Chapter 1: A Wish Gone Wrong
The world snapped into focus with a sound like tearing silk behind his eyes, and a pain in his skull that was already fading into a dull, confused throb.
Matt blinked.
The garish glow of a vanity mirror bulb replaced the blue light of his computer screen. The muffled bass of dance music was gone, swapped for the tinny chatter of a radio and the rustle of fabric. He wasn’t in his chair. He was standing on cool linoleum, staring at a reflection that was not his own.
A petite, freckled face with wide green eyes stared back, framed by a messy cascade of red hair. He watched, detached, as the reflection’s lips—his lips—parted in a silent ‘O’. He willed his own hand to rise, and a slender, pale arm dotted with cinnamon specks lifted in the foggy mirror.
A wave of nausea, hot and sudden, rolled through him. What the hell?
The wish. He’d said it aloud, alone in his apartment, the pixelated frenzy of bodies on his monitor the only witness. “God, I wish I was that guy.” The one in the middle of it all, drowning in a sea of limbs and laughter.
A sick, thrilling jolt shot through his groin, pulling him violently into the present. The arousal was familiar, a constant, needy hum. But the geography was all wrong. It was confined, trapped, pressing insistently against a soft, unfamiliar barrier. He looked down.
A simple white cotton camisole and matching panties hugged a body that was curved and slight. He saw the swell of small breasts, the dip of a waist, the flare of hips. And between his legs—her legs—a distinct, undeniable bulge, straining the thin cotton.
His mind short-circuited. He was her. Scarlett, the redhead from the video. But he was also still… himself. The proof was trapped, aching and hidden, in this borrowed flesh.
“You okay over there, Scar? You’re looking a little pale. And not in the fun, vampire-chic way.”
The voice was warm, husky. Matt’s head—Scarlett’s head—swung toward it.
Gina was already naked, leaning against a vanity smeared with makeup wipes and plastic cups. She was tall, her body toned and athletic, all sleek muscle and golden skin. She was casually applying a clear gel to her inner thighs, her movements practiced and utterly unselfconscious. The scent of coconut lotion and clean sweat filled the cramped space.
“I’m… yeah. Just a… head rush,” Matt heard himself say. The voice was higher than his, lightly melodic. Using it felt like puppet.
“Pre-shoot jitters. Happens.” Gina smiled, capping the lube. “Even on your twentieth feature. You want some water? You gotta hydrate before the marathon.”
“I’m good,” Matt squeaked. He couldn’t move. Every thought was a collision. The visual of Gina, completely exposed, was interfacing catastrophically with the trapped, throbbing pressure in his panties. He was terrified and impossibly, shamefully excited. The air felt thick, charged.
“Suit yourself.” Gina stretched, arms overhead, a study in casual power. She gestured to a sequined robe hanging on a hook. “You gonna get into wardrobe? They’ll be knocking in like five.”
Wardrobe. The orgy. The reality of it hit him like a punch. This wasn’t a pause button. This was happening. He was due on a set, in this body, with… with others. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Scarlett’s neck.
He turned stiffly toward the rack of costumes, his movements alien. The tiny changing room was a cave of intimate chaos. Silk and lace draped over chairs, a discarded thong on the floor, the pervasive smell of perfume trying and failing to mask the human scent of anticipation. He pulled a black lace negligee from the hanger, his fingers—her fine-boned fingers—fumbling.
He had to change. He had to hide it.
Turning his back to Gina, he peeled the camisole over his head. The cooler air on his new skin was a shock. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the panties, his heart hammering against Scarlett’s ribs. This was the moment. The reveal. To himself. To the room.
He pushed them down.
The relief of cool air was instantaneous, followed by a wave of dizzying surrealism. He saw Scarlett’s pale thighs, the neat auburn triangle. And there, nestled within, was his own small, flushed penis, completely erect. It looked absurd, a secret misplaced. He was horrifically exposed, yet completely concealed by the very nature of this body.
“You need a hand with the clasp?”
Matt yelped, grabbing the negligee and holding it in front of himself like a shield. Gina had moved silently, now just a few feet away, a kind, curious look on her face.
“No! I’m—I got it,” he stammered.
Her eyes, a calm blue, flickered down for a fraction of a second. Not a leer. A glance. A professional assessment. Did she see? The lace shield wasn’t that big. Could she see the outline, the wrong shape?
A slow, knowing smile played on Gina’s lips. It wasn’t cruel. It was… amused. “Okay, superstar,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Just remember, deep breaths. Everyone’s nervous their first time.”
First time. The words hung in the humid air. She thought he was Scarlett, having a virgin meltdown. She hadn’t seen. She couldn’t have.
But the smile…
She turned and walked back to her vanity, giving him the illusion of privacy. Matt’s hands shook as he struggled into the flimsy black lace. It settled over his small breasts, flowed over the flat plane of the stomach that wasn’t his. It did nothing to alleviate the persistent, urgent fullness beneath.
A heavy knock shook the door. “Ladies! Places in two!”
Gina stood, flawlessly, effortlessly ready. She gave Matt’s reflection in the mirror a quick once-over. “You look hot. Seriously.” Her gaze met his in the glass, and the amusement was still there, now edged with something softer. Protective. “Stick near me at the start, okay? Find your footing. It’s chaos, but it’s just a job. And if anything feels off…” She paused, her eyes holding his with an unexpected intensity. “You just give me a look. We look out for each other here.”
She opened the door, releasing a blast of brighter light and the murmur of a waiting crew. The corridor beyond looked like a mouth.
Matt’s legs, slender and unfamiliar, felt like water. He was trapped in a sweet, freckled nightmare of his own deepest, most secret desire. The arousal was a live wire in his core, a sickening counterpoint to the terror. Gina’s offer of safety was the only anchor in the tilting room.
He took a step toward the light, the delicate lace doing nothing to conceal the secret he carried, the truth straining against its fragile seam. The music for the scene started, a rhythmic, pulsing beat. Gina glanced back, her blonde hair a halo in the doorway.
“Come on, Red,” she said, and the nickname, casual and kind, sent another confusing thrill through him. “Let’s go to work.”
The set was a blur of hot white light and moving shadows. A king-sized mattress, stark against a dark velvet backdrop, dominated the space. Figures milled—crew adjusting reflectors, a makeup artist with a powder puff, and already, two men stretching lazily on the bed. They were all sculpted, tanned, their sizes imposing even from a distance. Matt’s breath hitched.
Gina’s hand found the small of his back, a firm, guiding pressure. “Eyes on me, Red. Just follow my lead.”
A director with a headset clapped his hands. “Alright, people. Positions one and two. Gina, Scarlett, you’re on the mark. Let’s see some energy.”
The two men on the bed grinned, propping themselves up on their elbows. Their cocks were already half-hard, thick and heavy against their thighs. Matt’s own hidden flesh gave a painful twitch. A separate, terrifying sensation bloomed beneath it—a deep, unfamiliar ache, a spreading heat that made his new legs feel weak.
Gina led him forward, the lace of his negligee whispering against his skin. She sank to her knees at the edge of the mattress with the grace of a dancer, pulling him down beside her. The plush carpet was rough against Scarlett’s knees.
“Hey there,” Gina purred, her hand wrapping around the base of one man’s cock. She looked at Matt, her eyes bright with performance and a thread of real encouragement. “Don’t be shy.”
Matt’s mind screamed. This was it. The point of no return. He stared at the cock in front of him, the sheer scale of it, the prominent vein running its length. A part of him, the old Matt, shriveled in pathetic comparison. Another part, a raw and hungry new nerve ending, throbbed in unison with the ache between his legs.
He leaned forward. The scent of clean skin and faint cologne filled his nose. He opened Scarlett’s mouth.
The first touch of the head against his lips was a lightning strike. It was warm, smooth. The man above him groaned, a low, encouraging sound. Matt closed his eyes, and something shifted. The paralyzing fear began to melt, burned away by the intensity of the sensation. He pushed further, taking more into his mouth, the stretch of his new jaw a strange and intimate ache.
He heard Gina chuckle softly beside him. “See? You’re a natural.”
Matt pulled back, his tongue tracing the shaft experimentally. The taste was salty, musky, profoundly real. His own small penis, trapped and straining, leaked a desperate wet spot into the lace negligee. The conflicting signals were overwhelming: the visual of Gina taking the other man deep, the feel of the one in his own mouth, the foreign, slick heat pooling in Scarlett’s pelvis. He felt wet. The realization was dizzying.
He lost himself in the rhythm. In the mechanics of it. The redhead’s face—his face now—was a mask of concentrated effort, freckles stark against flushed skin. The men didn’t notice a thing beyond the eager mouth, the green eyes screwed shut in apparent bliss.
Gina nudged him with her shoulder. “Switch.”
They moved in tandem, a practiced team. Matt turned his head and found the other cock, already glistening from Gina’s attention. He didn’t hesitate. He took it, his tongue swirling around the head before diving lower, licking the heavy sac beneath. The man above cursed, fingers tangling in his red hair.
The world narrowed to the symphony of grunts and slick sounds, the heat of the lights, the ache in his jaw, and the relentless, confusing pulse of his own body. He and Gina moved together, feeding each other cocks, a silent communication passing between them. Gina would glance over, her eyes glazed with performance lust but always with that sharp kernel of awareness focused on him.
Matt admired them. The weight of them in his hands, his mouth. The rock-hard certainty of them. Each one was a monument, and his worship was frantic, genuine. He wanted to please them, to be good at this. The desire was shockingly pure, a stark contrast to the secret he carried.
The foreign wetness between his legs grew, a embarrassing, soaking confirmation of a pleasure he couldn’t logically own. His mind was a fractured thing—a voyeur, a participant, a prisoner. But his body, Scarlett’s body, sang a single, harmonious note of want. He worked harder, taking one deep, until his throat relaxed and accepted it, tears pricking the corners of his eyes from the effort. He was free. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t Matt, the loner with the small dick. He was Red, the hungry girl, and he was fucking good at her job.
The director’s voice cut through the haze, a distant command. “Beautiful. Now, let’s open it up. More energy. Bring in the others.”
The perimeter of the set, which had felt like a distant shore, suddenly collapsed. Shadows resolved into more men, four of them, slipping out of robes. They were all variations on a theme: hard, eager, smelling of soap and testosterone. The two men on the bed disentangled themselves with slick pops, making room. Two of the newcomers sank onto the plush couch that sat perpendicular to the bed, their postures relaxed, predatory.
Gina caught his eye. There was a plan in her glance. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the couch. Then, with a theatrical roll of her shoulders, she hooked her thumbs into the straps of her sheer top and pulled it down. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, nipples already peaked tight from the room’s chill and the activity. She didn’t flaunt it; she just existed, magnificently exposed.
She walked to the couch, her stride confident. She placed a hand on one man’s shoulder, then swung a leg over and settled directly onto his lap, her back to his chest. She guided him inside her with a practiced, seamless motion, arching her spine with a deep sigh that was only half-performative. She looked over her shoulder at Matt—at Red—and jerked her chin.
Your turn.
Matt’s legs carried him forward. Every nerve was screaming, a feedback loop of terror and desperate need. The other man on the couch watched him approach, his eyes glued to the red hair, the freckles dusting the tops of small, perfect breasts revealed by the sagging negligee. Those eyes didn’t travel lower. They didn’t see the traitorous shape straining the black lace of the panties he still wore.
He copied Gina. Hand on the man’s shoulder, the muscle hard under his palm. He swung his leg over, turning to face the same direction as Gina, their knees almost touching. The man beneath him was thick, the heat of him radiating through thin boxers. As Matt lowered himself, he used his free hand to hastily pull the soaked lace of the panties aside. The man beneath him, his view filled with pale back and red hair, felt the wetness and groaned, assuming. He guided himself, and Matt, holding his breath, sank down.
The penetration was a shock so profound it erased thought. It was a fullness that reshaped his internal geography, a stretching pressure that bordered on pain before melting into a deep, impossible pleasure. It wasn’t his; it was hers. But he felt it, owned it. Across from him, Gina locked eyes with him. Her expression was fierce, anchoring. She reached out, her fingers finding his where they gripped the couch back, and she laced their hands together, squeezing tight.
Then the others closed in.
Hands cupped their chins, turning their faces. The other men, hard and eager, crowded the space in front of the couch. Matt felt the smooth, hot slide of a cock against his cheek, then his lips. He opened his mouth instinctively, and it pushed in, not violently, but with an insistent, eager pressure that brooked no refusal. To his left, Gina was already taking another, her throat working. They were bookends, joined below and connected by their clenched hands, their mouths occupied.
Matt rode the thick cock inside him. The rhythm started clumsy, a frantic piston driven by panic. But the body knew things his mind didn’t. His hips found a rolling cadence, rising and falling, each descent sending a jolt through his core. The friction of the soaked, bunched lace of his panties against his own trapped, straining little dick was exquisite torment. With every drop onto the man beneath him, the lace rubbed just right.
A familiar, urgent coil began to tighten low in his belly—his old belly, his old signal. But it was magnified, wired into this new, overwhelming sensory array. The cock in his mouth, the one filling him from below, the smell of sex and sweat, Gina’s hand crushing his. He was being played like an instrument, every note resonating in a secret, shameful chord.
He picked up the pace, his movements becoming less calculated, more frantic. His breathing hitched around the girth in his mouth. The men surrounding them groaned encouragement. “Yeah, that’s it, red. You’re gonna come.” “Look at her go.” They thought they saw the signs—the flushed skin, the desperate movements, the clenching around the cock inside her. They were turned on by the spectacle of her impending, vaginal climax.
They had no idea.
The coil snapped.
It wasn't an echo. It was a detonation. His little cock, hidden and ignored, twitched violently against the wet lace. A hot, shocking jet of cum released, then another, and another. It was a flood, a humiliating, incredible geyser that filled the scant fabric, dripping onto the man’s thighs beneath him. The sensations blinded him. The external fullness, the internal eruption. He lost all control.
He fucked himself down onto the cock brutally, his mouth working in a sloppy, frantic rhythm on the one before him. He was a machine of pure need, riding the wave of an orgasm that seemed to have no end. His hidden dick kept twitching, a pathetic, persistent pulsing that shot weak, warm ribbons into the ruin of his panties.
The men were chanting now, raw and loud. The one in his mouth grunted, “Gonna come—” but Matt didn’t pull away. He took it, his eyes squeezed shut, his body still convulsing.
The man over him let go. Heat splashed across his cheek, his closed eyelid, his lips. Salt and bitterness flooded his mouth, mixing with the taste already there. The other cock was still in him, still pounding up as he rode down, and his own little dick gave a final, spent twitch.
For a second, there was only sound: harsh breaths, the slick slap of skin, the low moan from the man beneath him as he finally found his own release deep inside. The hand in his, Gina’s hand, was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
The hand in his, Gina’s hand, was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Then the director’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and clinical. “And… cut! Beautiful. Reset for positions three and four. Ten minutes, people.”
The spell shattered. The men pulled away, their expressions shifting instantly from raw lust to detached professionalism. The one beneath him shifted his hips, sliding out with a wet, final sound that made Matt shudder. The sudden emptiness was a shock. The one in front of him stepped back, wiping himself casually on a small towel a production assistant handed him.
The room, which had felt like a pulsating universe, shrank back into a set: hot lights, a stained mattress, the scent of sex now mingling with the tang of antiseptic wipes. Matt stayed on his knees, trembling. The lace of his panties was a soaked, ruined mess, stuck to his skin and full of his own cooling release. He could feel it, a damning, hidden puddle.
“Whoa, rookie. Breathe.” Gina’s voice was soft, close to his ear. She had already disentangled herself and was kneeling beside him, pulling her top back on. Her touch on his shoulder was firm. “Come on. Up you get. Don’t lock up on camera.”
He let her guide him to his feet. His legs—her legs—felt like over-cooked spaghetti. A dizzying wave of post-orgasm nausea washed over him, mixed with a residual, buzzing humiliation. He’d just come harder than he ever had in his life, and no one had even seen it happen.
“You okay?” Gina asked, studying his face. Her eyes were searching, not judging. “You went pretty hard there at the end. Looked amazing, but you gotta pace yourself. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
“I’m… yeah,” Matt managed, his voice a thin whisper. He adjusted the negligee, trying to pull the fabric to somehow disguise the obvious, soaked state of the panties beneath. He was horrifically aware of the small, soft shape of his own spent penis nestled there, a secret in the wreckage.
