Chapter 7: Forced Reckoning
The walk to the bedroom was a funeral procession. Andrea led, a stiff silhouette against the warm hallway light. Justin followed, each step in Brittany’s smaller body a clumsy echo. Brittany brought up the rear, the quiet shuffle of Justin’s own socked feet a whisper behind him.
Andrea pushed the door open. Their bedroom. The king-sized bed was a vast, neutral territory, the comforter creased from that morning’s normality. The blue flicker from the silent TV in the corner painted everything in sickly, moving shadows.
“Okay,” Brittany said, closing the door with a soft click that felt final. She was all business now, the giddiness burned away by a sharp, focused intensity. “Let’s just… get this right.”
Justin stood frozen near the foot of the bed, hugging himself. Andrea hovered by the window, arms crossed, looking at the floor, the wall, anywhere but at them.
Brittany stepped in front of him. She looked down into his—her own—face. “You have to stop fighting it,” she said, her voice low. “I can feel you clenching up from in here. You’re resisting.”
“I don’t want this,” Justin whispered.
“None of us do. But we need it.” Her hands, his hands, came up and rested on his shoulders. The touch was firm, managerial. “These are my clothes.”
With a practicality that was obscene, she began to undress him. Her fingers found the hem of the soft sweatshirt and pulled it up. Justin stood, arms limp at his sides, as the fabric was drawn over his head, leaving his torso bare. The cool air hit new skin. He looked down, and the sight was a fresh, nauseating blow.
Brittany’s breasts were full and heavy, the nipples a dark pink in the shifting light. They were utterly alien, a landscape grafted onto him. A shiver ran through him, and they moved slightly with it.
“See?” Brittany murmured, not with malice, but with a dreadful, clinical appreciation. “It’s just a body. My body. And right now, it’s really fucking turned on.”
He hated that she was right. A low, humming warmth had pooled in his belly, a traitorous echo of the arousal she’d been feeling in the living room. It was a distant signal, faint and warped through the filter of his own horror, but it was there. A slick, undeniable readiness.
Brittany pushed the sweatpants and panties down in one motion. They pooled at his ankles. He stood completely naked, exposed in a way he had never been. The thatch of pubic hair he expected was absent, just smooth, shaved skin. He felt hideously vulnerable.
“Your turn,” she said, and began to strip his own body. She yanked the t-shirt off, revealing his own slightly soft chest, his familiar shoulders. She shoved the sweats and boxers down. His cock, half-erect, sprung free. Justin watched, disassociated, as his own penis hardened fully under the gaze of the intern now piloting it. It was a visceral, gut-churning sight. That part of him, thick and veined and achingly stiff, was responding to the sight of Brittany’s naked body with a mind of its own.
“Good,” Brittany breathed, looking down at it. She wrapped a hand around the shaft, giving it a few slow, practiced pumps. A bead of clear fluid welled at the tip. Justin, in her body, felt a corresponding, unwelcome clench deep inside.
“Lie down,” Brittany said, her voice dropping into a husky register that was utterly foreign coming from his mouth.
Justin didn’t move. His legs were lead.
“Justin. Lie down.”
He stumbled backward and sat on the edge of the bed, then clumsily scooting back until his head hit the pillows. The sheets smelled like his laundry detergent, like home. The disconnect was absolute.
Brittany climbed onto the bed, kneeling between his spread legs. She looked over at Andrea, a silhouette by the window. “You might need to… help. Or something. I don’t know. Just be here.”
Andrea gave a single, stiff nod, her face a mask of pale shock.
Brittany turned her focus back to Justin. She leaned over him, his own face blocking the light from the lamp. “Try to relax,” she said, but it wasn’t a comfort. It was an instruction.
He felt the blunt, hot head of his own cock nudge against his—her—entrance. The sensation was beyond description. It was a pressure that was both external and impossibly, intimately internal. He gasped, a high, ragged sound.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” Brittany grunted, a note of satisfaction in her voice. She pushed forward.
