by Ron Smith
Eddy’s mundane life takes a wild turn when a strange remote swaps him into the irresistible body of his neighbor Vanessa. Embracing her curves, he explores a world of seductive thrills, teasing her with her own allure until a malfunction traps him in her form. As their desires ignite, they forge a steamy new reality, blending passion and identity in a provocative, unbreakable bond.
Eddy and His Neighbor
Eddy collapsed onto his sagging sofa, the faint buzz of his ancient TV casting a restless glow across the chipped paint and cluttered corners of his small apartment. At 37, he was a wiry, unshaven guy with a mop of unruly dark hair and a life that felt like a conveyor belt jammed on slow—grueling shifts at the warehouse stacking crates, greasy takeout pizza scarfed down in silence, and restless nights staring at the water-stained ceiling, chasing sleep that never came easy. His only spark of vitality came from Vanessa, the breathtaking housewife next door. At 29, she was a vision of youthful allure—curvy hips that swayed with hypnotic grace, a dazzling smile that could stop a man’s heart, and a wardrobe that clung to her like a lover’s touch, from skin-tight jeans that hugged her thighs to gauzy nightgowns that danced in the breeze, revealing just enough to set his pulse racing. Her husband, a gym-obsessed lunkhead named Jake, seemed blind to her charm, leaving Eddy to simmer in quiet longing. He’d watch her through his grimy window as she tended her porch plants, her body bending in the morning light with the energy of someone still in her prime, or stretched in yoga pants that outlined every curve, her movements a silent siren call he couldn’t shake. That afternoon, he’d bumped into her outside, carrying a bag of groceries. She’d been wearing a sleeveless white top that hugged her chest and a pair of denim shorts that showed off her tanned legs, her hair loose and catching the sunlight. “Hey, Vanessa,” he’d mumbled, scratching his neck, “nice day, huh?” She’d flashed that smile, her voice warm as honey, “Sure is, Eddy—keeps me out here pruning these roses.” He’d nodded, tongue-tied, her nearness and that outfit—worn with the effortless confidence of her 29 years—a jolt he carried back inside, fueling his restless thoughts.
The Swap
That night, rummaging through a battered box of thrift store junk he’d grabbed on a whim, Eddy unearthed a strange remote—matte silver, sleek as a shard of moonlight, with a single gold button labeled “FLIP.” He snorted, figuring it was some busted relic from a forgotten decade, and aimed it at his TV, its screen buzzing with static snow like a restless ghost. Click. Nothing stirred. Then, half-amused at his own monotony, he pointed it toward Vanessa’s apartment through the thin wall and pressed again.
A surge tore through him, hot and electric, like a bolt of adrenaline laced with wildfire that seared his nerves from scalp to spine. When the dizziness cleared, he was still sprawled on his sofa, but his body was all wrong. His rough, calloused hands were gone, replaced by slender fingers with plum-painted nails that gleamed in the dim light of his flickering bulb. He looked down and nearly tumbled off the cushions. Below his neck was Vanessa’s body—her full, round breasts spilling out of a sheer pink babydoll, her hips hugged by a matching thong that barely covered her smooth, tanned thighs. Her wardrobe had swapped with her body, draping his frame in her satin and lace, and his head—still his own scruffy, bearded face—sat atop it all, an absurd crown on a goddess’s form. The remote had traded their bodies from the neck down, clothes included, and somehow, he knew she was next door in his body, wearing his faded tee and threadbare shorts, completely unaware of the switch.
Eddy’s heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoed in his ears and pulsed in his temples. He staggered to his bedroom mirror, the unfamiliar weight of Vanessa’s body throwing off his balance, and stared, mouth agape. His stubble clashed with his creamy cleavage, his long, toned legs shimmering in the soft glow of his cheap bedside lamp like a vision from a fevered dream. He hesitated, then brushed his delicate fingers over his skin, tracing the babydoll’s lace trim where it dipped low across his chest. Vanessa’s body was alive—every touch ignited a spark that raced through him, sharp and intoxicating, a sensation he’d never known in his own rough, weary frame. He cupped his breasts, marveling at their lush softness, then pinched his nipples hard through the thin fabric, a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting straight to his core. They peaked instantly, taut and aching, and a low groan rumbled from his throat, his voice jarring against his trembling form. The sensation was unreal—his sensitivity turned every caress into a wildfire that licked at his nerves, setting his mind ablaze. His hand slid lower, past the thong’s flimsy strap, and he explored his warmth, fingers grazing his clit with a teasing flick that made his thighs clench. He lingered there, circling the swollen bud with slow, deliberate strokes, then pressed harder, his breath hitching as waves of heat spiraled through him. His body was slick and desperate, dripping with need, and he slipped his fingers deeper, curling them inside as his other hand tugged the babydoll down, baring his chest. He pinched his nipples again, rolling them between his fingers, the sharp sting amplifying the throbbing below. Eddy’s breath came in ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tight, his clit pulsing under his relentless touch, his climax slamming into him like a runaway train. He stumbled back to his bed, collapsing in a tangle of satin and lace, panting hard, the scent clinging to his borrowed skin as the room spun around him, a kaleidoscope of disbelief and desire that left him dizzy and drenched in sweat.
