Vic Logan The New World of SwapTech chapter 7 by deleted_user

Vic aimed carefully at Ridge. Thumb pressed ACTIVATE.

Whump.

His body slumped.

But the crosshairs had slipped—just a fraction—as the camera panned during the elevator kiss. Instead of Ridge's broad chest, the beam caught Hope Logan, who had just stepped off the service elevator into the hallway outside the office, clipboard in hand, looking for her mother.

Hope—Annika Noelle in her prime: soft brown hair, wide innocent eyes, curves poured into a cream pencil skirt and silk blouse, lips parted in surprise as she heard the moans from behind the closed door.

The world shifted—not into Ridge's commanding frame, but something softer, more yielding. Vic blinked through Hope Logan's wide, doe-like eyes, her soft brown hair framing a face that felt delicate, vulnerable. He looked down: cream pencil skirt hugging rounded hips, silk blouse stretched over full breasts that rose and fell with his panicked breaths. Between his legs—nothing familiar, just a warm, insistent throb, a slick ache that made his thighs clench involuntarily.

"What the—? No, no, this ain't right," Vic muttered in Hope's sweet, melodic voice, hand flying to his chest. The breasts were heavy, sensitive; even the brush of fabric against his nipples sent jolts straight to his core. He shifted, feeling the sway of hips, the subtle jiggle, the way his body seemed wired for sensation—every nerve alive, humming. I was aiming for Ridge, damn it. Must've slipped when the camera moved. Hope's body betrayed him immediately: arousal building unbidden, panties dampening as the sounds from the office door ahead filtered in—moans, gasps, the rhythmic slap of skin.

Vic/Hope's mind reeled. Eighty-five years as a man, and now this? Feels... weird. Good weird? He pressed a thigh together experimentally, gasping at the spark of pleasure from the pressure on his clit. It was constant, this undercurrent of need—nothing like the focused urgency he knew, but a full-body hum, building like a wave. His skin prickled, hyper-aware: the cool air on exposed cleavage, the tightness of the skirt restricting movement, forcing a feminine sway as he stepped toward the door.

Pushing it open, Vic froze in the threshold. There they were: Marge straddling Hal on the desk, Ridge standing bewildered but aroused, pants undone. The air smelled of sex—musk and perfume—and it hit Vic like a drug, his new body responding with a flood of heat between his legs.

Marge looked up, eyes gleaming. "Hope? Sweetie, come in. Join us."

Hal smirked, beckoning with a manicured finger. "Yeah, sis. Don't be shy."

Vic's thoughts raced: This body's got a mind of its own. Heart's pounding, nipples hard as rocks, and down there... Christ, it's like a furnace. He stepped forward despite himself, heels clicking, each movement sending ripples of sensation through his curves. Never felt anything like this. Soft everywhere, but so damn sensitive. One touch and I might explode. Ridge turned, his gaze raking over Hope's form—Vic's form now—and the appreciation in those eyes made Vic's cheeks burn, a mix of embarrassment and thrill.

He sank to his knees between them, hands trembling as he reached out. Just go with it, Vic told himself, fingers tracing Brooke/Marge's thigh, feeling the smooth skin. The contact zinged through him, amplifying the ache in his core. Steffy/Hal pulled him closer, lips brushing his ear. "Let us show you how this works."

Vic/Hope surrendered, mind swirling in the overload: tongues exploring, hands cupping his breasts, fingers dipping lower to tease the slick folds he now possessed. Every stroke built the pressure, coiling tighter—nothing linear, just waves crashing until he shattered with a cry, body arching in unfamiliar ecstasy. Better than I imagined, Vic thought hazily, as the others drew him deeper into the fray.