Chapter 2: The Professor's Interest
The clock above the professor’s head finally ticked to dismissal. Alex shoved Ginnifer’s things into her bag, eager to escape the sea of curious stares and muttered comparisons. He slipped into the cool, tiled hallway, the metallic echo of his heels a frantic tattoo against his rising panic.
“Miss Jones. A word?” The voice, dry and precise, cut through the student chatter. Professor Davies stood propped against his office doorframe, a thin man with sharp eyes behind wire-framed glasses, holding a paper aloft. “Your essay.”
Alex's heart skipped. He followed, the click of his heels suddenly loud in the now-empty corridor. The office was small, smelling of old paper and bergamot. The professor motioned for him to sit.
Davies dropped the paper onto the desk. At the top, in stark red ink, was an 'A+'. Beneath it, the note: ‘A startlingly sophisticated shift in perspective.’
“Care to explain this?” Davies asked, not unkindly. “Last semester, your analyses were competent. This,” he tapped the paper, “reads like a seasoned critic. You reference theoretical frameworks Ginnifer Jones would have no reason to know.”
Alex’s mind scrambled, a cold dread seeping in. “I’ve just been... reading more,” he offered, forcing Ginnifer’s voice to stay light.
Professor Davies’ mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He circled the desk, perching on the corner near the young woman's chair. “Intensive reading, indeed. The paper on Woolf’s narrative collapse was particularly... mature.” His gaze lingered on Alex’s face. On his red lips. Alex suddenly remembered the smeared makeup, the shaky eyeliner. The professor’s hand moved to rest on the arm of his chair.
“It’s like you’ve become a different person entirely,” Davies murmured, his voice dropping. His fingers trailed from the chair's arm to the bare skin of Alex’s forearm. A casual, predatory contact. Alex flinched, the sensation of that dry finger on Ginnifer’s skin sending a jolt of pure, undiluted alarm through him.
“Relax, Ginnifer,” Davies whispered, his thumb now stroking a slow circle. “Your intellectual awakening is... profoundly attractive.”
His other hand came up to cradle Alex’s jaw, tilting his face up. The professor’s breath smelled of coffee and mint. “Let’s discuss your potential without pretense,” he said, before his mouth covered Alex’s in a harsh, claiming kiss.
Alex froze, trapped in the foreign softness of Ginnifer’s lips being parted, the invasive push of a stranger’s tongue. A muffled sound of protest died in his throat as Davies’ hand slid from his jaw down to the collar of his blouse. Fingers popped the first button, then the second, cool air hitting the swell of breasts held in a lacy bra Alex had put on in a daze that morning. “Intriging! Such a profound mind in such a wonderfully ripe body,” the professor breathed against his neck, biting the tendon there.
He yanked Alex from the chair, spinning him around to press his front against the edge of the heavy oak desk. Textbook pages rustled beneath Ginnifer’s splayed fingers. Davies’ knee nudged her legs apart from behind. The rasp of a zipper was obscenely loud. “You wanted my attention. You have it.” He shoved her skirt up around her waist, revealing the simple cotton panties. A tear of fabric, then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock, bare and hot, notching against her.
“Wait—” Alex gasped, but the word was cut short as Davies drove himself inside in one brutal, fucking shove. The burn of the penetration was shocking, a white-hot intrusion that stole his breath. “Fuck, you’re tight,” the professor grunted, his hands digging into the softness of her hips, his rhythm establishing itself with ruthless, academic precision. Each thrust slammed Alex’s pelvis against the hard desk edge, a punishing counterpoint to the deep, wet violation. Davies’ pace quickened, his motions becoming jerky, his breaths hot pants against her ear. “Take it, you brilliant bitch. Take your grade.”
He came with a guttural groan, pumping his release deep inside her, his body shuddering against hers. He held there for a long moment before pulling out with a soft, wet sound. He tucked himself away, straightening his trousers with crisp efficiency. Alex remained slumped over the desk, shuddering, feeling the warm trickle down his inner thigh. The professor picked up the ‘A+’ essay, smoothed a wrinkle, and placed it neatly before him. “I expect similar insight next week, Miss Jones. Don’t be late.”
Alex’s hands trembled as he fastened the torn panties, his fingers fumbling over the unfamiliar clasp of the bra he’d chosen just that morning. The wetness between his thighs—Davies’s cum—felt alien and violating, a stark physical reminder that this young woman’s body was now a crime scene he inhabited. He wondered, with a cold, detached clarity, if he should report the assault or if anyone would even believe him. Stumbling out into the corridor, he saw the girl from lecture—Lena—rising from a worn couch, her expression shifting from boredom to sharp concern. “Shit, Ginn, you look wrecked,” she said, rushing over to slide an arm around his waist and guide him to the cushions before adding in a low, knowing voice, “Davies?”
