Mike pedaled into Westfield High’s parking lot Tuesday morning, the crisp air biting his smooth cheeks as his letterman jacket flapped behind him. Day two of this swapped reality—16, junior, linebacker—and the varsity jersey patch on his sleeve gleamed like a badge. He locked his bike, adjusting the cargos and Slipknot tee he’d thrown on, and grinned at the new weight in his boxers—Jeff’s 16-year-old cock, slimmer, twitchier, a midnight Chronivac gift he’d already tested. It felt good, young, a jolt of sensitivity that matched this teenage life, and he swaggered into the school, ready to own it.
The halls buzzed—lockers slamming, kids shouting—and Mike’s crew found him fast, a trio of faces reality had stitched into his “past.” Jake, the wiry running back, darted over first, gap-toothed grin flashing as he punched Mike’s arm. "Yo, Parker, you’re late—Coach’ll bench you if you slack again." His voice was sharp, playful, all restless energy, brown hair flopping over his eyes. Mike laughed, clapping him back. "Takes more than that, man—I’m starting, QB can suck it." Jake’s loyalty was forged on the field—two seasons of drills and late-night Madden, or so this world said.
First period was English, and Mike slouched into his seat, Jeff’s cock shifting in his cargos as he stretched his linebacker legs. Mrs. Hargrove eyed him over her glasses, a fond smirk tugging her lips. "Mike, homework?" He flashed a grin, digging out a crumpled essay—B-minus material. "Right here, teach—Steinbeck’s my guy." She took it, muttering, "Charm’s your real grade," and the class chuckled. Jake, two rows over, flicked him a paper ball—nice save scribbled on it—and Mike winked, the room’s vibe bending his way.
Second period hit—History—and Carlos joined the fray, sliding into the desk beside him. Stocky, broad, a wrestler with a buzzcut and a quiet intensity, Carlos was the neighborhood anchor—knew Mike since “diapers,” backyard brawls and all. He nudged a textbook over. "You read the Civil War crap? Test’s Friday." Mike smirked, flipping it open. "Nah, wingin’ it—got football brain." Carlos snorted, dark eyes glinting. "You’re lucky Mr. Reese likes football jocks—me, I gotta grind." His tone was dry but warm, a steady presence Mike leaned on—Carlos didn’t flash, he held ground.
The lecture droned—Gettysburg, cannons—and Mike doodled plays in the margins, Jeff’s cock a quiet thrill as he shifted. It was tighter, more responsive, a teenage pulse that twitched when he flexed his thighs. He grinned, imagining Jeff strutting the firm with his old, thick dick—fuck, that swap was gold. Carlos caught his smirk, raising a brow. "What’s with you, man?" Mike shrugged. "Just feelin’ good—new day, new shit." Carlos nodded, accepting it, their bond a low-key hum.
Third period was Math, and Ellie swaggered in late, purple hair bouncing as she dropped into the seat ahead. Sharp-tongued, artsy, she’d ruled kickball back in the “day”—now she ruled the group’s edge. "Parker, you’re a zombie—late night?" Her green eyes sparkled, teasing, a sketchpad poking from her bag. Mike leaned forward, grinning. "Blame Madden, I'm a pro." She smirked, tossing him a chewed pencil. "Bullshit, you suck at it—give me notes later, I’m ditching." Her vibe was chaos, fierce, a friend who’d cut you but stitch you up after.
Mr. Tran scribbled equations, and Mike zoned, Jeff’s cock stirring as he adjusted in the stiff chair. It was quick, eager—last night’s session flashed, smooth chest, young dick—and he bit his lip, loving the trade.
The bell rang for lunch, and Mike hit the cafeteria, tray in hand—burger, fries, the usual. The cafeteria roared with midday chaos as Mike dropped his tray onto the scratched table, the smell of greasy fries and overcooked burgers thick in the air. His letterman jacket hung loose over his Slipknot tee, Jeff’s 16-year-old cock a subtle thrill in his cargos as he sprawled into his seat. Lunch was his turf—day two of this swapped reality—and his crew filed in fast, claiming their spot amid the clatter of trays and shouts. Jake, Carlos, and Ellie—his anchors in this teenage world—settled around him, their dynamic a living thing, woven tight among themselves.
