn good."

Micah grinned—a crooked, mischievous smile that looked entirely different beneath the mask of age. "Wait until I start moving like one."

Jackson watched, transfixed, as Micah stooped forward slightly, his youthful gait replaced by the slow, deliberate shuffle of an older man. Micah muttered to himself, practicing a crackling, gravelly voice. "Eh? Speak up, young fella!" he joked, sending Jackson into a deep, rumbling laugh.

Their sessions became longer and more detailed. They added more pieces—flesh-toned latex to make Micah’s arms look soft and veined. Custom dentures gave him a sunken-cheeked smile, reshaping his mouth entirely. Micah marveled at the feeling of the false teeth, running his tongue over them as his speech slurred slightly to accommodate the new shape.

The first time he wore the full transformation—wig, dentures, glasses, and all—Jackson’s reaction stunned him.

"You’re breathtaking," Jackson muttered, circling him slowly like a lion stalking its prey. His massive hands reached out to touch the soft, wrinkled "skin" at Micah’s shoulder. "You’ve become… everything."

Micah felt a rush of heat at Jackson’s approval. "And you…" He took a shaky, deliberate step toward Jackson. "You’ve got to be gentle with me, you know? I’m just an old man now."

Jackson growled low in his throat. "We both know that’s not going to happen."

One night, Jackson surprised Micah with something new. "I got you something," Jackson said, pulling out a vintage cardigan, tweed trousers, and suspenders. "If you’re going to be seventy, you need to dress the part."

Micah’s eyes lit up as he slipped into the clothes. The soft wool sweater clung to his latex-enhanced frame, making him look frail yet dignified. Jackson adjusted the suspenders with a knowing grin, then stepped back to admire his work.

Micah caught his reflection again, heart racing. He didn’t just look like an old man—he was one. He shuffled toward Jackson, clutching an old wooden cane they’d picked up at a thrift store. His voice was perfect—low and raspy. "Well, come on, sonny. Help me to my chair."

Jackson chuckled but obeyed, wrapping an arm around Micah’s waist. "You’ve outdone yourself, Micah."

Micah settled into the chair, looking up at Jackson with a twinkle in his eye. "I’d do anything to make you proud, Sir."

Jackson leaned down, brushing his thick mustache against Micah’s cheek. "You already have."

Micah settled deeper into the chair, his frail "old man" persona still intact as he watched Jackson with a teasing glint in his eye. The cardigan felt soft against his skin, and the weight of the suspenders on his shoulders made the transformation feel even more real. His hand, wrapped in the illusion of wrinkles and veins, reached up, beckoning Jackson closer.

Jackson stepped forward, towering over Micah, his massive frame radiating heat. He reached out, running his calloused fingers along the curve of Micah’s cheek, tracing the latex wrinkles with reverence. “You’re incredible,” Jackson murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Micah let out a soft, raspy chuckle, leaning into Jackson’s hand. “I’m glad you like it, Sir. I did it for you.” His voice was a perfect imitation of an older man’s—deliberate, slower, softer—but beneath it was the same eager submission Jackson adored.

Jackson knelt, resting his hands on either side of the chair, their faces inches apart. The scent of leather and cigar smoke clung to him, intoxicating as always. “I don’t just like it. I can’t take my eyes off you.” He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Micah’s lips. Despite the prosthetics, the kiss felt intimate and raw—an unspoken declaration between them.

Micah sighed into the kiss, his body relaxing as Jackson’s hands slid down his sides, tracing the straps of the suspenders. The weight of Jackson’s presence always made him feel safe—grounded, cherished. His fingers played with the edge of Jackson’s thick mustache, the bristles rough under his touch. "I never get tired of this…" Micah whispered.

Jackson smiled against his lips, then pulled back slightly to admire him again. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight, boy.”

Micah’s cheeks flushed beneath the makeup. "It feels… different, being like this. Slower. Softer. But I still feel like yours." His hands drifted to Jackson’s broad shoulders, marveling at the hard muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt.

Jackson’s voice dropped even lower. “That’s because you are mine.” He guided Micah up from the chair, helping him stand as though he really needed the support. Micah leaned into the role, wrapping an arm around Jackson’s waist for stability.

“Take me slow, Sir,” Micah whispered, his eyes fluttering closed as Jackson kissed the side of his neck. "I'm fragile now, remember?" he added with a grin, his playful energy still shining through the mask.

Jackson chuckled, his breath warm against Micah’s skin. “I’ll take you exactly how you need.” His hand slips into the pants and begins to wrap around the 23 year old cock, still working well, yet with the face of a 70 year old. They both moan in pleasure.

They moved to the bed, their touches growing softer but no less intense. Jackson was careful, reverent, as if savoring every second of their new dynamic. His hands roamed Micah’s body with unspoken praise, lingering over the details of the transformation—the soft "sag" of the prosthetic belly, the silver beard brushing his fingers, the faint creak of the suspenders.

Micah let himself get lost in the sensation of being adored so completely. Every touch felt magnified, every kiss deliberate. When their eyes met again, the air between them was charged, heavy with mutual trust and affection.

Jackson leaned in, resting his forehead against Micah’s. "You’re everything I ever wanted," he whispered.

Micah’s voice was quiet, but full of emotion. “And I’ll be whoever you need me to be. If only this was real"

Time felt suspended as they explored each other—not just physically, but emotionally, peeling back every layer of vulnerability and desire until there was nothing left between them but pure connection.

The morning light filtered gently through the windows, casting a warm glow over the rumpled sheets and their intertwined bodies. Jackson stirred first, his thick arm draped protectively over Micah's chest. The scent of leather, sweat, and faint cigar smoke lingered in the room—a reminder of the intimacy they had shared the night before.

Micah shifted slightly beneath Jackson’s arm, blinking slowly as he woke. The prosthetic wrinkles around his eyes crinkled convincingly as he turned his head to look at Jackson, who was watching him with a sleepy, satisfied grin. Micah smiled back, still in character, his voice raspy with sleep. "Well, would you look at that, Sonny? Still got enough life in these old bones to keep you warm at night." He patted Jackson’s chest with a mock-arthritic hand.

Jackson chuckled deeply, his mustache twitching as he pressed a kiss to Micah’s temple. "I’d say you did more than just keep me warm."

Micah laughed, a slow, gravelly sound, and his hand traced over his fake belly, appreciating the heft of it. "You think I make a convincing old man, huh?"

Jackson rolled onto his side, his hand splaying possessively over Micah’s belly. "More than convincing. You were incredible." His fingers brushed over the silicone seams carefully, feeling how real the prosthetic skin felt beneath his touch. "Still are."

Micah leaned up and pressed a kiss to Jackson’s lips, slow and unhurried. Jackson deepened the kiss, pulling Micah closer, their bodies warm and relaxed in the morning glow. After a few tender moments, Micah pulled back with a smirk. "Careful, you’ll give this old ticker another workout."

Jackson’s eyes glinted mischievously. "Might just be worth it."

Micah sat up slowly, playing the part of a stiff, aging man as he stretched with exaggerated groans. "Well, if I’m going to face the day as a respectable old gent, I’ll need a touch-up." He ran his hand over the edge of his bald cap, where some of the spirit gum had loosened overnight.

Jackson sat up too, rubbing a hand over his bald head before adjusting the waistband of his briefs. "We’ve got everything we need in the kit. Let’s make you perfect."

Micah nodded eagerly. "What do you say we take this show on the road? Grab some breakfast out. Maybe confuse a few people," he added with a wink.

Jackson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You serious? You want to go out in full character?"

Micah’s grin widened. "Why not? I want to see how real I can make this."

Jackson chuckled and rose to his feet, stretching his massive frame. "Alright, old man. Let’s get you ready."

They moved to the bathroom, where their makeup kit was already laid out from the night before. Jackson opened the case, pulling out the latex adhesive and blending brushes, while Micah leaned over the sink, inspecting his reflection.

The prosthetics had held up remarkably well, but the edges of the bald cap and some of the face wrinkles needed reinforcement. Jackson stepped behind Micah, his large hands steady as he began to reapply the spirit gum along Micah’s hairline. He pressed down gently, smoothing the edges until the cap was once again seamless.

Micah watched Jackson in the mirror, admiring the care in every movement. "You’ve got a real talent for this," he said softly, the rasp of his "old man" voice laced with affection.

Jackson smirked, brushing a thumb along Micah’s cheek. "Only for you."

Micah leaned into the touch as Jackson worked his way down, blending the prosthetics on his neck and jaw. Next came the beard. Micah watched as Jackson applied fresh adhesive and carefully positioned the gray, wiry facial hair back into place. Jackson combed through the beard with his fingers, making sure it sat perfectly.

Once the face was finished, they moved on to Micah’s body. The silicone belly needed a little powder to prevent shine, and Jackson dusted it lightly, his touch lingering as he traced the round curve. "Feels real enough to me," he teased.

Micah patted his belly and chuckled. "I’ve earned it, haven’t I? All those years of good living."

Jackson laughed and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Micah’s "old" shoulder. "You wear it well."

Finally, Micah stepped into a pair of tailored brown slacks and fastened the suspenders over his chest. Jackson handed him a starched white button-up shirt and the cardigan from the night before. Micah slid into the clothes, buttoning up with slow, deliberate movements as if his joints ached. He slipped on his wire-rimmed glasses and straightened his posture before purposefully hunching again to complete the illusion.

Jackson adjusted Micah’s collar with a proud grin. "There. Now you’re ready."

Micah took one last look in the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable—an elderly gentleman with soft, weathered features and kind, wise eyes. He couldn’t help but smile at how complete the transformation felt.

He turned to Jackson and extended an arm. "Help an old man get downstairs?"

Jackson grinned and took Micah’s arm, playing along. "Anything for you."

The city buzzed around them as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Jackson’s imposing figure in a leather jacket was a stark contrast to Micah’s elderly facade, and they drew curious glances as they walked side by side. Micah played the part to perfection, shuffling along with his cane, occasionally pausing to adjust his glasses or catch his breath.

They reached a small café and took a table near the window. Jackson pulled out a chair for Micah, who lowered himself slowly with a grateful smile. The waitress approached, her eyes flitting between them.

"Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?" she asked politely.

Micah adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Coffee, black… and maybe a biscuit if you’ve got one." His voice was perfectly weathered, the cadence slow but steady.

Jackson ordered his usual and leaned back, watching Micah with amusement as the waitress walked away. "You’re really going for it, huh?"

Micah nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Of course. You only get to live a second life once."

Jackson’s hand rested over Micah’s briefly, a quiet reminder of everything they shared. The world outside might have seen a leather-clad bear and an elderly man enjoying breakfast together, but inside, they both knew the truth: this was their world to shape, and they would keep pushing the boundaries of their love and trust, one unforgettable moment at a time.

Micah stood in front of the full-length mirror, the early morning light streaming through the window and illuminating every detail of his transformation. His breath caught in his chest as he took in the reflection staring back at him. For a moment, it didn’t feel like he was looking at himself at all—it was as if an entirely different life had been lived in the man staring back.

The man in the mirror was old but dignified, with soft, weathered skin that told stories of decades gone by. Deep, carefully blended wrinkles etched across his forehead and branched like river veins from the corners of his eyes. The latex prosthetics added sag to his cheeks and jawline, making his face appear fuller, with the slightest jowl hanging near his chin. The artificial age spots dusted along his temples and cheekbones were subtle but effective, giving the illusion of sun-kissed skin that had weathered time.

The glasses perched on his nose magnified his brown eyes slightly, giving them a twinkle that felt warm and approachable. His eyebrows were lightly thinned and frosted with gray, matching the neat yet bushy beard that framed his face—a brilliant silver-gray with streaks of white along the chin and sideburns. The beard was perfectly applied, blending seamlessly into the "skin" on his cheeks and neck. It was thick, wiry, and full, the kind of beard that spoke of wisdom, patience, and a quiet but undeniable strength.

His hairline was carefully receded beneath the bald cap, giving the appearance of thinning, age-worn hair at the very crown of his head. The small strands of wispy gray hair that trailed down behind his ears added to the realism, as if he'd held onto those last few stubborn tufts for sentimental reasons.

Then there was his body. The silicone belly protruded slightly beneath the wool cardigan, adding a soft roundness to his frame. The suspenders hugged his torso, completing the image of an older man who still took pride in his appearance but had long since prioritized comfort over vanity. The slight rounding of his shoulders, emphasized by the padding beneath the shirt, gave him the appearance of someone who had spent years stooped over books or perhaps tending a quiet garden.

Micah's fingers brushed the surface of his prosthetic-covered face. The texture wasn’t quite his own, but when he smiled—a slow, crooked grin that showed just a hint of the dentures altering his smile—it felt real. The way the artificial skin shifted and moved with his expressions was remarkable. He spoke softly, testing out the voice he’d practiced. "Well, aren’t you a handsome devil." The gravelly timbre of his “old man” voice sent a shiver down his spine, not from fear, but from excitement at how convincing it was.

He leaned in closer, marveling at the faint veins painted along the back of his latex-covered hands, making them look thin and worn. His knuckles had a slight puffiness to them, as though swollen with age, and the liver spots dotted the tops of his hands like a map of years gone by.

He straightened and stepped back, taking in the full image. He didn’t just look like a seventy-year-old man—he was one in that moment. The weight of the prosthetics, the texture of the cardigan, the restrictive but comforting feel of the suspenders—they all grounded him in the illusion.

Micah adjusted his glasses and gave the mirror a playful wink. "Not too shabby for an old man." He turned to Jackson, who was standing behind him, watching with pride.

"You’re more than not too shabby," Jackson murmured. His eyes traced every detail of Micah’s transformation, admiration evident in every glance. "You’re perfect."

Micah felt his chest swell at Jackson’s words. He smiled again, his hands resting against his rounded belly, feeling the heft of it, and thought about how far they’d come in their journey together. The man in the mirror wasn’t just a mask—it was an embodiment of their trust, their love, and their shared willingness to explore every inch of who they were.

Micah gave the mirror one last approving nod before turning to Jackson with a soft, mischievous grin. "Well, Sonny," he said, slipping seamlessly into character, "are you ready to take your grandpa out for a day on the town?"

Jackson stood just behind Micah, his broad arms crossed over his massive chest as he watched the scene unfold before him. His heart pounded in his chest, slow and deep, as if trying to match the intensity of his thoughts. The man in the mirror—this older, weathered version of Micah—took his breath away.

Micah was still Micah, but this transformation had layered something else onto him—something profound and indescribably magnetic. Jackson had expected to admire the craftsmanship of the makeup, the realism of the beard, the flawless aging effect, but this… this was more than admiration. It was reverence. It was hunger.

The soft, silver beard framed Micah’s face in a way that sent a wave of possessive pride rushing through Jackson. His fingers itched to reach out and run through the wiry strands, to feel the coarseness against his skin. The glasses perched on Micah’s nose made him look distinguished, adding an air of wisdom and calm, but what truly made Jackson weak was the way Micah’s brown eyes still twinkled mischievously behind the lens. The familiarity in that gaze, mixed with the newness of the aged face, set Jackson ablaze.

His gaze trailed downward, over the soft, rounded belly beneath the cardigan and suspenders. The way the fabric stretched slightly over the faux stomach made Micah look comforting and warm—like the kind of man whose lap you’d want to crawl into after a long day, to be held close and safe. And yet, Jackson’s desire was anything but innocent. His throat felt dry as he watched Micah shift his weight, adjusting his posture with a slow, careful movement that fit the character of an older man. It was such a simple motion, but Jackson felt it deep in his gut.

Jackson’s pulse quickened as his eyes traveled back up to Micah’s face, taking in every intricate wrinkle, every subtle movement of the prosthetics as Micah’s expression changed. His heart swelled with something deeper than desire—it was admiration, respect, and an overwhelming love that tightened his chest. This is the man I belong to. The thought hit him hard, the intensity of it making his skin prickle.

Micah’s voice—soft, gravelly, and dripping with charm—broke the silence. "Well, Sonny, you gonna stand there gawking all day or help an old man with his cardigan?"

Jackson let out a breathless chuckle, stepping closer. "I’m not just gawking. I’m memorizing every damn detail," he said, his voice thick. He reached out, running his large hand over the curve of Micah’s prosthetic belly. The softness beneath his touch felt so real it made his head spin. He let his fingers linger, savoring the warmth that radiated through the layers.

Micah’s faux-aged hand rested atop Jackson’s, giving it a soft pat. "Is that right?" Micah teased, still in character, but his voice carried a warmth that was unmistakably his own.

Jackson nodded slowly, his gaze darkening as it settled on Micah’s lips, framed perfectly by the thick beard. His thumb brushed the edge of Micah’s lower lip, feeling the textured blend of prosthetic and skin. "You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

Micah’s brow lifted slightly, his wrinkled face forming an amused expression. "I have a pretty good idea," he replied, glancing down meaningfully.

Jackson followed his gaze and felt his face flush with heat as he saw the unmistakable bulge straining against his briefs. His cock was rock-hard, pulsing with the ache of want, and it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, too—a response to everything Micah had become for him, to the love and vulnerability they’d poured into this moment.

He stepped even closer, pressing his forehead against Micah’s and closing his eyes for a moment, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of Micah mixed with the earthy scent of the latex and adhesive. "I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more than I do right now," Jackson whispered.

