Description Have you always wanted, say, a smaller nose? Somewhere, if you're lucky, in some other world, there might be a version of you who has one, or who has gotten a nose-job. If so, a swapper can help you out. Watch one help an unlucky man in a big way.
|Updated||05 Jan 2018|
The first thing you need to understand is that everything that could be different, is different, somewhere.
Every time a single atom jiggles up, there’s another world where it jagged down. Every time an ant’s antenna wiggles to the right, there’s someplace where it waggled left.
And you’re in those places, too—in infinitely many of those other worlds, there is some version of you, in a slightly different body, in a slightly different situation. Whatever it is that makes you you and not someone else—your essence—exists with a different life somewhere else; your more-than-brothers, someplace indefinably close but completely inaccessible to ordinary people.
The second thing you should understand is that I am not ordinary people.
There are quite a few of us around who have some access to those alternate worlds. Me, I’m a swapper; swappers have the most common, least powerful kind of access to other worlds. We can’t just reach out and grab anything from any other universe—but if we can find the same object, or person, in another world, and we can swap them out—swap them wholesale, or just swap some parts, or some qualities. Have you always wanted a smaller nose? Somewhere, if you’re lucky, in some other world, there might be a version of you who has one, or who has gotten a nose-job. If so, I can help you out.
Doing this swapping is hard work—it’s exhausting, and I have to rest afterwards. The more dramatic the swap, the more rest I need. It’s not usually worth it to, say, swap your empty refrigerator for a full one from some other universe just to save the trip to the store.
Which is why I’m in the self-checkout line at the grocery store when I see him. He’s a few people ahead of me, and he’s average. Maybe 5’9, skinny, and dull. A little greasy. His clothes fit poorly. He’s not someone who’s gotten lucky in this life, but not a bad guy; not to my eye at least. He just needs a break. He’s got this worn-down look, like he’s given up expecting anything good will ever happen.
In another reality, though… in another world, he won. Often. I can feel it. Most people can only change just a little bit and still be themselves. They only exist in very similar alternate worlds; you can change their eye-color, but not their job, or their love life. But for a few people, whatever it is that makes them themselves can hold on through some wild changes. This man has incredible potential to be himself in a huge variety of circumstances—some wonderful! He’s just gotten the worst of it in this world. I get the strong feeling he’d welcome a change. Any change.
It’s way beyond my ability to swap a whole person’s life all at once; let alone someone with such dramatically different alternatives. Most swappers like to compensate by swapping their target with a life that’s very similar; and then one similar to that; they take lots of these itty-bitty baby steps, and after hundreds of them, they accumulate into a much bigger change.
I think that’s boring. I’m an oddball. I like the drama of a big swap, but since I don’t have the power to do it all at once, I do it one part at a time. I lick my lips just thinking about it, and about him.
So there, in the grocery store, I get started. I swap his pecs.
Remember, in another world, this same man has won at everything—including the genetic lottery. That version of him is gifted with an incredible body, and has the time and energy to take care of it.
So I give a little grunt of effort, and suddenly… almost nothing happens. He’s still standing there in line, with his average body, and his downcast face… and his thick, striated pecs straining at his shirt.
I see him startle. He looks down, his eyes go wide, and he reaches up to feel them—to verify that the weight on his chest is real, and it’s him. He lets out a soft gasp, but after maybe 10 seconds of astonished poking and kneading, the woman behind him catches his eye and he blushes, realizing what he’s doing. She coughs pointedly, and he sees that there’s a checkout open. He pays for his groceries in a haze and staggers out, leaning slightly forward under the weight of his new chest.
You might think I’d panic; I’m still in line, and he’s walking out the door. How will I find him again? But we’re connected, now; all that energy I poured into bringing him those two muscles has left me tied to him solidly. I can picture him exactly, as he loads his car, gets in. As he shivers at the gap between his seatbelt and his sternum because the belt is suspended between two firm slabs that had never been there before.
I’m in no shape to give chase, anyway. My heart is pounding like I’ve been running for my life, and I’m sure that my eyes are sunken, and my flesh pale. It only took a fraction of a second, but it took a lot out of me; the first change is always there hardest. I stumble through paying for my own groceries, go home, and tumble into bed.
