Dirty Politics Part 2

Mitchell woke up in luxury beyond his wildest dreams, stretching out in the massive bed. The penthouse suite around him was bathed in morning sunlight, and he could still feel the warmth of the night before lingering on his skin. His body—the body of James Kincaid, rockstar and sex symbol—was a work of art. He ran his hands down his chiseled chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath, and a grin spread across his face. Every morning was like a victory lap.

He glanced to his left, where a muscular man lay half-asleep, tangled in the sheets, his toned back rising and falling with each breath. The guy had been eager, fun, and just Mitchell’s type—though he didn’t bother remembering his name. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Mitchell rolled out of bed and admired himself in the full-length mirror. His new body—James Kincaid’s body—was perfect. Muscular, tanned, and flawless. He flexed his biceps, the veins popping out, his pecs stretching the skin. This wasn’t the portly, weak body he used to wake up in. He wasn’t the overlooked, chubby loser Mitchell anymore. He was James Kincaid. And everyone wanted him.

He pulled on a pair of designer briefs, loving the way they fit snugly around his muscular thighs, and pawed at his massive, sensitive bulge before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. It was buzzing with notifications—fans, managers, agents, everyone clamoring for his attention. He scrolled through the messages, smirking as he flipped through Instagram comments and private messages filled with adoration. He was living the life he’d always dreamed of.

"Leaving already?" the guy in his bed asked lazily, propping himself up on one elbow. He flashed a gorgeous smile. Mitchell’s big cock twitched.

"Yeah. Busy day." He wasn’t worried about being discreet. This was James Kincaid's life now, and as far as Mitchell was concerned, it was time to live it to the fullest. He had spent too long being overlooked, ignored, and mocked. Now, men threw themselves at him, and he reveled in the attention.

The guy shot him a knowing look. "You know, a hookup with James Kincaid is something people talk about. You might end up all over the internet."

Mitchell shrugged as he finished getting dressed, pulling a tight black shirt over his torso that hugged every line of his muscles. "Oh yeah? What are they gonna talk about? This?" He plucked his big dick from his pants and gave it a proud shake, then stuffed it back in his pants. “Let everyone know I’ve got a huge fucking cock. Let them know I tore that ass up last night, too, prettyboy. Let them know how you moaned and begged.”

It didn’t matter to him. The fame, the fortune—it was all his now, and he didn’t care about the consequences. He grabbed his sunglasses and headed for the door without another word. The guy could see himself out.

Just as he was about to step into the elevator, his phone buzzed with a text. It was from Alan.

*"Careful, Mitchell. Kincaid was never out. Getting ‘outed’ would damage his credibility with Hightower’s base."*

Mitchell rolled his eyes. Alan was always thinking about the politics of it all. Sure, James Kincaid had kept his sexuality under wraps, playing the role of the brooding, mysterious heartthrob for the public. Mitchell wasn’t used to hiding who he was. He didn’t want to hide who he was. And frankly, he didn’t care what Hightower’s supporters thought.

He typed a quick response: *"Not my problem. I’ll be fine."*

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Mitchell brushed it off. Alan could worry all he wanted, but Mitchell wasn’t about to start living like Kincaid had—quiet, careful, always watching his step. He had been trapped in a life where he was overlooked and bullied for years. Now that he had this body, this fame, he was going to enjoy it, even if it meant being a little reckless.

Outside, a black car was already waiting for him, ready to whisk him off to his next appointment. Fans were gathered by the entrance, phones held high, snapping pictures of him as he slid into the back seat. Mitchell smiled and waved, soaking up the adulation. This was what life was supposed to feel like—being wanted, admired, envied.

---

Meanwhile, across town, the real James Kincaid sat hunched over in a cramped apartment, staring at the screen of an old laptop. His balding head gleamed with sweat, and his heart sank further as he scrolled through the latest tabloid headlines. He was stuck in Mitchell’s soft, flabby body, his once-muscular physique and perfect face now the stuff of memories.

