Switch Bodies
an In Dark Alleys story
by Brian St.Claire-King

warning: this story is both pornographic and unpleasant

You are enjoying being a woman. You are enjoying having wide hips that can comfortably straddle a man. You are enjoying having curves that he can run his rough hands up and down. You are enjoying feeling him inside you.

Yet you are not here purely for pleasure. This man has been sniffing around dark places acting as if he is a seeker of truth. It's time to give him some real truth and see if he can handle it.

As the pleasure builds to a crescendo you dig your nails into his chest and close your eyes tightly. Like a tidal wave in a disaster movie the coming orgasm slowly eclipses all your senses. Now there is only your body and his body. Now there is only movement and rhythm and pleasure. Now you are almost senseless from pleasure, but you remember what it is you are meant to do. You stretch out your mind into his flesh, guiding him into your body. In an instant it is done.

You open your eyes. You see a beautiful woman above you. She has pale skin, shoulder length burgundy red hair, green eyes, lips and eyes that look vaguely Hispanic. Her muscular body sits heavily atop you. You can smell her aroma. Her mouth is open, looking dumbfounded. Her fingernails are still poking your chest.

You feel your penis spasm involuntarily, ejecting the last little bits of semen into the condom. You give her a confident, knowing smile. The muscles for smiling are weak in this face, it feels like an effort.

She looks down at her body straddling you. She lifts an arm, flexing the fingers, testing her control over them. Then her fist is flying at your face. There is pain and shock as your head is driven back into the mattress.

Shocked, you lash out with your limbs trying to push her away from you. Your arms are weaker than you are used to. She pulls back her arm to strike you again. You lash out ineffectually as the fist strikes. Your vision goes white for a moment, your ears ring. You can taste blood going down the back of your throat.

You squirm, using all the muscles at your disposal. Silk sheets slip and slide under you. She has herself propped up via a hand on your chest and you knock that arm away. She falls on top of you and before she can regain her purchase you manage to wriggle out from under her.

You roll off the bed and onto the floor, landing roughly on all fours. You edge away from the bed lest she lash out with a foot. You put your shoulder against the cold wall and scoot backwards.

When you look up she has sat up in bed. Her face scowls. She opens her mouth to speak but her voice only cracks. She pauses a second to find her voice and tries again.

"What did you do to me you cunt?" she speaks, her voice low and cracking.

You try to stand but your limbs are different lengths than what you are used to. You realize that you are trying to control this body instead of letting it control itself
     . You remember the words of your teacher "This body knows how to move, let it move." You stand. It takes a moment for you to feel for a vocal range that this throat will handle. "Please," you say, "calm
      down, I can explain everything."

She leans over the opposite side of the bed, grabbing for the men's bluejeans lying in a pile. Where before you could only feel your pounding heart and the pain in your face you now feel a new sensation: your new body is responding with a thrill to the curvy female form moving before you. She sits up and rummages through the pants, finding a pocket and reaching her long feminine fingers in.

"This is completely reversible," you say, pleading for her to calm down and listen. "It's just a demonstration of what we can teach you if you're interested in joining us.

She pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the jeans pocket. Something about the sight alarms you. She removes a cigarette and places it in her mouth. She puts her thumb on the lighter, but pauses. "Who's we?" she hisses.

You look around nervously. "We're…" For a moment the memory eludes you. There is alarm as you realize your memories are slipping away. You concentrate your will to bring them back. "We're a secret group… you could call us occultists." Your eye keeps being drawn to the cigarette hanging from her red lips. The brain you are occupying is reacting strongly to the cigarettes. The cigarette draws your attention like a growling dog or a pin-less grenade would.

"We're exploring the power," you stammer, "the power humans can achieve when they escape the tyranny of gender."

She stares at you. "So," she says, the cigarette bouncing but not leaving her mouth, "you're all a bunch of fags."

You're startled by the word and contempt with which it was spoken. You are dumbstruck. And the cigarette still looms in your perceptions.