When I wake up a few hours later, I check in on him.
He’s shirtless, in bed, trying to come to grips with his changed body. His hand tries to grip the firm new muscle but there’s more than a handful to deal with, now. He’s thinking about going to a doctor. I shake my head; a confused doctor won’t help him. I have enough energy for one small additional change; the other him is, obviously, an avid gym-goer. So after a pulse-pounding moment, instead of planning to visit a doctor, our boy is planning to visit the gym. Like he will every day, now, even though he’s never gone before.
We both pass out for the night.
When I come to, I eat, wash up, and try to delay checking on him. I know that if I look in on him, I’ll make another swap, and I need some energy to take care of myself, first. I properly put away the groceries I left sitting on the counter in my exhaustion the day before. I do the laundry. Staying focused on my chores, I make it well into the afternoon, but I can only torture myself so long.
When I check back in on him, he’s sweaty and pale, having just finished his first gym session with a free consultation from a trainer. The trainer is well-built, and friendly, but I know our man will outpace him before long. Before he signs on the dotted line and shakes the trainer’s hand, I swap his arms.
They’re swollen with hard, ropy muscle: thick forearms and round, oversized biceps. His upper arms are deliciously close to the size of his head. It’s not the best time to be using a pen; his signature is a bit wobbly and too big. It’ll take him a little while to learn to control his newly powerful limbs.
Another problem appears when he stands up; other-him is tall, and these arms are several inches too long for this body. Coupled with the fact that I didn’t have the energy to swap his shoulders, too, they give him an odd, chimp-like appearance. Still, he shakes the trainer’s hand with a powerful grip, and then drives home at speed to get some private time in front of the mirror, inspecting this latest change.
Chimp-like they may be, for now, but he’s wide-eyed and grinning in his bathroom, gawping at how his arms stretch his shirtsleeves, flexing the arc of his triceps, and staring in wonder at his large, square hands, with their calloused palms and neat, masculine nails. Now when he gropes his pecs the rough hand and smooth muscle fit well together, and he can get a big, firm grip on himself. He moans at the feeling of it, and brings his other hand up to join in.
I’m nearly done in, but his proportions are really too problematic. He struggled to drive home safely, and as he futilely searched the internet for his ‘symptoms’, he had to sit strangely far away from his computer to type. While I definitely find it kind of hot watching him cope with the patchwork body I’ve given him, the people around him are going to notice how odd it looks, and he doesn’t need more trouble. I’d better fix it. I’ve got just a bit of energy left over, and his thorough self-examination (and my voyeurism) has lasted a few hours, letting me rest a bit. It’s the end of the day, so I get ready for bed, slip between the covers, and get to work.
He’s in bed already, too, and just drifting off; it’s too bad I won’t get to see his immediate reaction, but workman-like, I do the job I said I would. I swap his height.
Then we both sleep.
When he wakes up, he’s just over 6’5”. His feet are freezing, having grown out from under the sheets, and they slam into the floor when he swings them out of bed, unready for how far they reach. He stands up, and catches himself on his bedside table, because standing “up” means standing more than 6 inches higher than he ever has before.
Now that he’s out of bed, his arms and chest look the right size; the rest of him is stretched hopelessly thin. It looks like someone has squeezed him like a toothpaste tube, up from the bottom. There’s more work to do.
He struggles to find anything to wear, but each thing he tries on he tries with a kind of restrained glee. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but something is happening and so far, it doesn’t seem bad. Strange, but not bad. He finally settles for dress shoes (still functional since I haven’t swapped his feet, yet), blue slacks that end above his ankles, and a white t-shirt that clings to his pecs and biceps but billows around his waist. After a moment, he tucks the shirt into his pants. It’s a sort of 80’s throwback look that has me almost believing he could pull it off.
He get odd looks on the street as he walks to work, and unfriendly stares when he tries to buy his morning coffee at the local coffee shop. Before, he was a nonentity and the hipsters and businesspeople ignored him; but his time as a nonentity is just about over, and his height, his outfit, and his pick-and-mix muscles all draw attention. He’s collecting more glares and plenty of raised eyebrows as he stands in line.
