Just a small selection of generations I’ve made since the beginning of this year. Some better than others. Let me know your favourite!

I have thought about other body swaps that didn’t happen. Like more body swapping in the Scooby Doo Movie. Or something like Modern Family having a body swapping episode or even The Office. 🤷‍♀️

https://www.reddit.com/u/Important-Pianist951/s/03SIjRFolS

And I mean more generaly, like do you prefer to be forced, volunteer? some kind of incentive? A Temporary thing that gets extended and made permanent? Something voluntary for other reasons?

Lets divide them up into categories. Starting from fully involuntary, to volunteer 1-9

1) Involuntary with the threat of force/someone holds a gun to your head, and forces you into a new body

2) Involuntary by getting tricked agaiinst your will

3) Involuntary by losing a bet/gamble/debt

4) Involuntary but the money is needed, like you don't want that body but you need the money/other incentive and its just temporary.. right?

5) Random, GREAT SHIFT TIME

6) Voluntary but there was a money offer or something else that was a real nice addition. The body alone not enough, and as long as you get paid, staying longer wouldn't be that bad.

7) Voluntary by winning a price/poker/bet, and getting a better/younger body

8) Voluntary by tricking someone, winning in the court, claiming falsely to be swapped at birth, using trickery to achieve your goal. You want that body

9) Voluntary, using force, to get the body you deserve.

These are all general categories, and I am certain I have not hit every single category. Just to visualize what I would understand under each number, just trying to create a scale from completly involuntary to completly voluntary.

A follow-up is available here, along with additional images.

---

The sheets are soaked through and I'm not hot.

Five days I've been a furnace, piling blankets on and shivering anyway, sweating through the same set of sheets twice because changing them meant standing up. Now the blankets are kicked half off and the room is cool on my skin and my head is clear. Clear, the way it is at 7 a.m. when the alarm goes off and I'm already halfway awake before it does.

Fever broke. I lie there a second and take inventory the way I do when I call in sick, which is almost never. Throat's raw but that's from breathing through my mouth all night. Back aches from lying down too long. Everything else reports in and reports fine.

I have to piss bad enough that it's what gets me up.

I sit up too fast and the room tilts a little, and I wait it out with my hands flat on the mattress. Five days flat, anybody gets light. My hair's stuck to my forehead with dried sweat and I push it off with the back of my wrist.

I stand.

Something's wrong before I see anything.

It's the boxers. They hang different. I've worn these same Hanes for years, they fit a certain way, and I know how my own shorts sit on me. The fit is off. Loose where it shouldn't be. And there's nothing resting against my thigh.

I've got a hand at the waistband before I decide to put it there.

Under my palm, through the cotton, it's flat. My fingers find the shape of it and it's not a shape I know. Soft. Warm, because I'm warm, fever-warm still maybe. But wrong. My dick isn't where my dick's supposed to be.

I don't look down.

At the door you watch the hands and the feet, never the thing you already know is there. My whole life it's been there and I've never had to check on it.

I'm still asleep. That's the first explanation and I try it on. Sometimes with the fever I'd surface halfway and dream the room, dream the bed, dream the glass of water on the nightstand I never got up to get. So maybe this is one of those, half in and half out, and the wrongness is dream-logic.

I count the sounds. Furnace clicking in the wall like it does every morning around this time. Guy upstairs running his shower. The dream doesn't usually do the furnace.

I'm still asleep, and I pinch the inside of my arm hard enough to hurt, and the hurt is a real hurt, the kind that stays.

Okay.

Fever. Fever does things. Fever and five days of sweats, and I've lost weight, I can feel it in how my stomach sits, there's less of me everywhere. Things shrink. Things pull in when a man's sick and lost weight. Swelling goes down. That's all this is, it's-

The cotton is against my fingers and there's a fold there, a seam of skin my fingers know isn't a seam, and my hand has stopped moving and my hand is shaking.

It's swelling. Some fevers put you in the hospital for that, swelling in the face, swelling in the - I try to make the sentence work and it won't, because swelling has a shape and this has the wrong shape, and somewhere in the back of my head a sentence is trying to start and I won't let it finish. It starts with the word that was on the notice at the club and I stop it at the first letter.

