r/genderotica

New Caption! You Have To Remember

(gendertransformation,m2f,m2fcaption,m2ftransformation,magicaltransformation,stuck,realityshift, caption)

https://amberhuntwrites.blogspot.com/2026/04/you-have-to-remember.html

As long as Dave wore the master control ring, Alan couldn't remove the slave ring. His body and his mind were at Dave's control, transformed according to his demands.

Upon discovering his power, Dave had transformed Alan into a copy of his own ex-girlfriend. He'd then replaced Alan's fear with an all-consuming lust.

Now Dave plunged into Alan's wet heat, his groin thumping up against Alan's plump new rear. Dave had commanded Alan's tits to grow bigger with each thrust. Alan fondled one breast, fingers spread over the sensitive skin as the other one bobbed against his arm. With each thrust, Alan felt it growing bigger.

Dave thrust into Alan again and again, holding off from cumming in order to watch Alan's tits expand like a balloon. They spilled from Alan's fingers and dangled down until the were touching the bed. They were heavy and full and so sensitive.

By the time Dave finally grunted and came in Alan's new pussy, Alan's tits were gigantic, and when he collapsed onto them his head didn't even touch the bed. Huge, heavy and unwieldy, it was impossible for Alan to move and Dave laughed as he struggled.

After watching him for a little bit, Alan shrunk his breasts to a more manageable pair of L-cups. It wasn't the last of Dave's torments.

A bully finds an alien device that allows him to transform into other people and uses his new powers to torment the student he loathes in Two of a Kind 1: Connor available on Body Swap Stories, Smashwords or Amazon.

Josh spread his borrowed legs wide and looked up at Brandon with a wild grin.

"Cum in me and I can stay like this forever!" Josh said.

Brandon paused, his cock half inside Josh's girlfriend, Jenna. She was warm and wet and wonderful and the itch at the base of his dick begged him to drive in deep just as Josh wiggled and begged for more.

"You want to be her forever?" Brandon asked.

"Oh god, yes," Josh cried, wiggling to try to fill himself with Brandon's length. "Fuck, I'm so horny. This body is incredible. I'll do whatever you want just please finish fucking me. Make me cum. Fill me up."

Hearing sweet, conservative Jenna talk like that made Brandon's cock twitched. Josh reached for him.

"Come on, Brandon, please I need your dick. Don't stop fucking me."

Josh knew that Jenna had a magic spell that could swap bodies and he'd needled her until she agreed just to teach him a lesson. He also knew that someone cumming inside him would seal him in her body forever. As soon as he swapped, he ran off to find his friend, Brandon, and seduced him with his new body.

Josh was ready to break up with Jenna but would have missed her hot, busty body. This way he could have the best of all worlds.

A bully finds an alien device that allows him to transform into other people and uses his new powers to torment the student he loathes in Two of a Kind 1: Connor available on Body Swap Stories, Smashwords or Amazon.

I was a boy... a 20-year-old boy named Max, Latino but with Caucasian skin, handsome although thin. Oh well... that was...

I was from a fairly wealthy family, although everything legal, so my dad had quite a few enemies, that’s when what absolutely no one expected happened, they sent me to kidnap me... the youngest son.

They picked me up when I was leaving my swimming lessons, they knocked me out, they put me in a van and when I woke up... I was in a very dark room, I was tied up and... in front of me there was a camera...

The men explained something to the camera... naming my dad and then... they explained to him that if I didn’t pay they were going to kill me, but then... they came up with something to be more... persuasive. They took out an injection that was not legal, it was not even known to anyone, it was... an experiment...

I was stunned and could hardly understand, just a few words, around there I heard: “Do you know what we do to girls? You don’t want to know, your son is going to be one, so if you want to protect your new princess, pay now!”

That’s when they injected me... my body burned and I started screaming and squirming, but they held me, in front of the camera. I was...rewriting my DNA, as if I was looking for the right genes for...

Suddenly my organs and bones began to rearrange and the excess that I no longer “needed” began to come out in my vomit, I was... expelling my own male organs in the form of a mass.

The other fat was distributed, filling and forming two breasts, then the one on my waist went completely to my hip and buttocks, leaving me with a narrow waist and heart attack buttocks and thighs.

And below... I no longer had anything of a man, in painful seconds, a uterus had formed... ovaries... and... a vagina.

It took 6 minutes until I finished... they brought me a mirror in the dark and there I was... a girl too beautiful, with black hair like mine and my father’s, but... with green eyes like my maternal grandmother and fair skin like my mother. It was... IT WAS ME!!

I was still tied up and they cut the video while laughing at me

They ordered one to send the video to my father... and to upload it to the deep web

(The image is AI) (and im open to role if anyone likes it) 😊

New Caption Sequence! Bernadette Becomes a Good Girl

(gendertransformation, gendervirus, m2f, m2fcaption, captionsequence, m2ftransformation, stuck, maid, femdom, maledom)

https://amberhuntwrites.blogspot.com/2026/04/bernadette-becomes-good-girl-caption.html

There's a single-occupancy bathroom at the end of the east corridor — the one with the accessibility sign and the slightly sticky lock that everyone knows about and nobody has ever put in a maintenance request for. I've used it before when the men's is occupied. Today I go there first, directly.

I push the button to lock the door and it clicks.

The anatomy makes the mechanics different in ways I'm still working out. The approach, the position, the wiping — this morning was a long private education and I'm applying what I learned, or trying to. I'm mid-process, focused, when the door opens.

Seo-yeon.

She has her phone in one hand and the expression of someone who has come here to be alone for five minutes and found the room occupied in a way she did not expect. The expression lasts a fraction of a second. In that fraction several things move across her face — the first response, whatever it was, then something settling, then a kind of focused stillness that I recognize as her arriving at a decision.

She looks at what I'm doing with the toilet paper. A fraction of a second — she takes it in, decides.

"Other direction."

Then she steps back and closes the door.

I sit there.

Long enough for the heat in my face to recede slightly. Long enough to process the sequence: door open, Seo-yeon, the fraction of a second, the two words, door closed. She saw enough. She said the useful thing and nothing else, and she left.

I finish, wash my hands, look at myself in the small mirror above the sink. My face looks back — unchanged, unhelpful.

I stand there a moment longer than necessary. The encounter keeps replaying: the door, the fraction of a second, her voice saying those two words in that register.

There's also a warmth spreading through me now that has nothing to do with embarrassment. Heat low in my abdomen, a slickness between my thighs that wasn't there five minutes ago. And my chest aches — has ached all day, I realize, the tissue tender against the wool in a way I'd been managing to not notice until I stopped moving. I straighten my jeans and go out.

She's not in the corridor.

Back at the lab she's at her desk, head down, pen moving. She doesn't look up when I come in. I sit down and open the data and we work. The afternoon proceeds. At some point she asks about the confidence interval on ARIA's projection and I tell her I've already set up the full dataset run and she nods and says good. Her voice is exactly as it always is.

I keep looking at the data.

I've been thinking — still thinking, in the background, through the pathway logs and the calibration check and the procurement email — about what her face did in that fraction of a second. The first response, the one she didn't use. I don't know what it was exactly: surprise, probably, and possibly something else, and then the decision to put it all away and leave me with only the practical information. The practical information was useful. I needed it and she gave it and then she removed herself, which was also the right thing.

I want to thank her. I also want to never mention it. These two things are both true and the second one is going to win.

When she said other direction she said it the way you say something to a person you're concerned about. The tone was warmer and more careful than the correction of a stranger's mistake, and I found, in the moment, that I wanted to be spoken to in exactly that register. I'm still not examining why.

At five-thirty I close the logs. Seo-yeon is still at her desk. I say goodnight and she says goodnight and neither of us says anything else.

♦  ♦  ♦

Home by six-thirty. The apartment is exactly as I left it. I drop my bag and stand in the middle of the living room for a moment, not doing anything.

The day has been a lot.

Toast, because toast is the simplest available thing. I stand at the kitchen counter and eat it and look at the wall — the biometric reader, the hallway, Seo-yeon's face in the bathroom doorway. The heat afterward that I still haven't fully accounted for. The afternoon at my desk aware of the seat, the jeans, the ache in my chest.

I put the plate in the sink and go to the bathroom.

There's a smell I've been half-aware of since mid-afternoon. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar — organic, warm, coming from me. From the warmth between my legs that has been present and absent and present again throughout the day, leaving evidence in my underwear each time. I want to wash it off. I want to feel like myself again, or a version of myself that isn't tracking its own body temperature every forty minutes. I turn the shower on.

I've turned it down without deciding to — the skin calibrating to heat differently now. The water hits my shoulders and runs down and this is immediately not the simple act of washing I came in here for. The chest, first — the tissue tender, the water against it a continuous low-level signal I have to consciously ignore. I soap my arms and stomach, trying to be efficient. The inner thighs report the contact with more detail than I want right now. I keep going. Between my legs the soap and the water and my own hand produce a sharp upward pull and I stop moving for a moment and breathe.

I keep going. Efficient, or trying to be efficient, which is not the same thing.

The smell of the shower is different — steam and soap and underneath it something warmer, something the water is lifting from my skin rather than washing away. I reach up to adjust the showerhead and the movement pulls across my chest and I make a small involuntary sound.

I fight it for a while. I don't win.

My hand moves before I've decided it should — down my stomach, through wet curls, the angle different, the pressure different, everything different, and I brace the other hand against the tile and my knees go slightly loose and it doesn't take long, the buildup faster than I remember, the crest closer. A shudder runs through me. I stand there afterward, hand still pressed to myself, water running over my fingers.