Micah’s hand slid up Jackson’s bicep, squeezing gently. "Then show me, Sir," he murmured, his raspy "old man" voice carrying a quiet challenge that sent a shiver down Jackson’s spine.

Jackson pulled back just enough to look into Micah’s eyes, his breath shallow as he fought to contain the storm of emotions inside him. His hand cupped the side of Micah’s face, his thumb brushing over the age spots and the soft, artificial skin. "You’re… perfect," he said again, his voice almost breaking.

Micah’s lips curved into a slow smile as he leaned into Jackson’s touch, his eyes half-lidded. Jackson could feel the weight of everything Micah had done for him—the effort, the trust, the love. His heart swelled in his chest, and the ache between his legs grew sharper.

He knew then that this wasn’t just about desire—it was about devotion. Micah wasn’t just performing a role for fun. He was giving Jackson a gift, becoming the embodiment of a deep, unspoken fantasy that neither of them had ever thought they’d live out.

Jackson let out a shaky breath, pressing his body against Micah’s as his hands slid over the broad "old man" belly, feeling the way their bodies fit together. Micah closed his eyes, tipping his head back slightly as Jackson kissed the side of his beard-covered jaw, slow and deliberate. The scratch of the faux beard against Jackson’s lips was exhilarating.

Micah chuckled low in his throat, his gravelly voice playful. "Careful now, Son. Don’t go getting too handsy. You don’t want to break your poor ol’ man, do you?"

Jackson growled softly. "If I do, I’ll take damn good care of you after." His hands roamed up to Micah’s shoulders, steadying him as he pressed a slow, searing kiss to Micah’s mouth, swallowing the soft sound of pleasure that escaped him.

Micah melted into the kiss, and for a moment, the world outside the loft ceased to exist. They were lost in each other, in the texture of skin and latex, in the unbreakable bond between them. Jackson pulled back, breathless, his forehead resting against Micah’s again.

"We should go," Micah whispered, eyes still closed.

Jackson smiled, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Micah’s mouth before straightening. "Yeah. Let’s make them wonder."

Micah adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on his nose as they stepped onto the bustling street. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of roasted coffee and freshly baked pastries from a nearby café. He leaned slightly on the old wooden cane, taking slow, deliberate steps. The cardigan stretched gently over his belly as he ambled forward, the perfect picture of a 70-year-old man out for a leisurely morning walk.

Jackson, towering beside him, wore his leather jacket unzipped, his muscular frame commanding attention. His shaved head caught the sunlight, and his horseshoe mustache twitched as he took a slow, satisfied drag from a cigar. He was the epitome of calm dominance, his eyes flicking to Micah every few moments, ensuring his "old man" stayed in character.

“Careful, now,” Jackson murmured, voice low and gravelly as he placed a steadying hand on Micah’s back. "You’re walking a little too quick for an old timer."

Micah chuckled, adjusting his gait into a slower, more deliberate shuffle. He bent forward slightly, adding a subtle stiffness to his movements. "Better?" His voice came out raspy, the practiced crackle of age making Jackson’s chest swell with pride.

"Perfect," Jackson rumbled, giving Micah’s shoulder an approving squeeze. "But don’t forget the occasional complaint about your hip. Commitment earns rewards."

Micah let out an exaggerated groan, tapping his cane against the pavement. "Damn arthritis’s flaring up again," he muttered, shaking his head. "Can’t walk ten feet without feeling it." He cast a sly glance up at Jackson. "Good enough for you, Sir?"

Jackson’s lips curled into a slow smile, the end of his cigar glowing as he took another puff. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke before replying. "Good boy."

Micah’s heart skipped at the praise, warmth pooling in his chest. He loved how Jackson’s dominance made every small detail feel like a test of devotion, each one reinforcing their bond.

As they made their way down the street, passersby stole curious glances at the striking pair—the towering, leather-clad figure beside the elderly man in suspenders and a cardigan. Some looked away quickly, not wanting to stare, while others watched with open intrigue.

Micah caught one young couple whispering as they passed by. He straightened slightly, adjusting his glasses and muttering loud enough for Jackson to hear, "Young folks these days… no manners."

Jackson barked a short laugh, the deep rumble vibrating through Micah’s shoulder. "You’re enjoying this way too much," Jackson muttered under his breath, though his grin said otherwise.

Micah shrugged, the movement slow and deliberate. "Just giving you the full experience, Sonny." He glanced up at Jackson, his expression softening. "Though I’ve gotta ask—why me, huh? Why not just date an actual 70-year-old if you’re so into this?"

Jackson slowed, stepping into the shade of a storefront as he turned to face Micah. His cigar hung from the corner of his mouth as he studied his boy—his "old man"—with quiet intensity. He reached out, brushing his fingers against Micah’s cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of the faux wrinkles.

"Because I want more than an old man," Jackson said slowly, voice low but certain. "I want you. The way you change for me. The way you trust me to turn you into this… to care for you through it." He took another puff of his cigar and exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around them. "I’m not just attracted to the age—I’m attracted to the transformation. Watching you become someone else. Knowing you’re still mine under all of it."

Micah felt a shiver run down his spine, despite the warmth of the morning. Jackson’s words filled him with a heady mix of pride and desire. He reached up, letting his hand linger against Jackson’s broad chest. "You make me feel… seen," he said softly.

Jackson leaned in close, pressing his forehead against Micah’s for a moment. "That’s because you are, Micah."

They stood there for a beat, lost in the moment, until Jackson stepped back and gave Micah’s cane a playful tap. "Come on, old man. Let’s get you some new gear."

The leather shop was tucked into a side street, its sign painted with bold, rustic lettering. The scent of leather hit them as soon as they stepped inside—rich, earthy, and unmistakably intoxicating. Micah’s eyes darted around, taking in the neatly displayed racks of leather jackets, harnesses, and boots.

The shop owner, a burly man with a thick beard and a leather apron, looked up from the counter and raised an eyebrow at the sight of them. "Morning, gentlemen," he greeted, his eyes lingering curiously on Micah. "What can I do for you?"

Jackson stepped forward, his presence commanding but calm. "We’re looking for some new leather chaps for him." He nodded toward Micah, who leaned on his cane and gave the shopkeeper a slow, deliberate smile.

The man’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded professionally. "Well, you’ve come to the right place. What kind of fit are you looking for?"

Jackson cast a glance down at Micah. "Something comfortable, but…" His eyes darkened slightly, a mischievous glint in them. "Tight enough to show off what he’s got."

Micah let out a raspy chuckle, shaking his head. "Oh, you’re gonna make this old man blush, Son."

The shopkeeper chuckled too, though he still seemed unsure of what to make of them. "Follow me," he said, leading them to a section of fitted chaps.

Jackson ran his fingers along the leather, testing the softness before handing a pair to Micah. "Try these."

Micah nodded and shuffled toward the dressing room, playing up the part. He leaned on his cane as he stepped behind the curtain, leaving Jackson to wait outside.

When Micah finally stepped out, the transformation was complete: the gray cardigan over a simple white shirt, the suspenders framing the leather chaps perfectly. The contrast between the soft, aging aesthetic of his upper half and the gleaming leather below was enough to make Jackson's pulse pound.

Jackson’s cigar paused halfway to his mouth as he took in the sight. "Damn," he muttered, his voice husky.

Micah adjusted his glasses, his wrinkled face forming a small, knowing grin. "Not bad for a man pushing seventy, huh?"

Jackson exhaled slowly, his eyes raking over Micah. "You’ve never looked better."

The shopkeeper coughed awkwardly, clearly unsure of how to respond, but Jackson didn’t care. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed over cash without waiting for the total.

"We’ll take them," Jackson said, his gaze never leaving Micah.

As they stepped back out into the street, Jackson lit another cigar, his free hand resting possessively on the small of Micah’s back. "Where to next, old man?" he asked, smoke curling from his lips.

Micah tapped his cane against the sidewalk thoughtfully. "How about somewhere public? Let’s really turn some heads."

Jackson grinned, pulling Micah closer. "You really are a damn show-off."

Micah’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "Just giving you what you asked for, Sir."

The late afternoon sun cast long beams through the loft’s windows as Jackson unlocked the door and guided Micah inside. The walk home had been filled with quiet laughter, knowing glances, and whispered words that stoked the embers of their desire. Jackson had kept his hand firm on Micah’s back the entire way, feeling the reassuring shape of his boy’s body beneath the cardigan and suspenders. The leather chaps added an undeniable edge to Micah’s character, a contradiction between softness and authority that drove Jackson wild.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Jackson turned, cigar still smoldering between his fingers, and pulled Micah into his arms. The faint creak of the prosthetics was drowned out by the sound of their bodies pressing together. Jackson kissed Micah slowly, reverently, savoring the feel of the wiry, faux-silver beard against his lips. The scent of latex and leather mixed with the earthy aroma of tobacco as the kiss deepened.

Micah’s hand slid up Jackson’s chest, over the thick expanse of muscle, and rested on his neck. He let out a soft, raspy sigh into the kiss, his entire body leaning into the safety of Jackson’s embrace. When they finally broke apart, Micah’s glasses had slipped down his nose, making him look even more like the endearing old man he’d become.

Jackson reached out and adjusted them, his fingers brushing Micah’s cheek. The faint texture of the latex wrinkles caught against his fingertips, a tactile reminder of how meticulously crafted Micah’s transformation was. Jackson’s eyes lingered on the fine lines around Micah’s eyes and mouth, marveling at the realism. The wrinkles seemed to move naturally with Micah’s expressions, crinkling when he smiled, deepening when his brows furrowed.

“Damn,” Jackson murmured, his thumb tracing the faux age spots dotting Micah’s cheek. “You’ve been a damn good boy today.”

Micah smiled, the dentures altering the curve of his mouth slightly as his lips stretched over the false teeth. The subtle imperfection of the slightly yellowed, uneven dental prosthetics added a layer of authenticity that sent a thrill through Jackson. Micah nodded and adjusted his glasses with a mock tremor in his hand, still in character. "Thank you, Sir," he rasped, his voice a perfect blend of age and submission. "So… what’s my reward?"

Jackson took a final pull from his cigar and set it carefully in the ashtray. His hand moved to Micah’s suspenders, slowly sliding his thumb beneath one of the straps and pulling it down over Micah’s shoulder. "You already know." His other hand reached for Micah’s chin, tilting his head up until their eyes locked.

Micah felt his pulse race as Jackson leaned in again, pressing a trail of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Each kiss was slow and deliberate, a reminder of how much Jackson adored every inch of him. Micah’s fingers curled into the front of Jackson’s leather jacket as he let himself get lost in the moment.

Jackson’s hands moved lower, sliding over the soft belly created by the prosthetic, resting there as though cherishing it. "I love how you look like this," Jackson murmured. "Every detail. Every part of you."

Micah’s breath hitched, his body thrumming with warmth. "Then take me, Sir. However you want."

Jackson’s hand slipped lower, brushing over Micah’s hips before settling on the waistband of the leather chaps. He traced slow, teasing circles as his other hand pulled Micah closer until they were pressed together, hip to hip. Their growing hardness was undeniable.

Micah’s cheeks flushed as he felt Jackson’s arousal against him. He pressed closer, his wrinkled hand slipping between them as he traced a slow line down Jackson’s chest and stomach, stopping just above his waistband. "You’ve been good to me, too," he whispered, the dentures giving his voice a faint lisp that Jackson found oddly endearing.

Jackson’s breath shuddered as Micah’s hand slipped lower, cupping him gently. Their lips met again in a heated kiss, their movements slow but desperate. Jackson’s hand found Micah’s as they both worked together, the friction between them building with each stroke.

Micah’s aged persona only made the intimacy more intense. Jackson watched Micah’s face as he gasped softly, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening with the expression. The slight strain of the dentures in his mouth, the softness of the belly beneath Jackson’s hands, and the faint tug of the bald cap at his temples all combined to make the illusion overwhelmingly real. Jackson’s chest ached with a mixture of love and desire as he took it all in.

Their bodies moved in rhythm—slow, deliberate, and in perfect sync. Jackson's growls of pleasure mixed with Micah’s soft, breathless sounds as their hands worked each other with increasing intensity. When the heat between them finally crested, they pressed their foreheads together, panting as they rode the waves of pleasure together.

Micah’s knees felt weak, and Jackson caught him, guiding him gently down onto the couch. They lay there in a tangle of limbs, hearts beating in time as the afterglow settled over them. Jackson ran his fingers through Micah’s hairline, careful not to disturb the bald cap too much. The faint edge of the prosthetic against his fingertips was grounding—a reminder of how much Micah had done for him.

Micah’s eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his face into Jackson’s chest, his breathing slowing. Jackson wrapped an arm around him, pulling the blanket draped over the back of the couch around them. The warmth of Jackson’s body, combined with the steady rise and fall of his chest, lulled Micah into a peaceful haze.

Jackson kissed the top of Micah’s head, his mustache brushing the edge of the faux-aged temple. "Rest now," Jackson whispered. "We’ve got all the time in the world."

Micah’s lips curved into a small smile as he drifted off, still wrapped in his transformation, still feeling completely and utterly his master’s.

The room was filled with the soft hum of the overhead fan as the last light of the evening faded into a warm amber glow. The blanket had slipped off them during their nap, and the cool air brushed over their skin. Micah stirred against Jackson’s chest, letting out a low, content sigh. Jackson, still half-awake, ran his fingers slowly along Micah’s back, savoring the closeness.

Micah tilted his head up, his aged, prosthetic-covered face brushing against Jackson’s neck. "Sir," he murmured, his raspy "old man" voice softer now but still laced with affection. "I think… it’s time."

Jackson’s hand stilled for a moment, resting over Micah’s prosthetic belly. He knew exactly what Micah meant. As much as he loved this version of Micah—the aged, weathered illusion—he also knew the importance of taking care of the man beneath the transformation. Removing the prosthetics had become as much a ritual as putting them on—a slow, intimate process where they shed not just the physical layers but something deeper.

Jackson nodded and kissed Micah’s forehead gently, letting his lips linger against the artificial wrinkles. "Alright, boy," he whispered. "Let’s take you back."

Micah smiled and sat up slowly, leaning on his cane as he shuffled to the bathroom with Jackson close behind. The vanity was already laid out with everything they’d need: makeup remover, oils, a damp cloth, and the specialized tools for peeling away the prosthetics safely.

Jackson leaned against the sink, arms crossed, watching as Micah caught his reflection. The "old man" still stared back at him—gray beard, lined skin, wrinkled hands—but there was something vulnerable about the way Micah looked at himself now, like he was preparing to say goodbye to a part of himself.

Jackson reached out and placed a hand on Micah’s shoulder, his touch steady and reassuring. "You ready?"

Micah nodded, his voice quiet but steady. "Yes, Sir."

Jackson stepped behind him, his broad frame almost enveloping Micah as he reached for the edge of the latex on Micah’s temple. His fingertips brushed against the seam where the bald cap met Micah’s real skin, the contrast between smooth and artificial sending a shiver through both of them.

"Close your eyes," Jackson murmured.

Micah obeyed, his breath slowing as Jackson began to work the edge of the cap loose with gentle, deliberate movements. The spirit gum released with a soft pull, and Jackson took his time, peeling the bald cap back slowly. Micah let out a quiet hum, the sensation strangely pleasurable as the tension around his scalp eased.

Jackson’s voice was low and soothing as he worked. "You’ve been perfect today. Absolutely perfect." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the newly exposed patch of Micah’s real hairline. "I’m so proud of you."

Micah’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, his cheeks warming at the praise. "Thank you, Sir… I love how you take care of me like this."

Jackson smiled as he pulled the last bit of the cap free, setting it aside before running his fingers through Micah’s real hair. The softness of it felt like a secret, something raw and untouched beneath the layers they’d built together.

Next came the beard. Jackson reached for the edge of the adhesive, brushing his thumb along Micah’s cheek. "Hold still, boy," he whispered.

Micah’s breath hitched as Jackson carefully peeled the beard away, the fake silver strands brushing against his skin as they fell free. Jackson’s touch was slow, almost reverent, and Micah couldn’t help but let out a soft, contented sigh as the weight of the beard left his face.

"You look beautiful like this," Jackson murmured, brushing a thumb over Micah’s smooth cheek now that the beard was gone. "But I love both versions of you."

Micah swallowed hard, his heart swelling at Jackson’s words. "I feel… naked," he whispered.

Jackson chuckled softly, his mustache brushing against Micah’s ear as he leaned in. "Good. That’s how I want you—stripped down, bare, and mine."

Micah shivered as Jackson’s hand trailed down to his chest. The next part was always the most intimate—the prosthetic teeth. Jackson turned Micah gently so they were facing each other, their eyes locking in the soft bathroom light.

Jackson’s voice was low, intimate. "Open for me."

Micah’s lips parted obediently, revealing the slightly yellowed dentures. Jackson’s thumb brushed over Micah’s lower lip before he reached in, his fingers slow and careful as he pressed gently against the prosthetics. Micah let out a low, involuntary moan as Jackson eased the upper set free, the sensation strange but intensely intimate.

