Chapter 1: Morning Devotion
Consciousness returned as a slow, sickening lurch. Farver’s eyes snapped open to a blur of unfamiliar off-white ceiling and the faint, musky scent of expensive cologne. Every part of him felt wrong. Heavy. A deep, anchoring ache pulsed in his muscles, a foreign density to his limbs. He tried to lift a hand to rub his eyes, but the arm that rose was corded with sinew and veins, tanned and thick, resting on a pillow that wasn’t his.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the grogginess.
Then he felt the warmth. A soft, solid heat was pressed along his left side. He turned his head, the motion feeling clumsy in this new, bulky neck.
Chloe Davies slept beside him, her blonde hair fanned across a pillow, her lips slightly parted. The silk sheets were tangled around her waist, revealing the smooth curve of her bare back. And he was pressed against her, his own body terrifyingly naked. A different, more immediate horror seized him as he felt a thick, insistent pressure against her thigh. His own cock—no, not his, Jordan’s cock—was already fully, achingly hard, a hot and heavy line of flesh nestled in the cleft of her ass.
His brain short-circuited. No. No, no, no, no.
This was a mistake. A bad, drugged dream. He was Farver Klein, scrawny, gay, and currently wearing his Captain America pajama pants in his own dorm room three miles away. He did not wake up with morning wood in a frat house next to the head cheerleader.
Chloe stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips. She nestled back against him, and the friction made his—Jordan’s—whole body jolt. A wave of pure, undiluted sensation, entirely genital and devastatingly straight, rolled through him. It was a feedback loop he had no control over: the feel of her skin, the scent of her shampoo, the visual of her body, all funneling directly into a rising, animal hunger.
Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at him, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Mmm. Good morning, stud.”
Farver’s mouth was Sahara-dry. He tried to speak, to croak out a denial, a question, anything. But his voice, when it came, was a low, rough baritone that vibrated in this strange chest. “Chloe, I—”
She cut him off, rolling onto her back and stretching like a cat, the sheet falling away completely. Her breasts were right there, full and tipped with pink. His eyes, traitorously, locked onto them. His dick gave a painful, eager twitch against her leg.
“You what?” she purred, her hand sliding down his stomach, her nails scraping lightly through the coarse blond hair that shouldn’t be there. Her fingers brushed the base of his shaft, and his hips bucked involuntarily. A groan, deep and utterly foreign, tore from his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathed, but it didn’t sound like fear. It sounded like want.
And then, something else shifted. A tectonic slide in the bedrock of his mind. The panic of Farver was submerged, pushed down by a wave of ingrained, muscular instinct. A confidence that wasn’t his own flooded his nervous system, hot and dark and possessive. Jordan’s personality, a ghost in the machine of this body, surged to the surface.
His hand, large and calloused, came up and wrapped roughly around the back of Chloe’s neck. The touch wasn’t gentle. It was claiming.
“Turn over,” the voice that was now his said, the command leaving no room for argument.
A flicker of surprise crossed Chloe’s face, then melted into wanton excitement. She liked this. She obeyed, rolling onto her stomach with a little gasp, presenting herself to him. The view was obscene and mesmerizing: the swell of her ass, the damp glimpse of her between her thighs.
Farver watched, a prisoner behind his own eyes, as his body moved without his consent. He knelt up, his new muscles flexing effortlessly. He looked down at her, at himself—the massive cock jutting out, angry and ready. A part of him was screaming. The larger, dominant part, the part riding the chemical tide of testosterone and muscle memory, didn’t care.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t prepare her. He just spat into his palm, slicked himself once, and guided the broad head to her entrance. He saw her back arch, heard her sharp intake of breath.
“Jordan, baby, wait—”
He didn’t wait. He pushed forward, a relentless, invading pressure. The tight, wet heat engulfed him, and the sensation was so utterly overwhelming that Farver’s consciousness blurred. It was a fullness, a conquest, a primal rightness that bypassed every gay nerve in his stolen brain.
“Oh, god,” Chloe moaned, her face pressed into the pillow.
His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He pulled back and slammed home, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm immediately. The bed began to rock, the headboard knocking a steady beat against the wall. Each thrust sent a shockwave through this powerful body, a crescendo of purely physical pleasure building in his core.
“You like that?” his voice growled, the words filthy and automatic. “You like getting fucked like this?”
“Yes!” she cried out, half-muffled. “Don’t stop!”
He pistoned into her, faster, harder. The sounds were visceral: the slap of skin, their ragged breathing, the creak of the bedsprings. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth near her ear. “Gonna come inside you,” he rasped. “Gonna fill this sweet little pussy up.”
Farver, the real Farver, was locked in a tiny, shrinking corner of his mind, watching a horror movie starring himself. He felt everything—the crushing tightness, the dizzying friction, the rising, coiling tension in his balls. It was terrifying. It was the most physically intense thing he had ever experienced. He was hurtling toward a cliff, and he had no brakes.
Chloe came first, her body clamping around him in rhythmic pulses, her cries high and frantic. The extra tightness tipped him over the edge.
With a final, deep drive, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. The orgasm wasn’t a release; it was an eruption. A raw, violent surge that ripped through him, milking itself out in thick, pulsing spurts inside her. His vision whited out. A guttural, wordless roar tore from his lungs.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their panting breaths and the pounding of his heart in his ears. Then, the weight of the world crashed back in.
He collapsed onto his side, pulling out of her. The reality of what had just happened—what he had just done—landed on his chest like a physical weight. Nausea churned in his gut. He stared at the ceiling, the afterglow evaporating, replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.
Chloe rolled over, tracing a finger through the sweat on his pectoral. “Wow,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Someone woke up on the right side of the bed.”
He couldn’t even look at her. He was a gay man who had just aggressively fucked a woman. He could still feel the echo of it in his limbs, the sticky evidence cooling on his stomach. His stomach clenched.
“I need… I need to piss,” he muttered, the Jordan-voice gone, replaced by a hollow shell of sound.
He swung his legs out of bed, his feet hitting the cool floor. Standing was a revelation of imbalance. He was tall. So tall. And the mirror on the back of the bathroom door showed him everything.
Jordan Elm’s face, sleep-rumpled and satiated, stared back. The sharp jaw, the bright blue eyes, the swoop of blond hair. He turned, seeing the powerful V-shaped torso, the defined abs, the heavy thighs. And between them, the now-softening, incongruous cock that had just been inside Chloe Davies.
A violent shudder wracked him. He braced his hands—Jordan’s hands—on the sink, hanging his head. “What the fuck,” he whispered to the reflection. “What the actual fuck.”