I soap everything again. The lather between my thighs is almost too much, the skin reporting every pass of my fingers with exaggerated clarity. I turn the water cooler. I stand in it until my knees decide to be reliable again.

The towel is worse — terrycloth dragging across the chest, a friction that makes me wince. I end up patting dry instead of rubbing, careful around the places I'm still learning. I wrap the towel around my waist and look at myself in the mirror. Flushed. My face doing something I recognize.

I have laundry to do.

I pull on a t-shirt — the fabric moving across still-sensitive skin, nipples reporting it immediately — and sweatpants, gather the bag from the bedroom, and take it down to the basement.

The laundry room is empty when I get there. I start the machine and stand against the far wall with my phone.

The door opens at the seven-minute mark. The woman from the third floor, with her bag, and behind her a man I haven't seen before — taller than me, a kind of easy proprietary energy, someone who has come along because that's where she's going. I step back to let them get to the machines and hoist myself up onto the top of the dryer to be out of their way.

The dryer is warm from a previous cycle. The machine starts up and the vibration comes through the metal and I realize, about thirty seconds in, that this was not the best place to sit. The warmth, the low steady hum of it — present, impossible to tune out given everything that's already been happening in my body today. I shift. That doesn't help.

The cold air from the corridor is still dissipating and my nipples, already pressed against the thin t-shirt, respond to the temperature change. I'm aware of this the way you're aware of something you can do absolutely nothing about.

The woman glances over. Friendly, neutral. The man clocks me with a brief assessing look and turns back to her.

I look at my phone. The dryer hums. The warmth radiates up through the machine's top and I am acutely aware of exactly how thin the sweatpants are, and of the fact that I am wet from the shower and possibly from other things, and of the smell — faint, warm, recognizably mine — rising in the heat of the room. I breathe through my nose and look very intently at my phone.

"Cold out tonight," she says.

"Yeah." I glance up, smile, look back.

She starts her machine. He leans against the counter. I sit on the dryer and wait for my cycle to end and think about literally anything else, which works moderately well until the machine starts its spin cycle and then doesn't work at all. The man says something to the woman and she laughs. I stare at an article I have not read a single word of.

I pull my laundry out the second the cycle ends, bag stuffed rather than folded, and take the stairs back up.

In bed I look at the ceiling. The apartment quiet around me. I try to order the day into something coherent — the reader, the hallway, the bathroom, Seo-yeon saying two words in a particular voice, the dryer — and the attempt at coherence falls apart about halfway through. The parts don't add up to any shape I recognize.

---

The Premium Patreon version of this post includes images of Caleb in the bathroom at work discovered by Seo-yeon, showering and in the laundry room at the apartment complex. Additional chapters are published weeks ahead on Patreon, along with exclusive content.

"You can't hang up," Paul said into the phone, sliding his top down to reveal the glorious pair of stolen tits. "If you hang up the connection is broken and we're stuck in each other's bodies. And I know you'll want this body back. It feels so…ohhh…good."

Paul grabbed a ripe breast and squeezed, enjoying the feel of his slender body as he teased into warm, wet submission.

On the other end of the line, Jacquie was helpless in Paul's body. She could only listen in on his rising moans as he stroked himself. As he narrated what he was doing in her skin, her sobs seemed to turn him on even more.

"I'm squeezing your tit now," Paul said, fingers stretching out to grab as much of Jacquie's bouncy breast as he could. "It feels soo nice. You're little nipple is poking up. I wonder…ooooh!" Paul said, squeezing it and luxuriating in the spike of pain that doubled the pleasure in his moistening core.

"Please give me my body back," Jacquie pleaded, but Paul ignored her.

"Oh fuck, your skin is so soft. And your pussy…" Paul slid his hands down his new panties, fingertips grazing across the pussy lips that were opening to him at his pleasure. "…feels amazing."

A futuristic remote control accidentally body swaps eighteen-year-old Nolan with his awful - and awfully sexy - stepmother in Flip Side 1, available on Body Swap Stories or Smashwords.

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IMPORTANT:

 All characters appearing in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All pictures used for this captions come from Public Domain Photstocks like Pixabay, Unsplash or Pexels. If your picture was used and you don't feel comfortable about this, please, contact me.

All characters from those stories are adults, as same as the picture models.

A week later. The alarm blares and Caden slams a palm down on it, the sharp sting of impact radiating up his wrist. He stares at the ceiling. Podcast day — out of town, he and Hale are both guests on the show. Keynote finalized. Twenty-eight days since the first flannel seam had scraped his neck raw.

Dampness. Again. Thicker than the consistency of ovulation. He sits up slowly, fingertips brushing his chest — the new contours there that had no business on his body. A clinical prod, just to assess. His fingers recoil as heat pools low in his abdomen, an involuntary twitch of muscle below.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and freezes.