"There you go," Jackson whispered, setting the upper plate aside before reaching for the lower set. Micah’s breath was warm against Jackson’s hand as he worked the dentures loose, his lips closing over Jackson’s fingers for a brief, electric moment.

When both sets of teeth were removed, Jackson ran his thumb along Micah’s real, soft gums, brushing over the natural ridges of his mouth. Micah’s eyes fluttered shut, his entire body relaxing under Jackson’s touch.

"Does that feel better?" Jackson asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Micah nodded slowly. "Yes, Sir. I… I love when you do that. When you take it all off and remind me I’m still yours."

Jackson’s thumb lingered a moment longer before he leaned in, capturing Micah’s lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Without the dentures, the kiss felt softer, warmer, more vulnerable. Micah melted into it, his arms sliding around Jackson’s neck as their bodies pressed together.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever—kissing, touching, simply existing in each other’s presence. When they finally pulled apart, Micah’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining with emotion.

Jackson reached for the cloth and began gently wiping away the remaining makeup, the warm water soothing against Micah’s skin. Each stroke of the cloth was slow and deliberate, as though Jackson was peeling away the day��s layers while grounding Micah back in himself.

"You’re so damn beautiful," Jackson muttered as he worked, brushing his knuckles along Micah’s jaw.

Micah’s lips curved into a small, soft smile. "I feel beautiful when I’m with you."

Jackson set the cloth aside and framed Micah’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his now-clean cheeks. "That’s because you are, Micah. Whether you’re 23 or 70… you’re mine."

Micah leaned into Jackson’s touch, his heart full. "Always, Sir."

Jackson kissed him again, softer this time, before scooping Micah up into his arms and carrying him back to the couch. They curled up together beneath the blanket, Micah’s head resting against Jackson’s chest as their breathing slowed in unison.

As the evening settled around them, the weight of the prosthetics was gone, but the intimacy of their ritual remained—a testament to their trust, their love, and the unbreakable bond they shared.

As the evening deepened, the loft became a sanctuary steeped in their shared intimacy and ritual. The hum of the city outside was muted, replaced by the quiet crackle of the fire Jackson had lit in the corner. The dim, warm glow cast flickering shadows across the room, creating an ambiance that felt cocooned in trust and desire. Micah lay with his head on Jackson’s chest, his body limp and content after the slow, ritualistic removal of the prosthetics.

Jackson’s thick fingers traced slow circles along Micah’s bare back, the heat of his touch grounding him. Micah’s skin was still pink from where the prosthetics had adhered, but he didn’t mind—it was a reminder of what he’d endured to please his master.

"You’ve earned your rest," Jackson murmured, his voice like gravel warmed by fire. "But I think we both know you’re not done yet."

Micah stirred, his lips curling into a sleepy smile. "No, Sir," he whispered. "I’m never done when it comes to you."

Jackson’s large hand slid down Micah’s spine, pausing just above his hips. "That’s my boy," he growled approvingly. "Get up."

Micah obeyed instantly, his body responding with instinctive precision. He knelt at Jackson’s feet, head bowed, his fingers clasped behind his back. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable—electric with submission and authority. Micah’s heart beat in anticipation as Jackson rose to his full, towering height.

Jackson walked to the small wooden chest near the foot of the bed, the one they only opened when it was time to push boundaries. The lid creaked as he opened it, revealing an array of tools: leather cuffs, a polished spreader bar, blindfolds, and coiled ropes of various thicknesses. Jackson took his time, watching Micah out of the corner of his eye, savoring the way Micah stayed perfectly still, vibrating with anticipation.

Finally, Jackson pulled out a thick leather collar lined with soft suede. He held it in his hands for a moment before walking back to Micah. He crouched low, his eyes level with his boy’s.

"You’ve been exploring my fantasies today," Jackson said, his voice soft but firm. "Now, we’re going to explore yours. But I’m still in control."

Micah nodded, his breath catching in his throat. "Yes, Sir."

Jackson’s hand brushed against Micah’s cheek as he tilted his head back, exposing his throat. The leather was cool against Micah’s skin as Jackson fastened the collar around his neck, the subtle click of the buckle locking into place sending a wave of warmth through him.

"How does it feel?" Jackson asked, running his thumb along the edge of the collar.

"Perfect, Sir," Micah whispered, his pulse thrumming beneath the leather.

Jackson’s smile was slow, almost predatory. He traced the faint pink lines where the prosthetics had rested on Micah’s jaw earlier. "Good. You’ve already shown me how far you’re willing to go for me. Now, I want to show you how much you deserve to be rewarded… and tested."

Micah’s body shuddered at the promise in Jackson’s voice. His eyes stayed locked on the floor as Jackson stood and grabbed a pair of thick, black leather cuffs from the chest. The cuffs were heavy, the hardware gleaming in the firelight. Jackson circled Micah, like a lion with its prey, before kneeling again to fasten the cuffs around Micah’s wrists.

With each click of the buckle, Micah felt himself sinking deeper into submission, his breathing slowing, becoming steadier. Jackson’s hands moved over his skin, slow and deliberate, both soothing and claiming.

Jackson’s low voice rumbled as he pulled out a blindfold next. "Are you ready to give up your sight, boy?"

Micah swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Jackson gently wrapped the blindfold over Micah’s eyes, tying it securely behind his head. The darkness enveloped him instantly, heightening his awareness of every sound, every breath. The leather of the collar pressed comfortingly against his neck, a constant reminder of Jackson’s control.

Jackson's voice was soft but commanding. "On all fours."

Micah obeyed, shifting onto his hands and knees, the soft rug brushing against his palms. The vulnerability of the position made his senses burn even more acutely. Jackson’s boots creaked as he moved, the scent of cigar smoke lingering faintly on his skin as he walked around Micah.

"Good boy," Jackson murmured, his hand trailing down Micah’s back in a slow, possessive stroke. "You trust me completely, don’t you?"

"Yes, Sir," Micah whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and surrender. "Completely."

Jackson reached for a leather flogger hanging near the bed. The handle was thick, wrapped in braided leather, and the tails were soft but firm—perfect for what Jackson intended. He let the tails brush lightly against Micah’s back, teasing him.

"You’ve earned this," Jackson said. "But you’re going to count each one. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

The first strike was light, a warm sting that danced across Micah’s skin. He let out a soft gasp before murmuring, "One."

Jackson smiled, his eyes never leaving Micah’s body. "Good boy."

Each strike was slow, rhythmic, designed to build pleasure rather than pain. Micah’s voice stayed steady as he counted, his body relaxing more with each number. By the time they reached ten, he was floating, his entire being focused solely on Jackson’s presence.

Jackson tossed the flogger aside and knelt beside Micah, pulling the blindfold away. Micah blinked up at him, eyes glassy and adoring.

Jackson’s hand cupped Micah’s chin, lifting it gently. "Look at me."

Micah’s gaze locked onto Jackson’s, raw with emotion. Jackson leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, their connection reaffirmed in every movement. Micah melted into the kiss, his body pliant and warm beneath Jackson’s touch.

When they finally pulled apart, Jackson’s thumb brushed over Micah’s lower lip. "You’re mine," he whispered.

Micah’s response was immediate and unshakable. "Always, Sir."

Jackson pressed his forehead to Micah’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. "Good. Now let’s see how much more you can take."

The loft was bathed in the soft glow of firelight as Micah sat cross-legged on the couch, fully enveloped in his old man persona. His prosthetic-covered face wore the character perfectly—the deep-set wrinkles, age spots, and meticulously applied dentures that made his lips curl slightly thinner. His cardigan and suspenders added to the authenticity. Micah adjusted his glasses and watched Jackson carefully, noting the unusual focus in his master's eyes as he paced back and forth, his cigar tucked between two fingers.

"Sir?" Micah’s gravelly, aged voice broke the quiet. "Something on your mind?"

Jackson paused mid-step, took a slow drag of his cigar, and turned to face Micah. The firelight caught on the thick, horseshoe-shaped mustache that framed his face. His eyes flicked over Micah, as they always did when he was in this form, darkening with admiration and unrelenting arousal. Jackson’s obsession had grown—not just with Micah’s ability to embody his aged role, but with the idea of making it real.

Jackson exhaled a long stream of smoke before speaking. "I’ve been thinking… there’s something I’ve wanted to explore with you. But it’s… deeper than anything we’ve done before."

Micah’s brow furrowed beneath the makeup. "Deeper?" He rested a hand on his prosthetic-covered belly, the latex warming from his body heat. "How deep are we talking, Sir?"

Jackson sat beside him, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. "What if I told you… you could really feel it? The weight. The stiffness in your bones. The age. What if I told you that you wouldn’t need the makeup at all?"

Micah’s breath hitched, and he blinked behind his glasses. "You’re serious?"

Jackson nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I’ve found something. It’s not… conventional, but it’s real. There’s a man I’ve been in contact with—he makes these potions. Temporary spells that let you live in the skin of someone else. In your case…" Jackson trailed off, letting the meaning settle between them.

Micah swallowed hard. The idea sent a pulse of fear and excitement through him. "A potion," he murmured, almost to himself. He looked down at his prosthetic-covered hands, the false liver spots painted on the knuckles. "You mean… I could actually be an old man?"

Jackson placed a firm hand over Micah’s. "Yes. For real. And before you say anything, I’d never push you into this. But I need you to know how much this… this fantasy means to me." He let out a slow, measured breath. "Seeing you like this drives me mad, Micah. The idea of it being real—even if it’s just for a while—it’s like nothing I’ve ever wanted more."

Micah’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt Jackson’s hand tighten slightly over his own, grounding him. "How long would it last?" Micah asked, his voice low.

"A few weeks at most," Jackson replied. "The guy who makes it said it depends on how precisely the incantation is followed."

Micah looked up, meeting Jackson’s gaze. "What if it doesn’t wear off?" His voice was hesitant, but there was a flicker of arousal beneath the caution.

Jackson’s lips twitched into a small, reassuring smile. "Then I’d love you anyway. But it will. This man is the best at what he does. The spell will fade."

Micah’s fingers tightened around Jackson’s hand. "And… what does it feel like?" His voice trembled slightly, betraying his excitement.

Jackson leaned in, his voice low and deliberate. "He said you’ll feel everything—the aches, the slowness, the way your skin stretches differently. But you’ll still be you. Just older."

Micah closed his eyes, letting the image wash over him. The idea of shedding the makeup and actually stepping into the role completely filled his mind. He imagined the weight in his joints, the scratch of real silver stubble against Jackson’s cheek, the way Jackson would touch him, knowing it was all real. When he opened his eyes again, his cheeks were flushed beneath the layers of makeup. "I… I want to try it," he whispered. "For you. For us."

Jackson’s smile was slow, spreading beneath his thick mustache. "Good boy," he murmured, brushing a thumb over Micah’s cheek.

A week later, Jackson sat alone in front of his laptop, the screen aglow in the dim room as he clicked through the encrypted web browser. After weeks of careful messaging, he’d secured a video call with the potion creator. The man’s face flickered onto the screen—a weathered, bearded face with sharp eyes and a calm expression.

"You’re Jackson," the man said, his voice deep and measured. "You’ve been persistent."

Jackson nodded, leaning forward. "I know exactly what I want."

The man smirked. "I’ve read your requests. Aging. Temporary but authentic. You’re playing a dangerous game. You’re aware of the risks?"

Jackson’s eyes darkened. "Yes. But I trust you’ve done this before."

The man inclined his head slightly. "Many times. But you’ll need to follow the incantation precisely, or the effects may last longer than intended. If done correctly, it’ll fade within three to four weeks."

Jackson’s heart pounded at the thought. "How does it work?"

The man held up a small vial filled with a deep amber liquid that shimmered like sunlight trapped in glass. "Micah drinks this. The spell will settle in gradually over a few hours. At first, small things—tightness in the joints, a little gray in the hair. Then, the transformation deepens until he’s what you want him to be. After a few weeks, if you’ve performed the ritual as instructed, he’ll return to his normal self."

Jackson’s eyes were locked on the vial. "How much?"

The man’s lips curved slightly. "You can’t put a price on something this rare. But I’m sure you’ll pay what it’s worth."

Jackson nodded without hesitation. "Send it."

The man raised the vial as if toasting. "Remember—the change is real. He’ll need you in ways you’ve never experienced before. Can you handle that?"

Jackson’s voice was steady. "I’ve dreamed of it."

When the vial arrived a few days later, Jackson held it up in the soft glow of the loft. Micah, still dressed in his old-man attire, watched from the couch, eyes wide with nervous anticipation.

Jackson walked over, kneeling in front of him. "Are you ready, boy?" he asked, his voice low and reverent.

Micah nodded slowly, reaching out to take the vial. His fingers trembled slightly as he uncorked it, the scent of something earthy and metallic filling the air.

"I trust you," Micah whispered before tilting the vial back and swallowing the liquid. It was warm as it slid down his throat, and the moment it settled in his stomach, a strange, comforting heaviness spread through his body.

Jackson reached out, cradling Micah’s face in his hands as he whispered, "Good boy. Let it take you. I’m right here."

Micah sat on the couch, wrapped in the familiar comfort of his cardigan and suspenders. His hands, still covered in carefully applied age makeup and faintly trembling as part of the act, rested on his lap. The reflection in the darkened window showed an old man—soft wrinkles, silver beard, and a slight stoop to his posture. But beneath it all, Micah felt the electric hum of youth and nervous energy. His heart thudded steadily in his chest, not out of fear, but from the intoxicating mixture of anxiety and longing.

Jackson paced in front of him, his powerful form silhouetted against the firelight. His boots thudded softly against the hardwood as he moved. Micah could tell Jackson was deep in thought, and Micah’s breath caught in his throat as he watched his master’s profile—the strength of his jawline framed by that thick horseshoe mustache, the focused intensity in his eyes.

"Sir?" Micah’s voice cracked slightly in its practiced rasp, though the vulnerability in it was real this time. "You’re thinking hard tonight."

Jackson paused, turning to him. The way Jackson’s gaze settled on him—hungry but reverent—made Micah feel small in the best way. His chest tightened.

Jackson set his cigar down carefully in the ashtray and stepped toward him. He loomed over Micah, then sat on the armrest beside him, brushing a hand down Micah’s prosthetic-covered arm. "There’s something I’ve been working on for us," Jackson began, his voice low and measured, as though he’d rehearsed this.

Micah’s heart skipped. His hands clenched slightly over his false belly. "Us." He clung to that word. "What is it, Sir?" he asked, though he had a feeling he already knew. The way Jackson looked at him lately—the way he touched him when he was in character—had gone beyond admiration for his transformation. It was something deeper, more obsessive.

Jackson leaned closer, their faces almost touching. Micah could feel Jackson’s warmth, smell the familiar scent of leather and faint cigar smoke. "I’ve been in contact with someone. Someone who can make it real, Micah. The age, the body… everything. No more makeup. No more latex. You could become the man you’ve been pretending to be. Just for a while."

Micah’s stomach twisted—not from fear, but from something raw and indescribable. His breath caught as Jackson’s words sank in. Real. The aches, the slowness, the weathered skin. The fantasy made flesh.

His mouth was dry as he tried to respond. "A potion?" His voice was quiet, trembling with awe and disbelief.

Jackson nodded, his thumb brushing over Micah’s cheek. "Yeah. It’s temporary—weeks at most. But everything about it will feel real." He shifted slightly, his eyes scanning Micah’s face. "You don’t have to do this. I need you to know that. But… I’ve dreamed of this. I’ve dreamed of you like that—not just pretending—but living it. With me."

Micah’s chest felt tight, and he blinked rapidly behind his wire-rimmed glasses, as though trying to absorb the weight of Jackson’s confession. He swallowed hard. "You want… me to age for you?" His voice cracked on the word "age," but he didn’t flinch.

Jackson’s face softened, and he nodded again. "I do. And not just because it’s… hot as hell," he said with a small smirk that made Micah’s heart flutter. "I love the way you trust me with this. How far you’re willing to go for us. I want you to feel it too. Not just for me—but for you. I want you to know what it’s like."

Micah exhaled shakily, his hands moving to clutch Jackson’s arm, grounding himself in the firmness of his master’s presence. "I…" He hesitated, not because he didn’t want it, but because the weight of the moment made him dizzy with emotion. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the image wash over him: his real hands spotted with age, his real joints stiff as he shuffled toward Jackson, his Jackson, who would still look at him like he was precious.

When he opened his eyes again, he felt clarity settle over him like a blanket. He nodded, his grip tightening. "I want it, Sir. I want to feel it. I want to give that to you." His voice wavered, but he pushed through. "I… I want to become that for you. I don’t need the makeup. I want to know what it feels like to be your old man."

Jackson let out a slow, measured breath. "Good boy," he whispered, and the praise sent a rush of heat through Micah’s body.

"But…" Micah’s lips trembled slightly as he spoke. "What if it doesn’t wear off?" The fear was real, but so was the trust beneath it.

Jackson’s hand moved to the back of Micah’s neck, his fingers brushing against the edge of the bald cap. "Then I’ll love you anyway. Always." His voice was steady, unwavering. "But it will. I promise you that."

Micah felt his throat tighten with emotion. He leaned forward, resting his head against Jackson’s chest. The steady thrum of Jackson’s heartbeat soothed him as much as Jackson’s words. "I trust you, Sir," he whispered. "With everything."

