Chapter 3: The First Submission
Her hands, his hands, were on his shoulders. They were broad, capable hands he knew intimately—the scar from the splintered oak, the callus on the middle finger from holding a pencil. Now, they pressed down on the delicate scaffold of her shoulders with a weight that was not quite his own. It was her intention, channeled through his strength.
“Lie down,” Andrea said, her voice—his voice—a low vibration in the quiet room.Justin’s new body obeyed before his mind could formulate a protest. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sank down, the down comforter swallowing him in a soft explosion. The movement sent a wave through his system: the heavy, separate weight of her breasts shifting against the lace of the bra, the strain of the underwire, the soft, unsettling jiggle that echoed through his torso. He landed with a slight bounce, his center of gravity all wrong, lower and deeper in his pelvis, making him feel both anchored and precariously balanced.Andrea stood over him, a tower of familiar muscle and bone. She looked down, her expression in his face one of focused assessment. She hooked her thumbs—his thumbs—into the waistband of the gray sweatpants and pushed them down in one efficient motion.There it was. His own erection, standing stark and ruddy against the dark hair of his groin. Seeing it from this angle, from this distance, was like viewing a medical exhibit.It was detached. Until she wrapped her large fingers around it.Then it became immediate, a bolt of alien recognition shooting through him. He felt nothing from it, yet he felt everything—the memory of its sensitivity, the ghost of every touch she had given it, now mirrored in the possessive, practiced way she gave it a slow, firm stroke.“Still works just fine,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then her eyes, his blue eyes, locked onto his. “Your turn.”
She leaned over, the muscles in his back and shoulders flexing under the skin.Her hands went to the clasp of the bra. He felt the pressure release between his shoulder blades, then the loosening of tension across his chest. With a deftness born of a lifetime of practice, she peeled the lace cups away.
The cool air of the room hit his exposed skin and he shuddered.The sensation was profound. The heavy, pendulous weight was now unfettered, soft against the sides of his ribcage. His own hands, small and pale with her neat, oval nails, instinctively rose to cover himself, but she caught his wrists easily, pinning them to the mattress above his head.Her grip was absolute.“No. You feel all of it.”
She used her free hand to push down the lilac silk panties. They caught on the flare of her hips, then slid down the thick, smooth expanse of her thighs. He felt the brush of fabric against the newly bared skin of her—his—stomach, the foreign, hairless plain of the mound, the shocking, vulnerable exposure of everything. The air felt abrasive against the neatly shaved skin. He was laid utterly bare, a landscape he had only ever known by touch now revealed in the lamplight, owned by her gaze.
Then she climbed onto the bed, kneeling over him.The mattress dipped profoundly under the weight of his own body. She loomed, a masculine silhouette against the soft light, and for a fleeting second, Justin felt a spike of pure, animal fear.It was quickly drowned in a tidal wave of helpless fascination.
She lowered herself, bracing on her arms. The coarse hair of his chest brushed against the sensitive peaks of her breasts, and Justin gasped, a high, thin sound. The sensation was excruciatingly vivid—the scratch and tickle, the electric contact on a nerve-rich area he’d never possessed before.She dipped her head and kissed him.
It was his own mouth, but the technique was hers. The scratch of his beard against the soft, smooth skin of her face was a raw, grinding friction.Her tongue, his tongue, moved with a confident dominance he rarely practiced. He tasted the wine, the faint salt of his own skin, from the outside. It was a violation of every boundary, a profound disorientation. He felt his new mouth respond, his smaller lips parting, a wetness building that had nothing to do with his will.
When she pulled back, her breath was coming faster in his lungs. “You’re already wet,” she whispered, her tone one of clinical triumph.“See?The body knows what it wants. It’s simple.”
She repositioned herself, one hand guiding him—his own rigid flesh—to the place he had only ever known as a topography of entry. He felt the blunt, hot crown press against a new, different softness.A slickness.
“Now you’ll feel what I feel,” she said, and she pushed.Justin’s world split.The sensation was not pain. It was an overwhelming fullness, an invasion so complete it bypassed thought and seized his nervous system. He cried out, a short, sharp noise. He felt himself—his own penis—penetrating, stretching, a deep, internal pressure that was at once familiar and utterly alien. He was being opened from the outside by the very part of himself that had failed to perform.
Andrea sank down, a slow, relentless descent, until he was fully sheathed inside… himself. Her weight settled fully upon him, pressing his smaller frame deeper into the mattress.He was pinned, speared, achingly full. The feel of his own length inside the tight, clasping heat was a feedback loop of impossible sensation. He remembered the feeling from the other side, the velvet friction, the building tension.Now he was the vessel containing it.
She began to move.It was a slow, deliberate rocking. Each forward stroke sent a shockwave through his new body. He felt the internal drag and glide, the intimate nudge against a place deep inside that sparked something primitive and uncontrollable. His hands, freed now, clutched at the sheets, the fabric twisting in his small, weak grip. His breasts jostled with her rhythm, a heavy, secondary oscillation that was both ignored and integral.
“This is what it’s like,” she panted, her voice rough in his throat.“To be on the receiving end. To just… feel. To have it done to you.” She picked up the pace, her hips—his hips—finding a driving, efficient cadence. The slap of skin, his skin against hers, filled the room, a wet, rhythmic sound.
Pleasure, unwanted and undeniable, began to coil in the base of his new spine.It was different. It wasn’t a localized tightening, a focused ascent. It was a diffuse, expanding heat, a pool of liquid fire spreading from his core through his belly, up into his constricting chest, down to the very tips of his tingling toes.His higher voice made ragged, sobbing sounds with every thrust. His vision blurred at the edges.She leaned down, her sweat-damp chest mashing against his tender breasts. The scratch of his beard was now a brutal abrasion on her softer skin. Her lips found his ear, her breath a hot, ragged torrent.
“Come for me, Justin.”
The command, in his own voice, triggered something.The coiled spring released.The diffuse fire ignited.
His back arched off the bed, a tremulous, brittle curve. A sound was torn from him, a wordless, high-pitched keen as the orgasm shattered through her body.It was a cataclysm. It was waves, not a peak; a series of deep, internal convulsions that clenched around the invading hardness, milking it with a fierce, involuntary pulse. It seemed to last forever, this unraveling, this sweet, violent dissolution of self.
As he convulsed, he felt the answering pulse from within.A deep, familiar throb, his own climax, experienced from the inside. The hot, sudden flood was a searing, internal claim. He felt every jet, every spasm of his own body from the wrong side of the synapse.
She collapsed onto him, the full, crushing weight of his torso smothering his smaller, shuddering form. They were a tangled, sweating, panting knot of self and other.Silence, except for the ragged saw of breath.
Slowly, she pushed herself up. She looked down at him, her face—his face—flushed and slick with sweat.Her eyes were dark, unfathomable. She withdrew from him, and the sensation of emptiness, of sudden, cool vulnerability, was almost as shocking as the penetration had been.
He lay utterly still, wrecked. The smells of sex and sweat and lavender filled his new, sensitive nostrils.The wetness between his thighs felt cool and intrusive. The heavy ache in his breasts, the raw tenderness between his legs, the profound, soul-deep fatigue—it was all hers. It was all his.
Andrea swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, her broad back to him. She was silent for a long moment, looking down at his hands resting on his knees.“So,” she finally said, his voice flat, drained of its earlier fervor. “That’s what it’s like.”
Justin couldn’t speak.He could only feel. The hum was gone, replaced by a hollow, throbbing echo. He had felt what she felt. And in the brutal, shameful, exhilarating truth of it, he had no idea who, or what, either of them was anymore.