Dame Damien Marks The New World of SwapTech chapter 3 by deleted_user

Damien Marks had made a fortune selling things he didn’t believe in to people he didn’t respect.

Timeshares. Crypto. Motivational retreats. At one point he sold supplements made entirely of powdered radish root and sawdust. The trick, he always said, was confidence. Wear a blazer, speak in absolutes, and people will believe anything. Easier said than done to have confidence now.

He stormed through the winding paths of the resort, flip-flops slapping against the tile, hoodie yanked low over a body he didn’t want to think about. His new hips swayed when he walked. Not on purpose. It was just… physics.

And every time he passed a mirrored surface — there were a lot at Solstice Shores — he had to pretend he didn’t see that soft, angelic face staring back at him. Pale, smooth, and absurdly feminine. Big doe eyes. Glossy black hair that refused to stay behind his ears. And a pair of tits that demanded attention.

“These are ridiculous,” he muttered, arms crossed under the F-cup disasters as he passed a group of barely-dressed resort bros who all did double takes and then tried to look innocent.

He flipped them off.

His fingers were dainty now. Painted, even. Pale pink. He shuddered.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He’d booked this swap with a clear agenda: infiltrate his rival’s private party at Solstice Shores, snag some insider intel, then swap back into his original meat-sack before brunch on Monday.

The "Young Asian Influencer” body was supposed to be lean, discreet, and most importantly, under the radar. But whoever programmed this sleeve had taken some goddamn liberties. Every bounce was a betrayal. Every shift of weight was a hormonal ambush. The damn thighs rubbed together.

Worse yet — he couldn’t walk like himself. His usual aggressive swagger now looked like a girl boss in five-inch heels about to sell you leggings and feminism.

He ducked into a boutique cabana labeled BODYFIT EXPRESS, hoping for something that would compress his situation. Inside, a tall, orange-tanned woman with frosted blonde hair and a clipboard smiled brightly. “Welcome! Are we looking for body modification accessories, gender affirmers, or vibe amplifiers today?”

Damien hesitated. “Do you… have a binder? Like, for… this?” He gestured vaguely at his chest, which caused an unfortunately captivating jiggle.

She blinked. “Aww, honey, no. Those are trademarked. You’re in a Fantasy-tier Sleeve. Those come with reinforced jiggle cores. No compression allowed—it voids the warranty.”

Damien blinked back. “Jiggle cores?”

“Bounce sells, sweetie.” She smiled. “Maybe try embracing the fantasy?”

Damien left before he could scream.

By mid-afternoon, the temperature was pushing ninety, and the hoodie was no longer an option.

He peeled it off, revealing the cursed reality: a tight little crop top that clung to him like a desperate ex and barely covered the lower third of his boobs. Tiny shorts — practically denim floss — completed the look. His legs were smooth, long, and totally hairless. His skin was flawless.

God help me, he thought.

A group of vacationing tech bros passed him, ogling without subtlety. One of them gave him a wink.

“Fuck this,” he muttered.

He stormed into the nearest bar—VELVET OASIS, the signage said—intending to order something stiff and brain-killing. Instead, a shirtless bartender with tribal tattoos and a jawline sharp enough to slice fruit leaned over the bar and asked, “What can I get you, gorgeous?”

It took Damien a second to realize the guy was talking to him. “Uhh… beer?” he said, but it came out breathy. Soft. Feminine. God. Was that his voice now?

The bartender grinned and handed him a fruity thing with a tiny umbrella instead. “First one’s on me.”

Damien took a sip. It was pink. It was delicious. He hated himself.