Jackson’s hand smoothed down Micah’s back, lingering at his waist. "You’ve always trusted me," Jackson murmured. "And I’m not going to let you down."

Micah pulled back slightly, looking up at Jackson. "What happens now?"

Jackson’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "I’ll make the arrangements. It won’t be long now." He kissed Micah’s forehead, letting his mustache brush against his skin. "Until then… we prepare. We make sure you’re ready."

Micah nodded again, his heart pounding in his chest. The nervousness was still there, but it was overshadowed by the thrill—the knowledge that soon, he’d be stepping into something entirely new. Something deeper. Something real.

"Yes, Sir," he whispered, voice steady this time. "I’m ready."

The loft was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of candles. The room was still except for the low crackle of the fireplace, but the air was thick with tension—desire laced with apprehension. Jackson sat at the edge of the bed, leather creaking as he shifted his massive frame. His BLUF uniform was pristine and polished—jet-black leather that hugged every inch of his powerful body. His tall, shining boots reached his knees, the thick soles adding weight to his already imposing presence. His leather jacket was zipped just enough to show the tightly stretched undershirt beneath, emphasizing his broad chest. The leather cap perched perfectly on his shaved head, shadowing his eyes but leaving the thick, formidable mustache prominent, twitching slightly with his every breath.

His gloves, soft yet commanding in their sheen, rested on his thighs as he watched Micah lying in front of him. The small amber vial sat empty on the nightstand, a silent reminder of what they had just committed to. Micah’s body trembled beneath the soft sheet, the heat from his transformation radiating like a fever.

Micah’s face contorted as another wave of pain surged through him. His hands clutched the blanket, knuckles whitening. "Jackson!" he gasped, voice ragged. His throat felt tight, and his body burned, not with the sharpness of injury but the deep, aching pull of time sinking into his bones.

Jackson was by his side in an instant, leather boots thudding against the floor. "I’m here, boy," Jackson said, his voice calm but laced with worry. His gloved hand rested on Micah’s heaving chest, the thick leather pressing comfortingly against him. "I’ve got you."

Micah tried to speak, but his lips trembled. He gritted his teeth—only to feel them loosen. His eyes went wide in horror as a molar dislodged, sliding across his tongue. He coughed, spitting it into his hand, followed by another tooth and then another, clattering onto the sheet like pieces of brittle stone. His breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at them.

"My… teeth…" Micah whispered, the gaps in his gums making his voice slur.

Jackson’s pulse raced, but he knelt beside Micah, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. "It’s part of it," Jackson murmured, though his gloved fingers trembled. "You’re changing. Let it happen. I’m here."

Micah nodded weakly, though tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. The pressure in his mouth was unbearable for another few moments—then gone. He ran his tongue over his gums, smooth and soft now, entirely toothless.

Jackson traced Micah’s jaw with a reverent touch. "You’ll get new ones. A full upper denture… I’ll make sure of it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Micah let out a shaky breath. He was barely able to focus—his vision had grown worse by the second, the room around him fading into soft, indistinct shapes. "I can’t… see, Sir," he murmured. His fingers fumbled for the glasses resting on the nightstand, but when he slipped them on, the distortion was worse. His old prescription wasn’t enough now.

Jackson reached out and gently removed the glasses, folding them with care. "You’ll need new ones," he said softly. "We’ll get them. Everything you need. But right now… just let me guide you."

Micah nodded again, his breathing slowing, though his body continued to change. He winced as a dull ache spread through his scalp—then an eerie numbness. His hand lifted shakily to his hairline, where thick tufts of his dark hair were coming loose at the root. His fingers closed around the strands as they fell, soft and lifeless, onto his lap. Soon, the top of his head was completely bare, smooth and cool to the touch.

Jackson exhaled slowly, eyes riveted to Micah’s pale, bald scalp. He reached out, brushing his leather-gloved fingers over the newly exposed skin. "Look at you," Jackson murmured, more to himself than Micah. "You’re… incredible."

Micah shivered at the touch, his lips parting as he felt the warmth of Jackson’s admiration. Despite the pain, he felt a strange sense of pride blooming in his chest. He had become exactly what Jackson wanted—what they wanted.

His face felt heavy as though time itself was weighing down his features. The skin around his eyes and mouth sagged into deeper lines, forming prominent jowls that added years to his appearance. His cheeks hollowed slightly before filling out again, forming soft, age-rounded curves. He groaned softly as a faint itch spread across his jaw—within seconds, a wiry white beard began sprouting, thickening until it covered his lower face entirely.

Jackson’s breath caught in his throat. He reached out, cupping Micah’s face, running his thumbs over the beard. "It’s real," Jackson whispered, awe coloring his tone. "Your beard… it’s so thick, boy. White as snow."

Micah’s lips quivered as he whispered, "It… feels real." His hands lifted to touch his own face, fingers brushing over the wiry hair. His new voice was softer now, raspier, the edges worn down by age.

The change spread further. His chest heaved as the once-slim torso began to soften, muscles relaxing beneath an expanding layer of fat. His stomach rounded, pressing against the snug fabric of his button-up shirt. The buttons strained, gaps forming as his belly grew fuller, pressing against Jackson’s gloved hand.

Jackson let out a quiet, guttural groan as he pressed his palm against Micah’s belly, feeling the warmth and weight. "You’re perfect," Jackson murmured, barely able to contain himself. "You’ve become everything… everything I dreamed of."

Micah’s arms thickened slightly, the skin around his elbows softening and wrinkling. His hands, once smooth and lean, grew wider and more weathered, faint liver spots blooming along the backs. His fingers flexed slowly as if adjusting to the stiffness in his joints.

His legs felt leaden, and when he shifted to sit up, he winced. "I’m… so slow, Sir," he whispered. "I can barely move."

Jackson slid onto the bed beside Micah, wrapping a strong arm around him, the leather cool against Micah’s warmed skin. "You don’t have to move yet," Jackson murmured, brushing his lips against Micah’s temple. "Let me take care of you."

Micah let out a low, contented sigh as he leaned against Jackson. His vision was still blurred, but he could make out the familiar gleam of leather—the cap, the jacket, the thick shoulders that had always made him feel protected. "I feel… different," he murmured. "But I feel… like I’m yours more than ever."

Jackson’s mustache brushed against Micah’s cheek as he pressed a slow kiss there. "That’s because you are, boy. You’ve given me everything. And now… I get to show you just how much that means to me."

Micah’s aged body trembled slightly as Jackson’s arms tightened around him. The weight of his new form, the sag of his skin, the rasp of his white beard—all of it felt surreal. But Jackson’s steady presence, his whispered words of devotion, made him feel safe in this new body.

"You’re beautiful," Jackson murmured again, his gloved fingers trailing reverently down Micah’s chest. "You’re exactly who you’re meant to be."

Micah closed his eyes, letting the sensations wash over him. The warmth of Jackson’s body, the firm embrace of leather, the lingering ache in his joints—it was all real, and it was everything they had dreamed of. "Thank you, Sir," he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. "Thank you for making me feel… whole."

Jackson pulled him close, their bodies pressed together as they shared the quiet aftermath of the transformation. "You’ve always been whole, boy," Jackson whispered. "Now the world can finally see what I’ve always known."

It started as a dull, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest and belly, like the slow burn of a shot of whiskey. At first, I thought it was nothing. I’d been so focused on Jackson—on the way he watched me with that mix of awe and hunger—that I didn’t realize how deep the potion was working until the heat turned into something else entirely.

The first real jolt of pain came like a vice tightening around my jaw. My hand flew to my face instinctively, my fingers brushing my lips as a strange pressure built behind my teeth. My mouth felt… wrong. Too tight, too crowded. I tried to speak, but all I managed was a garbled "Jackson…" before something hard shifted against my tongue. I felt it slide loose—my molar—and then another. The sensation was horrifying, foreign, and yet—God help me—thrilling in a way I couldn't explain.

I coughed, and my teeth tumbled out onto the sheets with soft, hollow clicks. I stared at them in disbelief, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through me as I ran my tongue over my now-soft, empty gums. "My teeth…" I whispered, though the words came out slurred, my voice strange without them.

Jackson was there immediately, his gloved hand on my face, steadying me. "It’s okay," he whispered, eyes locked onto mine. His touch was so sure, so calming, that I believed him—even as I felt the last of my teeth shift and fall free. "You’ll have new ones," he promised, his thumb brushing gently over my bottom lip, pressing softly against my toothless smile. "A full upper denture. We’ll make you complete again."

His reassurance sent a wave of warmth through me. I nodded, even as another sharp, cold sensation took over my scalp. It felt like thousands of tiny needles were pricking my skin, followed by an eerie numbness. My hands shot up to my head, and my stomach twisted when I felt thick clumps of hair coming loose at the root. They slid through my fingers like wet leaves. I clenched them tightly in my fist before I let the strands fall onto the sheets.

"My hair," I rasped, unable to stop the tremor in my voice.

Jackson leaned closer, brushing his gloved fingers over the bare, smooth skin of my scalp as more hair drifted down. "Shh," he murmured. "Let it happen. You’re becoming everything we wanted."

The way he looked at me—reverent, mesmerized—stopped the panic in its tracks. I felt the warmth of his leather glove as it moved over my bald head. I swallowed hard, focusing on the feeling of being touched, being held.

Then my face… it felt heavy, like the skin itself was pulling down, surrendering to gravity. I felt the sag begin at my temples and around my eyes, the stretch of my cheeks softening, slackening. My jawline thickened with loose skin, forming the beginnings of jowls. When I brought my fingers up to trace the changes, I could feel every new wrinkle, every hollow and fold.

"Jackson," I whispered again, softer this time. I didn’t need to say more—he was watching every second of it unfold with an intensity that made me weak.

"You’re beautiful," he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to my newly aged temple. His mustache brushed my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

That’s when I felt the first prickling itch along my jawline. I winced as something pushed through the surface—thousands of tiny bristles, coarse and dry. Within moments, the stubble grew into a full, thick beard, spreading across my face like wildfire. I gasped at the sensation—it was unlike anything I’d ever felt. My hand drifted down to touch it, my fingers sinking into the thick, wiry hair. It was white. Completely white.

Jackson groaned softly as he ran his gloved hands over my face, over the beard. "It’s real," he murmured, his voice thick with awe. "You’ve got a real beard… a real old man’s beard."

I wanted to laugh, but my breath caught in my throat as another wave hit—this time, across my chest and stomach. I felt my ribs expand and soften beneath my skin, my torso thickening with mass. My belly pushed forward, rounding and pressing against the tight fabric of my shirt. The buttons strained, and one popped free with a soft ping, clattering somewhere on the floor.

I let out a low moan as I ran my hand over the new swell of my gut. The skin felt warm, softer than before, with a slight give beneath my touch. "I’m… getting bigger," I whispered, almost in disbelief.

Jackson pressed a hand firmly against my belly, his leather glove cool against the heat of my skin. His eyes darkened as he watched me. "You’re perfect," he growled. "Look at you… your body’s exactly how it should be."

My arms grew thicker as the change spread—my biceps softened, and the skin around my elbows became looser, wrinkling like crepe paper. My fingers widened, the knuckles now covered in faint liver spots. I flexed my hands slowly, feeling the stiffness settle into my joints. The strength I’d once taken for granted was gone, replaced with something slower, something heavier.

And then… my vision blurred. The room around me dissolved into soft, indistinct shapes. I blinked furiously, but it only grew worse. I reached for my glasses, slipping them on, but the prescription was all wrong. The distortion made my head spin.

"I can’t see…" I muttered, my voice small.

Jackson was there in an instant, gently removing the glasses and holding my face in his hands. "You’ll get new ones," he whispered, kissing the bridge of my nose. "We’ll make sure you can see the world clearly again. But for now… trust me. Let me be your eyes."

I nodded, trusting him completely, and let him guide me. His strong arms wrapped around me as I sagged into him, the weight of my new body settling into place. My skin felt looser, more vulnerable, yet I’d never felt more secure.

I ran my hands down my face again, over the soft wrinkles, the white beard, the new jowls. "This is… me now," I whispered.

Jackson pressed his forehead to mine, his leather cap cool against my heated skin. "Yes," he murmured. "This is you. My old man… my everything."

I let out a shaky breath as my body relaxed into his embrace. My back ached, my knees felt weak, and my gums ached from the absence of teeth. But as I pressed my head against Jackson’s chest, the leather cool beneath my cheek, I felt whole. Complete.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice rasping with age. "For seeing me… for loving me like this."

Jackson’s arms tightened around me as he kissed the top of my bald head. "I’ll love you at any age, in any form," he whispered. "You’ve given me more than I ever dreamed of… and now, I get to take care of you."

I closed my eyes, letting his voice and his touch ground me. Despite the weight of my body, despite the aches and changes, I felt safe. I felt loved. And for the first time in my life, I felt… exactly who I was meant to be.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the loft’s windows, warming the room with a quiet glow. The candles from the night before had burned down to stubs, and the scent of wax and leather hung faintly in the air. Micah was seated on the edge of the bed, trying to get used to the weight of his aged body. His legs dangled slightly, and he could feel how different everything was—the subtle tightness in his lower back, the slight stiffness in his knees. He wasn’t in pain, but everything felt… slower. More deliberate.

Jackson stood beside him, towering in his polished BLUF uniform. His tall, gleaming leather boots, snug leather pants, and broad-shouldered jacket encased his muscular frame like a second skin. His leather cap cast a slight shadow over his eyes, but Micah could still see the intensity there—the hunger, the pride, and something deeper: awe.

Micah inhaled shakily and reached out a hand. His fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the effort of moving with a body that felt heavier and softer. Jackson’s gloved hand clasped his immediately, steadying him with a reassuring squeeze.

"Sir," Micah whispered, his voice raspier now, weathered with age. "I need… I need to see." The words came out slurred, his upper lip collapsing inward where his teeth had once been. He raised his hand to his mouth self-consciously. "Damn… I sound funny."

Jackson knelt in front of him, one knee resting on the hardwood. He cupped Micah’s face gently, his leather gloves brushing over the soft, wrinkled skin of his cheeks. "You sound perfect," Jackson murmured. "But if you don’t like it… we’ll get you new teeth. A full set. You’ll feel whole again."

Micah nodded slowly, though the weight of the missing teeth was strange—his tongue couldn’t help but press against the smooth, bare gums where his smile had once been full. "I jush… wan’ to know… what I look like," he mumbled.

Jackson smiled softly, his mustache twitching as he leaned in. "Then let’s get you to the mirror, old man." His voice was thick with affection.

Micah laughed, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "Old man, huh?" He reached up and brushed his fingers over his own scalp, feeling the smooth, cool skin where his hair had once been. The texture was strange—so bare, so exposed. "I feel it," he admitted. "Healthy… but damn, I feel it."

Jackson helped him rise, slipping an arm around his waist. Micah pushed himself up with a soft grunt, his legs steady but slow to respond. His knees didn’t ache exactly, but they felt… resistant, like the joints had stiffened overnight. Jackson's grip was strong, the creak of his leather jacket loud in Micah’s ear as they moved together.

"Take your time," Jackson whispered, his lips brushing Micah’s temple. "We’re not in a hurry."

Micah nodded and shuffled forward, each step deliberate. His bare feet pressed softly against the hardwood, and he felt the slight give of his softer belly brushing against the fabric of his shirt with each step. His suspenders tugged gently against his shoulders, reminding him of the newfound girth pressing outward at his middle.

"I’m bigger than I thought," Micah muttered, a faint smile playing on his lips despite the slurred speech. He patted his round stomach. "Never thought I’d be… like this."

Jackson’s hand slid over Micah’s belly with reverence. "You look exactly how you’re supposed to," he murmured. "Strong. Sturdy. Like someone who’s lived well."

Micah’s throat tightened with emotion at Jackson’s words. The weight of the moment—and the weight of his new self—settled over him as they reached the mirror. Micah gripped the wooden frame as Jackson stood close behind, one hand resting on his shoulder.

His blurred vision made the reflection hard to make out at first. All he saw was a faint silhouette—bald, bearded, and thick-set. He squinted, trying to sharpen the edges of the man staring back at him. "I… can’t see clear," Micah admitted softly. "Need… new glasses."

Jackson reached up, gently pulling Micah’s old glasses from the bridge of his nose and setting them aside. "We’ll get you new ones," he said. "But for now… let me tell you what I see."

Micah swallowed, letting Jackson’s voice guide him. He closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth of Jackson’s presence.

"I see you," Jackson whispered, his leather-gloved hands brushing over Micah’s shoulders. "Your beard—it’s full and white, thick and strong. You’ve got lines here," he traced along Micah’s eyes and cheeks, "and here. And they suit you, boy. You wear every wrinkle like you’ve earned it."

Micah’s lips quivered slightly as he lifted his hand to touch his beard. It was dense, wiry, and longer than he expected—real, not some mask glued on for show. "It… feels real," he whispered.

Jackson pressed his forehead against the back of Micah’s bald head, his voice low and thick with desire. "That’s because it is. You’re real now. No more pretending."

Micah let out a slow breath, his hand trailing down to his belly again, feeling its soft roundness. "I’m… really seventy," he murmured, half in awe, half disbelief. His fingertips brushed over the faint liver spots on his hands, his new reality sinking in with each touch. "I’m old… healthy, but old."

Jackson’s arms wrapped around him from behind, the smooth leather pressing firmly against Micah’s back. "You’re everything I’ve ever wanted," Jackson whispered. His lips brushed against Micah’s ear before trailing down to press a kiss to his soft, wrinkled cheek. "You’re perfect."

Micah exhaled shakily, turning in Jackson’s embrace. His vision was blurry, but he could see enough to make out Jackson’s broad silhouette, the gleam of his leather uniform, the thick mustache framing his lips. "Kiss me, Sir," Micah whispered.

Jackson didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a slow, deliberate kiss. Micah’s toothless gums pressed softly against Jackson’s lips, and for a moment, Micah felt vulnerable—but only for a moment. Jackson’s hand slid to the back of his head, holding him steady as the kiss deepened. Micah’s hands curled into Jackson’s leather jacket, feeling the firm, unyielding strength beneath it.

When they pulled back, Micah’s face was flushed, his breathing shallow. "I don’ feel young," he muttered, a faint smile curling his lip. "But I feel… like yours."

Jackson’s hand cupped Micah’s face, thumb brushing over the thick beard. "That’s because you are, boy," he said firmly. "Every wrinkle, every breath, every slow step… you’re mine."

Micah closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "Thank you, Sir," he whispered. "For seeing me… for making me feel whole."

Jackson pulled him close again, their bodies pressed together as Micah’s new form settled fully into place. The weight, the slow thoughts, the itch of his beard—all of it became part of who he was. And in Jackson’s arms, Micah knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, its rays filtering through the windows and casting a warm, golden hue over the loft. The city buzzed faintly in the distance, but within their sanctuary, everything felt still—like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them. Micah was sitting on the edge of the bed, his soft belly pressing gently against his thighs, his bare feet flat on the cool hardwood. The air was warm, but he could still feel the occasional shiver as his body continued adjusting to its new state. He ran his hand slowly over his rounded stomach, tracing the wrinkles that now decorated his skin.

Jackson stood by the desk, phone in hand, making arrangements. His leather uniform was still immaculate—his boots polished, his jacket snug around his powerful frame. Even in the middle of something mundane, he looked every inch the dominant figure Micah adored.

"Yes," Jackson was saying into the phone, his voice calm but firm. "I need an appointment today if possible. Glasses first. Dentures and hearing aids can follow, but the vision's urgent." He paused, listening to the person on the other end, then nodded. "Thank you. We’ll be there in an hour."

Micah watched him through blurred vision, his heart swelling with affection. The thick, commanding lines of Jackson’s figure were hazy, but he didn’t need clarity to know every inch of the man who cared for him. When Jackson hung up, he turned, his mustache twitching as he smiled.

"You’re all set, old man," Jackson said, stepping closer. "First stop: new glasses."

Micah nodded, reaching out as Jackson approached. "Thanksh… Sir," Micah said, his voice slow, slurred, and gravelly. He could feel how different his lips felt without his upper teeth—it made speaking more of an effort, but somehow, that vulnerability felt… right. His chest tightened with emotion as Jackson took his hand.

Jackson bent slightly and placed a soft kiss on Micah’s knuckles. "Anything for you," he murmured. His gloved thumb brushed over Micah’s hand, tracing the faint liver spots. "How are you feeling?"

Micah’s brows furrowed as he thought carefully, choosing his words slowly. "Different," he rasped. "Shlower… like… I’m… wadin’… through… water." He swallowed, running his tongue over his gums again. "An’… thish… toothlessh… thing… takesh gettin’ ushed to."

Jackson chuckled lowly, his hand sliding up to cup Micah’s cheek, brushing over the thick, wiry beard. "You’ll get used to it. And until you do… I’ll be here."

Micah leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment as warmth spread through him. When he opened them again, he looked down at his hands—wider now, with loose skin that bunched slightly at the knuckles. He turned them over slowly, tracing the veins and spots with fascination. "Thish… thish ish… me now," he whispered. His fingertips brushed his forearm, feeling the softness of his aged skin. He marveled at how thin it felt in some places, how thick and sturdy in others.

Jackson knelt in front of him, resting his leather-clad hands on Micah’s knees. "You’re still mine," Jackson said, his voice low and steady. "And you’re still you."

Micah smiled, the gesture making his sunken lips curve in a way that felt strange but endearing. "I shtill… feel… like yoursh," he murmured.

"You are," Jackson whispered. His hands slid up slowly, over Micah’s thighs, his touch deliberate and reverent. "We need to get you dressed," Jackson continued, though his eyes were dark with something more than practical concern. "But I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at you like this."

Micah chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly. "Sho… what’re we waitin’ for?" His voice softened as his eyes found Jackson’s. "Help me… S-Sir?"

Jackson’s smile widened as he stood, looming over Micah for a moment before reaching for the wardrobe. "Of course, boy."

He pulled out a clean white undershirt, a soft gray cardigan, and a pair of navy-blue slacks. The cardigan was thick and comforting, with large buttons that would be easier for Micah’s slower fingers. Jackson laid the clothes out carefully before turning back to his boy.

"Stand up for me," Jackson instructed, his voice gentle but firm.

Micah pushed himself up, leaning on Jackson for support as he found his balance. "I’m… shturdy," he murmured, pride flickering in his voice as he stood fully. His body felt solid, despite the soft roundness at his belly and the wrinkles that creased his skin. "Jus’… slow."

Jackson’s gloved hands brushed Micah’s arms as he nodded approvingly. "You’re doing fine." He reached for the undershirt, guiding it over Micah’s head. The soft fabric slid down his chest, brushing against his rounded stomach and making Micah shiver slightly.

When Jackson’s hands smoothed over the shirt, adjusting it over Micah’s shoulders, the touch lingered. Micah inhaled slowly, warmth pooling low in his belly. "Y-your… touch," Micah murmured, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. "Feelsh… real good, Sh-Sir."

Jackson’s lips twitched into a smirk as he stepped closer, his leather jacket brushing against Micah’s chest. "I know," he murmured, his hand trailing down to Micah’s waist, brushing just above his beltline. "That’s because I’m never going to stop touching you."

Micah let out a soft, breathy moan as Jackson’s hand traced the curve of his stomach. "Sho… much… of me," he muttered, half-embarrassed, half-aroused. He glanced up at Jackson, his blurred vision unable to hide the heat in Jackson’s gaze.

"You’re beautiful," Jackson said firmly, bending slightly to press a slow, deliberate kiss to Micah’s bearded cheek, then another to the corner of his toothless mouth. Micah trembled as Jackson’s lips brushed over his gums in a way that felt both tender and possessive.

Micah closed his eyes, savoring it. "I feel… alive," he whispered. "Old… but alive."

Jackson leaned in, their foreheads touching as he murmured, "Good. Because you’ve never been more mine." He reached down and slid the slacks up Micah’s legs, fastening them slowly before helping him into the cardigan.

Micah ran his hands over the cardigan, feeling the warmth of the knit fabric beneath his palms. "Shir… you really… love thish?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jackson stepped back for a moment, looking Micah over from head to toe. His chest rose and fell steadily as he took in the full sight of Micah in his aged form—the white beard, the soft lines, the slower movements. His lips parted, and Micah could see the raw need in his eyes.

"I love everything about this," Jackson said, stepping forward again and pressing their bodies together. "And I love you."

Micah’s breath caught as Jackson’s mouth covered his in a slow, tender kiss. Their movements were slower now—less frantic, more deliberate. Micah’s hands curled into Jackson’s jacket as he kissed back, savoring every second.

When they finally pulled apart, Micah’s voice was thick with emotion. "Thank you… Shir. I… feel whole."

Jackson cupped Micah’s face gently. "You are whole," he whispered. "And I’ll take care of you every step of the way."

Micah nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. He was slower now, yes—but he was still loved, still desired, still his.

The air outside was crisp, and the early afternoon sunlight reflected off the buildings as they made their way down the street. The hum of the city buzzed around them, but for Micah, everything felt slightly muted—distant and softer. He walked slowly, but steadily, his arm looped through Jackson’s for support, though more for reassurance than necessity. His steps were deliberate, his back a little straighter now as he adjusted to the sensation of moving with more weight, more softness.

"Well," Micah began, his words slow and slurred as his gums pressed against his upper lip. "If… I’m seventy… maybe I’ll say… I feel… sixty-ish." He gave a small, breathy chuckle, glancing up at Jackson with an amused glint in his eyes.

Jackson’s laugh was deep and rich, his gloved hand tightening slightly around Micah’s arm. "Sixty, huh?" he teased, adjusting the angle of his leather cap as they walked. "Don’t push it, old man. You’ve got the beard of a seventy-year-old and the belly to match." He gave Micah’s stomach a playful pat.

Micah chuckled again, the sound raspier than before. "Fair point," he muttered, rubbing a hand over the cardigan that stretched slightly over his rounded middle. "But, I feel… healthy." He paused for a moment, his lips pressing together thoughtfully before he continued, "Shlow… but good. Like… I earned thish."

Jackson stopped at the street corner and turned toward Micah, studying him for a moment before nodding. "You did," he said, his voice softening. "You’re handling all this better than I imagined. I knew you’d be perfect, but… damn." His eyes drifted over Micah’s face, drinking in every line and curve.

Micah felt his cheeks warm beneath the beard. "Well… thanksh to you, Shir," he murmured, giving Jackson’s arm a squeeze. "Shupport makesh… all the difference."

They crossed the street together, the thudding sound of Jackson’s leather boots contrasting with the soft, measured shuffle of Micah’s steps. Micah couldn’t help but smile as they walked past store windows, catching blurry glimpses of their reflections—Jackson in his towering, BLUF-clad dominance and Micah by his side, round-bellied and white-bearded, looking like a retired professor next to his leather-clad guardian.

The bell above the optometrist's door chimed as they entered the shop. The scent of polished wood and faint disinfectant filled the air. The receptionist, a young man with neatly styled hair and an easy smile, greeted them. "Good afternoon! How can we help you today?"

Jackson took a step forward, still holding Micah’s arm. "We have an appointment for him—new prescription," Jackson said, his tone authoritative but kind. "He can’t see much right now."

Micah smiled faintly at the receptionist, though his upper lip sank inward, making the expression feel unfamiliar. "Need… new eyesh," he joked, gesturing vaguely toward his face.

The receptionist chuckled warmly. "Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let me grab your file."

Micah leaned in toward Jackson as they waited, lowering his voice. "New eyessh, new teeth, new earsh… I’m like a damn… restoration projec’."

Jackson smirked and gave Micah a light squeeze. "You’re a masterpiece, not a project," he murmured. "But if you were… you’d be my finest work."

Micah’s breath hitched slightly at Jackson’s words. He turned his head, nuzzling against Jackson’s leather jacket for a moment before pulling back. "Shir… you’re gonna make me blush under all thish beard."

Soon, the optometrist appeared—a middle-aged woman with short, curly hair and a warm expression. "Micah?" she asked, glancing at the chart in her hand. "Come on back."

Jackson gave Micah a soft nudge. "Go on, old man. I’ll be right here."

Micah shuffled toward the exam room, adjusting his cardigan as he went. He could feel the subtle sway of his belly with each step, but he was getting used to the sensation. Inside, the optometrist helped him into the chair and began adjusting the machines.

"Your vision’s a little blurry, huh?" she asked gently.

Micah nodded. "Blurry… can’t make out… much."

"Let’s fix that," she said kindly, adjusting the lens machine in front of him. "Just tell me which one looks clearer."

Micah took a breath and did his best to focus, slowly following her instructions. His slower mind made him take longer to answer, but she was patient. Lens after lens clicked into place until, finally, the world began to sharpen again. He blinked as the details of the room came into focus—the crisp lines of the eye chart, the small flecks in the optometrist’s brown eyes.

Micah smiled, his eyes shining. "I can… see," he whispered.

She handed him a set of sample frames, and he picked a classic pair with thick, rounded edges that suited his face. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he could finally see the man he’d become—his bald head gleamed slightly under the light, and his thick, white beard framed his face perfectly. The wrinkles and lines around his eyes and mouth looked deep but dignified. He looked… strong. Settled.

Jackson stepped into the room as Micah adjusted the new glasses. "Well?" Jackson asked, his voice low and warm.

Micah turned slowly, the new clarity making Jackson’s BLUF-clad figure seem larger than life. "Shir… you look… shtrikin’," Micah murmured, awe in his voice.

Jackson’s grin widened. "And you look… mine," he said, stepping closer and brushing a gloved thumb over Micah’s cheek. "Come on—we’ve got more stops to make."

By the time they left the audiologist, Micah had new hearing aids tucked behind his ears. The world felt louder now—crisper and clearer—but instead of overwhelming him, it made him feel more present. He could hear the steady thud of Jackson’s boots beside him, the hum of passing cars, even the soft rustling of his cardigan.

As they walked down the street, Micah spoke slowly but more confidently. "Sho… new… birthday, huh?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Yeah? What are you thinking?"

Micah paused thoughtfully, his hand stroking his beard. "I wanna… have a day… to celebrate… thish me. When… I really became… seventy."

Jackson’s face softened as he nodded. "We can do that," he said, his voice low but sure. "Your new birthday. Every year, we’ll celebrate the day you became exactly who you are now."

Micah’s chest swelled with emotion as he smiled up at Jackson. "You… make me feel… like the luckiesht old man… alive."

Jackson leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to Micah’s forehead. "That’s because you are."

The next few days passed in a haze of adjustments and quiet moments of discovery. The loft became a sanctuary for Micah to get used to his new body—its quirks, its strengths, and its softness. With his new glasses resting securely on the bridge of his nose, the world was sharper now. He could finally see the wrinkles etched into his skin, the small liver spots that dotted his arms and hands, and the thick white beard that framed his jaw. Every time he caught his reflection in the mirror, it felt like staring at a stranger and yet… someone familiar, someone real.

By the fourth morning, the sunlight streamed through the windows, warm and golden as it bathed the loft. Micah stretched slowly, feeling the pleasant ache of his body as it adjusted. The air felt different—brighter, sharper—now that he had his dentures in place. The upper teeth felt strange but sturdy, and as he ran his tongue over them, he smiled to himself. No more slurring. I’m seventy… but I’m still me.

Jackson was already awake, standing shirtless by the window, sipping his coffee as he looked out over the city. The morning light outlined his broad chest and the dark hair scattered across it. His leather pants clung tightly to his thick legs, the belt glinting faintly in the light. Micah’s chest fluttered as he took in the sight.

"Morning, old man," Jackson rumbled without turning, sensing Micah’s gaze.

Micah smirked and pushed himself upright, rolling his shoulders. "Morning, Sir." His voice was resonant now, deeper with age but steady. He was proud of how strong it sounded. "What’s the plan for today?"

Jackson set his mug down and crossed the room in a slow, confident stride. "We’re going out," he said as he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Micah’s head. "Clothes shopping. You need a wardrobe that matches the new you. Then we’re stopping at the barber."

Micah raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "You think I can’t handle my beard?"

Jackson’s hands slid to Micah’s hips, squeezing gently. "I know you can," he murmured, brushing his thumb along Micah’s cheek. "But I want you to feel as good as you look. Besides, I like spoiling you."

Micah exhaled, leaning into the touch despite himself. "Fine," he muttered, hiding his smile. "But I’m picking my own clothes."

Jackson’s laughter rumbled as he pressed another kiss to Micah’s temple. "Deal. Let’s get dressed."

The boutique was tucked into a quiet street corner, with polished windows displaying stylish but age-appropriate outfits. As they stepped inside, Micah immediately noticed the calm, welcoming atmosphere—the scent of cedar and fabric softener filled the air. His glasses rested securely on his nose, allowing him to take in every detail: the racks of neatly folded sweaters, tailored trousers, and casual jackets.

A neatly dressed store clerk approached, her smile warm and genuine. "Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you find anything?"

Micah nodded, his confidence steady as he adjusted his glasses. "I’m looking for something… different. Comfortable, but stylish." He cast a glance at Jackson, who leaned casually against a nearby rack, arms crossed. "And nothing that makes me look like I’m headed to a retirement home."

Jackson’s grin was slow and wide. "You want to look like a cool seventy-year-old, huh?"

Micah’s eyes glinted as he picked up a dark olive-green sweater and held it against his chest. "Exactly. I’m seventy, not six feet under."

The clerk chuckled as she led them to a section filled with soft, button-up shirts in rich tones, cardigans, and tailored pants. Micah ran his hands over the fabric, savoring the softness. He chose a pair of navy slacks and a burgundy button-up shirt.

Jackson watched with quiet admiration as Micah sorted through the options. "Try that one on," Jackson said, nodding toward a dark charcoal cardigan. "That’ll look good with your beard."

Micah raised an eyebrow but grabbed the cardigan. "You like bossing me around, don’t you?"

Jackson shrugged, his leather creaking as he shifted. "Guilty as charged."

Micah rolled his eyes but smiled. "Fine. But if I look like I’m hosting a book club, I’m blaming you."