Red. Streaked across the sheets in a lazy arc, smeared where his thigh had dragged through it.

Period. The word lands like a verdict. He'd been anticipating it but the reality of it punches the air from his lungs. Blood. His. Flowing from an organ that hadn't existed a month ago.

Caden stands too fast, the room tilting, a slight sway in his chest, his nipples grazing the fabric of his t-shirt. He catches himself on the nightstand, knuckles whitening around the edge. The movement pulls at his lower back, a dull throb that had settled in three days prior. He blamed deadlifts at first. Then hydration. Then denial.

The shower stings when the water hits his chest. He turns his back to the spray, letting it pound the ache in his shoulders instead. A trickle of blood runs down his left leg and swirls down the drain.

Caden grabs a handful of toilet paper from the roll and folds it into a makeshift pad. The paper sticks to his skin, already damp. He pulls on fresh boxers, pressing the wad of tissue into place. It shifts when he moves, bunching awkwardly. He pulls on a t-shirt over his small breasts, the weight of the fabric enough to disguise the slight swelling.

He packs fast: laptop, charger, a spare hoodie. By the time he zips the duffel, warmth has seeped through the toilet paper. He locks the cabin door behind him, the morning air crisp against his still-damp hair. He adjusts the rearview mirror and catches his own eye — still recognizable, if softer at the edges.

Driving is worse than he anticipated. Every bump in the road sends a fresh pulse of wetness between his thighs, a slight bounce in his chest. The makeshift pad is already soaked — he can feel blood smear against his skin, the dampness spreading in his boxers. The scent hits him whenever he shifts — metallic, musky, unmistakable. He cracks a window, letting the cold air rush in.

The pharmacy's automatic doors hiss open. Fluorescent lights glare down at rows of pastel packaging — pads with wings, without wings, ultra-thin, overnight. He grabs the first box he sees, fingers stiff around the plastic. The cashier doesn't glance up as he pays, just slides his change across the counter with a mechanical "have a nice day."

The men's room smells like bleach and stale urine. Caden locks himself in the last stall, fumbling with the pad's wrapper. The adhesive sticks to his fingers before he can peel the backing off. The toilet paper wad he stuffed in his boxers earlier clings in damp clumps, fibers fraying where they'd stuck to his skin. He plucks them away with a grimace — too dry, too rough. A few stubborn flecks remain, caught between the folds.

He presses the pad into place, adjusting the wings awkwardly. The material crinkles when he moves. Too loud.

Back in the pharmacy, he grabs a pack of wet wipes off an endcap. A man in scrubs eyes him as he returns to the register, lingering a second too long on the pink box in his hands. Caden keeps his gaze on the credit card reader, thumb jamming the accept button harder than necessary.

The men's room has a new occupant when he returns — some guy in paint-splattered jeans washing his hands at the sink. The air carries a faint iron tang now, unmistakable. The man's shoulders tense as Caden passes. He doesn't look up, but his reflection in the mirror tracks Caden's movement toward the stalls.

Caden locks the door and sits, elbows on his knees. Waits. The faucet runs. Paper towels rustle. The main door creaks shut.

Alone again, he rips open the wipes. The first pass stings — aloe vera and whatever else they'd saturated the fabric with. He wipes methodically, front to back.

At the sink, he scrubs his hands under scalding water. The mirror shows his reflection — jaw set, shoulders tight.

The guest appearance at the podcast studio waits, a short flight away. Caden shoulders his bag. The pad shifts as he walks — not uncomfortable, just present. A reminder.

Outside, the sun has climbed higher, bleaching the parking lot asphalt. He slides into the driver's seat, the engine turns over. He pulls out slowly, avoiding the pothole near the exit. The pad crinkles again when he brakes at the light. A woman in the next car glances over, then away. Caden keeps his eyes on the intersection, hands at ten and two.

The airport looms ahead, its glass facade reflecting the morning sun. Caden parks in short-term, the pad shifting uncomfortably as he twists to grab his duffel from the backseat.

Security is worse than he imagined. The agent at the scanner frowns at his ID, glances up at his face, then back down. "Step aside, sir." A pat-down follows. Caden clenches his jaw, staring straight ahead at the departure board, until he is waved through.

The gate area is crowded. Caden finds a seat near the window, back to the wall. The pad has shifted during the pat-down, edges peeling away. He crosses his legs tighter, willing the adhesive to hold.

Boarding is a blur. He shuffles down the aisle, shoulders hunched to avoid brushing against passengers. His seat is middle — always middle — wedged between a businessman tapping on his laptop and a woman in her sixties knitting what looks like an impossibly long scarf.

The plane taxis. His stomach lurches from the sudden warmth between his thighs as the plane lifts off. He uncrosses his legs slowly, discreetly pressing his knees together. The knitting woman doesn't glance up.