The next morning, Eddy woke with Vanessa’s body still his, the babydoll twisted around his curves. He stretched languidly, his arms arching overhead with a graceful curve, his hips shifting naturally as he rolled out of bed. His steps carried a subtle sway as he padded to the bathroom, his posture settling into a soft, feminine poise without thought—shoulders back, chest lifted, a fluid ease in his stride that felt innate in this frame. Work loomed, and he couldn’t risk hauling boxes with his curves throwing him off balance. He paused by his window, catching a glimpse of Vanessa outside in his own body, his lanky frame hunched over a watering can, clad in his faded tee and shorts, her movements clumsy and rigid as she fumbled with the hose, water splashing awkwardly onto the porch. He smirked, a flicker of smug satisfaction warming him, then let his hand drift down, brushing his fingers over his breasts, feeling their weight through the babydoll. He grazed his nipples, a quick shiver rippling through him, then slid his hand lower, tracing the curve of his hip to tease his heat through the thong, a brief spark of warmth flaring before he pulled away. With a reluctant sigh, he grabbed the remote, pressed the button, and felt the jolt again. Back in his own body, his familiar wiry limbs restored, he sighed with relief and trudged to the warehouse. The day dragged—his rough hands ached, his back twinged—but the memory of Vanessa’s body kept him buzzing.
Pleasure After His Shift
After his shift, he raced home, locked the door, and clicked the remote. Vanessa’s body returned, now clad in a silk nightshirt that skimmed his curves, and he grinned, feeling the subtle shift in his balance. He took a slow step, his hips swaying naturally, the motion fluid and unfamiliar yet thrilling as he crossed his cluttered living room. His breasts bounced lightly with each stride, a gentle weight he couldn’t ignore, and he marveled at the softness of his thighs brushing together, the silk brushing his skin like a whisper. He paused by the kitchen counter, rolling his shoulders to feel his chest settle, then ran his hands down his sides, appreciating the smooth dip of his waist and the flare of his hips—movements that felt effortless, alive, a stark contrast to his usual lumbering gait. He turned, catching his reflection in a smudged window, his stubble jarring against his feminine form, and swayed his hips again, relishing the way his body flowed, every curve a quiet seduction he was only beginning to understand. Then he eased onto his sofa, crossing his legs with an instinctive grace—one thigh sliding over the other, his posture relaxed yet poised. He admired how natural it felt, the way his body seemed to know this pose, his hands resting lightly on his knee as he savored the femininity that came so easily now, a secret delight blooming in his chest. With a hungry grin, he stripped the nightshirt off, letting it slide to the floor, and stepped to his bedroom mirror to explore his bare form fully. He teased his chest, fingers circling his nipples until they hardened, then pinched them sharply, a delicious sting shooting through him as he gasped. His hands roamed lower, tracing the curve of his stomach to his thong, where he slipped his fingers beneath the lace, brushing his clit with a slow, deliberate stroke that made his hips buck. He lingered there, rubbing in tight circles, his breath quickening as heat coiled low, then slid his fingers deeper, curling them inside his slick warmth while his other hand tugged at his nipples, rolling them until his legs trembled. He—Eddy—moaned, the sound husky and raw, his body arching as pleasure built, teetering on the edge, before sinking to his knees as his climax shuddered through him, his thong damp against his borrowed thighs.
The next night, after swapping back for work and enduring another grueling day, he returned home eager to reclaim Vanessa’s body. He clicked the remote, and it returned, this time in a snug tank top and soft cotton shorts that hugged his curves, paired with a lacy black bra that cradled his breasts and a matching thong that clung to his hips, the delicate fabric a teasing whisper against his skin. Deciding to tackle some overdue chores, he moved through his apartment with a broom, his hips swaying rhythmically as he swept, each step a graceful glide that felt second nature. His breasts shifted gently under the tank top, the lace of his bra brushing against his nipples with every sweep, a subtle friction that sent a faint tingle through him. He bent to pick up a stray sock, his waist curving naturally, his ass lifting as his thighs flexed, the thong’s thin strap sliding slightly between his cheeks, stirring a low heat in his core as his breath caught. Moving to the kitchen, he wiped down the counter, his arms stretching with a dancer’s poise, his chest pressing forward as he leaned in, the bra’s underwire pressing into his ribs and tugging at his nipples, coaxing a soft flush to his skin. He caught his reflection in the toaster’s chrome surface—his scruffy face atop this feminine frame—and grinned, the sight of his body moving so effortlessly, so womanly, making him slightly horny. Dusting a shelf, he reached up, his hips tilting, his shorts riding up to expose more of his thighs, the thong’s lace edging up higher and the gentle sway of his curves fanning that flicker of arousal, a quiet hum building beneath his skin.
With the place tidier, he decided to cook dinner, swaying into the kitchen with a fluid stride, his hips rolling naturally as he gathered ingredients. He couldn’t pile on the food like usual—this body, delicate and smaller, wouldn’t take much without feeling stuffed—so he opted for a light stir-fry. He leaned over the counter to chop vegetables, his posture soft and curved, his chest brushing the edge as he sliced with a gentle rhythm, the bra’s lace teasing his nipples with each motion. Turning to the stove, he stirred the pan with a graceful flick of his wrist, his hips shifting side to side as he adjusted the heat, the thong’s snug fit pressing against his heat with every subtle sway. He plated a small portion, aware of his body’s limits, and carried it to the table, his steps light and poised, his ass swaying slightly as he moved. He sank onto a chair, crossing his legs instinctively, the smooth press of his thighs together tugging the thong tighter against his warmth. He picked up his fork with a delicate grip, his movements dainty as he took a small bite of the stir-fry, savoring the flavors on his tongue—soy and ginger mingling with crisp veggies. His free hand rested on his lap, fingers brushing his thigh, and he ate slowly, his lips closing around each bite with a soft, almost sensual care, the act feeling intimate in this body. His breasts rose and fell with each breath, the bra’s lace faintly tickling his skin, and he felt a quiet fullness after just a few bites, his smaller stomach signaling enough. He leaned back, legs still crossed, letting his hands slide to his hips, savoring the way his body felt alive, sensual even in these mundane tasks, the gentle arousal from his womanly movements lingering, a quiet hum beneath his skin.
After dinner, he rose with a fluid motion, his hips swaying as he carried his plate to the sink. He washed it with a gentle sway, his shoulders rolling softly as he scrubbed, the bra’s lace shifting against his nipples with each twist, fanning that subtle heat. He dried his hands, hips tilting as he turned, and glided to his bedroom, his steps light and feminine, the thong’s strap teasing his heat with every stride. Closing the door, he stood before his mirror, peeling off the tank top and shorts to reveal his lacy undergarments. He ran his hands over his breasts, squeezing them through the bra until his nipples stiffened, then slipped his fingers beneath the lace, pinching them hard, a sharp jolt sparking through him. His breath quickened as he tugged the thong aside, brushing his clit with a slow, teasing stroke that made his hips buck. He sat on the bed, legs parting naturally, and worked his heat, circling his clit with firm pressure, then sliding his fingers inside his slick warmth, curling them deep. His other hand roamed his chest, tugging and rolling his nipples, the dual sensations building a tight coil of pleasure. He—Eddy—moaned, his voice rough against his feminine gasps, his body arching as he pushed himself closer, his thighs trembling until his climax crashed over him, a shuddering wave that left him sprawled on the bed, panting, his thong soaked and his borrowed skin glistening with sweat. Exhausted and sated, he peeled off the damp undergarments, slipped into a loose nightshirt that had swapped with Vanessa’s body, and crawled under the covers, his curves settling into the mattress as he drifted into a deep, contented sleep.
(to be continued...)
Author note: feedback would be greatly appreciated.