Alex could only manage a tight, jerking nod, his vision blurring as he stared at the scuff marks on the linoleum. “He kept me after,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash, his voice not his own. Lena’s arm tightened around him, her silence more accusing than any question. “Fucker,” she finally hissed, her breath warm against his temple. “Your hands are shaking worse than mine after a three-day bender.”
“Yeah, he’s a problem.” Lena’s eyes hardened, scanning the empty hallway before leaning in. “Here’s what we do. You’re coming with me right now.” She hauled Alex up, the motion sparking a nauseating ache deep in his pelvis, a visceral echo of the violation. “We’re getting a drink, and you’re telling me everything, because that fucker Davies has done this before.” The offer was a lifeline, gritty and real, in the shifting nightmare of his new skin.
Lena’s dorm room smelled of incense and stale popcorn, a stark contrast to Ginnifer’s vanilla sanctuary. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a futon piled with laundry. Alex sank down, the movement making the damp, torn cotton between her legs chafe. Lena rummaged in a drawer, her back turned. “You need to get out of those clothes, Ginn. You’re shivering.”
Her hands, when they came to help, were surprisingly gentle. Alex fumbled with the buttons of the blouse, his fingers—her fingers—thick and uncooperative. “Here,” Lena sighed, brushing his hands away to finish the task herself. The blouse fell open, and Lena’s deft fingers went to the back clasp of the bra. Alex flinched at the contact, but Lena just worked the hook, her knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of his spine.
“Lift your arms,” she said softly. As he obeyed, she slid the straps down, and the bra came away. Her hands, practical and brisk, didn’t immediately retreat. They rested for a moment on the bare slopes of his shoulders, then swept down in a firm, assessing motion across his collarbones and the tops of his breasts, pushing the discarded garment aside. Alex inhaled sharply, stunned by the casual, thorough contact, by the warm pressure of another person’s palms so intimately mapping the foreign terrain of this chest. “You’re okay,” Lena muttered, more to herself, her touch lingering as if checking for damage. She handed him an oversized sweatshirt from the floor, her eyes deliberately avoiding his nakedness now. “Get this on. Then you talk.”
Alex pulled the grey cotton sweatshirt over his head, the fabric smelling faintly of Lena’s lavender detergent and stale smoke. It did nothing to conceal the shape of him; the soft, heavy weight of Ginnifer’s 36DD breasts strained against the worn material, pulling it taut into two distinct, undeniable curves. “This is stretching your shirt out of shape,” he muttered, looking down at the pronounced swell with a mixture of horror and fascination.
“Yeah, well, it’s seen worse,” Lena shrugged, her eyes not leaving the spectacle. She lit a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating her sharp features. “So. Big news. You wanna talk about the fucking elephant in the room, or what?” She exhaled a plume of smoke, her gaze pointedly dropping to his chest.
Alex followed her look, his hands rising unconsciously to cup the foreign weight, to hold it as if to make it disappear. The sensation of his own—her own—palms against the sensitive swell sent a confusing jolt through his nervous system. “It’s… a lot to get used to,” he finally said, the understatement so vast it almost choked him.
Lena leaned forward, her elbow on her knee. “Do you like it? Having big boobs?” The question was blunt, curious, stripped of judgement.
Alex barked a laugh, short and utterly humorless. The sound was Ginnifer’s, but the exhaustion behind it was all Alex. “Not so far,” he said, the words dry as dust. His mind flashed to the professor’s desk, the painful counterpoint of hardwood and soft flesh. “They just seem to… announce me. Before I get a say.”
“They do that,” Lena nodded, a shadow of understanding in her eyes. She took a long drag. “Look, what happened with Davies…” She trailed off, her jaw tightening. “He’s a predator. He sniffs out vulnerability. And right now, Ginn, you’re broadcasting it like a fucking distress signal.” She stubbed the cigarette out with more force than necessary. “You need to get your head right. And maybe that starts with getting used to your… equipment.”
Before Alex could process her meaning, Lena moved from her chair to sit beside him on the futon. Her movement was deliberate, her eyes holding his. “May I?” she asked, her voice low, but her hands were already hovering near the hem of the sweatshirt. A frantic ‘no’ died in Alex’s throat, overshadowed by a desperate, morbid curiosity. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Lena’s fingertips brushed the hem of the sweatshirt, then slipped beneath the worn cotton. Her hands were warm, and she pressed her palms flat against the tense muscles of his stomach first, feeling him flinch. “Just breathe, Ginn,” she murmured, her voice a low hum in the quiet room. She slowly slid her hands upward, her thumbs tracing the delicate underside of each breast where the ache from the desk edge still lingered.
