Redressing The New World of SwapTech chapter 8 by bodyswapbabe

"Whoa."

Jonas whispered the word again, staring down at the unfamiliar curves between his thighs, marveling at the neatness of it all. It was like staring into a secret museum exhibit labeled: “FORBIDDEN: DO NOT TOUCH.” Naturally, he’d touched anyway. He couldn’t not. His hand had moved almost on instinct—like when you see a red button that says Do Not Press. Only now it was a soft, impossibly warm button between his legs, and pressing it had felt like sinking into melted ice cream while the rest of his body tried not to burst into flames.

He was breathing hard. He felt sticky. His legs were trembling. His pulse still thumped between his thighs like a drum solo.

Every nerve was still lit up with aftershocks, and for a full minute, all he could do was lean against the stall wall and catch his breath, red in the face, hair sticking to his cheeks.

Eventually, though, reality began to trickle back in.

He had to get dressed.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Jonas muttered, glancing at the bunched-up Power Girl costume like it was a puzzle box with way too many sharp angles and tight holes.

The cape went on first, because that was easy. Just drape and snap. But the bodysuit? Hell no.

The thing was skin-tight. Slippery. The spandex clung to itself like it didn’t want to let go. Jonas struggled to figure out which hole was for which leg. He tried to step in and tripped, nearly falling headfirst into the toilet bowl. His bare ass thudded against the stall door with a thunk.

“Shit!”

He finally got one leg in—then the other—and wiggled, squatted, cursed, and sweated his way into pulling the suit up over his hips. The chest window was an ordeal. Getting his boobs to sit right in it required lifting, squeezing, and adjusting them like he was fluffing up a couch.

By the time he got the zipper up, he was red-faced and wheezing. His hair was a frizzy mess. He looked like he’d just run a marathon made of lotion and sex crimes.

“Okay,” he whispered, adjusting the cleavage one last time. “We’re good. We’re back.”

He hesitated at the stall door. Checked under it—no feet. Then he stepped out.

The mirror across the bathroom caught him full-on. And holy hell.

Power Girl stared back. Six feet of walking thirst trap. Her suit hugged every curve like it had been painted on. Her boobs stood like a pair of proud sentinels, full and round and stupidly perky. Her waist was absurdly narrow. Her thighs flexed with every step, long and strong and jiggling slightly with power.

Jonas approached the mirror slowly, eyes wide. He struck a pose. Hands on hips. Classic superhero stance. God damn.

He turned to the side. Then backward. Gave his ass a little shake. It bounced.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, turning again and sticking it out just to watch the ripple.

Everywhere he looked, there was more of her. Of him, now. That body was his. For the next few hours, this walking sex fantasy was under his command.

He leaned close to the mirror, licking his lips.

“I’d totally do me,” he whispered. “Like... hard.”

He adjusted his boobs again. Just to make sure they were still real. Yup. Still there. Still huge. Still amazing.

He grinned. Power Girl’s reflection grinned back—cocky, flushed, a little sweaty, and completely turned on by herself. This was gonna be one hell of a con.