You decide you have to know what's so alarming about the cigarette. You reach into the perceptions and knowledge native to this body. There is a terrible shock as you see and feel everything around you in a new context. Everything is suddenly a target of hatred: the bedroom, the girl, even you yourself. You feel seeped in rage, rage that has been allowed to ferment, to permeate and contaminate every thought and feeling you have. It's a feeling so terrible that for a split second you look around trying to decide where to put your head if you have to vomit. You want to beat, to torture, to rape. And the cigarettes, you realize with a start, are the tool that lets you beat, torture and rape without fear of being caught. When lit, you know instantly, they will incapacitate anyone nearby except the smoker. They are precious, powerful, unexplainable. Most of all they are scarce: you have no way of getting more and when they're gone you'll be back to being the same desperate, scared piece of shit you were before. And this cunt whore has your cigarettes and is about to waste one.

You force the flow of alien feelings and knowledge to stop. You realize that you have allowed a look of terror to form on your face. The beautiful naked woman in front of you smiles. She draws back her thumb and flame erupts from the top of the lighter. She brings it to her mouth.

"No!" you scream. You turn and grab the first thing you see: a metal lamp on a nightstand. You try to throw it at the woman but halfway to her the cord catches and it falls limp. Yet you see that she has flinched, allowing the flame to go out.

You pause, knowing you are in terrible danger but unsure what to do. Then, with an involuntary yelp, you spin and make a dash for the door. Your legs stumble, confused by contradictory commands, but you manage to stay on your feet. You grab the door and slam it shut as you pass.

You don't have time to think about where you're going, you just run. You can't help but notice how weak your legs are, how small your lung capacity is. You can hear an unhealthy wheeze escaping your mouth. You pant and lines of pain cross your chest.

You cross the hallway then race down the stairs, your hand trailing the banister. Your penis and the wet condom that still clings to it bounces against your stomach as you run.

You run through the living room and into the kitchen. There you grab a large bread knife from the wooden block on the counter. You open the door to a small pantry. There's just enough room for a human body between the door and the shelves. You cram yourself in and shut the door. Your belly and cheek are pressed against the door. Your knife is ready to strike out should the door open.

It takes only a second to realize your mistake. If she wants to find you she'll check this door sooner to later, and when the door opens you'll be forced to act - if you don't she certainly will. You remind yourself that you don't want to stab her - you don't want to kill your body.

You resolve to open the door but fear makes you pause. Has she lit a cigarette yet? How far does its power extend? If you are caught in it will you be able to talk or you will be mute and paralyzed as she mutilates and murders you? Is it even possible to talk sense into her? Is the mind currently occupying that body too diseased and insane to listen to reason? All that mind's knowledge is available to you if you dare try to access it.

"Hey," you hear her voice calling. She is somewhere downstairs, probably in the living room. "There's no point in hiding. Come out."

Slowly you open the door. Carefully you edge around it. Through the kitchen's open doorway you can see her standing near the front door to the apartment. She's still got the cigarette in her mouth and the lighter in one hand. In the other hand she has a screwdriver. She's staring at you.

You look down self-consciously at your body. Compared to the supernaturally-sculpted body you recently occupied you feel frighteningly weak. You could force this body to grow stronger but it would take an hour at best and you would have to eat every scrap of food in the apartment.

She's still watching you as you pad towards the living room. After you walk through the doorway you stop. You call to her, "Look, I just want to switch us back, okay? I don't want either of us to get hurt."

"Okay," she says calmly, "How do we do that?"

"The easiest way is if we have sex again."

"Okay," she says impassively.

You move towards her, but then stop. "Put the cigarette away first, okay?"

"Why should I? You have your crazy fag magic, I have my cigarette. Why should I put away my primary means of self-defense?"

"Look, you have access to my memories and my knowledge. If you search through them you'll see that I don't mean you any harm."

She sneers at you. "Nice try bitch. I know that when I try to access your memories you try to take over."