He gasped as her fingers made contact with the soft, heavy flesh, a jolt that was nothing like Davies’s grabbing force. Her touch was methodical, applying firm pressure along the outer curves, kneading the tension from the tissue held too tightly in that bra all day. “You’re holding everything in here,” Lena whispered, her thumbs circling closer to the peaked nipples, which hardened instantly under the thin fabric. A low, shuddering sigh escaped Alex’s lips, a sound of relief so profound it scared him.
Her gentle, purposeful kneading was a physical erasure, each stroke softening the ghost of that violent grip. The memory of the professor’s fingers digging into her hip began to blur, replaced by the slow, insistent circles Lena’s thumbs now made around each areola. “See?” Lena said, her breath warm against his ear. “It’s just a body. Your body.” She cupped him fully, the weight fitting perfectly into her hands, and Alex’s head fell back against the futon.
A treacherous warmth spread through his lower belly, a confusing echo of the violation but softer, deeper. Lena’s finger traced a lazy path over a nipple, and he arched into the touch, a soft groan torn from him.
“That’s it,” she coaxed, her other hand still massaging the deep, lingering soreness away. Then her fingers hooked decisively under the sweatshirt’s hem. “This is in the way,” Lena breathed, and in one smooth motion she pulled the garment up and over his head, tossing it to the floor where it landed beside the torn blouse from earlier.
The dorm’s cool air hit his bare skin, raising goosebumps across the expanse of his stomach and making the dark nipples peak into tight, sensitive points. Alex froze, more exposed now than he had been on Davies’s desk, because this was a choice, this was witnessed, and the look in Lena’s eyes was not predatory but deeply, unnervingly curious. A violent, internal scream filled his skull—tell her, tell her you’re Alex, tell her this is all wrong—but the confession dissolved into static before it could reach his lips, choked by a terror of being thought insane, by the undeniable, shameful fact that parts of this alien body were warming under her gaze.
“Fuck, Ginn,” Lena whispered, her voice hushed with a genuine, uncomplicated awe. “I know I shouldn’t say it, not after what that bastard did, but goddamn.” Her gaze was a physical weight traveling over the full, heavy curves now bare in the low light. “I’ve always been jealous of these, you know. Seriously.” She didn’t touch him yet, just let her own small, flat chest rise and fall with a sigh. “All the pretty lace in the world doesn’t give you what you’ve got just… sitting there.”
Her hand lifted again, not to knead, but to simply hold the profound weight of one breast, testing its heft, her thumb sweeping once, twice over the nipple. Alex’s breath hitched, a confusing cocktail of violation and validation coursing through him, the line between them blurring into a single, overwhelming sensation. Lena leaned in then, her mouth capturing that pebbled peak, and her tongue was a hot, wet shock that made his back arch off the futon with a sharp cry. She sucked, gently at first, then with a hungry pull that sent a direct, lightning-bolt signal straight to his core, to the aching, unfamiliar heat between Ginnifer’s legs, which clenched emptily.
He felt swollen there, painfully sensitive, a throbbing pulse that drowned out the last echoes of Davies’s violation with a more immediate, demanding need. Lena’s hand slid down his trembling stomach, past the waistband of the skirt, her fingers pushing past the torn cotton of the panties to find him soaked, not just from the professor, but from this. “You’re a mess,” she murmured against his breast, her voice thick, and she pushed two fingers inside him with no preamble, a deep, filling stroke that made him see white. “Is this from him, or from me?” she asked, working her fingers in a slow, corkscrew motion that stole his ability to think, to speak, to remember his own name.
He could only grind down onto her hand, his own fingers twisting in the sheets, a raw, guttural sound wrenching free from his throat. “Both,” he finally gasped, the truth ugly and absolute. “It’s from both.” She added a third finger, stretching him, the burn exquisite, and her mouth moved back to his skin, biting a possessive mark high on his breast as her thumb found his clit. The pressure was perfect, ruthless, and his hips began to piston against her hand of their own accord, a frantic, rising rhythm chasing the feeling Davies had forced but which Lena was now expertly, willingly drawing out.
The orgasm ripped through him, a seismic detonation that untethered him from any solid sense of self—it was Ginnifer’s body convulsing, Alex’s consciousness fragmenting in a burst of blinding color, a soundless scream locked in his chest. He shuddered through it, her fingers still working inside him, milking the last pulses until he was oversensitive and twitching. She slowly withdrew her hand, wiping it casually on the discarded sweatshirt, her expression unreadable in the dim light. They were both silent for a long moment, the only sound their ragged breathing.
