Just Two Dudes, Right? The Remote of Transformation chapter 5 by bodyswapbabe

Well. Former Dad’s voice.

Ethan stood frozen in the garage doorway, remote still warm in his palm. His finger hovered over the “return” button, but he didn’t press it. Not yet. Not with this view.

Because technically, the person bent over the open hood of the Dodge Charger—grunting, growling, shirt peeled open and tits swinging like a pair of oversized wrecking balls—was still his father.

Ray Quinn.

Burly, belligerent, football-loving Ray Quinn.

Except now he was packing about thirty pounds of hourglass figure, jet-black hair cascading to the middle of his back, glossy pink lips, and a pair of fake-looking (but very real) melons that had burst through the front of his gray tank top like a muffin top in heat.

And he didn’t seem to notice.

Not the long nails. Not the waist cinched narrower than a wrench handle. Not the cleavage spilling out like the front of a lad magazine. Nothing.

“Alright, let’s see what this bastard’s doing now,” Ray muttered—still in that breathy, sing-songy voice that absolutely did not match the man’s gruff tone. “Timing’s all off. Gotta adjust the distributor cap.”

Ethan blinked. “Uh. Dad?”

Ray didn’t look up. “Grab me the 3/8 socket. Deep well. Should be next to the WD-40.”

Ethan hesitated. “You… uh… feeling alright?”

Ray snorted and leaned in deeper, breasts brushing the engine block without any apparent discomfort. “Never better. Got a good rhythm goin’ now. Ain’t let this car kick my ass again. Might even take it out later if I can tighten the—ah, there she is—damn thing.”

He reached for the bolt, arms flexing, back arching—and the shredded waistband of his gym shorts dipped even lower. Ethan caught a full glimpse of creamy, tanned lower back, and nearly half of his father's ass cheeks.

Plumber crack, Ethan thought. Except… girl crack?

It should’ve been horrifying. But the longer he watched, the more surreal it got. Ray didn’t even flinch when one of his breasts slapped the side of the battery housing. He just wiped his hands on his now oil-slicked stomach, leaving a dark streak just under his underboob like it was nothing.

“Damn this heat,” Ray muttered, blowing a stray lock of hair from his face. “Sweating outta places I didn’t know had sweat glands.”

Ethan swallowed and walked over, the remote tucked carefully into his hoodie pocket. “Want me to help?”

Ray finally looked up—and smiled. “What, you wanna get your hands dirty for once? That’s a first.”

Ethan shrugged, keeping his eyes above the equator. “Yeah, well. Figured we could, you know, hang out. Do car stuff. Bond.”

Ray beamed. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Little father-son grease time.”

Ethan resisted the urge to laugh.

“You grab that socket?”

Ethan handed it over, brushing fingers with Ray’s soft, dainty hand. Ray took it without hesitation, twisting back under the hood—and promptly lifted one leg to stretch, letting out a loud, unapologetic fart that echoed off the garage walls like a trumpet solo.

Ethan choked. “Jesus—!”

Ray just chuckled. “What? That was earned. Been holdin’ that in since lunch.”

“You… you okay down there?”

“Hell yeah.” Ray grinned, giving his hip a quick, absent-minded scratch—dragging his hand under the waistband of his shorts to reach way further than Ethan was prepared to see. “Just gotta let the pipes vent once in a while. Part of the process.”

Ethan stared. The man—technically—was a living caricature of a Latina swimsuit model at this point. And yet he still scratched his crotch like a trucker, farted like a trombone section, and now had a smudge of oil running across his cleavage like he was trying to look like a cover of Hot Rod Girls Monthly.

And he didn’t notice any of it.

Not the weight on his chest. Not the way his shorts clung to curves no man should have. Not the bounce, the sway, the softness of it all. He leaned back, propped one hand on the fender, and arched his back with a satisfied grunt—completely unaware that his tits jiggled like water balloons on a trampoline.

“This is nice,” Ray said. “You an’ me. Tools. Sweat. Grease. None of that pansy crap. Just a couple’a dudes wrenchin’ on a ride.”

Ethan nodded, dazed. “Uh-huh. Couple’a dudes.”

Ray elbowed him playfully, unaware the gesture pressed his entire rack into Ethan’s arm. “See? Told your mom you’d come around.”

He shook his head and returned to tightening the distributor cap. “Anyway. I say we finish this up, order a pizza, maybe catch the game. Whaddaya say?”

“Sounds… perfect.”

Ray grinned again, grease smeared on his cheek, tank top now clinging half-transparent with sweat and oil. “Told ya. Just needed some quality time. Man to man.”

Ethan bit the inside of his cheek. “You want me to grab the torque wrench?”

“Nah. Just hand me that big ol’ thing right there.” Ray pointed to the impact driver—and bent over again.

Ethan looked away, ears red.

He didn’t know how long it would last. Maybe hours. Maybe until Ray caught sight of his own reflection. But for now, there he was—still belching, scratching, and fixing cars like the same old dad… just with the proportions of a swimsuit calendar.

“Just two guys,” Ray said again, completely satisfied.

And Ethan couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. Sure. Two guys.”