Private Time The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by bodyswapbabe

Jonas bolted the second the platform hit the floor.

The con hall was a circus—lights flashing, camera shutters snapping, cosplay asses jiggling everywhere. People bustled in every direction—cosplayers, fans, handlers with clipboards, photogs with lenses the size of small dogs. A Deadpool skated by on Heelys. Someone in a disturbingly accurate Gollum costume was eating a churro on all fours. He barely had time to register the roar of the crowd before he felt the first wave of attention hit him like a brick to the face.

People weren’t looking at him like they usually did—like he was in the way, or invisible, or just some sweaty dude with pit stains and an anime tee two sizes too small. No.

This was raw hunger.

The Joker guy practically broke his neck turning. A whole pack of nerds in matching Zelda tunics openly stared at his chest. One dude actually mouthed the word “mommy” before tripping over his own feet.

Jonas panicked.

Nope. No way he was ready for this. Not until he figured out how this body even worked.

He spotted a side hallway and dipped in. The red boots thudded heavier than expected, each step vibrating up thick, powerful calves. Everything moved. The ass. The boobs. The hips. It was like walking in a jello mold shaped like a porn star His hips swayed without permission—like the body wanted to be ogled—and the bounce in his chest was goddamn hypnotic. Two beachballs trapped under spandex, jiggling with every awkward step.

He found a maintenance door left ajar and slipped in without hesitation. Dim lighting. Boxes. A folded table. And—thank God—a dusty utility mirror leaning against the wall.

Jonas froze.

Holy. Shit.

There she was. He was. Power Girl in all her stacked, sweaty glory.

His new reflection stared back: six feet tall, shoulders broad, hips wide, ass like a peach emoji. Long blonde hair. He reached up tentatively, letting the heavy, unfamiliar blonde curls fall between his fingers. Soft. Full. Not a strand out of place. Her tits—his tits—were massive. Round, firm, pressed together by that stupid, slutty white leotard with the tit window cut halfway to her collarbone. It looked like they were trying to escape.

He couldn’t help himself.

One hand reached up. Groped. The suit was tight, but not armored—more like high-end cosplay material. His palm sank into pillowy, dense flesh that moved when he squeezed. Bounced when he let go.

His other hand slid down the hourglass curve of her waist, over hips that used to belong to someone else, now spreading under his touch. Thighs like tree trunks—firm, strong, sexy. He sat down hard on a plastic folding table, the movement making everything bounce again.

He was buzzing. Lightheaded. His dick—wherever it was—felt like it was trying to wake up in a panic.

“I got tits,” he breathed, squeezing again. “Big, fat fuckin’ cartoon tits. And an ass you could eat lunch off.”

His thighs spread automatically. He could feel the pressure in his core, the weight of the suit pressing tight between his legs. Was that heat? Was that—?

He wasn't sure if he was ready to unzip anything. Not yet.

But holy fuck, he wanted to.