Man's Man to Insta Baddie The Remote of Transformation chapter 4 by bodyswapbabe

The Morphisizer buzzed in Ethan’s palm like a wasp ready to sting. Still warm from its last test, it sat in his hand like it knew what came next.

 

Ethan eyed it, thumb brushing the rubbery surface of the biggest button—the one he’d labeled INJECT. It was embossed with a sloppy lightning bolt in silver Sharpie, flaking at the edges.

 

“Time for a real test,” he whispered, biting his lip.

 

He wasn’t about to try it on himself. That would’ve been the coolest option, sure—but also the stupidest. He still hadn’t figured out if the changes were reversible, or stable. The toaster never went back to being a toaster. And the goldfish still swam in confused circles, tail #2 twitching like it had opinions.

 

So that left family.

 

Mom? No, she was out at her weekly book club and Ethan liked having a mom who didn’t suspect he might be melting local wildlife.

 

His little sister was at ballet. Too young. Too risky. Too screamy.

 

Which left one candidate.

 

He slipped the remote into the waistband of his hoodie, tugged it down to cover the bulge, and crept downstairs.

 

From the living room, he could already hear it: the telltale clank of a socket wrench, the grunting rasp of effort, and Van Halen’s "Hot for Teacher" vibrating through garage drywall. All dad’s trademarks.

 

Ethan hesitated at the door to the garage, steeling himself.

 

This would be fine. He’d just sneak in, aim the Morphisizer, and—zap. If it didn’t work? No harm done. If it did work? Then... well, Dad would be living proof.

 

He pushed the door open and was immediately hit with a wall of smells: burnt oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of last night's microwaved chili.

 

His father crouched beneath the battered old Charger, shirtless, a halo of sweat darkening the armpits of his grey tank top. His biceps bulged like basketballs under tension, veins snaking down to his grease-blackened hands. Even crouched, he looked massive, like a chunk of a different century. He had one of those faces that always looked mad—square jaw, flared nostrils, forehead lines deep enough to catch rain.

 

“You make this mess on the counter?” his dad growled without looking up.

 

Ethan blinked. “Uh... what mess?”

 

“The one with the cereal milk and banana peel. Goddamn apes clean up after themselves better.”

 

He reached for a socket extension, knocking aside an open can of Monster with his elbow.

Ethan swallowed.

 

“Hey, Dad. I was wondering... you ever think about the body—like, the human body—and how, like, changeable it might be?”

 

His dad snorted. “Jesus. What kind of pansy-ass question is that? You taking health again?”

 

Ethan fumbled for words. “I meant, like... imagine someone could turn into somebody else. Like, actually change their body. Wouldn’t that be kinda cool?”

 

His dad finally emerged from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag that looked older than Ethan. “Sounds like some kind of queer science fiction crap. No offense.”

 

Ethan bit the inside of his cheek. “None taken.”

 

“You know what I think?” His dad pointed the greasy rag at him like a pointer. “I think the whole damn country’s gone soft. Everyone crying about who they are and what body they’re born with. Back in my day, you just worked your job, kept your head down, didn’t go crying to Mommy every time someone called you a name.”

 

Ethan nodded vaguely, hand tightening on the Morphisizer in his hoodie.

 

“And women these days, Jesus. Half of ‘em don’t wanna be women anymore, and the other half act like they got balls bigger than mine. Always yapping about ‘respect’ like it’s owed to ‘em. Bitches don’t get it’s earned.”

 

There it was.

 

Ethan’s smile was tight. “Right. Sure.”

 

He stepped closer, angling the remote in his pocket.

 

His dad went back under the hood, muttering. “Dumbest thing I ever heard—‘preferred pronouns.’ I prefer to be a millionaire with a yacht. You don’t see me writing it on my damn coffee cup.”

 

Ethan pulled out the remote. The Morphisizer hummed faintly, a slow pulsing blue light casting shadows on the side of the car. He licked his thumb and pressed it to the SCAN button, pointed at his dad’s bulk.

 

The display flickered. A red light scanned up and down the garage like a laser tripwire.

SUBJECT PROFILE ACQUIRED: QUINN, RAYMOND – 6’1”, MALE, 241 LBS, O+ BLOOD, 43YRS.

 

A new screen popped up: TRANSFORMATION TARGET?

 

Ethan tapped through options. It let him link a stored profile—either from a preset or a source image.

 

He opened the gallery on his phone.

 

A pause. One beat. Two.

 

Then he selected the photo from earlier that week: a busty Latina model he followed religiously on Insta—username @xobrendaaaaa. Tan skin. Huge eyes. Curvy in every direction. Maybe early 30s. She was blowing a kiss in the photo, lips glossy and pillowy.

 

Ethan grinned to himself.

 

“Let’s see how you like being ogled, old man.”

 

He tapped SYNC PROFILE. A warning popped up:

WARNING: GENDER INVERSION DETECTED. Confirm override?

[YES] / [NO]

 

He hit YES.

 

The Morphisizer blinked.

 

Nothing happened for half a second.

 

Then—

 

WHUMP.

 

It was like the air got yanked out of the room.

 

His dad jerked upright, back arching, arms flung wide as if something had punched his lungs inside out. The socket wrench clattered across the concrete.

 

“Ghh—! The fuck?!” he choked.

 

Ethan flinched backward, clutching the remote to his chest.

 

Ray’s muscles spasmed. He staggered, twisting as if trying to escape his own skin. Then the sound started—bones cracking, tendons snapping like rubber bands pulled too tight.

 

His chest compressed in on itself with a gurgle-pop, ribs shortening as his shoulders rolled inward. His jaw clenched—then his face buckled. Cheekbones rose. Brows thinned. His nose shrank, upturned, eyes widening into liquid brown saucers. His short-cropped hair spilled down in loose waves, thickening into a glossy, espresso-brown mane.

 

“Oh god,” he rasped in a warbling voice. His Adam’s apple hiccupped, then vanished entirely. “What the hell is—?!”

 

His voice cracked into a high, nasal squeak as his whole frame lurched again.

 

Shoulders narrowed. Waist pinched. His arms shrank, losing hair and definition as his massive chest heaved upward—and then kept growing. The tank top stretched, strained, then tore clean down the middle, his new breasts bursting free like they’d been vacuum-packed.

 

Ethan winced as the nipples darkened before his eyes, swelling atop a pair of huge, gravity-defying mounds.

 

Ray—no, not Ray anymore—gasped, staggering backward into the toolbox.

 

Her thighs thickened. Her hips flared outward with a sickening crunch, pelvis visibly realigning under her shorts. They didn’t last. The waistband split as her ass ballooned outward, a perfect Insta-worthy peach wedged into the tatters of Dad’s old workwear.

 

Ethan stared, open-mouthed.

 

She—Ray—was stunning. Tan skin now flawless and poreless. Lips glossy and plush. Hair cascading to her back in loose, perfect waves. Breasts so full and perky they didn’t seem real—like every dream Ethan ever had had been poured into flesh and dropped into his garage, swearing in his dad’s voice.

 

Well. Former dad’s voice.