“So,” Lena said, her voice returning to its usual casual timbre, though it was slightly rough. “You wanna tell me what’s really going on with you?” Alex stared at the ceiling, the ghost of her mouth still burning on his skin, the phantom fullness of her fingers still lingering inside him, the confession—I’m Alex—now a live wire on his tongue, more dangerous than ever.
The confession dissolved into a choked gasp as Lena’s mouth crashed onto his. Her lips tasted of smoke and salt, and she kissed him with a furious, probing intensity, her tongue delving deep as her hand cradled the back of his head. He kissed back, a desperate, clawing thing, trying to fuse this moment to the person he used to be, to anchor Alex in the warm, pliant reality of Ginnifer’s mouth.
When she finally broke away, breathing hard, her dark eyes searched his face with unnerving precision. “You kiss different,” she stated, her thumb wiping his wet lower lip. “Your eyes… they’re not yours right now. Who the fuck am I looking at?”
The live wire touched his tongue. “Alex,” he whispered, the name a fragile, alien sound in the sweet, young woman’s voice. “My name is Alex Walker.” Lena didn’t recoil in shock; she went perfectly still, her analytical gaze scanning every micro-expression on the face she knew so well. “Okay,” she said slowly, the word heavy with terrifying acceptance. “Prove it. Tell me something Ginnifer could never know.”
“You have a scar, here,” he murmured, his hand—her small, soft hand—reaching to trace a spot just below Lena’s right hip bone, hidden by her jeans. “From a bike accident when you were twelve. You told her you lied and said it was an appendectomy.” Lena’s breath hitched, her veneer of cool control fracturing for a single, visible instant. She just stared, her mind visibly racing behind her eyes, connecting impossible dots. “What did you do to her?” she finally asked, her voice low and dangerous, her body tensing for a fight. “Where is Ginnifer?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said, the truth spilling out in a desperate rush. “I woke up like this. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old man. I was someone else. I’m just… trapped in here.” He looked down at the body, at the hands he held up between them. Lena followed his gaze, her anger momentarily displaced by a dawning, horrific fascination. “Holy shit,” she breathed, not in disbelief, but in a stunned realization that this was the only explanation that fit the fractured person before her. “The essay. Davies. The way you looked at your own tits. Fucking hell.” She stood up abruptly, pacing the small room, running a hand over her buzzed hair.
Can you play with the boobs while we work up a plan?“We need a plan. First, you don’t tell another soul. Ever.” She stopped pacing and fixed him with a look of fierce, pragmatic resolve. “Second, we find out how this happened.
"And third," she said, her voice dropping, "we use it." She sat back down, her earlier fury hardening into a cold, calculating focus. "But first, we don't panic. We think." Her eyes wandered back to his chest, to the reality of the situation seated bare before her.
"Can you keep playing with my boobs while we work on a plan?" Alex heard himself ask, the request spilling out, a need for that anchoring distraction, for any sensation that wasn’t pure dread.
Lena’s mouth quirked. “Yeah, okay. Practical.” Her hand returned, cupping him with a familiarity that was neither clinical nor lustful, but strangely efficient. She kneaded the soft flesh, her thumb resuming its slow circles around his nipple as she thought aloud. “Right. You’ve got her memories?”
“Fragments,” Alex gasped, his back arching as her nail scraped the peak. “Like a messy filing cabinet. I know things, but I have to… reach for them.”
“Good. We need access to her life, so you don’t fuck it up.” Her other hand joined, weighing, manipulating, the steady rhythm a counterpoint to her sharp analysis. “Davies is a problem. He’ll want a repeat performance.” She pinched a nipple, hard, making him jolt. “You can’t give him one. We’ll manufacture a crisis—family emergency, sudden illness—to skip his class for a few weeks. He’ll move on.” Her fingers dipped into the valley between his breasts, tracing the sweat there. “Your sudden genius in his class stays unexplained, just a lucky fluke. You revert to average. He loses interest.”
Alex nodded, hypnotized by the dual sensation of strategic thought and sensory overload. “And… finding out how this happened?”
Lena’s hands stilled, gripping him firmly, making him look at her. “We start with the last thing Ginnifer did. The night before you woke up. What do you see?”
He closed his eyes, pushing past the static. “A party. Loud music. A drink from a guy she didn’t know. Purple. It tasted like…” His eyes flew open. “Like chemicals and blackberries.”
“Shit.” Lena’s hands fell away. “Someone roofied her.” The conclusion hung in the air, ugly and too simple. “But that doesn’t explain you being here. Unless…” She stared at him, a new, darker theory forming. “Unless whatever he gave her didn’t just knock her out. Maybe it… emptied the house.” She reached out again, not to fondle, but to press her palm flat over his heart, feeling its frantic beat. “And you just moved in.”