Jeff cleared the table, the clink of plates a quiet rhythm as the evening wound down. The spaghetti had hit the spot, and their debrief over dinner left a warm buzz—two days into this swapped reality, and they were thriving. Mike grabbed his backpack, tossing a lazy, "Night, Dad," over his shoulder as he trudged upstairs, letterman jacket dangling from one hand. Jeff smirked, watching him go, then flipped off the kitchen lights. The master bedroom called—his domain now—and he climbed the stairs, hairy forearms brushing the banister, ready to crash after a day of owning the firm.
Mike’s door clicked shut down the hall, the house settling into silence. Inside his room—Jeff’s old space, now a teenage warzone—he dropped the backpack, kicking off his sneakers. The varsity jersey hung on the wall, #52 glowing faintly in the moonlight, a trophy of his linebacker life. Posters stared back—Nirvana, Call of Duty—his tastes plastered over a reality that pegged him as 16. He peeled off the band tee, ripped jeans hitting the floor, and stood in his boxers, catching his reflection in the small mirror propped on his dresser.
His body was a paradox—38 years of ex-jock bulk packed into a 16-year-old’s skin. Broad shoulders, thick chest, arms corded with muscle from years he hadn’t lived here, all smoothed over with a teenager’s hairless skin. The Chronivac had stripped him bare—body hair, beard, every mark of maturity handed to Jeff—and left him this: a powerhouse wrapped in a kid’s shell. He flexed, watching his pecs ripple, ex-jock gut showing his physical age. The disparity hit hard—mature strength, teenage gloss—and his pulse quickened.
He flopped onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight, and let his hands roam. His chest was smooth, taut, a linebacker’s slab that felt wrong without the hair he’d once owned. He traced down his stomach—no trail, just youthful skin—and his breath hitched. Jeff had it now: the thick pelt, the rugged beard, wearing it like he’d been born to it. Mike’s mind flashed to him—downstairs earlier, hairy forearms flexing as he stirred sauce, beard glinting, 38 and commanding in a way Mike had given up. And fuck, it was hot.
His hand slipped lower, boxers tenting as he gripped himself, the image searing. Jeff, his “son,” strutting the firm, owning that maturity Mike had surrendered—hairy, bearded, a titan who’d taken it all so naturally. Mike’s cock throbbed, thick from years he’d lived but didn’t show, and he stroked slow, savoring the secret lust. He’d handed over everything—age, status, even his damn hair—and Jeff wore it like a king. The thought of it, Jeff’s hairy chest under that henley, the beard framing orders at work, pushed Mike harder.
He kicked the boxers off, legs spread, his mature bulk sprawled across a teen’s bed. The room screamed 16—posters, sneakers, the letterman jacket—but his body whispered 38, a hidden truth that fueled him. He pumped faster, precum slicking his grip, imagining Jeff’s hairy hands, the beard brushing his jaw as he grinned over dinner. Mike had given it up, and Jeff had claimed it—fuck, that power shift lit him up. His balls tightened, muscles flexing, and with a choked groan, he came, hot streaks splattering his smooth chest, the release shaking him to his core.
He lay there, panting, the room still as his heartbeat slowed. The disparity—his ex-jock body in this teenage life, Jeff thriving with what he’d lost—was a secret fire he’d keep stoked. Down the hall, Jeff slept, oblivious, king of his own world. Mike grinned into the dark, wiping himself clean with a stray tee. Day two down.