He had been reduced to watching from the sidelines as Mitchell paraded around in his body, living his life. Tiktok was already buzzing with rumors about Kincaid’s sudden string of hookups with men, and though Kincaid had always been gay, he had been careful—so careful—to keep it private. It was part of his brand, his image, and Mitchell was destroying it with every careless encounter. 

Now cable news had picked up the story. The headlines flashed across the screen: *"James Kincaid’s Secret Hookups—Rockstar's Double Life Exposed?"* Kincaid’s stomach twisted as he realized how close the world was to finding out the truth. And if they did, everything he had built, everything he had sacrificed for, would be ruined. His career, his life—it was all falling apart while Mitchell lived out some twisted fantasy, unburdened by the consequences.

Kincaid slumped in his chair, feeling the weight of his new, pathetic body dragging him down. He was powerless, stuck in the form of a man no one cared about, watching helplessly as Mitchell continued to take everything from him.

—

Henry, now in the massive body of Troy Powers, woke up to the kind of vitality he hadn’t felt in decades. His body, once frail and hunched, now rippled with muscle and strength. Every movement was a reminder of his new power—the way his biceps bulged when he stretched, the thick veins running across his forearms, the sheer mass of his legs and chest. He flexed his arms, grinning like a man who had been given the keys to a new kingdom.

The lavish hotel suite around him was an afterthought. Sure, the wealth was nice—he wasn’t used to living in this kind of luxury—but what Henry really cared about was this new body. Troy Powers, the former football player turned action star, was everything Henry had ever envied. Tall, muscular, and larger than life. Now, that was his.

He stood in front of the mirror, admiring himself, running his hands over the broad chest, the thick neck, the sharp jawline. His old body had been withered, broken by time, but this? This was a second chance.

Grinning, he pulled on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top, both snug on his massive frame, and headed for the door. There was a gym session he was looking forward to, and Henry had plans to test just how much this body could do.

At the gym, Henry strutted in like a man with something to prove. Heads turned as soon as he walked in—Troy’s reputation preceded him, and his hulking physique commanded attention. The weights area was filled with men who were large by normal standards, but none of them had the sheer size and presence of Henry in Troy’s body.

He scanned the room, his eyes locking onto the biggest guy he could find—a bodybuilder pushing serious weight on the bench press. The man was thick, his muscles taut and glistening with sweat, but Henry could tell he wasn’t as big as Troy. He sauntered over, planting himself near the bench as the man racked the bar.

“You done here?” Henry asked, his voice a low rumble that carried across the gym. 

The guy glanced up, surprised but not intimidated. “Yeah, but—”

Henry didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed the barbell, loaded with plates, and started repping out the weight with ease. The bodybuilder’s eyes widened in disbelief as Henry pumped out set after set without breaking a sweat, his massive arms flexing with each press.

“Damn, man,” the guy muttered, clearly impressed but also annoyed. “That’s some serious weight.”

Henry racked the bar and stood, towering over him. “Not for me, it isn’t.”

The bodybuilder frowned, clearly not used to being outdone, but Henry wasn’t done yet. He stepped closer, invading the guy’s space, making sure he knew exactly who was bigger, stronger. “Keep it up, pipsqueak, and maybe one day you’ll learn to put on some REAL size.”

The guy’s jaw tightened. He was still starstruck despite the massive actor’s aggressive tone. “You’re Troy Powers, right? I’ve seen your movies. You’re even bigger in real life.”

Henry leaned in, grinning wolfishly. “I didn’t know any of my fans were scrawny little pussies.”

Without another word, Henry shoved the guy, sending him stumbling back into the rack of weights. The bodybuilder scowled, but there was nothing he could do. Henry was bigger, stronger, and clearly not afraid to throw his new weight around.

As the guy gathered himself, Henry strutted across the gym, his chest puffed out, basking in the stares of everyone around him. He loved this—the power, the dominance. For decades, he had been weak, old, forgotten. Now, men were afraid of him, and that was exactly how he liked it.