Fixing his height wasn’t enough; I need something to distract people from his body while I take the time to get it right.
So I swap his face.
When he places his order, the barista flirts with him. He’s unused to the attention, so I don’t think he recognizes what’s going on. But when his coffee is up, and the cup has a phone number written below his name, it clicks. He flushes, a wave of color that starts somewhere under the collar of his white t-shirt and runs straight up into the roots of his hair. He ducks into the bathroom to compose himself, splashes cold water on his face, and then he looks in the mirror.
High, sharp cheekbones. Straight, manly nose. Dark, thick, well-shaped brows. Shining, intense eyes. A sculpted, square chin, straight out of an ad for disposable razors. Hair effortlessly quaffed. The blush is fading, and his cheeks dimple with pleasure when he takes in the overall effect. As he tries out different expressions, he’s gorgeous, then handsome, cute, intense, pretty, and brooding each in turns.
With the right expression, he looks like a model—and models can wear whatever they like. What they wear defines fashionable, not the other way around.
Perfect. No one will notice his odd clothes or his chicken legs while I take a long, long sleep.
When I’m finally ready for more, he’s back at the gym. His shirt is still too small, but I suspect he enjoys the way it stretches over his chest and arms too much to buy another. He’s got himself some workout shorts. When he lifts his arms, though, everyone can see his flat, pale, and featureless belly.
I swap his abs.
And the next time he pulls a plate off the bar, his shirt lifts and the whole gym can see he’s cut. His new abs are a little asymmetrical, and there’s still just enough fat to keep each cobble smooth and round. There’s light sweat and peach fuzz dusting them, begging for a tongue to slide across. His obliques are bulging, grippable, hanging over furrows that point into his shorts. He slides his hand over his 6-pack, and he welcomes this latest change with a cheeky grin. It’s an expression that’s breathtaking on his new face. Then he shakes his head. He knows that if he starts rubbing his abs soon his hand will head higher up, and he’s already indulged in two self-groping sessions today. His new/old gym habit is strong; so he drops his shirt and preps for deadlifts.
Another day, another gym session. Our boy is getting into this! And so, to be honest, am I. It’s leg day, and I can’t let him squat while he’s looking like a stork.
I swap his legs.
His silhouette is wider at mid-thigh than he is at the waist, now. His quads swell out from his waist into heavy, corded columns. Long, masculine feet hold up powerful calves, and handsome knees, all in the deep shadow of those quads. His shorts have been forced up in the front by this new muscle, but they’re not ballooning around his crotch because they’ve been drawn tight in the back by his round, obscene buttocks.
After upping the weight a jaw-dropping amount and pounding out set after set, he heads for the shower.
He’s freshly startled when he walks back to the locker room; even tired from that workout these legs don’t stumble; they saunter. Their proud, cocky swing will take some time for him to get used to; they can strut, and they can swagger, but they’ll never let him shuffle along sadly like he used to.
He’s shaped sort of like a penguin, I decide the next day, as I watch him standing in the elevator on his way to his nameless, faceless mailroom job. With the graceful swell of his thighs, narrow waist, and complete lack of shoulders, he’s become bottom-heavy in spite of his chest. And he’s not showing off that chest as well as he could, either—it’s too strong, and it’s curling his whole upper body forward, leaving his head dangling in front by that pencil neck. It’s a funny image, but as soon as he shifts his weight between those incredible legs, the penguin image is burst. Penguins have short, stubby legs. Not him. Besides, that slouch is concealing his new height from the other passenger in the elevator, and they’re pretty cute, so it just won’t do.
I swap his back and shoulders.
His shirt rips between his shoulder blades. His pecs haven’t changed, but they’re pulled wide and puffed out like a cockerel. They cantilever out from under broad, heavy shoulders. He gives a distinct impression of taking up more room; his personal space has been extended along with his width. His lats, which are stretching his t-shirt even now that it’s torn, make his torso into a funnel, catching my eye at his shoulders and guiding it downward through his narrow waist. When he lifts his arm a little to feel them, his lats visible from the front as well. His stunning arms no longer hang straight down, but are canted out a little, giving the impression he’s just worked out, or that he’s about to elbow his way through a crowd. His neck is as wide as his jaw, thick and unyielding. His posture is unconsciously impeccable, without being military. He’s relaxed, but upright and solid.