Thirty minutes in, the dampness has seeped through. Caden unbuckles his seatbelt with a click that sounds too loud. "Excuse me," he mutters, squeezing past the woman's yarn. The aisle is narrow, shoulders brushing seatbacks as he makes his way to the rear lavatory.

Inside, the space is claustrophobic — maybe three feet square. Caden locks the door and braces his hands against the sink. The mirror shows his reflection: hair disheveled, lips pressed thin. He turns away.

Changing the pad is awkward in the cramped space. He has to half-squat, one hand bracing against the wall, the other peeling the used pad away. It comes off with a wet sound, adhesive tugging at skin. Blood streaks his inner thighs. He wipes hastily with toilet paper, then fumbles the new pad from its wrapper. The wings stick to themselves at first; he has to peel them apart with fingernails.

The trash bin is nearly full. Caden folds the used pad into a tight square, pressing it down into the crumpled paper towels. His fingertips come away damp. He stares at them for a second before turning on the faucet. The water runs pink for a moment before clearing.

Back in his seat, the knitting woman glances up. "Rough flight?"

Caden forces a smile. "Just tired."

Houston sprawls beneath them as they descend — flat, endless, roads cutting through neighborhoods like arteries. The rental car counter is a blur of fluorescent lights and paperwork. The clerk hands him keys without looking up. "Blue Altima, space twelve."

The podcast studio is tucked between a sushi place and a boutique that sells hand-poured candles. The building has one of those unmarked doors with a keypad — discreet, exclusive. Caden checks his phone. Headshot sent three weeks ago: him in a navy sweater, jaw set, shoulders squared. Neutral. Recent.

The door buzzes before he can press the intercom. Hale stands in the threshold, one hand braced against the frame. He is tall — lean in that effortless way rich men achieve without trying. His gaze flicks down, then up, lingering somewhere around Caden's collarbone.

"Right on time," Hale says, extending his hand. The grip is firm, the skin warm and dry. "Greg has the booth set up."

Caden catches it — the half-second pause where Hale's eyes dart to his throat, his hips, the way his shirt drapes differently now. Then the mask snaps back. Hale steps aside. But there had been something else. A flicker in the corner of Hale's mouth, gone before it fully formed. Not surprise. Not disgust. Something closer to recognition, like he's found a misplaced piece and slotted it back into place.

Greg, the host, sits at the controls — short, muscular, balding, bearded. “Caden, great to meet you.” His grip feels intentionally, overly firm.

Soundproofing panels swallow echoes before they can form. Greg gestures to the guest mic — sleek, matte-black, on a hydraulic arm. "Water's there if you need it."

Caden sits, adjusting the stool height. The pad shifts beneath him, the crinkle muffled by his jeans. The other men don't notice. Greg is fiddling with the mixer, fingers gliding over sliders with practiced ease.

"Level check," Greg says, donning his headphones. He taps his mic twice. "Say something."

Caden leans in. "Testing."

Greg’s eyebrows lift. He adjusts a knob. "Again."

"One two three."

"Good levels," he says finally. He passes Caden a pair of headphones.

The countdown ticks silently on the monitor. The first question lands like a jab — Greg asking about falling testosterone levels in modern men. Caden counters with data on industrialized nations, the numbers rolling off his tongue even as he registers the slow seep between his thighs. The pad shifts when he leans forward, the adhesive tugging at skin that wasn't supposed to be there.

Hale's eyes gleam under the studio lights. "But you'd agree male identity is under siege?"

"Identity's a social construct," Caden says, fingers tightening around his water bottle. "Testosterone's measurable." He takes a sip, throat working. The liquid hits his bladder instantly — another change, another betrayal. He crosses his legs at the ankle, pressing his thighs together.

Thirty minutes in, Greg pivots to Scandinavian paternity leave policies. Caden rattles off statistics, voice steady even as warmth blooms beneath him. The pad is definitely fuller now, the dampness creeping toward the edges. He shifts his weight.

At the fifty-three minute mark, Hale discusses egg freezing trends in Silicon Valley. Caden's left palm goes slick against his knee. He wipes it discreetly on his jeans. The studio air smells like coffee and cologne — sandalwood, overpowering. Beneath it, something metallic.

He excuses himself during a buffer track, grabbing his bag with a muttered bio break. Hale's gaze follows him to the door, lingering on the duffel slung over his shoulder.

The men's room tiles echo under his shoes. Empty. Thank Christ. He locks himself in the farthest stall, back pressed against the door as he fumbles with his belt. The pad is soaked through — dark red in the center, edges just starting to stain his boxers. He peels it off with a grimace, the adhesive pulling at tender skin.

New pad. Wrapper crinkling too loud in the tiled silence. He presses it into place, wings awkwardly folded. The toilet seat is cold when he sits, thighs splayed. The stream is quieter now, less directed. No aiming required anymore. He wipes front to back, the motion practiced now.

