Daddy to Diva The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by deleted_user

Back in the living room, the TV blared with stadium noise and tight camera shots of the cheer squad strutting toward the tunnel. Kyle—now Natalie—was front and center, sweaty and radiant, ass jiggling like a snack commercial in slow-mo.

Derek was slack-jawed. Remote in hand. “Holy shit. That actually worked.”

On the couch, Frank was not impressed.

“Buncha bullshit,” he grumbled. “Gimmicky-ass nonsense. Boy probably faked the whole thing. Acting fruity just to mess with ya.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s pretending to be trapped in the TV?”

“Hell yeah I do. This whole thing’s staged. Cheerleaders? Come on. Real men don’t do this digital gender voodoo horseshit.”

Derek snorted. “Alright, boomer, want me to prove it?”

“Damn right I do.”

Derek grinned. “Fine.”

He lifted the TVT Remote, thumb hovering over the red TRANSFER button. “Let’s see how you like being part of the ‘fruity horseshit.’”

Frank opened his mouth to yell—too late.

ZAP.

Another flash. This one louder, sharper. It smelled faintly of ozone and cocoa butter. The recliner where Frank had sat was suddenly empty.

And on TV? A brand-new cheerleader had just appeared on screen, near the back of the squad. A tall, Black, busty brunette with thick, natural curls bouncing around her brown shoulders stood blinking at the camera in pure horror. She had wide hips, smooth caramel skin, tits stuffed into an Eagles-branded halter top that barely contained them. Her skirt was microscopic, her legs gleamed with baby oil, and her makeup looked freshly touched-up.

She was stunning—and furious. Onscreen, she opened her plump, glossed lips and screamed: “YOU GODDAMN LITTLE SHITS! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

Derek fell off the couch laughing. “OH MY GOD. That’s Dad!”

The hot brunette stomped forward in white sneakers, nearly tripping over her own bouncing rack. She shoved a shorter cheerleader out of the way.

“WHERE’S MY DICK?!”

The squad gasped. The Latina next to her turned, confused. “Jasmine, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Carl—now Jasmine—grabbed his own boobs and shouted, “I don’t even know how these work! What the hell are these?!” He jiggled them. “What the hell is THIS?!”

“Carl, relax!” Derek wheezed, trying not to pee himself from laughing. Somehow, Carl realized he could hear Derek's disembodied voice from inside the TV. “Just breathe! You’re Jasmine now!”

“I don’t wanna be no Jasmine! I’m a damn retired electrician, not some pom-pom shaking bimbo!”

Back on screen, Carl stumbled over to a steel bench, knocking over a water cooler with his hips. “These hips move like they’re on a f***in’ gimbal! I can feel my ass jiggling when I breathe!”

“Yeah,” Derek said, wiping his eyes. “We can see that.”

Carl tried to cross his arms—his big boobs got in the way. He scowled down at his own cleavage.

“This is an abomination!”

Then a voice off-screen shouted, “WARM-UP STRETCHES! TEN MINUTES TO SHOWTIME!”

The squad started jogging to the sideline again.

Carl whimpered. “Don’t you dare let me dance. Don’t you bastards dare—”

But the cheerleaders were already circling him.

“C’mon, Jasmine, front row with me!” the Latina said, grabbing his soft, manicured hand and pulling him along.

Carl stumbled in heels, boobs bouncing, hips twisting against his will—but no. Not against his will. He was in full control. He just… didn’t know how to walk like this. Or run. Or breathe without it jiggling somewhere.

“Oh my god, I can feel my thong riding up my—”

The camera cut to commercial. The screen went dark.

Derek was breathless with laughter. "I'll bring ‘em back… after another beer.”