Jake slid in first, wiry frame bouncing as he snatched a fry from Mike’s tray, his gap-toothed grin flashing. "Parker, you’re slow today—QB’s gonna eat you alive at practice." His brown hair flopped over his eyes, and he flicked it back, restless energy sparking. Across the table, Carlos—stocky, buzzcut, wrestler’s build—rolled his eyes, methodically peeling the bun off his burger. "Lay off, Jake—he’s starting. You’re just mad you fumbled last game." His voice was low, dry, a steady counter to Jake’s flash, and Jake laughed, tossing a fry at him.
"Asshole," Jake shot back, but it was light, their banter a well-worn groove. They’d been at it since freshman year—Jake the loudmouth running back, Carlos the quiet grappler—two sides of the athletic coin, bonded by late-night bus rides and shared bruises. Carlos caught the fry mid-air, popping it in his mouth with a smirk, his dark eyes glinting. "Keep throwing food, I’ll pin you later."
Ellie eased in last, purple hair tucked behind her ears, a sketchpad under one arm as she set her tray—apple, yogurt, no grease—down with a soft thud. She wasn’t the wildfire she’d been in class, more a simmer now, her green eyes scanning the group. "You two are idiots," she said, voice sharp but even, peeling her yogurt lid with a flick. "Save the wrestling for the mat—Mike’s the one who’s gotta dodge Ryan today." She glanced at Mike, a half-smile tugging her lips, less biting than usual but still edged.
Mike grinned, leaning back, Jeff’s cock shifting as he stretched. "Ryan’s a prick—let him try me. I’m good." He took a bite of his burger, sauce smearing, and the table settled into its rhythm—his crew, his pulse in this 16-year-old life.
Jake turned to Ellie, snagging her apple and rolling it between his hands. "You ditch Math again, El? Tran’s gonna fail you." His tone teased, but there was a thread of worry—he’d been her lab partner last year, stuck bailing her out when she’d rather sketch than dissect. Ellie snatched it back, rolling her eyes. "I’ll pass—Mike’s got my notes. Right?" She nudged him, her foot tapping under the table, a quiet habit she’d had since they were kids kicking balls in the street.
"Yeah, tomorrow," Mike said, winking, and Carlos chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re too soft on her, man—she’s got us all trained." Ellie smirked, spooning yogurt. "Someone’s gotta keep you in line, Carlos—you’d study yourself to death without us."
Carlos shrugged, cutting his burger with a plastic knife—a quirk Jake always ragged him for. "Better than flunking out. You’re lucky I proofread your history paper last week." His tone was flat, but warm—he’d been the group’s rock since middle school, the one who’d drag them to the library when Jake flirted with detention and Ellie ghosted class. She leaned over, bumping his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah—my hero. Still got a B."
Jake laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "B’s are Mike’s territory—he charms Hargrove into it. Me, I’m C’s and praying." He tossed another fry, this time at Ellie, who batted it away with a mock glare. "Keep that up, I’ll draw you with a unibrow next time," she warned, but her lips twitched—Jake’s chaos was her fuel, their push-pull a constant since he’d dared her to climb the school fence in eighth grade.
Mike watched, burger halfway to his mouth, soaking it in. Jake and Carlos ribbed each other—speed versus strength, loud versus steady—while Ellie threaded the needle, her wit a glue that held their edges together. They weren’t just his friends; they were a unit.
"So, practice," Jake said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Ryan’s been mouthing off—you gonna shut him up, Mike?" Carlos nodded, chewing slow. "He’s all talk—hit him once, he’ll fold." Ellie glanced up, smirking. "Just don’t break him—Coach’ll bench you, and I’m not cheering for Jake."
Mike grinned, Jeff’s cock a quiet buzz in his cargos. "I’ve got him—new energy today." They laughed, the table alive, their bond a messy, solid thing—friends who’d “grown up” together, this reality’s gift to him.