Once the shopping bags were packed and slung over Jackson’s broad shoulder, they headed to the barber shop a few blocks away. The spinning red, white, and blue pole outside the door gave it a classic feel, and the rich scent of shaving cream and aftershave greeted them as they stepped inside.

The barbers all wore vests over button-ups, their workstations neat and organized. A middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard looked up and smiled. "Gentlemen, welcome. Who’s the lucky one today?"

Jackson nodded toward Micah. "He is. Full clean-up—beard, mustache, and scalp."

Micah smirked as he settled into the chair. "I’m not some project, you know."

The barber chuckled as he draped a cape over Micah’s shoulders. "Trust me, you’re in good hands. You’ve got a great beard. Just needs some shaping."

Micah adjusted his glasses and nodded. "Alright. But no trendy nonsense. Just a proper trim. And keep the mustache thick—I’ve got to keep up with him." He motioned toward Jackson.

Jackson leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Don’t worry. You’ll be handsome enough to stop traffic."

The barber spread warm lather across Micah’s scalp, the sensation soothing. Micah closed his eyes, letting the gentle scraping of the straight razor relax him. When the razor reached his beard, the barber took his time shaping it, brushing through the thick white bristles with care. Micah opened his eyes as the barber wiped away the last of the stray hair and stared at his reflection.

The man staring back at him was sharp, clean, and distinguished. His beard was full but neatly shaped, his scalp smooth, and his mustache thick and bold.

Jackson stepped forward and placed a hand on Micah’s shoulder. "What do you think, old man?"

Micah tilted his head from side to side, a grin spreading across his face. "Damn… I look good."

Jackson’s voice was low and warm as he leaned in. "I told you." His mustache brushed against Micah’s ear. "I’m proud of you."

Micah’s chest swelled as he met Jackson’s gaze in the mirror. "Thanks, Sir. I feel… like me again."

Jackson kissed his temple. "You’re better than ever."

When they got home, Micah stood in front of the full-length mirror, wearing only his glasses. The sunlight from the windows warmed his bare skin as he took in every inch of himself. His belly hung slightly over his waist, round and soft. His chest had flattened, the skin loose at the sides, but there was a sturdy thickness to his frame. His white beard was perfectly groomed, and the new glasses framed his face elegantly.

His fingers traced the folds near his hips and followed the lines of his ribs. "This… is me," he whispered. "Real. Full." His dentures made his upper lip fuller, more defined, and his smile felt complete again.

The sound of Jackson’s boots thudded behind him before he heard the familiar creak of leather as it hit the chair. Micah glanced at the mirror just in time to see Jackson peeling off the last of his BLUF uniform, standing tall and naked—broad, powerful, and unashamed.

"You’re staring," Jackson rumbled, stepping closer.

Micah chuckled and turned, letting his eyes drift up and down Jackson’s body. "You’re worth staring at."

Jackson’s arms circled Micah’s waist, and his warm, calloused hands splayed over his belly. "So are you," he murmured against Micah’s ear. "Have you let yourself really feel it yet?"

Micah swallowed hard, his hands covering Jackson’s. "I feel… heavier. But strong. It’s still me. And it feels… good."

Jackson’s lips brushed against Micah’s head, trailing down to his shoulder. "Good," he whispered. "Because I love every inch of you."

Micah met Jackson’s gaze in the mirror, his eyes shining behind his glasses. "I never thought… I could still feel this alive. This wanted."

Jackson turned him gently, their bare chests pressing together as he cupped Micah’s face. "You’re not just wanted—you’re mine."

Their kiss was slow and deliberate, their beards brushing as Jackson’s hands slid down Micah’s back, pulling him closer. The softness of Micah’s body pressed against Jackson’s hard frame, the contrast sending a wave of warmth through them both.

Micah laughed softly, breathless. "I need you, Sir."

Jackson smiled, his thumb brushing over Micah’s cheek. "You’ve always had me."

They made their way to the bed, the sunlight warming their skin as they shared quiet kisses and slow touches, their bodies moving together with a tenderness that only deepened as the hours passed. Micah felt every heartbeat, every breath, and in those moments, he knew that age hadn’t taken anything from him—it had only made everything feel richer, more profound. He was seventy, yes, but with Jackson by his side, he felt more alive than ever.

The next few days passed in a mix of anticipation and quiet adjustments as Micah and Jackson settled into their new routines. Jackson had become more attentive than ever, barely able to keep his hands off Micah for longer than a few moments. Every time Micah caught him staring—usually while he was adjusting his glasses, stroking his beard, or even just walking across the loft—Jackson’s eyes would darken with unmistakable desire.

Micah was beginning to enjoy teasing Jackson, giving him small knowing smirks and deliberately stretching out simple actions like brushing his beard or buttoning his cardigan. Each time, Jackson’s jaw would tighten, his fingers flexing as if restraining himself.

"You’re killing me, old man," Jackson muttered one morning as he watched Micah sip his coffee, his lips brushing delicately against the mug’s edge.

Micah set his mug down and raised an eyebrow. "You sure you’re not the one who’s getting old?" he shot back with a grin. "I’ve barely started my day."

Jackson huffed a laugh, stepping forward until he was right in front of Micah, their chests nearly touching. "You’ve got no idea how hot you are," Jackson growled, cupping Micah’s face in his large hands. "That beard. That body. Even the damn glasses. You’re all I think about."

Micah’s cheeks flushed under the praise. "Sir," he murmured, both flattered and aroused. "It’s mutual… but if you keep looking at me like that, we’ll never get anything done today."

Jackson leaned in, brushing a soft kiss across Micah’s lips. "Maybe that’s the point."

Three days later, the long-awaited dentures arrived. They were custom-fitted—crafted to be perfect replicas of natural teeth, giving Micah back not only his smile but also his confidence. They arrived at the dentist’s office in a sleek case, polished and pristine.

Micah was seated in the chair as the dentist gently adjusted the fit and guided him through the process. "These should feel snug," she explained as she handed Micah a mirror. "You’ll need to practice a bit, but they’ll quickly feel like a part of you."

Micah raised the mirror and stared at his reflection, mouth open slightly as he adjusted the dentures in place. His upper lip no longer collapsed inward, and his face looked fuller, more youthful.

Jackson, seated nearby, leaned forward, his eyes locked on Micah’s mouth. "Holy hell," Jackson murmured, shaking his head as if in disbelief. "You look incredible."

Micah closed his mouth, then grinned slowly. "I’ve got my smile back," he said, his voice clearer than it had been in days.

Jackson stood and moved closer, crouching down so they were eye-level. "You’ve never stopped being incredible," he whispered, his thumb brushing over Micah’s cheekbone.

Micah’s gaze softened as he reached up to touch Jackson’s hand. "Thanks, Sir. It feels… good. Really good."

Later that afternoon, they stopped by a high-end boutique that specialized in hairpieces. Micah had joked about it initially, but Jackson had insisted. "You’ve got options now," Jackson had said, his voice filled with excitement. "Why not try something new?"

The stylist greeted them warmly and gestured for Micah to sit in the chair. "You’ve got a great head shape," the stylist said as he examined Micah’s smooth scalp. "We’ll find something that enhances your features."

Jackson sat nearby, watching intently as the stylist presented a variety of hairpieces—different colors, textures, and styles. Micah raised a skeptical eyebrow at some of the options. "I’m not looking to become someone else," he said, half-smiling. "Just… maybe a bit of variety."

The stylist nodded and placed a short, salt-and-pepper hairpiece on Micah’s head, adjusting it carefully. The effect was immediate—the short hair framed his face, adding a touch of ruggedness. Jackson’s mouth parted slightly as he stared.

Micah turned to the mirror and adjusted his glasses, tilting his head from side to side. "Well, look at that," he murmured. "Not bad… not bad at all."

Jackson cleared his throat and stood, moving behind Micah. His fingers brushed over the edge of the hairpiece. "You look amazing," he said, his voice low. "I can’t… get over you."

Micah’s reflection showed his faint blush as he looked up at Jackson. "Think this’ll drive you even crazier?"

Jackson chuckled, leaning down until their foreheads touched. "I know it will."

Their last stop of the day was the pharmacy. Micah chuckled as Jackson handed him a small box of Viagra, the blue packaging standing out in the bag alongside the hair care products.

"Really?" Micah asked, raising an eyebrow. "You don’t think I’ve got enough stamina?"

Jackson shrugged with a mischievous grin. "Insurance, just in case. Besides… I’ve got plans for you."

Micah’s laughter rumbled low in his chest. "You’re unbelievable."

Jackson leaned in close, his breath warm against Micah’s ear. "Only when it comes to you."

Micah shivered as they left the pharmacy, their fingers brushing as they walked side by side. As they made their way home, the anticipation between them was palpable—every glance, every touch, feeding the fire that had only grown stronger over the last few days.

Back at the loft, Micah set the bags down and stretched, feeling the pull of his muscles. He caught his reflection in the mirror—the new hairpiece, the fitted cardigan, the freshly trimmed beard, and his full, confident smile. He looked… remarkable.

Jackson approached from behind, wrapping his arms around Micah’s waist and pulling him close. "You see it now, don’t you?" Jackson murmured.

Micah nodded, his eyes locked on their reflection. "Yeah… I do."

Jackson kissed the side of his neck, slow and deliberate. "Good. Because tonight’s just the beginning."

Micah turned in Jackson’s arms, his heart pounding as their lips met in a deep, lingering kiss. The world outside faded, leaving only the heat between them. Micah smiled into the kiss, thinking of all the new adventures that lay ahead—and knowing they’d face each one together.

The loft was bathed in the soft golden hues of the setting sun as Micah turned in Jackson's embrace, their eyes locking for a long, charged moment. Jackson's hands, warm and firm, slid up Micah's sides, resting just beneath his chest. Micah could feel the steady thrum of his own heartbeat, slow and deep, as if his whole body had slowed to savor every second.

Micah tilted his head slightly, his new hairpiece settling comfortably as Jackson’s lips brushed over his temple and down to the curve of his cheek. “I’m not fragile, Sir,” Micah murmured, his voice clear but softer with age. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Jackson’s mouth quirked into a smirk against Micah’s skin. “Oh, I know,” he growled, his hands tightening their grip slightly as he pulled Micah flush against him, their bodies pressing together, warm and unyielding in all the right places. “I’m just taking my time. Enjoying you.”

Micah let out a slow breath, his glasses fogging slightly as Jackson’s lips trailed down his jaw and onto his neck. His fingers slid up Jackson’s broad chest, feeling the soft hair there, the firm muscle beneath. Jackson’s body was like a fortress—strong, steady, and so achingly familiar.

“I’ve waited for this,” Jackson whispered between kisses. “To see you like this. To feel you.”

Micah chuckled softly, his chest rising and falling in steady waves. “Then stop waiting,” he murmured, threading his fingers into Jackson’s thick hair and tugging gently, eliciting a low growl from Jackson.

In an instant, Jackson lifted Micah, guiding him back toward the bed. Micah let out a surprised but pleased laugh as he felt the soft sheets against his back. His body sank into the mattress, and he looked up at Jackson, whose eyes were blazing with desire as he tugged off his belt and let his leather pants fall to the floor.

Micah reached up, his hands settling on Jackson’s waist as Jackson climbed onto the bed, his presence large and overwhelming in the most comforting way. The weight of Jackson’s body pressed into Micah’s softer frame, and the contrast between their bodies—the hard muscle of Jackson’s and the roundness of Micah’s—sent a shiver through them both.

Jackson’s lips found Micah’s again, this time more demanding, more consuming. Micah groaned into the kiss, his dentures clicking slightly before he adjusted, the slight awkwardness making them both chuckle between breaths.

“Still getting used to the teeth,” Micah muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Jackson kissed the corner of his mouth, then along his beard-lined jaw. “You’re perfect, teeth or no teeth,” Jackson whispered, his hands exploring Micah’s chest, tracing the creases in his skin and brushing over his round belly. "Every part of you."

Micah’s breath hitched as Jackson’s touch grew more deliberate, his hands sliding lower, tracing over Micah’s hips. Jackson’s kisses were slow but insistent, and the heat between them built with every touch, every whispered word. Jackson's thumb brushed just beneath Micah's navel, making Micah gasp.

“Do you feel that?” Jackson asked, his voice rough as he pressed his forehead to Micah’s. “That’s what you do to me. Every damn day.”

Micah’s fingers gripped Jackson’s shoulders, his nails digging in slightly. “I feel it,” he whispered. “I feel… alive.” His voice cracked slightly as he said it, overwhelmed by the raw honesty in the moment.

Jackson pulled back just enough to look down at him, brushing a thumb across Micah’s flushed cheek. “You are alive,” Jackson said firmly, his eyes shining. “You’re everything to me.”

Micah felt his throat tighten as he pulled Jackson down again, their mouths meeting in another searing kiss. Their bodies pressed together, Jackson’s hips rocking slowly against Micah’s, their movements deliberate and slow at first, as if savoring every second. The heat between them built steadily, their skin slick as they moved together, the sounds of their shared breath filling the room.

Micah’s hands wandered down Jackson’s back, tracing the strong muscles there, pulling Jackson closer with surprising strength. Jackson groaned low in his throat, his body pressing harder into Micah’s. The tension in the air crackled as their movements grew more urgent, their restraint giving way to something raw and primal.

Jackson’s mouth found Micah’s neck again, teeth grazing gently as Micah gasped and arched into him. “Jackson,” Micah breathed, his voice trembling with need. “Please… don’t stop.”

Jackson growled in response, his hands tightening around Micah’s hips as he shifted, pressing even closer. Their bodies moved in a rhythm that felt both familiar and new, their shared connection deepening with each touch, each kiss.

Micah’s glasses had slipped down slightly, but he didn’t care. He could still see Jackson’s face above him—the sweat on his brow, the intensity in his eyes. And in that moment, with the world narrowed down to the heat and closeness between them, Micah felt more than just alive—he felt cherished, wanted, and whole.

As their breathing slowed and the heat of the moment settled into something softer, Jackson stayed pressed against Micah, their foreheads touching as they lay together. Jackson’s fingers brushed over Micah’s side, tracing lazy patterns over his skin.

“I don’t need the Viagra,” Micah muttered with a breathy chuckle. “Turns out… I’m plenty capable.”

Jackson laughed, his deep voice vibrating through Micah’s chest. “Told you,” he murmured, kissing Micah’s temple. “But it’s nice to know we’ve got backup… for round two.”

Micah grinned and ran a hand through Jackson’s hair. “You’re insatiable.”

“Only with you,” Jackson whispered before leaning in for another kiss. And as the night stretched on, they let themselves get lost in each other again and again, their love as enduring and timeless as the new life they’d created together.

The morning light was soft and hazy as it filled the loft, casting long shadows across the furniture. Micah sat at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He was already dressed in a casual sweater and slacks, his cardigan draped neatly over the chair. His thick glasses rested comfortably on his nose, and his dentures were firmly in place, giving him that fuller, more natural look he’d grown used to. The toupee, styled neatly, added another layer to his reflection of a man well into his seventies. Yet as he looked down at his hands—wider now, with liver spots and veins standing out—there was a quiet hum of thought behind his eyes.

Jackson walked in wearing a tight white T-shirt and jeans, his usual leather for once replaced by something simpler. He placed a hand on Micah’s shoulder as he passed, squeezing gently before sitting across from him with his own mug.

“You’ve been quiet,” Jackson said, his voice calm but curious.

Micah adjusted his glasses and gave a small shrug. “Just… thinking,” he murmured. His voice was clear but still carried the rasp of age, something he was still getting used to.

Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Thinking about what?”

Micah exhaled slowly, resting his chin in his hand. “It’s been three weeks, Jackson.” He paused, glancing up at Jackson’s face. “I don’t regret it. I need you to know that. This… this has been amazing. But… I’m starting to feel it. All of it.”

Jackson frowned slightly, sitting back in his chair. “What do you mean?” He studied Micah’s expression carefully, concern creeping into his voice.

Micah ran his hand through his short hairpiece, which shifted slightly under his fingers. He sighed and adjusted it, more annoyed with himself than anything. “The toupee—it itches like hell sometimes. And the glasses… they’re thick. I’ve bumped into corners more times than I can count.” He paused, tapping a finger against the edge of the table. “And the hearing aids… God, some mornings I swear they make me feel like a machine with all the parts I have to put in just to start the day.”

Jackson nodded slowly, though his eyes were soft. “I get it, old man. It’s… a lot.”

Micah chuckled dryly. “That’s putting it lightly. I can’t just roll out of bed and go anymore. I’ve got a whole routine now—hearing aids in, dentures in, hairpiece adjusted, glasses cleaned.” He shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I used to be able to pull my pants on and be out the door in minutes.”

Jackson reached across the table, his large hand covering Micah’s. “Is it… too much?” Jackson’s voice was steady but quieter than usual. “Because if it is, we can figure something out.”

Micah didn’t answer right away. Instead, he traced the edge of his coffee cup with his finger, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. “It’s not that I don’t… enjoy it. Hell, Jackson, it’s weird, but I do enjoy it. I like looking in the mirror and seeing this man staring back at me. I like the way you look at me. And there’s something about putting it all on—the hearing aids, the teeth, the hair—that… turns me on.” He gave a sheepish grin. “It’s like I’m building this version of me that I never thought I’d be… but I can’t help feeling… a little tired, you know?”