At the sink, he scrubs his hands raw. The mirror shows his reflection — jaw set, shoulders tense. Same face, mostly. Same mind.

He takes the used pad to the trash, carries it out wrapped tight in toilet paper, four steps from stall to counter, drops it in. Greg is near the urinal. Eye contact in the mirror. Both proceed. He washes his hands. He goes back to the studio.

Hale looks up as Caden settles onto the stool. "Everything good?"

"Fine." Caden adjusts his mic. "Where were we?"

Hale studies him for a beat too long before tapping his notes. "Page twelve. Cohabitation paradox."

The last thirty minutes pass in a blur of rebuttals and citations. Caden's voice never wavers, even as the fresh pad grows damp beneath him. When Greg finally hits stop, the silence rings louder than the debate had.

"Solid take," Greg says, peeling off his headphones. "You're sharper live than on paper."

Caden unclips his mic. "Thanks."

The playback hits his ears before he is ready for it — his own voice, but not. The timbre is still there, the rhythm of his sentences unchanged, but something in the upper register has softened. Like someone had taken fine-grit sandpaper to the edges of his consonants. He watches Greg’s producer — a woman in her thirties with a messy bun — scroll through waveforms without comment.

Greg leans forward, elbows on the mixing board. "Third take's strongest." His finger hovers over the keyboard, then taps once. The playback jumps to Caden mid-sentence: —correlation doesn't imply causation. The words ring clear, authoritative, but underneath them a faint lilt that hadn't been there before. Like his vocal cords are strung tighter.

Greg’s thumb rubs his lower lip. A hesitation, barely there. Then he nods. "Clean. We'll use this one."

Caden exhales through his nose. He'd recorded every podcast for the last five years in one take. Now he is cherry-picking the least altered version of himself.

"Headshot," Greg says, snapping his fingers at the producer. She rummages in a gear case and produces a DSLR.

The studio lights are unforgiving. Caden stands against the gray backdrop, shoulders squared, chin level. The camera clicks six times in quick succession. On the preview screen, his face looks familiar at first glance — the same sharp jawline, the same heavy brow. But something in the proportions has shifted. His cheekbones catch the light differently. His lips look fuller under the high-contrast lighting. His facial hair entirely absent — not even a hint of a five o'clock shadow.

Greg hands thumb drives to Hale and Caden with the raw files. "Send your edits by Thursday."

Caden dashes to the car to catch his flight back. The seatbelt cuts across his chest at an odd angle, and when he twists to grab his phone from his back pocket, the pad shifts against his jeans. He ignores it, taps the phone screen.

Nothing.

He tries again, angling his face toward the fading daylight. The phone stays dark. His reflection stares back at him — same eyebrows, same nose, but the angles are wrong. The software doesn't recognize him.

Caden sets the phone on the passenger seat. The airport is east; he remembers that much. He pulls out of the lot too fast, gravel spraying behind the tires.

First wrong turn at a fork he doesn't remember. Second at a dead end behind a strip mall. The third time, he circles back to a gas station and buys a paper map with the last of his cash. The attendant doesn't look up from her crossword.

The airport looms just as the map predicted — glass and steel under sodium lights. Caden parks crooked in short-term and jogs for the departures level.

His breath comes sharp as he jogs toward the terminal doors, the rhythmic slap of his sneakers against concrete syncing with an unfamiliar weight shifting beneath his shirt. He hadn't noticed it when he'd left Hale's studio — too focused on navigating with a paper map like some analog relic — but now, with each stride, his chest moves differently.

The fabric of his t-shirt drags across sensitized skin with every upward motion, then settles again as his feet hit the pavement. Three weeks ago, he'd have called it impossible. Now it is just physics.

The automatic doors hiss open. Caden slows to a walk, immediately aware of how the dampness under his arms makes his shirt cling. He'd packed light — just his laptop bag and a hastily stuffed duffel — but the strap crosses right over the new topography of his chest. He adjusts it twice before giving up and carrying both bags in one hand. Glancing down, he sees feminine nipples peaking through the t-shirt fabric.

A group of college kids streams past, one of them glancing back at him with vague curiosity. Or maybe it is just the sweat on his forehead.

The check-in line is twelve deep. By the time he reaches the counter, his collar is damp with sweat.

"Boarding pass," he says, sliding his ID across the laminate.

The agent types without looking up. "Pre-check?"

"No."

She glances at his face, then back to the screen. "Gate C17." The printer whirrs.

Security is worse. The TSA woman holds his ID at arm's length, eyes darting between the photo and his face. Her thumb rubs the edge of the card like she's testing its authenticity.

"I lost weight," Caden says.

She tilts her head. A second agent drifts over, hands on his hips.

"Strep throat," Caden adds. "Couldn't eat for two weeks." He crosses his arms over his chest.