There was a sharp, burning stretch. Justin cried out, his back arching off the bed. It wasn’t gentle. It was a ruthless, steady invasion. He was being fucked by himself. The thick length of his own penis pushed deeper, filling a space that shouldn’t exist, triggering a cascade of raw sensory data that his brain couldn’t process. Pain, yes. A deep, aching fullness. But also, under it all, a terrifying, slick friction that began to spark something else.
Brittany settled into a rhythm, using his body with a determined, athletic purpose. Her hips pistoned. The bed began to creak in a familiar, hateful rhythm. Each thrust jolted through Justin. He could hear the wet, slapping sounds of their coupling. He could smell sex in the air, his own musk mixed with Brittany’s.
“Oh god,” he whimpered, turning his face into the pillow. His hands clutched at the sheets. With every inward drive, a bolt of confused sensation fired—pain layered with a grotesque, gathering pleasure. His body was responding, betraying him utterly. The warmth became a heat, coiling tight in his core. The slickness increased, easing the brutal slide.
“That’s it,” Brittany panted above him, her rhythm becoming jerky, desperate. “C’mon, Justin. Feel it. You gotta feel it with me. We have to get there together.”
He was feeling it. A climax was building in this foreign flesh, an approaching wave born of mechanical friction and profound violation. He hated it. He craved it. The tension was unbearable. Brittany’s thrusts became frantic, sloppy. She was chasing it, her breaths coming in hot grunts against his neck.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—are you—?” she choked out.
Justin couldn’t speak. The coil snapped.
His orgasm ripped through Brittany’s body, a shocking, convulsive wave that had nothing to do with his mind. It was purely physical, a seismic release of tension that made her back bow and a raw, screaming sob tear from his throat. The pulses were deep and rhythmic, milking the cock inside him.
At the same moment, Brittany shouted—a ragged, masculine cry. He felt his own cock jerk and throb, pulsing heat deep into the heart of the body he occupied.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating heap of misplaced limbs. Brittany-in-his-body lay heavily on top of him, her—his—face buried in the pillow beside his head. The only sounds were their ragged, sobbing breaths and the creak of the settling bed.
Justin waited. He waited for the twist, the flash, the sensation of being pulled back into his own skin. He prayed for it.
Nothing.
The sweat cooled on his skin. The sickening fullness between his legs remained. The weight on top of him was still the weight of his own body.
Brittany pushed herself up on trembling arms. She looked down at him, into her own glazed, tear-streaked eyes. Hope died in his own face, replaced by a dawning, bottomless horror.
“It didn’t work,” she whispered, the words hollow.
She rolled off him, staring at the ceiling. His—her—cock, slick and softening, slid out of him with a final, terrible sensation. Justin curled onto his side, pulling his knees up, trying to disappear.
A minute passed. The silence was worse than the noise had been.
Then, Brittany stirred. She propped herself up on one elbow, looking at him with a frantic, wild light in her eyes. “We didn’t do it right. We have to go again.”
Justin shook his head, mute with revulsion.
“We have to!” she insisted, her voice cracking. She looked down at his body’s penis. It lay flaccid against his thigh, spent. She grabbed it, trying to rouse it with rough, urgent tugs. It remained limp. “C’mon, you fucker, get up! We need to go again! Harder this time!”
She stroked it, pulled at it, her movements growing more frantic and futile. The flesh, exhausted, unresponsive, just swayed in her grip.
“It’s not working,” she said, her voice shrinking into a childlike whimper. “Why isn’t it working?”
From the window, Andrea let out a sound—a choked-off sob that was also a laugh, the sound of something breaking. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, her body shaking silently.
The three of them were stranded. The solution had been a brutal, graphic failure. The path back was closed, and all that remained was the wreckage of the attempt, cooling on the rumpled sheets of their marriage bed.