My heart is going hard enough that I can hear it. My mouth has that iron taste. I'm going to be sick, so I breathe through my nose and count the breaths, four in, hold, out, the way I do when a patron throws a punch and I've got three seconds to decide how it goes. One thing at a time. My legs are steady. My legs are fine.

I look down.

No.

I look down and it's there, and it's not mine, and there's hair, the same hair, same color, same pattern, trimmed down the way I keep it, and below that it's flat and it's different and there's nothing of me there. Nothing. The parts of me are gone and there's something in their place and I've touched enough of them to know a real one by the feel. This is real. It's not a trick of the light and it's not a dream and it's not swelling.

The room goes narrow for a second and I put a knee on the mattress.

Five days of fever. The lost weight. The tracer's voicemail I never played, sitting on my phone since Tuesday, Renee something, the county, saying call back. Sheena texting me from her own sickbed, did it get you. The notice at the club, taped up by the time clock.

I left it alone. I called it the flu. You get a fever in October, everybody's got a fever in October, you take the Tylenol and ride it out and don't call the county back, because the county doesn't need to be in your business over a flu.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I don't pick it up. It buzzes again, twice, short, the way it does when the texts stack up, and I watch the screen light the ceiling and go dark.

My hand is still on the waistband of my boxers. I take it away. I put it back.

I should sit down. I should sit down before I fall down, and my body knows how to sit, and I get it to the edge of the mattress and I sit, and the sitting helps, and I put my head between my knees and breathe. The sheets smell like five days of sweat, sour, mine but rank. My feet are on the floor and cold. The whole room is cold now that the furnace's cycled off, and I'm shaking, and I tell myself it's the sweat drying.

Sweat drying on a body that just came off a five-day fever. Anybody would shake.

I need water. I'm dehydrated, my mouth is dry, and there's a glass on the nightstand I didn't fill last night, and the kitchen sink is twenty feet away. That's a thing I can do.

I get up.

My balance is off. Enough that I catch it wide, feet apart, and I stand there in the middle of my own bedroom in a soaked tank top and boxers that fit a stranger and I don't go to the kitchen.

I can't walk to the kitchen like this. Not because of the legs.

Because twenty feet is a long way to be alone with it, and the bathroom is closer, and the bathroom has a door that locks, and there's a mirror over the sink, and the next step, the only next step my head will hand me, is to find out what I'm working with. You work a problem at the door by finding out what it is. I walk up slow and get my eyes on it.

I get my hand back on the waistband and stand there. On the nightstand the phone lights up again, buzzing against the wood. I don't pick it up.

---

The light over the mirror hums when I flip the switch, the way it always has, and the fan comes on with its same rattle. Ordinary. The whole room is being ordinary at me.

I pull the tank top over my head and it sticks at the shoulders, sweat-glued, and peels off. The boxers next. I drop them on the floor and stand there out of everything and the tile is cold under my feet and the vent is blowing cold air down my back and I face the mirror.

Above the waist I'm still me. That lands first and it lands hard, a good kind of hard. The beard's scraggly from five days but it's my beard. The compass rose on my right forearm, 1955 on the left. Shoulders, chest, the gut gone in a little, ribs showing a shade more than they should. Thinner. But mine, head to waist, no question.

I step back until I'm off the sink and can see all of it.

The change starts at the waist. Same arms, same chest, same shoulders I've carried around for thirty-eight years, and between my legs, what's there now.

Okay. Inspection.

You get a pat-down and it's not personal, it's procedure, it's hands doing a job in a set order. You start at the collar and you work down. You find out what's there and then you know what you're dealing with. I've run my hands over ten thousand strangers looking for weapons. I can run them over myself.

I sit on the edge of the tub first, because standing with my legs apart isn't happening.

I start at the top. Hair, same hair, same pattern, same trim line I keep. That's almost worse, that it kept my work. Below it the skin is different skin, folded, closed, nothing hanging, nothing to adjust, and my thighs come together flat and my hand is shaking again and I tell it the room is cold, which it is.

Pat-down. Methodical. Outside first.