The first agent's mouth tightens. She hands back his ID with a flick of her wrist. "Shoes off, belt off."

The metal detector beeps anyway. A pat-down follows — quick, impersonal. Caden stares straight ahead at the departure board until he is waved through.

The flight home passes in a haze of engine noise and shifting pressure. Caden presses his forehead to the cool oval window, counting runway lights as they taxi. His phone — still useless — weighs heavy in his pocket.

At midnight, his apartment greets him with familiar silence. He drops his bag by the door and goes straight for the laptop on his desk. The screen lights up, then dims, awaiting recognition. He leans in, letting the infrared scan his face.

Nothing.

He tries again, angling his chin. The cursor pulses mockingly. A third attempt — nose almost touching the screen — and the machine locks him out entirely.

Caden sits back. His books line the shelves behind him, his research notes stacked neatly beside the keyboard. All of it inaccessible behind a wall of code that no longer recognizes him.

---

The Premium Patreon version of this post includes images of Caden deal with his period, at the airport and recording the podcast. Subscribers get early access as well as exclusive content.

A bully finds an alien device that allows him to transform into other people and uses his new powers to torment the student he loathes in Two of a Kind 1: Connor available on Body Swap Stories, Smashwords or Amazon.

Connor roams the campus dominating others with his bulk and aggression, taking what he wants and leaving the other students terrified. He hates everyone but especially Ethan and his girlfriend, Maya. Ethan is such a pathetic wimp and diminutive Maya has a strange fierceness that cows Connor.

It's fine. Connor can deal with it. He has other targets.

And then Ethan and Maya get him kicked off the football team just because he punched Ethan a tiny little bit. Barely a black eye.

Simmering with rage, Connor chances upon an alien device fallen from the sky that gives him the power to transform himself and others. Now, with the power to turn into an exact copy of anyone he's touched, he resumes bullying Ethan with a vengeance and also discovers that this power lets him indulge his deepest fantasies.

Connor can transform into everyone around Ethan. Friends. Teachers. Strangers. Tormenting Ethan with the possibility that Connor could be anywhere and anyone. But this power isn't just for revenge. As Connor turns into gorgeous teachers and hot strangers he can't resist exploring everything about these seductive bodies. And along with the bodies come their thoughts and memories and emotions, all of which threaten to derail Connor's planned retribution by making him actually care about someone for once.

This is Connor's story.

Part 1 of 3.

-----------------------------

It was a shame that people didn’t carry cash anymore because it made it that much harder for Connor to bully Ethan into handing over his lunch money.

“Fortunately for you, I take card,” Connor growled when he finally cornered Ethan by the trashcans behind the cafeteria and shoved him up against the wall.

In high school they no longer had ‘recess’. Now it was called ‘free time’ but was basically the same thing. Time do to whatever you wanted. And what Connor wanted was to terrorize Ethan.

There was something about the nerd that was just so punchable. His stupid, dumbass face with the blonde peach fuzz on his cheeks and the goofy grin. His awkwardly tall, skinny body that made his head look enormous. His constant need to correct people with a reedy “Well, actually…”. Like now.

“Well, actually,” Ethan said. “My money is on my phone.”

“What about all that prize money?” Connor said, grabbing the scruff of Ethan’s shirt and shaking him.

“W-well, actually…” Ethan began, his glasses beginning to slide down his nose.

Was it just a fucking stutter? Part of his fight or flight response?

“Say ‘well, actually’ one more time,” Connor threatened, raising his fist.

“It’s my girlfriend’s prize,” Ethan said.

Everyone in James Martin High School knew about the prize. They’d had a whole assembly where the principal, Mrs. Morgan, had made this huge announcement. It was even featured in their town paper. Ethan and his dork girlfriend, Maya, had cracked some sort of code or found a bug or something—Connor didn’t really understand—that that had earned them a bounty from one of the major AI tech companies. What Connor did understand was that it had come with a $10,000 prize and he wanted a piece of that nerd money.

Connor was short and squat. Burly (or ‘big boned’ as his mother used to insist back when she gave a shit). Angry piggy eyes and a pug nose that whistled when he breathed. Head shaved bald because he thought it made him more menacing. A mosaic of acne across his wide face.

He’d failed two grades and was only sticking with high school because that was where he felt most in control. The extra time had given him bigger muscles than his peers. The better to torment them with. As a linebacker on the football team, he was encouraged to use the aggression that constantly fizzed through him on his opponents. He delighted in slamming into them, knocking to the ground and getting rewarded with high-fives from his teammates. The only time his team would really interact with him.

Off the field, Connor had to be a little more secretive with his brawn. He swaggered through the halls, timing his bullying to avoid the cameras or any teachers that loitered in the hallways. Aside from the classes, high school was a breeze. He took what he wanted and most people were afraid to tell him ‘no’. Who needed friends when he had power?