After his gym session, Henry went through Troy’s phone, finding a series of appointments for the day. He had an interview lined up—a press junket for Roid Warrior. Henry wasn’t interested in playing the part of a humble actor, though. He was going to have some fun.

At the press event, Henry sat down in front of the camera, all smiles. The journalists fired off the usual questions—how did it feel to train for the role, what was it like working on such a high-octane film—but Henry wasn’t in the mood for rehearsed answers.

“You want to know how I trained for Roid Warrior?” Henry said, leaning forward with a grin. “I spent hours in the gym, looking at all these so-called ‘tough guys’ and showing them what a real man looks like. All those stunts you saw? Didn’t need a double. You want to know why? Because I’m the biggest, strongest guy on set, and nobody’s touching me.”

The reporters looked taken aback, but Henry didn’t stop. He was having too much fun.

“And the ladies love it,” he continued, winking at one of the female journalists in the front row. “You’d be surprised what a body like this can do, sweetheart. But I’m sure you can imagine.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but it was nervous, unsettled. The real Troy Powers had always kept things professional, but Henry was unrestrained, lewd, and enjoying every second of making people squirm. 

The questions kept coming, and Henry gave increasingly outrageous answers, bragging about his strength, making crude comments about his supposed romantic escapades. He was living it up, knowing that everyone in the room was captivated by the sheer size and presence of his new body.

Later that night, as Henry relaxed in the hotel suite, he scrolled through Troy’s personal files on his phone. He stopped when he stumbled on something unexpected—messages, pictures, and conversations that made his grin falter for a moment. 

Troy had been gay. Secretly, quietly, but it was there in the texts. Messages with other men, conversations about keeping things quiet, about protecting his image. Henry’s lip curled in disgust as he read through them.

“Disgusting,” he muttered, tossing the phone onto the bed. But then he laughed. What did it matter? He was Troy Powers now, and there was no way he was going to live that kind of life. He had no interest in men. As far as Henry was concerned, the new Troy Powers was all about the ladies, and he wasn’t going to let some old texts stop him from enjoying himself.

He was in control now. He had the body, the fame, the power, and nobody could stop him.

—

Across town in the Sunset Hills Senior Living Facility, an orderly helped an elderly man out of his chair, guiding his hands to his walker. “Come on now, Henry. Let’s get you to your room so we can get you fed,” the heavyset man said in a patronizing tone. “Then we’ll get you a nice sponge bath.” He sniffed the man before making a face. “Seems like you really need one today!”

The old geezer sneered back at the orderly, grumbling. “I’m not FUCKING Henry,” he spat.

“Oh, come on now, Henry,” the orderly said, placing a beefy hand on his charge’s withered shoulder. “Don’t start with that ‘famous movie star’ nonsense. You don’t want us to up your meds again, do you?”

The REAL Troy Powers, trapped in this aged shell, shook his already dizzy head. Every time he protested that they had the wrong man, they added another pill to his morning medicinal routine. He could barely see straight, he had so many meds “calming him down” (plus the extra pills to help him recover from his recent heart attack).

And just a week before, he’d benched over 500 pounds before filming a stunt where he pulled two hovering helicopters together with only his upper body strength. Now, he pissed in a diaper and got sponge-bathed by a guy named Chuck, or Chet.

He shivered as the upper set of his false teeth came loose, sliding around his mouth.

Every one of his joints ached. He got vertigo every time he took a few steps. It hurt to piss. And yet somewhere out there, some old asshole was running wild in his own body.

That morning in the TV room, he’d heard on the news that “Troy Powers” was romantically linked to a number of young starlets (and making quite a name for himself as a real Hollywood manwhore). The idea of his body–his cock–being used for that made his stomach turn.

There was only one piece of good news he could focus on: at least that body-thief wasn’t fucking his boyfriend.