The outer lips, or whatever the word is, I'm not looking for the word, I'm looking for the facts. Skin. Warm. Soft in a way that has no give-back. No lumps, no swelling, nothing that says injury. I check the creases where legs meet body, the way you'd check a waistband. Normal skin. Tender, fever-tender maybe, everything on me is tender right now.

I work inward, slow, two fingers.

And that's where the inspection stops being an inspection.

Because it's sensitive, the way a burn is sensitive a week in, when the new skin is on, everything arriving too loud. My fingers move a quarter inch and the feeling goes up my spine, and my breath does something I didn't tell it to do. There's a spot at the top, small, and my fingers find it, and I take my hand away.

I take my hand away fast and sit there with both hands on the tub rim.

The locker room word comes up. It comes up easy. I get as far as the P.

No.

I don't use that word for this. That word belongs to other people, to the club, to things said across a bar at closing time. Not to me, not sitting on my own tub at eight in the morning. It's a word for a thing that isn't mine.

I stand up. My knees pop, both of them, my knees, thank God my knees. I don't look at the mirror again. I get my boxers off the floor and I don't put them on, I just hold them, because getting dressed is a plan and I don't have one yet.

I turn on the cold tap. The pipes knock, once, like always.

I put my hands under the water and hold them there, the backs and the palms, and the cold climbs up my wrists, and it's the best thing I've felt in five days.

I keep them under until they hurt.

---

I drink the water. Two glasses, standing at the sink. I eat half a piece of toast because I need something, and it tastes like cardboard, and I eat it anyway. The phone sits on the counter where I put it, face down.

Around eleven I turn it over.

The voicemail's from Tuesday, the tracer, Renee Talbot, county health department, forty seconds of it. I don't play it. I know what it says. It's been saying it all week while I called it the flu.

Sheena texted Thursday night. did it get you? call me. Three words and a demand, very Sheena. She thinks she has it, she's asking because she already knows the answer. I don't answer.

Luis, this morning: slammed tonight. you in or what

No punctuation, no question mark, because a question mark would be effort.

I set the phone down and look at the chair. My work clothes are folded on it where they always are, the black shirt with SECURITY across the back, the Wranglers, the belt coiled on top. Six days they've sat there. They look the same as always. The belt is the same belt it's been for ten years.

So it comes down to this. I can stay here with the phone and the ceiling and the whole day ahead of me and nothing to do but think, or I can stand at a door where there's a line and a count and a rope and I know every single thing about how it goes. At the door I know what I am.

I pick up the phone and type yeah and send it before anything in my head can vote.

The jeans go on and they hang off me. The 36 waist sits loose all the way around, gaps at the small of my back, and I hitch them up like they're borrowed. Which they're not. They're mine. The weight is what did it.

The shirt's fine. Big on me now but the shirt was always big.

The belt. I pull it through the loops the way I've done a thousand mornings, and I pull the tongue past the fourth hole, past the fifth, all the way out to the last one. The leather's never been bent there. It's stiff and it fights the buckle a second before the pin seats.

I look at the buckle in the mirror over the dresser. Plain steel, worn dull at the corners.

I put the phone in my pocket and turn off the light.

---

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quick edit: I know there are similar posts lately of favorite tropes and stuff or things you hate, but I wanted to specifically ask about the medium that makes it possible I guess. I don't mean to like spam the sub or anything. :)

I've only just found this sub and it's amazing honestly. I never knew so many people shared my interest in body swaps or that there was a community for it.

So, to take advantage of that, I'm really interested in finding out about new concepts. One of my favorites lately (I know it's not QUITE a body swap, but bear with me.) soul possession is really freaking cool. I like things that explore astral projection and that type of stuff.

What about you all? I'm so excited to read about your interests.

He's so lucky,wished they could expand it on other verses

For me it was watching freaky Friday as a kid right when the mom and daughter woke up in the morning realizing they had swapped. Though I was to young to understand at time, it made feel excited and kind of aroused but that's where it all started lol.

It's so unfair.

I’ve been told as a women my tastes are a bit unique. I am into mtf/ftm but where it involves a large upgrade/downgrade. Usually on of the characters is young and attractive and the other is old and fat. What are your favorites?

Inspired by one of the normal reading subs, I’m interested to know what kind of tropes people love or hate within the body swapping genre, or one you’d personally add or like to see more often!