Now, secluded behind the dumpsters, Connor brought his face close to Ethan’s, breathing his sour breath into Ethan’s face as the nerd wriggled and gasped. “Then you better go bring me some of your girlfriend’s money.”

“Hey, let go of him,” a woman said from behind.

Connor turned, still gripping Ethan by the shirt. Ethan’s girlfriend, Maya, stood there, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. She was tiny. Slender frame. Wavy brunette hair that spilled down her shoulders and with a scent that made Connor want to bury his nose in it. Pouty face with big brown eyes. More cute than nerd. Hell, he could see sometimes when she moved she was hiding a tight body beneath those drab clothes. Perfect size tits for burying his face in between. Perfect sized ass for burying his cock in between. His manhood twitched at the thought.

She should have been laughable. Completely helpless in front of him. But, somehow, her being a girl made her more intimidating.

“Let go of him,” Connor mocked, affecting a high pitched voice.

But he released Ethan, pushing him roughly against the wall for good measure and stepping back to frown at him. He took a step towards Maya and saw the fear appear in her eyes but she didn’t back down. Connor would never admit it – and couldn’t really even fully comprehend it – but women terrified him and angered him in equal measure. As a well YouTube’d, red-pilled man, he, of course, knew that a woman’s role was subservience. They were to be dominated before they yanked men down from their natural order at the top to suck their male energy out before climbing up the men’s desiccated husks.

But they also – according to Connor’s well-researched sources on the internet – had power. Fucking society was organized around making them great and making men suck. Again, according to his sources, everyone wanted Connor to be ashamed to be a man and he had internalized that shame. Though, Connor couldn’t exactly remember having that shame until the manosphere had identified it.

Men weren’t supposed to punch women. They were supposed to manipulate them. Make them insecure and needy and destroy their self-esteem until they depended on men. But what if you couldn’t? Women were mostly smarter than Connor. And the disgust that radiated off them when Connor came near made him ashamed. How could they make him seem so small and weak with just the tiniest furrow of their eyebrows? The smallest snicker? He wanted to impress them so much and that’s where their deep power lay. He was aware he was giving his male power away but, with the help of the online manosphere, he was trying to work on that. For now, Connor contented himself with using his excessive brawn on the other male students, dominating them physically both on and off the football field in the hopes that this would impress some women. So far, no luck.

So as Maya closed in, Connor stepped back and raised his hands in mock surrender. “He’s all yours.”

Connor stomped away, feigning a loss of interest while stewing inside. How could something so small and fragile – a woman! – make him feel even smaller? Before he turned the corner he heard Maya asking Ethan if he was okay and Connor shivered in disgust. It wasn’t fair. How was it possible that some dipshit like Ethan had a girlfriend but a muscly specimen of a man like Connor didn’t? And Connor was on the football team and everything. Sometimes he wished his rage was good for more than just a few stolen dollars at lunch.

Connor flexed his muscles and pounded his fist as he walked, psyching himself up, assuring himself that he was, indeed, the alpha male of this school. The biggest and the baddest. To make himself feel better, Connor sought out the group of freshman who could reliably be found next to the gym playing some sort of card game involving dragons and magic. He kicked dirt on their game then nabbed their lunch from their lunch boxes, threatening it would be worse for them all if they ever told.

His stolen lunch was well-flavored with their fear and yet he still felt like Ethan had gotten away. Connor returned to the cafeteria, where he spotted Ethan and Maya at a far table. He kept his distance, waiting for them to split up so he could have Ethan all to himself. God, it was disgusting how they kissed. How she insisted on holding his hand. Connor worked himself up into a rage wondering why someone like Ethan could get a girl but Connor had no one.

When the bell sounded signaling the end of lunch, Maya kissed Ethan on the cheek and then was whisked away with her friends while Ethan went the opposite way. Connor tailed him as he crossed the quad towards the science buildings, closing in as Ethan entered the stairwell. Connor followed close behind as quietly as he could, taking the stairs two at a time so they reached the second floor landing together.

Before Ethan knew what was going on, Connor grabbed Ethan’s backpack, yanked open the door to the janitor’s closet and hurled him inside. Connor joined him, slamming the door behind them and flicking on the light above. The bare bulb swung back and forth, making Ethan look even more pale and sweaty. His eyes were wild as he realized his was trapped in here all alone with Connor.

“Now,” Connor said, “Where were we?”

------------------------

Read the rest on Body Swap Stories, Smashwords or Amazon.

Your best friend Chris has been acting strange and distant for weeks. When you finally confront him, you discover his older sister Megan has been using advanced hypnosis technology to transform him into a party girl. Before you can help him escape, Megan discovers your plan and decides you'll become Chris's equally bubbly, slutty bestie. Can you find a way to break free from Megan's control before the transformations become permanent?

https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/cV946V