Chapter 9

It was like swimming upwards through murky water, like clawing my way from deep down under toward the faint shimmer of the surface somewhere far above. My head was pounding and bright light stung my eyes. I couldn't think clearly and something felt very wrong. I had a raging thirst, and my painfully full bladder throbbed. I was finally awake.

I was lying on a narrow cot and something wasn't right. Fuzzy and disoriented, nauseous, and everything just felt weird. I rolled over on my side, then tried to sit up and my arms and legs responded clumsily, as if half paralyzed. I had somehow thoroughly entangled myself in the terrycloth bathrobe clothing me. I did finally manage to lever myself into sitting position and looked down. This wasn't me! These arms, these legs, these breasts were Amelia's. I hadn't been dreaming. Fuck! But I had more immediate concerns.

I just did manage to stagger into the bathroom before I wet myself. I frantically groped for my Willy Peter, couldn't find it, then realized why. I'd have to lower myself down on the commode to do my business. Inconvenient, having to sit to urinate. My bladder let go in a powerful surge of blessed relief. Then I noticed the chain attached to my ankle.

The chain hooked through an eyelet on a padded metal band locked around my left ankle. There were about twenty feet of sturdy lightweight alloy links leading upward above the cot I had awakened on. The other end of the chain seemed to be secured somewhere up there near the ceiling, and hard tugging wouldn't budge it. Imprisoned.

When I stood up to clean myself, I happened to look down between my legs. I was missing one very important part of my anatomy all right, but seemed to have gained another. And breasts. And a very round, very womanly ass.

Then I saw the note thumbtacked to the wall over the cot.

As you must have guessed by now, I have misled you. It was necessary for my purposes.

By this time tomorrow, you will be free and all this will have come to an end. You will be back in your own body and well compensated for your participation in this little adventure.

Do not feel lied to and used. I have enjoyed our little recreations and developed quite a fondness for you. If you like, we can have a final "celebration" when we meet for the last time.

A.

I did feel lied to and used. Pissed off. Mightily pissed off. And mystified. But mostly just wanting to get the hell out of there.

I sat back down on the cot and brooded. Sulked. Felt sorry for myself. Felt extremely sorry for myself. Got tired of feeling sorry for myself. Finally, I began examining my options.

The room had no windows. No phone, of course. The very solid-looking hardwood door would not open. There was no furniture, other than the cot, and its riveted metal frame would not disassemble without cutting tools. The light fixtures were too far up to reach. Likewise the ventilation shafts. The bathroom sink had no plug, so I couldn't overflow it and send water flooding through the floor to alert someone downstairs. The toilet was some kind of tamperproof semi-waterless European model, so I couldn't flood that either. Looked like I had little to work with.

I seemed to have at least a few hours of nothing much to look forward to except solitude and boredom. I trusted her enough not to leave me parked here for an extended period of time. Well now, I did have her body here as a hostage. Her body. Hmmm. Might just be worth exploring that thought.

Now I had breasts. Heavy, swaying woman's breasts. I fingered the nipples, and they stood up, just as though I had sucked on them (in another life I had). Sucked on them. These breasts wanted to be sucked. I wondered if it were possible for me to suck my own (borrowed) breasts. I reached under the right breast, elevated it toward my mouth, stretched it, bent my head down... and could inhale the nipple into my mouth without much trouble as long as I supported the breast with my hand. I began sucking. Ah, yes! I felt my pussy begin to contract and flutter. And I reached down with my other hand to manipulate my clit. Ah, that's the spot!

Then I tentatively inserted a finger into the vagina-pussy-cunt. Not much in the way of lubrication there. Not much sensation either. The pussy's strangely unresponsive. It's almost as if it were numb. Wait. There seems to be a scar there inside. More like multiple scars -- a mass of scar tissue, in fact. This had to be the result of either traumatic injury or a surgical procedure, or both. No wonder Amelia declined "normal" intercourse. A piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Took the finger out of there. Let's try one hole farther back. Ah, yes. The anal sphincter -- asshole to us unlettered folks -- opened up like a flower to my touch. That's better. Feeling good, very good inside. A little lube would be nice though.

Well then, let's look in the bathroom, check out the medicine cabinet. On a glass shelf, next to the inevitable toiletries and aspirin bottle, what's this? Ha! An economy-size dildo terminating in a handle. And a note: