Chapter 2: The Bar's Back Room
The redhead’s smirk was a slash of crimson in the dim light as Mia shouldered her way through the crowd, her expression unreadable. She stopped beside them, her eyes flicking from Emma’s flushed face to the stranger’s possessive hand still on Emma’s hip.
“What did she say to you?” Mia asked, her voice low but clear over the music’s thump.
The redhead leaned close, her breath hot against Mia’s ear. “Apparently, you are her girlfriend. And you like to watch.”
Mia’s eyebrows shot up. A flash of shock, then something darker, more appreciative, moved in her eyes. She looked at Emma—at Ryan, hidden inside this gorgeous, drunk blonde shell who had just claimed her in public with a lie that felt like a dare.
Ryan laughed, the sound loose and buzzy with vodka. He reached out and gave Mia’s ass a sharp, stinging slap through her jeans. “Apparently I’m a horny slut when I’m drunk,” he slurred, grinning.
Mia shook her head, a real laugh breaking through her surprise. “Don’t worry,” she said, flagging down the bartender. “We can fix that.” She placed two shot glasses of amber whiskey on the bar, sliding one to Ryan. “Just let me lead for a minute.”
Ryan knocked the shot back, the burn a welcome anchor. Mia’s eyes scanned the room like a strategist. They landed on a man leaning against the wall near the exit. He was older than the college boys, maybe late twenties, with a watchful calm and shoulders that strained his dark shirt. Attractive in a worn, quiet way.
Mia took Ryan’s hand and pulled him through the crowd. She stopped in front of the man, not waiting for an invitation. “Hey,” she said, her voice dropping into a confiding, intimate register. “My friend here thinks you’re hot. And so do I. What would you do with the two of us?”
The man’s gaze traveled slowly from Mia to Ryan, taking in the black top, the messy blonde hair, the obvious arousal humming off them both. A slow smile touched his lips. “I’m a nice guy,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble. “But I can get a bit naughty when the occasion requires it.”
Mia tilted her head. “And this occasion?”
He pushed off the wall, reaching for two fresh shots from a passing waiter’s tray. He handed one to each of them. His eyes gleamed. “Oh, it definitely requires it.”
They took the shots in unison, the liquor a line of fire. As Ryan coughed, Mia’s hand slid down the back of his skirt—the new, unfamiliar garment he’d let Mia pick out—and squeezed the bare flesh of his ass cheek hard. Her fingers brushed the damp edge of his panties.
“Looks like you’re ready,” Mia murmured, her lips against his ear.
“Ready for what?” Ryan breathed, turning his head.
Mia answered by kissing him. It was a deep, claiming kiss, full of whiskey and possession. Then, without breaking their connection, she reached out, curled her hand around the back of the stranger’s neck, and pulled his head in. It became a triple kiss, a messy, hungry collision of lips and tongues and heat. Ryan didn’t know who was kissing who; the taste of the man’s mouth, the scrape of his stubble, mixed with the familiar sweetness of Mia. His head spun. His hand, moving on its own drunk and desperate volition, reached out and grabbed the man’s ass through his jeans, squeezing the firm muscle there.
The man groaned into their mouths. “Car’s out back,” he said, his voice rough.
The alley air was a cold slap after the bar’s sweatbox heat. The man’s car was an old sedan, parked in a pool of shadow. He popped the back door open and slid in, making room. Mia pushed Ryan in after him, then climbed in herself, pulling the door shut. The interior was close, smelling of old leather and the clean, soapy scent of the man.
No one spoke. Actions replaced words. Mia’s fingers went to the man’s belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet. She unbuttoned his jeans, yanked them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock sprung free, already thick and fully hard in the faint light from a distant streetlamp. Mia didn’t hesitate. She bent her head and took him into her mouth, swallowing him down with a wet, eager sound.
Ryan watched, transfixed, his own pussy throbbing. Then Mia’s hand was on the back of his head, guiding him down. “Come on, Emma,” she whispered, the name a command.
Ryan bent forward. The smell of the man’s skin, musk and salt, filled his nose. He opened his mouth, letting Mia show him the rhythm. They sucked him together, their lips and tongues meeting on his shaft, their cheeks brushing. Ryan glanced up and saw Mia watching him, her eyes dark with a fierce pride. They smiled around the cock in their mouths, a shared, secret complicity.
Mia’s other hand was busy, slipping Ryan’s shirt up and over his head. The cool air pebbled his nipples. The man lay back against the seat, his head tilted back, his breath coming in harsh gusts as he watched the two blonde women service him.
“Condom,” Mia said, pulling away, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his glistening tip. The man fumbled in his wallet, handed her a foil packet. Mia rolled it down his length with practiced efficiency.
Then she hitched up her own skirt, straddled his hips, and sank down onto him in one slow, deep movement. She threw her head back, a choked gasp escaping her. She began to ride him, finding a steady, rolling rhythm. She leaned forward, capturing Ryan’s mouth again, her tongue pushing inside as the man’s cock pushed into her.
The man’s hand, large and warm, found Ryan’s thigh, hiking up his skirt. His fingers slipped beneath the lace of his panties, sliding through the slick folds already waiting for him. He pushed two fingers inside Ryan’s tight, wet heat, and Ryan broke the kiss with a sharp cry, his hips bucking against the man’s hand.
“Fuck,” Ryan panted. “Oh, fuck, yes.”
“Switch,” Mia breathed, her movements growing frantic. She climbed off the man, her pussy glistening. She helped Ryan straddle him, guiding the tip of his condom-covered cock to Ryan’s entrance. “Take him, Emma. Just like we practiced.”
Ryan lowered himself, the stretch a breathtaking, full ache. The man’s thickness filled him completely, a pressure so profound it blurred his vision. He began to move, tentatively at first, then with a building, instinctive urgency.
As Ryan fucked himself on the stranger’s cock, Mia positioned herself over the man’s face, lowering her cunt onto his mouth. “Eat me,” she demanded, and he obeyed, his tongue lapping at her fervently.
The car rocked. The sounds were obscene: wet, slapping flesh, choked groans, Mia’s high, keening cries as the man’s tongue worked her over. Ryan bounced, his small breasts jiggling, his mind empty of everything but the piston-drive of the cock pounding up into his tender, new flesh and the sight of Mia coming apart above him.
The coil snapped. Ryan came first, a silent, shocked explosion that clenched around the invading length inside him, milking it. His cry was a ragged sob. The sensation triggered the man; with a guttural shout, he emptied into the condom, his hips jerking upwards. Mia followed, grinding down on his mouth, her body seizing as her orgasm tore through her, her thighs clamping around his head.
They collapsed into a heap of sweat-slicked limbs and ragged breath in the backseat. The cold reality of the leather, the smell of sex, the stranger’s heavy arm thrown across his stomach, it all rushed in. Ryan lay there, feeling the man’s softening cock slip out of him, feeling the alien, devastating emptiness left behind. He stared at the stained roof of the car, the euphoria already curdling into a deep, hollow shame. The money was in the bank. His body worked perfectly. And he had never felt more like a stranger to himself.
And he had never felt more like a stranger to himself.
A sticky silence filled the car, broken only by their slowing breaths. The man shifted, a contented sigh escaping him.Mia was the first to move, sitting up with a weary grace. Her fingers, glistening with her own wetness, dipped between her legs again. She brought them to her mouth, her tongue slipping out to taste herself. Then, with a deliberate slowness, she leaned over and swiped the same fingers across Ryan’s slack lips, smearing the combined taste of their bodies there.Ryan flinched, the intimacy of the gesture more shocking than anything else that night.
“Tastes like us,” Mia murmured, her voice husky. She leaned across Ryan and planted a soft, messy kiss on the man’s sweaty cheek.“Thanks for the ride. Seriously.” Then she turned and kissed Ryan, a deep, lingering press of lips that forced the taste into his mouth.It was salt and musk and a betrayal so profound it made his head spin anew.
They fumbled out of the car, straightening their crumpled clothes under the indifferent alley shadows. Mia pulled out her phone, her face illuminated by the cold blue light. “Uber’s three minutes away.” Ryan just leaned against the damp brick wall, the chill seeping through his shirt, feeling the stranger’s spend leaking out of him into the cheap lace of his panties. The ride home was a silent, vibrating blur of streetlights. He rested his forehead against the cool window, watching the city streak past, a nauseous emptiness gnawing at his gut where the alcohol and thrill had been.He barely remembered stumbling into the apartment. He peeled the clothes from his new body, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, and collapsed face-down on the bed. The world pitched and rolled.He swam in and out of a troubled, black ocean of sleep.
A sound pulled him partway to the surface much later—a soft, rhythmic slickness and a low, choked-off moan. “Ryan…” His own name, whispered like a prayer in the darkness.He pried one eye open. Mia was sitting up against the headboard, the faint glow from her phone casting her face in stark relief. Her other hand was under the sheets, moving with a frantic, focused pace.Her breath hitched. He saw her staring, transfixed, at the phone screen. On it, a shaky video played—a clip from months ago, of him, the old him, shirtless and laughing, pushing hair from his eyes.Her hips jerked. “Fuck, Ryan…” she whimpered, and her body went taut, her head falling back as a shuddering sigh escaped her.Then she stilled. Ryan closed his eye, a hot shame flooding his veins, and let the blackness take him again.
The next morning, a jackhammer was drilling a hole from behind his eyes straight to the base of his skull. He groaned, rolling over.Mia was already up, the smell of coffee cutting through the sour remnants of the night. She stood at the island, clutching a large mug, dressed in his—in Ryan’s—old hoodie.It swallowed her whole.
“Hey,” she said softly, not meeting his gaze at first.He shuffled into the kitchen, every movement an agony. “I think my new liver is made of parchment,” he croaked, his voice gravel.A faint smile touched her lips. “Join the club.” She pushed a coffee toward him.“That was… intense last night. We were both shit-faced.”
“Yeah.” He took the mug, the heat a small comfort.
“And your new system…” she continued, finally looking at him.“It’s a lightweight. And you don’t have… the old equipment to handle it anymore. We gotta be more careful.”
“I know,” he said, the memory of the backseat a greasy stain in his mind. “I know.”
The week passed in a strange, suspended state. They tiptoed around each other, conversations careful, touches brief. Mia’s gaze would sometimes linger on him with a look he couldn’t decipher—part fascination, part hunger, part a sorrow that mirrored his own. The money sat in the bank, a blood-money prize for his own obliteration.Monday morning arrived. Ryan showered, the water beating against unfamiliar curves. He dressed in the simple, androgynous clothes he’d bought on the shopping trip with Mia—a gray hoodie and jeans that fit his new hips. The lab’s sterile chill felt like a homecoming to a different kind of prison.Dr.Lindsay Otto was waiting, her posture as rigid as the stainless steel tables. “Ryan. Or do you prefer a different designation now?”
“Emma’s working,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.“For outside.”
“Noted.” She gestured for him to sit. “Report on the week.Adaptation. Difficulties.”
He kept his answers clinical, editing Mia and the bar and the alley from the record.“The name helps.Bought clothes that fit. Explored the… functionality.No physical pain. Some disorientation persists.”
“Expected.” She handed him the tablet for the cognitive battery.As he worked through the puzzles and memory tests, something shifted. Her questions became less robotic.“The spatial reasoning scores are actually elevated.Fascinating.Do you find navigation different? Perceptually?”
He paused, considering.“Everything’s just… lighter. The world feels further away.” They talked about gravity, about center of mass, about the constant, low-grade alienation of seeing his own hands do things.For fifteen minutes, she wasn’t a cold overseer. She was just a scientist, intrigued by a fascinating problem.It was almost worse.
The cardio test was a joke. The new body ate up the treadmill’s escalating pace, her breathing calm and even where the old Ryan would have been gasping. “Peak efficiency,” Lindsay remarked, her data pad chirping. “The somatic template was top-tier.”
Then they stood before the door to the private alcove.The motor function test. “Given the week of acclimatization,” Lindsay said, her tone reverting to its detached baseline, “the parameters are adjusted. I will need to be present for observational precision. The simulation must also account for a broader range of potential sexual stimuli.” She opened the door. On the tray beside the reclining chair, next to the bottle of clear gel, lay a smooth, realistic silicone dildo, a suction cup at its base. “For penetrative simulation.To map a more complete pleasure pathway.”
Ryan’s throat tightened.He said nothing. He walked in, the door hissing shut behind Lindsay, who remained inside, leaning against the wall with her data pad.The air was closer now, charged with her silent scrutiny.
He turned his back to her, pulling the hoodie over his head. He felt her gaze like a physical pressure on his skin. He pushed the jeans down his hips, stepping out of them, standing there in just the plain cotton panties.He heard the faintest intake of breath from behind him. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and slid them down, bending over to remove them completely. When he straightened and turned to sit in the chair, he saw her eyes, those sharp green eyes, locked on him. They were fixed on the small, perfect mounds of his breasts, then traveled down, devouring the sight of his completely hairless, exposed pussy.
“Proceed,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.He reached for the gel, his hands trembling only slightly. He coated his fingers, leaned back, and parted his own folds.The first touch was always a jolt. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out her presence, but he could feel her watching. He slid a finger inside himself, then another, a soft moan escaping his lips as he began to fuck himself with his own hand.He was wet, so easily wet now. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room.He opened his eyes.Lindsay hadn’t moved, but her clinical mask had slipped. Her lips were parted.Her data pad was held loosely at her side. And her other hand—her free hand—was tucked subtly into the waistband of her tailored trousers. Ryan watched, mesmerized by his own humiliation, as the fabric over her lower abdomen trembled.A subtle, rhythmic shift. She was touching herself.Her breath had shallowed to match his own panting.