Jackson nodded, squeezing Micah’s hand. “I understand.” He leaned forward again, resting his chin on his palm. “You’ve had to adjust to a whole new life—and I’ve just been here, staring at you like a lovesick idiot.”

Micah laughed softly, the sound deep and warm. “Yeah, you have. But I don’t mind that part.” He rubbed his thumb over Jackson’s knuckles. “It’s just… I haven’t even been able to show up to work. I can’t move the way I used to. My reflexes aren’t as sharp. And… I don’t want people asking questions I can’t answer.”

Jackson’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Your boss has called a few times. I told him you were dealing with a family thing, but… you’re right. This body isn’t exactly built for quick commutes or rushing through crowds.” He tilted his head, watching Micah’s expression. “But you’re still you. And we can figure this out—together.”

Micah smiled faintly, though his eyes were glassy with emotion. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true,” Jackson said firmly. “Look, I’m not blind. I’ve seen you struggle to open jars and trip over the rug. I’ve heard you curse at the hearing aids more than once.” He grinned. “But I’ve also seen you own this. You walk taller than you ever did before. You look yourself in the mirror like you’ve finally figured out who you are. And that… that’s what makes this worth it to me.”

Micah’s throat tightened as he nodded. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Jackson’s grin softened as he stood and walked around the table, pulling Micah to his feet. “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around Micah, holding him close. “We don’t have to make any decisions today,” Jackson murmured. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

Micah exhaled slowly, resting his head against Jackson’s chest. “I love you, you know that?”

“I do,” Jackson said, kissing the top of Micah’s head. “And I love you too. All of you—toupee, dentures, glasses, and all.”

Micah laughed, the sound muffled against Jackson’s chest. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As they stood there in the warmth of the morning sun, Micah felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. The novelty of his transformation might have started to wear off, but the love between them had only grown stronger. And for now, that was enough.

The spell’s duration remained a mystery. Each morning, Micah woke up half-expecting to see his younger self staring back in the mirror. But the weathered, white-bearded man with deep-set eyes and a soft belly remained. And so, they’d made a pact: they would make the most of this chapter, however long it lasted.

Jackson had embraced the adventure fully, and though Micah occasionally struggled with his slower pace and new routines, he was determined to live it out loud.

Micah adjusted the thick leather jacket over his shoulders as they stepped into the dimly lit bar. The familiar scent of beer and tobacco wrapped around them. Tonight was “Senior Night,” but the usual crowd wasn’t expecting this kind of arrival.

Micah’s new leather outfit hugged his fuller frame comfortably. The tailor had taken extra care to ensure the pants fit around his thicker thighs and rounder backside without pinching, while the vest was cut generously to fit snugly but not restrictively over his broad chest and softer belly. His beard was freshly combed, his toupee styled neatly, and his glasses gleamed under the bar’s neon lights.

Jackson stood tall beside him, his BLUF uniform pristine—black leather cap, crisp leather shirt tucked into high-waisted pants, polished boots that caught the light with every step. His presence was magnetic, and Micah felt his heart flutter as Jackson slid an arm protectively around his waist.

A few of the older regulars turned to look. Some nodded in approval, others looked curious.

Micah leaned into Jackson and muttered, “I feel like we just walked into an old-school Western… with more leather.”

Jackson chuckled, his breath warm against Micah’s ear. “You’re owning it. They’re staring because you look damn good.”

Micah glanced at the reflection in the mirrored wall—two towering figures in leather, one young and imposing, the other older but just as commanding in his own way. He straightened his back slightly and smirked. “Damn right I do.”

They walked to the bar, and the bartender, a wiry man with a silver goatee, raised an eyebrow but smiled. “What can I get you two?”

“Two old-fashioneds,” Jackson said, glancing at Micah, who nodded in approval.

The bartender’s eyes flicked to Micah’s ID as Jackson handed it over. It was a forged senior identification with Micah’s photo—one of the more tedious adjustments they’d had to make. “Seventy?” The bartender chuckled as he handed it back. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re holding up better than most.”

Micah leaned forward, resting an elbow on the bar. “Good genes… and a bit of luck,” he said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as the bartender set the drinks down.

Jackson slid Micah’s drink toward him and clinked his glass against it. “To making the most of it,” Jackson said, his eyes warm.

Micah nodded, raising his glass. “To… everything.” He took a slow sip, savoring the burn of the whiskey on his tongue.

The night went on, the music picking up as more couples shuffled onto the dance floor. Jackson’s fingers traced slow circles on Micah’s back, and Micah couldn’t help but smile. When a slow song started, Jackson stood and held out a hand.

“Come on, old man,” Jackson said with a playful grin.

Micah rolled his eyes but took Jackson’s hand. “You’re lucky I’ve still got some moves.”

Jackson led Micah to the dance floor, and as the music drifted over them, Micah leaned into Jackson’s embrace. They moved slowly, swaying together in the middle of the room.

“You know,” Micah murmured against Jackson’s shoulder, “I never thought I’d be the kind of man who gets whisked away to dance.”

Jackson’s hand tightened slightly around Micah’s waist. “You’re exactly the kind of man I dreamed of dancing with.”

Micah’s heart felt full as they moved together, and for a moment, all the adjustments—hearing aids, dentures, glasses—melted away. He was just Micah, held in Jackson’s arms.

A Week Later – Small Town in Arizona

They had decided to take a spontaneous road trip. Jackson had insisted that Micah deserved the open road and new adventures. With Micah’s forged senior ID, they booked into quaint motels and attended events that welcomed older couples with open arms.

They found themselves at a local community center where “Desert Senior Social Night” was in full swing. Micah adjusted his leather vest and nudged Jackson. “This might be a bit too on the nose.”

Jackson laughed, adjusting his hat. “Just embrace it.”

Micah did—he danced, laughed, and leaned into every moment. The seniors adored him, asking how long he and Jackson had been together and complimenting his beard. Micah soaked up the attention, secretly thrilled by how naturally he fit into this role.

The Barber in the Next Town Over

The next morning, they found a tiny barber shop in the middle of a sleepy town square. The barber, an older man with thick glasses and a friendly smile, greeted them warmly.

Micah sank into the chair, running a hand over his toupee. “Let’s tighten this up, yeah?”

The barber nodded. “A good toupee’s like a suit—it needs the right fit and style.” He took great care as he adjusted and styled the hairpiece, making sure it fit snugly and blended seamlessly. Jackson watched from the corner, eyes fixed on Micah.

Once the barber was done, Micah adjusted his glasses and looked at his reflection. His white beard was cleanly shaped, his hair looked natural, and the confidence in his eyes was unmistakable.

Jackson stood behind him, hands resting on Micah’s shoulders. “You look incredible.”

Micah tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin. “I feel… good.”

Jackson kissed the top of his head. “You should. You’re the hottest man in this town—and probably the next.”

Micah laughed and stood, shaking the barber’s hand. “Thanks. You’ve got a steady hand.”

The barber winked. “I can tell you two are making memories. Keep at it.”

Micah glanced at Jackson as they walked out into the warm Arizona sun, their boots crunching against the gravel. The future was still uncertain, but as they piled back into their car, Micah felt something shift within him—not resignation, but gratitude for every breath, every laugh, and every slow dance.

Later that night, as they lay in bed in their small motel room, Jackson traced lazy circles over Micah’s chest. “Do you ever think about what’s next?” Jackson asked quietly.

Micah exhaled slowly. “Yeah… but I don’t want to waste time worrying.” He turned, their noses almost touching. “We’re making the most of this. That’s what matters.”

Jackson’s hand cupped Micah’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the thick white beard. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Micah smiled, leaning into the touch. “And I’m all yours, Sir.”

And as they drifted off to sleep, Micah held onto the certainty that no matter how long the spell lasted, they were living fully—and that was enough.

Part 2

[rowipott]

[rowipott]

[rowipott]

YEAH BROOOO!

Damien you finally fucking mine to play with!

A few minutes ago, this guy Damien was minding his own business until he was ranting on how sexy he was to some girls. You could see the girls didn't like his abrupt attitude.

I was smirking and he caught me, I gave him a challenge if I was to become him and fuck within a hour, he would surrender this body to me. If I lost the bet, he would have my smarts, wealth.

The dumb cunt didn't know that he was being totally lured into my trap.

He agreed, and within a few minutes, I was Damien, I evicted him into my old body, which he was knocked out for hours. When he woke up, he saw me fucking his former team mate Nathan.

"GUESS I WON THE BET BRO, THIS BODY IS MINE!"

From that, I shot my new thick jock loads deep inside of Nathan, who laughed at him with me as we both know Damien has been totally fucked over by this trap.

Nathan taunted him, saying he set this trap up, and he wanted his captain to be gay. Damien tried to attack me, but I grabbed him by the neck and chucked him outside.

"DID YOU SEE THAT NATHAN! THIS BODY STRENGTH IS FUCKING INSANE!!!"

We both laughed as I slid my cock back into his tight hole for a second round.

[rowipott]

Laying the Foundation (Part 2)

The first morning in Miguel’s body was surreal. Waking up to a reflection that wasn’t mine—a youthful face with sharp cheekbones and unruly black curls—was like stepping into a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. My skin was taut, my muscles lean and tight. Every movement felt effortless, as though I was walking on air. I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection, running my hands over the abs that Miguel clearly took for granted.

“I can’t believe Miguel agreed to this,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head with a mix of disbelief and excitement. But whatever doubts I had quickly dissolved when I remembered the reason I’d taken this leap: Tomas.

When I stepped onto the site in Miguel’s body that morning, the rush of anticipation nearly knocked me over. Tomas was already there, setting up for the day. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with the morning sun’s heat. He looked up as I approached, and when his eyes met mine—Miguel’s, really—his expression softened into that devastatingly gorgeous smile that had haunted my thoughts for years.

“Morning, Miguel,” he said, his voice warm and familiar.

“Morning,” I replied, keeping my tone easy and relaxed, even though my heart was pounding.

I caught him glancing at me—not once, but twice—his eyes lingering on my arms as I casually adjusted my tool belt. He smirked, and for a second, I wondered if he could hear the wild thudding of my pulse.

For the rest of the week, I made it my mission to have Tomas pursue me. There was something exhilarating about the slow burn, after all those years of yearning from afar. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and I wanted him to feel the same maddening pull I’d been feeling for years.

I leaned into Miguel’s effortless charm, adding little touches to my routine that I knew Tomas wouldn’t miss. I made sure to stretch in ways that highlighted my lean muscles, flexing casually whenever Tomas was in view. If I caught him watching, I’d lift my shirt to wipe the sweat off my face, revealing the abs that I could tell made his breath hitch.

“Hot today, huh?” I’d say, letting the corner of my mouth twitch into a smirk.

“Yeah,” he’d reply, his voice a little strained, his eyes flicking to my stomach before darting away.

But damn, it wasn’t just me playing the game. Tomas was giving as good as he got. The way his biceps flexed when he adjusted a beam, the way his shirt clung to his back when he leaned over to grab a tool—it was all deliberate. And it was working. My resolve to take things slow was unraveling faster than I could manage.

By Friday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to have him.

The crew was packing up for the day, the air buzzing with that end-of-week energy. I caught Tomas lingering nearby, pretending to check something on his clipboard. His eyes flicked toward me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and I knew. I just knew he was waiting for me to make a move.

I sauntered over, Miguel’s easy swagger coming naturally to me now. “Hey,” I said, keeping my tone light but with just enough edge to make him curious. “You doing anything later?”

Tomas’s head shot up, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and hope. “Uh, no. Why?”

I leaned casually against the truck, letting the smirk play on my lips. “Thought maybe you could come over. Chill out, watch a movie or something.”

His face lit up, his smile so big and genuine it made my chest tighten. “Yeah, yeah, I’d love that,” he said quickly, almost tripping over his words.

I didn’t miss the way he bit his bottom lip or how he shifted his weight, his jeans tightening in just the right spot to make my pulse race. Watching him get flustered like that, so eager and unsure, sent a rush of heat straight to my core.

I tilted my head slightly, letting my voice drop to a teasing tone. “Calm down, big boy. It’s just a movie.”

His laugh was nervous but adorable, a soft, shaky sound that made me want to pull him closer right there. “Right. Just a movie,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yup,” I said with a wink, deliberately adjusting my growing now cock in my pants.

As I walked away, I could feel his eyes burning into my back, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. Tonight was going to be perfect.

---

At least, that’s what I thought.

About an hour before Tomas was supposed to come over, my phone buzzed on the couch. I grabbed it, my stomach twisting when I saw his name flash across the screen. For a moment, I stared at it, irrationally hoping he was just calling to confirm plans, but deep down, I knew better.

“Hey,” I answered, trying to keep my voice casual.

“Hey,” Tomas said, and immediately, I could hear the tightness in his tone. “Listen, I hate to do this, but I can’t make it tonight. My sister called—she’s dealing with some stuff, and I need to head out of town for a week to help her out.”

The disappointment hit harder than I expected, like a punch to the gut. “Oh,” I said, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just... family stuff,” he sighed, sounding genuinely regretful. “I’m really sorry, Miguel. I was looking forward to tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, managing a chuckle I hoped didn’t sound forced.

“I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” he added, his voice soft but firm, almost like a promise.

When we hung up, I tossed the phone onto the couch with a groan, running my hands over my face. A whole week of tension, teasing, and glances—it had all built to this, only for it to evaporate. And now? Now there was nowhere for that energy to go. Worse still, being in Miguel’s body wasn’t doing me any favors. I’d forgotten how relentless a 21-year-old libido could be, the way every glance, every thought, could light a fire I couldn’t easily put out.

I needed a distraction.

Grabbing my phone again, I opened Grindr. I hadn’t touched the app since stumbling on Tomas’s profile weeks ago, but tonight? Tonight, I craved the validation, the rush, the fleeting thrill of being wanted. It didn’t take long to set up a new profile—Miguel’s face as the main picture and a short, casual bio: 21, masc, looking for fun.

The response was overwhelming. My inbox flooded with messages almost immediately, most of them crude, a few polite, but all of them feeding into the heady rush I was chasing.

Of course, I hadn’t stopped at just a basic selfie. Miguel’s phone, as it turned out, had a “hidden” folder of photos—ones that FaceID, amusingly, gave me full access to now. A few clicks and swipes later, and I had added a tastefully suggestive picture of Miguel’s sculpted torso to my profile.

The reaction was exactly what I’d expected: a mix of awe and outright thirst.

One message caught my attention almost immediately. The sender’s name was “E,” and his profile photo was a headless torso so perfectly sculpted it looked like it belonged on a marble statue. His profile claimed he was 22, but the sheer maturity of his build—broad shoulders tapering into a lean, cut waist—hinted at someone who’d spent years refining their body.

His first message was simple: “You’re unreal. That face, those tattoos... and that body. Damn.”

I couldn’t help but grin, feeling a flicker of satisfaction that was as validating as it was intoxicating. For once, I wasn’t being seen as “hot for my age” or some other backhanded compliment. In Miguel’s body, I was just plain hot—no qualifiers.

I shot back a reply: “Coming from someone with a body like that? I’ll take it as a compliment.”

His response was instant: “It should be. You’re my type in every way.”

A thrill raced down my spine. It wasn’t Tomas, but this guy’s attention scratched an itch I hadn’t realized had been so desperate.

“Your body’s insane, by the way,” I typed. “You sure you’re only 22? Looks like you’ve been at this for years.”

His reply was cocky, but not off-putting: “Hard work pays off. But honestly, I think I’m more impressed with yours. Those muscles look like they actually get put to good use.”

I bit my lip, staring at the screen. “Actually, I’m a construction worker,” I replied. “So, yeah, they definitely do.”

The back-and-forth was exhilarating. For the first time in years, I felt truly desired—not cautiously, not with caveats, but fully and unapologetically.

The conversation escalated quickly.

Every reply made my pulse race, every compliment chipped away at the thin veneer of control I’d been holding onto all week. By the time he sent a picture—a close-up shot of his cock, thick, hard, and glistening—I was trembling. The caption that followed was simple but devastatingly effective: “How would you feel about having this inside you?”

I nearly dropped the phone. Heat coursed through me, a potent mix of arousal and adrenaline. My mind blanked, words failing me as my hands worked on autopilot. I sent my address with a short, urgent reply: “Come over. Now.”

His response came almost immediately: “On my way.”

I set the phone down, my chest heaving. A part of me knew this was impulsive, reckless even—but another part of me didn’t care. After years of yearning and restraint, I was ready to feel wanted, to feel alive.

Tonight, I’d let myself have that.

---

When the knock finally came at the door, my pulse spiked. I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in the hallway mirror, and opened the door.

And froze.

Standing there, looking every bit as sculpted and devastatingly attractive as his Grindr photos had promised, was Elias. My son.

For a split second, my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing. The man who’d been sending me filthy messages all night—the one who’d sent me that picture—was Elias. He was grinning, his dark eyes filled with hunger and excitement, completely oblivious to who I was.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Before I could say anything—before I could even think—he leaned in, his lips crashing against mine.

