Fraternity Girls The New World of SwapTech chapter 4 by deleted_user

The first thing Cody noticed was the hangover. It wasn't the skull-pounding, bile-rising, please-god-let-me-die kind, but the dull, fuzzy, cotton-mouthed ache of one too many bong hits chased by cheap tequila. The second thing he noticed—slowly, like a foggy puzzle piece clicking into a hazy brain—was that his boxers felt… wrong. They were twisted, bunched up in a way that was both too tight and too loose. And his morning wood, that reliable daily alarm clock, was conspicuously absent.

He tried to stretch, a lazy, habitual arch of the spine, but his arms felt too sleek, too graceful, ending in hands that were suddenly slender and manicured. When he moved his head, a heavy curtain of hair, dirty-blonde and smelling faintly of stale beer, spilled over a bare shoulder.

He cracked an eye open. The room was the familiar disaster of his frat house—empty pizza boxes, dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Cody groaned—and the sound that came out of his mouth was not his own.

It was higher. Softer. A feminine groan of displeasure.

He sat bolt upright, the sheets falling away. His gaze locked onto his chest. Beneath his T-shirt, where his flat, lightly-haired pectorals should have been, two high, firm breasts rose from pale skin. They were a decent size, the pinkish tips tight against the morning chill, an exquisite, alien presence. He reached out, his own fingers tracing the impossible curve, feeling the surprising, delicate weight. The touch sent a dizzying jolt of confusion and an unignorable spark of sensation straight through his core.

His hands flew to his face. The familiar rasp of stubble was gone. His jaw felt softer, his lips fuller, framed by surprisingly long lashes.

“What the fuck,” he breathed out, but the voice that came out was a breathy, confused soprano. “What the actual fuck.”

He scrambled out of bed, his legs tangling in the sheets. They were longer, more slender. He stumbled towards the full-length mirror tacked to the back of his door, his heart hammering a drum solo against his ribs.

The woman staring back was seriously, undeniably beautiful. Tall and lean, with the kind of sleek, athletic build that looked lethal. Her face was a gorgeous, softer echo of his own original features, the blue eyes wide with terror. His frat letters were now stretched across a full, intoxicating bust.

He yanked his boxers down, the cloth falling from a narrow, flat waist. The sight below—or rather, the lack of it—sent a wave of black nausea through him. Just a smooth, alien landscape of soft skin, centered on a neat, trimmed patch of blonde hair. Nothing else.

“No. No, no, no,” The female voice trembled. This was a bad trip. The absolute worst trip of his life. He must have smoked some of Derek’s experimental shit. That had to be it.

A sudden, aggressive pounding rattled the door.

“FINCH! You alive in there, bro? The fuck is going on?”

The voice was a gorgeous, husky alto, edged with raw, male-sounding panic. Cody—whoever he was now—opened the door a sliver.

Standing there was a woman who could stop traffic. A powerful, lean figure in nothing but low-slung gym shorts. Her athletic body was emphasized by a pair of defined and very exposed B-cup breasts that barely moved with her agitated breathing. Long, dark hair was tousled around a strikingly handsome face, contorted in pure, gorgeous fear. She was utterly unfamiliar.

"You’re in Cody’s room, right?" the woman demanded, her eyes raking over him. "Who the hell are you?"

Cody's voice squeaked. "I... I think I'm Cody. Who are you? You sound familiar."

The woman’s stunning dark eyes widened, dropping to Cody's chest, then back to his face. "Holy hell. You, too? I'm... I'm supposed to be Derek."

From down the hall, a door slammed open. “GUYS?!” A high, terrified shriek. “MY DICK IS GONE!”

They stumbled toward the noise. In a nearby room, a third woman sat naked on the edge of a stained mattress, sobbing. She was curvier than either of them, with a round, soft ass and heavy, pendulous breasts that shook as she wept, her hands clamped between her thighs. She was a complete stranger, yet the despair was instantly recognizable.

“It’s just… a slit!” the weeper wailed. “I had a boner when I went to sleep!”

The fourth door creaked open. A petite, pixie-like woman with short-cropped red hair and a tiny, shaky voice peered out, clutching a towel. “My phone’s blowing up. It’s not just us. It’s everyone.”