The realization sent a bolt of illicit heat straight to his core.His fingers worked faster, plunging deeper. He was no longer just a data point.He was a show.She was getting off on watching him. On watching it.The dildo lay ignored on the tray. This was the raw data she wanted. He arched his back, presenting himself to her hungry gaze, letting his other hand cup his breast, pinching the nipple hard.A soft, choked gasp came from Lindsay. Her hips gave a minute, compulsive jerk against her concealed hand. Her eyes were wide, blazing with a hunger that had nothing to do with science. Ryan felt his own climax gathering, fueled by the power of her voyeurism and his own deep, devouring shame. It crashed over him, his body seizing, a strangled cry ripped from his throat as he convulsed in the chair.
As the waves receded, he lay spent, slick with sweat and gel.Lindsay slowly removed her hand from her pants. She straightened her lab coat, the click of her pen echoing in the silence as she made a note on her pad. Her face was a carefully reconstructed blank, but a faint flush remained high on her cheeks.“The pathway is confirmed,” she stated, her voice tight.“Optimal. Your compensation has been processed.” She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. She didn’t look back. “See you next Monday, Emma.”
He dressed and left for home.
The sterile corridor felt like a decompression chamber, a slow transition from the raw exposure of the lab back into a world that saw only a blonde girl in a gray hoodie. His skin still hummed from the session, a low-grade electricity that felt less like pleasure and more like a persistent violation. He could still feel the exact point of Lindsay Otto’s gaze on his body, a brand as real as the needle’s pinch had been weeks ago. The train ride was a blur of reflected city lights on grimy windows, his own unfamiliar face staring back from the dark glass.He found Mia curled on the couch with a textbook, but her eyes were distant. He dropped his keys on the counter, the sound making her flinch. “I’m back,” he said, his voice flat.
“How were the… tests?” she asked, not looking up from a diagram of vascular tissue.“Fine. Optimal, apparently.” He didn’t mention the dildo, the observation, the tremble in the doctor’s hidden hand. Some data points belonged only to him.Friday came.
The tense quiet of the week had gradually thawed into something resembling their old rhythm, though it was a surface calm stretched over a deep, unacknowledged fault line. Over a Thursday pizza, Mia pushed a strand of cheese into her mouth and said, “So.We should try another girl’s night.A real one. Not… whatever that alley was.” Her tone was light, testing the waters.
He chewed slowly, the grease suddenly tasteless.“Okay,” he finally said. “But I don’t want another cock in my vagina.”
Mia burst out laughing, a genuine, surprised sound that made her eyes crinkle. “Oh my god, Emma.Fair enough.” She wiped her mouth. “No guarantees, though. The universe is a weird place.” She explained her friend Chloe knew a spot, a proper dance club with a VIP section. The subtext hummed between them: a controlled environment, a step up from the dive bar, a chance to be Emma without the backseat horror.
On Friday evening, Mia laid the outfit on the bed. It was a simple black mini-dress, barely more than a stretchy tube of fabric. “It’s what we do,” Mia said, a defensive edge to her voice as she saw his expression.“Everyone wears this. You’ll blend in better.” It was skimpy and basically showed everything; the hem would barely cover his ass if he stood straight, and the neckline plunged into a deep V that would leave nothing to the imagination.
He felt a flush of protest rise in his throat, but swallowed it.The money was in the bank. This was the cost. Mia helped him shimmy into it, her hands cool on his hips as she tugged the thin material down.She assured him, her voice softening, “I’ll be right there. All night.The second you want to go, we ghost. Promise.”
The club was a thrumming beast of bass and flashing lights. The line snaked around the block, a river of glitter and bare skin. They walked past it all, Chloe flashing a smile at a bouncer who unclipped the velvet rope immediately. Ryan—Emma—remembered the old ritual: the hours of waiting, the calculated bribes of cash for a crowded table. Now, his new body was the currency. A hostess led them to a small table near the dance floor, a prime spot he could never have afforded.
He sat, the cold leather of the booth a shock against his bare thighs.He could feel the dress slide up even further, the fabric gathering high on his hips. He tugged at it instinctively, but it was a losing battle. Before he could say a word, a bottle of vodka appeared, nestled in ice, followed by a parade of neon-colored mixers. “Compliments of the gentlemen at the rear banquette,” their waitress shouted over the music.
Drink after drink was sent their way. Chloe arrived with two more friends, and soon a few guys they knew from campus joined the periphery.The table became a loud, laughing island. The vodka was crisp and medicinal. It hit his new system fast, blurring the sharp edges of his anxiety into a warm, pulsing haze. The stares from other men, once jarring, now fed a detached, voyeuristic power.He was the spectacle, and for a moment, he owned it.
Mia grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. The music was a physical thing, vibrating in his chest, in the empty space between his legs. They danced close, a mockery of the distance that had grown between them. The heat of bodies, the sweat, the dizzying lights—it created a new, charged logic. Mia’s hands were on his waist, then sliding up his ribs.His own hands found the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair.
Then he felt it.Mia’s fingers, sly and warm, slipping under the hem of his dangerously short dress. They traced the curve of his ass, then slid forward, dipping through the slick folds of his panties.He gasped into her shoulder, his body arching into the touch. No one around them noticed; it was just two girls dancing close. Her finger pushed inside him, just an inch, a maddening tease.He ground against her hand, the public thrill mingling with the raw need. He was drunk on the vodka, on the anonymity, on the shocking simplicity of the pleasure. He came silently, his face buried in Mia’s neck, his thighs clamping around her invading hand as the bass shook the floor.
Pulling away, breathless and sticky, he mumbled he needed the bathroom.Mia just nodded, her lips glistening, her eyes dark with a shared secret. The line for the women’s restroom was a ten-person-deep ordeal of pouting and phone-checking.A wave of claustrophobia hit him. He turned, spotting a dimly lit door marked with a simple geometric figure for the men’s room. It was empty, a reprieve from the sensory onslaught.Pushing inside, the relative quiet was a blessing. The room smelled of industrial cleaner and stale piss. He moved toward a stall, heels clicking on the tile.The door swung shut behind him just as another one opened.Footsteps.
He turned, and the world tilted off its axis.It was Mr. Alban, his political science lecturer from last semester.The man who’d given Ryan a B-minus on his final paper. He was in his late forties, with a receding hairline and tired eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Those eyes now widened in stunned confusion, scanning the blonde in the microscopic black dress standing alone in the men’s room.“Oh.Sorry, I—” Alban started, taking a half-step back.
Ryan stumbled, his heels betraying him on the slick floor.He pitched forward. Alban moved instinctively to catch him, his hands shooting out.One large hand closed around Ryan’s upper arm. The other, aiming for his waist, landed squarely, fully, over his small, firm breast. Alban froze, his fingers unconsciously curling against the soft flesh beneath the thin fabric.
Ryan, righting himself, also froze. He realized Alban’s other hand had slid low, coming to rest on the bare curve of his ass where the dress had ridden up. The touch was electric, accusatory, and horrifically intimate. He saw the recognition in Alban’s eyes shift, transmute into something else—a stunned, hungry disbelief. The power dynamic from his classroom evaporated, replaced by this raw, physical calculus. The vodka, the recent climax, the utter surrealism of the moment—it all fused into a single, reckless impulse.
Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the front of Alban’s trousers.He fumbled with the belt, the button, the zipper. Alban made a choked sound but didn’t push him away. Ryan shoved his hand inside, past the rough wool, finding the hot, stiffening length of him. He wrapped his fingers around it and began to stroke, rough and urgent.“Fuck,” Alban breathed, his composure shattered. His own hand, still on Ryan’s breast, squeezed. His other hand slid from Ryan’s ass, down, yanking the damp fabric of his panties aside. Two fingers, thick and probing, pushed into him without ceremony. Ryan cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and sank to his knees on the cold floor.
He took Alban into his mouth, the taste of clean skin and starch flooding his senses. He worked him with a frantic, practiced intensity he didn’t know he possessed, one hand pumping the base, the other braced on Alban’s thigh. Alban’s fingers fucked into him, deep and scissoring, hitting a spot that made Ryan’s vision spark. He was moaning around the cock in his mouth, a filthy, wet symphony of sounds in the sterile room.
“Christ, you… you perfect little slut,” Alban grunted, his hips stuttering.His free hand fisted in Ryan’s short blonde hair. The pace of his fingers inside Ryan grew punishing, relentless. Ryan felt his own second climax roaring up, a tsunami of debasement and blinding pleasure. Just as it broke, Alban shoved his cock deeper down Ryan’s throat and came with a ragged groan.
Hot streaks of cum spilled over Ryan’s lips, his chin, painting the pale slope of his small, exposed tits. He swallowed convulsively, the act final and absolute. Alban pulled his softening cock from Ryan’s mouth with a slick pop, his fingers slipping out of Ryan’s drenched pussy. For a long second, they just breathed in the dim, stinking quiet, the only sound their ragged gasps and the distant thump of the club’s bass.