Gina’s gaze flicked down, then back up to his face. A slow smile played on her lips. Not a smirk. Something more knowing. “Okay. Let’s hit the green room, get a water. You’re leaking.”
His heart stopped. She knows.
But she just nodded toward the damp lace clinging to his inner thigh, a translucence that undoubtedly showed more than it hid. “You squirt?” she asked casually, as if discussing the weather. “It happens. Hydration’s key. The cleanup guys hate it, but fuck ‘em. Come on.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just slung an arm around his bare shoulders and steered him off the set, away from the crew already repositioning lights. They moved down a short, dim hallway into a smaller room with a sofa, a mini-fridge, and a box of cheap towels.
The door clicked shut, muting the noise. Gina grabbed two bottles of water, cracked one open, and handed it to him. “Chug.”
He obeyed, the cold water shocking his system. He drank greedily, water dribbling down his chin onto Scarlett’s chest. Gina watched him, leaning against the fridge.
“So,” she said after a moment, her tone conversational. “First day on the job and you’re a natural-born freak. I’m impressed.” She took a sip of her own water. “But you wanna tell me what’s really going on? Because the Scarlett I met last week during rehearsals couldn’t look a fluffer in the eye, and the woman who just deep-throated Randy like her life depended on it is a completely different animal.”
Matt froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. His mind raced, a panicked static. Rehearsals. There were rehearsals. Of course there were. He had no memory, no history. He was an imposter in every conceivable way.
“I… I just got into the headspace,” he stammered, using a phrase he’d heard in actor interviews.
“Uh-huh.” Gina didn’t buy it. She pushed off the fridge and took a step closer. Her presence was overwhelming. She smelled of sex and coconut lotion. “Look. I don’t care what your deal is. Performance enhancers, method acting, a fucking personality transplant. This industry is weird. But you need an ally.” She lowered her voice. “And you are hiding something literally in your pants that is going to cause a nuclear meltdown if it gets seen.”
The room tilted. She knew. He felt the blood drain from his face, from Scarlett’s face. All the breath left him in a shaky gasp.
Gina’s expression softened. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not gonna out you.” She reached out and, with a startling gentleness, brushed a strand of sticky red hair from his forehead. Her fingers were cool. “But you gotta get a handle on it. The way you were moving… you were getting off on it, weren’t you? Really getting off.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an observation. Matt could only nod, a tiny, ashamed jerk of his head.
A genuine laugh burst from Gina, warm and surprisingly rich. “Oh, honey. That is fucking hilarious. And kind of awesome.” She shook her head. “Okay. New plan. We get through the next scene. You stick to the script—which is mostly riding and being passed around. Less… enthusiastic oral. You’re too good at it, it’s drawing attention. And you…” She pointed a blunt finger at the soaked lace between his legs. “You need to deal with that before we go back out there. There are fresh panties in the dressing room. Go change. I’ll cover for you.”
The relief was so profound it made his eyes sting. He nodded again, unable to speak.
“Go on,” she said, turning him toward the door and giving him a light pat on the rear.
The touch was casual, sisterly. It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But as her palm connected with the damp lace, right over the sensitive, overspent flesh beneath, a final, shocking pulse of sensation jolted through him. A last, desperate twitch from his utterly spent little cock, a pathetic echo of the earthquake that had just torn through him.
He whimpered.
Gina’s hand stilled. She looked at him, her eyes widening with a sudden, dawning comprehension that went beyond just knowing his secret. She understood the wiring. The helplessness of it.
He cums unexpectedly.
It wasn’t a full orgasm. There was nothing left to give. It was just a faint, warm, involuntary seepage, a final surrender he had no control over, staining her palm through the thin, wet fabric.
For a long second, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, she pulled her hand away and looked at her glistening fingertips. Her expression was unreadable: a mix of awe, pity, and a fierce, protective amusement.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she breathed, a laugh trembling in her voice. She wiped her hand on a towel, never breaking eye contact. “Okay. Change of plans. You’re sticking with me every single second. We are getting you through this shoot, and then you and I are having a very long talk.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that was both a threat and a promise. “Because, Red… you are the most interesting thing that’s happened on set in years.”