Panic and shock warred with the electric jolt of the kiss. His hands were on me, strong and confident, pulling me closer as his lips moved against mine. He scooped me up effortlessly, like I weighed nothing, and carried me over to the couch. His strength was staggering, and it didn’t help that earlier, in my brazen Grindr exchanges, I’d mentioned how much I loved a man who took charge in the bedroom. He was taking that as gospel.

As soon as he settled me down, his lips were back on mine, hungry and commanding. I tried to focus—tried to gather my thoughts enough to stop this before it went any further—but the feel of his body pressing against mine, the heat radiating from him, made it nearly impossible.

He shifted, his mouth moving down to my neck, kissing and nibbling in a way that sent sparks shooting down my spine.

“Wait,” I managed to gasp, but my words were swallowed by a low moan as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot. My resolve faltered.

His hands weren’t idle, either. With just his left hand, he began unbuttoning my shirt, each pop of a button quick and precise. His right hand tangled in my hair, his fingers gripping just tight enough to send a shiver through me.

By the time my shirt was open and slid off, Elias had shifted lower, his mouth trailing hot kisses down the length of my chest. He didn’t just kiss—he licked, his tongue tracing a slow, tantalizing path over my skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Damn, he knew exactly what he was doing. I bit my lip to stifle a groan, my fingers gripping the edge of the couch.

Elias straddled me on the couch, his knees bracketing my thighs as his hands pressed firmly against my sides. He pulled back just far enough for his dark eyes to meet mine, and for the first time, I had space to think. Really think. What the hell was I doing? Could I let this go on? Could I tell him the truth?

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but then he reached behind his neck, gripping the fabric of his shirt, and tugged it off in one fluid motion.

The sight stopped my words in their tracks. His chest and abs were a masterpiece of sculpted muscle, each ridge and curve perfectly defined. A faint sheen of sweat made his skin glisten, and my eyes couldn’t help but follow the deep V that led down to his crotch.

Any train of thought I’d had derailed completely.

After tossing his shirt aside, he came back down, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was just as intense, just as hungry, as before. This time, though, the sensation of his bare chest pressing against mine sent a shockwave through me. His skin was warm, firm, and impossibly smooth, and the way our bodies fit together felt maddeningly perfect.

I couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The feel of him, the weight of him, was overwhelming in the best way. He kissed me like he was claiming me, his hands roaming over my shoulders, down my sides, and back up again, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. My own hands found his back, tracing the ridges of muscle, marveling at the strength beneath his skin.

The foreplay seemed endless, but in the best way. For what must have been twenty minutes, we explored each other, our breaths mingling, our bodies slick with sweat. His lips wandered from my mouth to my neck, then to my chest, where he bit and licked at sensitive spots that sent me arching against him. My body was electric, alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years—if ever.

And then, finally, he slid my pants down, taking his time as he worked them off my hips and legs, leaving me exposed beneath him. His own pants came off next, revealing a cock that was nothing short of massive. Thick, long, and already glistening with precum, it made my breath catch in my throat.

Elias wasted no time pressing himself against me, his cock sliding along my ass crack with an agonizingly slow rhythm. The heat of him was almost too much, the sweat and precum making it glide with ease. Each movement sent shivers up my spine, the sensation maddeningly pleasurable. I could feel every inch of him, the weight, the hardness, the undeniable need in the way he moved.

I bit my lip, my breathing ragged, as his hands gripped my hips, holding me firmly in place. Every nerve in my body was on fire, and the line between pleasure and overwhelming lust blurred into something I couldn’t resist, even if I tried.

Elias shifted, his cock poised right at the entrance to my loosened hole, the head pressing with just enough pressure to tease but not push through. My breath hitched, and my entire body tensed in anticipation. He looked down at me, his dark eyes smoldering with an intensity that left me completely undone.

“Beg for it,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver straight through me.

This was it—my chance to stop this, to end it before it went too far. I knew what I should do. But the hunger in his eyes, the heat radiating from his body, the overwhelming need coursing through me—it all made resistance impossible. My mind went blank, and all that was left was raw, unfiltered desire.

I locked eyes with him, craven lust written all over my face, and whispered, “Please. Please fuck me. I need you inside of me.”

His gaze darkened, a satisfied smirk curling at the edges of his lips. He gripped my hips tighter, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to leave marks. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said, his tone both teasing and firm.

Then he thrust in, and I gasped, my body arching against him as he filled me completely. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, but the sheer rightness of it drowned out everything else. In that moment, everything clicked—his body against mine, his strength, his heat. It felt so perfect, so right, so full, I knew I’d never be the same. There was no going back.

[rowipott]

Laying the Foundation

Owning a general contracting firm isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but it does have its perks. And by perks, I mostly mean the eye candy. Whether it’s a sweaty crew under the summer sun or a client’s husband who catches my attention during a site visit, there’s enough visual appeal to keep my day interesting.

I’m glad I can admit that now. For the first 40-something years of my life, I refused to acknowledge the part of me that liked men. It wasn’t just denial—it was an ironclad, church-fed certainty that I was the straightest man alive. I had the life to prove it too: a wife, two great kids, and a job that kept me too busy to dwell on feelings I wasn’t ready to confront.

But five years ago, I couldn’t lie anymore—at least not to myself or my wife. The realization hit me like a freight train one afternoon as I was scrolling aimlessly through my phone, and it scared the hell out of me. I’ll spare you the gory details of how I came out to her; it was messy, emotional, and one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But if you knew her, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear how kind she was about it.

We got divorced. Not because she hated me—far from it—but because she deserved better. Someone who could love her fully, the way she’d loved me. She was understanding, even supportive, but understandably, she wanted a fresh start. She moved a few states away, which meant our boys, Elias and Remy, followed. They were in college by then, so it wasn’t like they needed me every day, but still—it stung not to see them as often.

Now, I only saw them on the breaks they got from school. Holidays, mostly. Elias was 22 and just starting to figure out his life, and Remy, at 19, was busy living his best college experience. They were good kids, and they didn’t resent me for coming out. At least, I didn’t think they did. But I could tell there were things they didn’t say, questions they didn’t ask. I tried not to push.

In the years since my divorce, I hadn’t exactly been a Casanova. You’d think that, as a newly single gay man, I’d dive headfirst into the wild world of dating apps and endless hookups. But it hadn’t played out that way. I didn’t know where to start, honestly. Bars felt too young for me, apps were overwhelming, and after decades of repressing this part of myself, I felt like I didn’t even know the rules.

And so, I stayed busy. Running my business. Keeping in touch with the boys. Pretending I wasn’t lonely. Pretending I wasn’t deeply, madly crushing on Tomas.

Tomas was one of my best guys—a foreman who had worked for me for almost six years. Early thirties, 6’1”, with the kind of lean, sculpted build that made work boots and a tool belt look like runway fashion. Tomas had short-cropped black hair, caramel skin that seemed to glow in the sun, and a confident swagger that made my heart skip a beat every time he walked past me.

He was also, without a doubt, the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on. I wasn’t sure if it was his deep, musical laugh, the way his smile seemed to light up an entire room, or the sharp intelligence he brought to every project. Whatever it was, I was hooked. Hooked in a way that made my chest ache and my thoughts stray where they shouldn’t.

I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. I was his boss, for starters. And besides, for all I knew, he was straight and happily taken. But every time I saw him in the field, bending over to check a level or cracking a joke with the guys, I couldn’t help but fantasize. About what it would be like to pull him close, to feel his strength, to hear him say my name in a way that wasn’t professional.

I tried to keep my distance. Tried to focus on the work, on the business, on anything but the growing knot of desire that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. But Tomas was always there. Always just a few feet away, making me laugh, making me blush, making me feel things I hadn’t let myself feel in years.

I didn’t know what to do about it. Hell, I didn’t even know if there was anything to do about it. But one thing was for sure: I couldn’t take my mind off him.

---

The worst part about my unrequited crush on Tomas was the fact that I knew he was gay. I hadn’t guessed or pieced it together from subtle clues—no, I knew. I’d stumbled across his Grindr profile late one night while I was lying in bed, half-torturing myself by scrolling through profiles I had no intention of messaging.

Seeing his photo there had been like a punch to the gut. He looked incredible, of course—shirtless, smoldering, his chest lightly dusted with hair. I had stared at the profile for longer than I should have, memorizing the details: 33 years old, "masc4masc," and then the words that dashed any wild hopes I might have been clinging to: Please no guys over 30.

I closed the app immediately, my face burning with embarrassment even though no one else was there to see it. For days afterward, I kept replaying those words in my head. No guys over 30. Meanwhile, I was 50. Twenty years his senior, his boss, and, apparently, the exact opposite of what he was looking for.

After that, I resigned myself to suffering in silence. I’d accepted that my feelings for Tomas weren’t going anywhere and that I’d just have to live with it. It wasn’t like I could quit my job or fire him—he was too damn good at what he did, and I needed him on my team. So I kept my head down and my feelings buried, figuring that was the best I could do.

That is, until Miguel came along.

Miguel was the newest addition to the team, just 21 years old and fresh out of trade school. He was the youngest guy I’d ever hired, but he came with glowing recommendations, and within a week of working with him, it was clear they hadn’t been exaggerated. Miguel was a dynamo—hardworking, quick to learn, and always eager to take on more responsibility. He had an upbeat attitude that set him apart from the rest of the crew, and he never let the tougher, more grizzled guys intimidate him.

But while Miguel’s work ethic was impeccable, his looks were something else entirely. The kid was gorgeous. A fuckboy face if I’d ever seen one, with sharp cheekbones, thick lashes, a sexy dusting of a beard, and a jawline that could cut glass. His hair was a messy mop of jet-black curls, and his dark brown eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that could make you question all your good decisions.

Even at his young age, Miguel had this natural charisma that drew people to him like moths to a flame. He wasn’t trying to be sexy—he just was. Whether it was the way he laughed or the easy confidence in his stride, you could tell he had everyone swooning at his feet. And that included Tomas.

I wasn’t blind. I saw the way Tomas’s eyes lingered on Miguel during lunch breaks or how he found excuses to talk to him on the job. At first, I thought it might just be professional—Tomas mentoring the new guy, making sure he felt welcome. But it didn’t take long to realize there was more to it than that. Tomas was interested in Miguel. You could see it in the way he stood just a little too close or laughed a little too hard at Miguel’s jokes.

The funny thing was, Miguel didn’t seem to notice his effect on everyone else. Despite his looks and charm, he had this air of innocence about him, like he didn’t quite realize the power he had. He worked hard, showed up early, and went home late, never sticking around for beers or banter with the guys. It was almost like he didn’t want to be seen as just a pretty face.

Watching the dynamic between Tomas and Miguel unfold was like a slow kind of torture. On the one hand, I wanted Tomas to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me. On the other hand, the idea of him falling for someone so much younger, so effortlessly magnetic, made my stomach churn with jealousy. Not toward Miguel, exactly—he hadn’t done anything wrong—but at the reminder of what I couldn’t have.

---

A few months into Miguel working with us, I reached my breaking point. Watching Tomas flirt with him day after day, while Miguel remained blissfully unaware, was driving me insane. Tomas’s lingering glances, the playful shoulder taps, the overly friendly banter—it was everything I’d fantasized about, happening right in front of me, but directed at someone else. Someone younger. Someone who didn’t even notice.

Damn it. Why couldn’t that be me?

I had to do something. Anything. The jealousy was eating me alive, and the hopelessness of my situation was unbearable. So, in a moment of desperation, I decided to use something unconventional. Something I’d never planned to use at all.

A few years ago, I’d taken a trip to South America—a solo getaway to clear my head after the divorce. While exploring a small town nestled in the Andes, I’d stumbled upon an old shop filled with trinkets, charms, and artifacts that seemed plucked from legend. One item caught my eye: a smooth, jet-black stone about the size of a silver dollar, etched with intricate carvings that seemed to shift when you looked at them too long. The shopkeeper had insisted it was a swapping stone, a relic capable of exchanging bodies between two willing participants.

At the time, I’d bought it as a novelty. A conversation piece. But now, staring at it on my nightstand, an idea took root in my mind—an idea so reckless and audacious that I couldn’t believe I was considering it.

The next morning, I pulled Miguel aside during a coffee break. He looked surprised but didn’t question it, following me into my office.

“What’s up, boss?” he asked, plopping down into the chair opposite me with his usual relaxed energy.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Miguel, I’ve been watching you these past few months, and I’ve got to say—you’ve been doing a hell of a job. The crew loves you, and you’ve been busting your ass out there.”

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. “Thanks, but I’m just doing my part.”

I nodded, then leaned forward, clasping my hands on the desk. “Look, I know how hard this kind of work is. It’s physically demanding, and you’ve been carrying a lot of weight for someone so young. So I wanted to offer you something.”

His eyebrows raised. “Offer me what?”

I pulled the stone out of my desk drawer and set it between us. “A swap.”

Miguel tilted his head, his confusion evident. “A swap?”

“Yes. A swap. With me.” I gestured toward the stone. “This… is a bit of a long story, but let’s just say it’s not an ordinary rock. It has the power to let us trade places—temporarily, of course. I’d take your body, and you’d take mine.”

Miguel stared at me, silent for a long moment, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Boss, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m serious.” I pushed the stone closer to him. “Think about it. You’re out there every day breaking your back, while I’m in here taking calls and pushing paperwork. If we swap, you’d get to enjoy the perks of being the boss—shorter hours, no manual labor. You could take my car, my house, my money. Do whatever you want for a while.”

His ears perked up at that. “Whatever I want?”

I chuckled. “Whatever you want. Look, I may be in my fifties, but I’m still in good shape, and I’ve got the resources to make it worth your while. You could have some fun. Live it up.”

Miguel leaned back in his chair, studying me. “Okay, but what’s in it for you? Why would you want to swap with me?”

I hesitated, trying to come up with something that didn’t make me sound like a crazy old man. “Honestly? I’ve been in this business a long time, and I want to understand it better. Really get a feel for what it’s like to be on the ground again.”

Miguel raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“And…” I added, with a sheepish grin, “maybe I want to relive my youth a bit. See what it’s like to be in my twenties again. Humor an old man, will you?”

That got him. He burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Man, you’re something else.”

“So, what do you say?” I asked, my heart pounding.

Miguel studied the stone, his lips pressed into a thoughtful line. Then he looked back at me, a mischievous glint in his eye. “If you’re serious, boss, then yeah. Why not? Let’s do it.”

Little did he know, my motivations had nothing to do with reliving my youth or gaining a new perspective. My eyes were set firmly on Tomas,

We both stood in my office, the stone resting between us on the desk. Miguel seemed skeptical but game, his trademark grin lighting up his face. I couldn’t help but marvel at his confidence—effortless, natural, the kind that came with being young and having the world at your feet.

“So, what’s the magic phrase, boss?” he asked, clearly humoring me.

“It’s in Spanish,” I said, picking up the stone and holding it out to him. “I did get it in Chile, after all. We both have to hold it and say, ‘Quiero cambiar.’ It means, ‘I want to swap.’ Simple enough, right?”

Miguel gave me a look that was equal parts curiosity and amusement, then shrugged. “Alright, boss. Let’s see this thing work.”

He wrapped his calloused hand around one side of the stone, and I gripped the other. For a moment, I hesitated, wondering if this was really the right thing to do. But then I glanced at him, at the youthful energy in his face and the opportunity shimmering in his eyes, and I knew there was no turning back.

We spoke the words together: “Quiero cambiar.”

The moment the last syllable left my lips, I felt it. A strange warmth radiated from the stone, seeping into my palm and spreading up my arm like a current. My back arched involuntarily, and a sensation like liquid sunlight flooded my chest, pulling me out of myself. It wasn’t painful, but it was overwhelming—intense, euphoric, like every nerve in my body was alight.

Across from me, Miguel was going through the same thing. His head tilted back, his body trembling as the same warm glow overtook him. I could hear his sharp intake of breath, followed by a low, guttural moan. We both stumbled a step back, clutching at the air, though there wasn’t anything visible leaving our bodies—just the overwhelming sense of movement.

And then it stopped. Like flipping a switch, the warmth vanished, leaving me standing there, panting, in Miguel’s body.

The first thing I noticed was how much lighter I felt. My limbs moved easily, like I could leap ten feet in the air if I tried. My skin was smooth, my shoulders lean but sturdy. I raised a hand to my cheek, running my fingers along the softer, smoother surface, and then down to my abs—firm and defined, cobblestones under my touch. It was like my body had been built in a dream.

Miguel, now in my body, flexed one of my arms experimentally. “Damn, boss,” he said with a laugh, staring at my bicep, which was massive and veined from years of heavy lifting. “I don’t know if my body’s really any better than yours.”

He turned to the small mirror on the wall, lifting my shirt and giving my old body’s abs a quick once-over. “You’ve been holding out on me, man! If I looked like this at 50, I’d be showing it off all the time.”

I let out a nervous laugh, still getting used to the sound of Miguel’s voice coming out of my mouth. “Yeah, I’m not so sure about that,” I said, my fingers grazing over my new, perfectly sculpted abs. “This feels like a serious upgrade.”

Miguel smirked, striking a mock pose and letting out a low whistle. “You’re not wrong. Your body’s hot as hell now. Don’t break too many hearts, alright?”

I grinned, I had quite the opposite in mind.