Mike shoveled the last of his fries into his mouth as the lunch bell shrilled, cutting through the cafeteria’s din. His crew dispersed—Jake darting off with a shout about gym, Carlos grabbing his tray with a nod, Ellie slinging her sketchpad under her arm and tossing Mike a quiet, “Notes tomorrow, don’t flake.” He grinned, wiping sauce off his smooth chin, Jeff’s 16-year-old cock a subtle pulse in his cargos as he stood. The morning had been a blast—English, History, Math, his friends a tight orbit—and the afternoon stretched ahead, day two of this swapped teenage life.
Fourth period was Biology, and Mike slid into a lab stool beside Carlos, the room sharp with formaldehyde and whiteboard marker. Ms. Carter, a wiry woman with a perpetual frown, droned about mitosis, but Mike’s focus drifted—Jeff’s dick twitched when he shifted, tighter, more sensitive than his old 38-year-old heft, and he smirked, loving the trade. Carlos nudged him, sliding a diagram. "You’re zoning, man—copy this, she’s quizzing Friday." His dark eyes were steady, a lifeline as always, and Mike scribbled it down, muttering, "Thanks, dude—football brain’s taking over."
Carlos smirked, dissecting a cell model with surgical calm. "Better than Jake—he’s flunking this one." Their rhythm was easy—Carlos the anchor, Mike the flare—and when Ms. Carter called on him, Mike flashed a grin, bullshitting, "Uh, mitosis splits the nucleus, right?" She nodded, faintly amused, his charisma a shield. The bell rang, and Carlos clapped his shoulder. "You’re lucky she’s soft on you."
Fifth period hit—Spanish—and Ellie was back, two rows ahead, her purple hair catching the light as she conjugated verbs under her breath. Señora Lopez paced, barking, "¡Presten atención!" but Mike zoned again, doodling plays in his notebook, Jeff’s cock a quiet thrill as he stretched his linebacker legs. Ellie glanced back, catching his eye, and slid him a note—Ryan’s talking shit in the halls, watch your back. Her handwriting was neat, a contrast to her usual edge, and Mike nodded, crumpling it with a smirk. She’d always had his six, and he mouthed, “Got it.”
Jake burst in late, hair sweaty from gym, and plopped beside Mike, whispering, "Dude, I aced dodgeball—should’ve seen me." His energy crackled, and Señora Lopez snapped, "¡Silencio, Jacob!" but Jake just grinned, unfazed. Mike chuckled, their chaos a match—Jake’s flash to his grit—and when the teacher turned, Jake mimed a QB sack, pointing at Mike. "You’re up next, Parker—crush him." Mike flexed, Jeff’s dick stirring, and nodded. "Count on it."
Sixth period was Study Hall, and the crew reconvened in the library’s back corner, a sanctioned slacking zone. Jake sprawled, tossing a pencil at Carlos, who caught it without looking, his buzzcut head bent over a history book. "Quit it, dumbass—I’m cramming," Carlos muttered, but his lips twitched—Jake’s antics were old news. Ellie sat cross-legged, sketching a dragon, her purple hair falling over one eye as she ignored them. Mike leaned back, cargos tight, Jeff’s cock a secret perk as he watched—his friends, his world, meshed tight.
The PA crackled, cutting through the murmurs. "Attention, Westfield High—this Friday, we’re hosting the annual Fall Fest Showdown. Varsity football exhibition, student booths, parent night—bring your families, show your spirit!" The librarian shushed the cheers, but Jake whooped low, punching Mike’s arm. "Exhibition? You’re slamming Ryan in front of everyone—epic!" Carlos looked up, smirking. "Parents too—your dad’s gonna see you shine, Mike." Ellie glanced over, pencil pausing. "Better not suck—Mr. Parker will never let you live it down."
Mike grinned, the event sparking in his head—Fall Fest Showdown, Friday night, a stage for him and Jeff to flex this swapped life. Football, friends, family—Jeff in the stands, hairy and bearded, watching his “son” dominate. Jeff’s cock pulsed in his pants, and he leaned into it, loving the setup. "I’m in—Ryan’s toast," he said, and his crew nodded.
The bell rang for seventh period—football practice next—and Mike grabbed his bag, the day’s social web tight around him. His friends peeled off—Jake to the gym, Carlos to the mats, Ellie to art—but the Showdown loomed, a thread to pull later. Practice would kick it up—time to tackle Ryan and feel this teenage dick in action.