The other passenger, alerted by the sound of ripping fabric, looks at him. And then looks at him. He’s pretty delectable, by this point, and his clothes are practically removing themselves. Knowing he’s being given the once-over, he blushes, charmingly, and tries to give an excuse, but the blush only increases when the voice that comes out is deep and seductively buttery. There’s a new set of vocal chords buried in that muscular neck. When the door opens with a ding, he tries to scramble for the bathroom to see if he can salvage his shirt and some dignity, but this body doesn’t scramble. Instead, it gives them a show as he strides off, butt and thighs flexing in his tight jeans. And who knows? I know he bought those jeans the day after he got his new legs, so maybe it’s not only his body that’s flaunting it. Maybe a part of him is doing it on purpose.
I smile to myself. He’ll figure something out with his shirt, or he won’t—and either way, it’ll be good for him. I’ve got to sleep; my work is so close to done.
He’s walking home from work, and the sun’s come out. He’s like some legendary winter King visiting summer lands—massive, regal, but very pale. It’s a tasty image, and I’m tempted to leave him that way—or even see if I can find some version of him with silver-blond hair to swap in—but no. He doesn’t deserve to be an experiment. I’m not going to get distracted, nor stop, until I’m done. I’m almost there, anyway, and it gets easier at the end, when most of the work is done.
So I swap his skin.
He gasps and squirms at the immediate sensitivity of it. He’s smooth and tanned now, not the garish orange of spray-tan, nor the leathery brown of a tanning bed, but the golden glow of someone who spends plenty of time active, outside, wearing very little. Every inch of his skin is healthy and full of sensation. His shirt is tight across his nipples, massaging them, and around his arms, caressing them; his pants are constricting around his thighs, and his socks around his big feet. He’s hyperaware of all of it, of the fact that every inch of his skin is either confined by clothing, exposed to the breeze, or even more electrically, touching some other part of his skin.
He may be blushing again, now, but the tan is enough to conceal it if you’re not intimately nearby. While he’s still panting at the new sensations, I finish the job.
I swap his cock.
It’s a heavy weight in his shorts; his thighs, which he’s very aware are touching one another, force the bulge out in front of him, and they move it back and forth as he walks. His newly-sensitive skin and the unfamiliar heft cause it to swell into an erection he can’t prevent or ignore. He’s almost to his building, and he picks up his pace almost to a run, made awkward as he continues to get harder and harder. Climbing the stairs to his apartment is torture, but at least it’s off the street and mostly private. He fumbles with his keys, which seem too small in his muscular hands. Unlocking it, he bursts through his door then slams it closed and drops trou like his pants are on fire. His throbbing erection is insistent, and once he sees and touches it, he doesn’t want to ignore it. There’s more than enough length for both his hands, and it’s thick, healthy, and needy. His new tanned skin is stretched tight over it, and it’s incandescently sensitive to his every touch. It’s not obscenely large; not big enough to cause fear, or discomfort, but big enough to be definitely, definitively BIG. He’s hung, but I’m sure any companion could accommodate him pleasurably. Eventually. With practice. It’s straight and bobbing with his pulse, begging. Beneath it hang big, heavy balls, each one a soft, virile handful. It’s a perfect cock.
And when he finally gives in and begins to stroke, the sensation fills his entire, tall, tanned, muscular body, from his gorgeous face to his masculine feet. It all tenses and relaxes in concert; it all belongs together now—he’s a healthy, whole person, no longer the moping loser I saw in the supermarket, nor the patchwork man he’s been all week.
And when he shoots, again and again for several dizzying minutes, I imagine how good it must feel for him—not just the orgasm, but to be certain, for the first time in a long while, that he’s won something good.
Howdy folks. Thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at this sort of thing. Your feedback is appreciated. —K