"It's not me," you plead, "it's my neurons. See… well, we don't really know how it works but I think it's like this: we switched souls but not brains. The soul can retain knowledge but only so long as it concentrates on doing so. Neurons retain knowledge whether you want them to or not."

She stares at you, nothing but anger showing on her face. "Let's get this over with," she spits out.

You take another step and stop. You wonder if this is a trick. Does she have any intention of getting into bed with you or is she just waiting for you to get close enough to be caught in the strange field the cigarette projects when lit?

She stares at you, glowering impatiently.

There's only one way to find out. You carefully let the body's knowledge come in. There's the terrible sense of revulsion again as the fermented hatred descends upon everything. You are swimming in an endless ocean of hatred, fear, loneliness and misery that you have felt so long you rarely even notice it pressing in on you.

You realize with revolting giddiness that you hate everyone. There isn't a single person you meet walking down the street that you wouldn't like to beat to death with your bare hands. Just get them down on the ground and punch them until their skull caves in and their eyes pop out and they drown in their own blood. And women you hate worst of all because you want them so badly and you can't have them.

You try to look at the current situation through your new eyes: Some fag occultist in the body of a hot slut switches bodies with you. Then the fag comes back saying he-she-it wants to switch back with you. Do you let he-she-it do it? First of all, the thought of someone sticking a dick in you makes you sick. Second, she might send your soul to go live in a cockroach or in some mystic void or something. Or do you kill the fag and keep the hot-as-fuck super-strong body? Nobody would ever suspect a hot chick of being a rapist and a murderer. You could get away with so much more. Even if your cigarettes run out you'd have a special edge that would let you continue to kill. Yet you wouldn't have a dick, so you'd need to come up with new ways of degrading and violating the bitches.

Besides, you've always hated your ugly, disgusting body. You'd be glad to be rid of it. No, you'd just say whatever you can to get the fag-bitch to come within roughly 30 ft. of you and then you'd light the thing up and while she's nearly unable to move you'd take her out.

You try to shut off the flow of information, to make the hateful thoughts and tortured feelings go away. You try to reassert your own personality, although you're not quite sure what that personality is anymore. Some of the omnipresent hatred, the desire to be cruel, remains. It feels horrible, yet somehow you feel that it is giving you energy.

"What's wrong?" the woman demands.

"Hold on," you plead, "I don't feel so good. Let me go in the kitchen and get a drink of water." You don't give her a chance to answer, you just turn and walk to the kitchen. You glance back and see she is following you, matching your pace. When the bitch gets close enough she'll light that cigarette, you know it, and there's nothing you can think of to say or do that will make her stop.

You try not to act nervous, try not to let on that you know. You just keep walking as steadily as you can. You enter the kitchen and head to the brushed-steel fridge. You open it and stare inside, listening to soft footfalls moving across the carpet towards you.

One of the few items in the fridge is a berry flavored wine-cooler. Fag drink, of course. You seize it and, hands shaking, twist off the top. You pour as much into your mouth as you can fit, then swallow until your cheeks no longer feel like they're bulging. You shut the fridge door and see the bitch entering the kitchen.

You give her a stupid smile. The smile must have given you away because she flicks the lighter and is bringing it to her mouth. You surge forward as fast as you can and when you are almost in arm's reach you spit out the wine cooler between pursed lips, spraying the lighter and cigarette. The fire goes out.

"Fuck," she yells, her voice cracking.

You try to run past her but she moves too quickly. She tries to grab your arm but misses. Instead she pushes you. Your head hits the wall and everything goes blank. Your vision returns, after what must have been only a split second, and she is coming towards you with her first pulled back, arm muscles bunched. You remember that you still have the knife in your hands and you slash out with it. She stumbles backwards out of the way of the knife. You push yourself off the wall and slash again. She raises a hand to defend herself and the knife blade cuts through her palm. She howls.

You run past her. You dash towards the door but realize it is a mistake. Before you could undo the chain and the deadbolt she would be upon you. Instead you turn and bolt up the stairs as fast as your weak legs will take you. You spare a glance back but don't see her. The wound must have given her pause but you can't imagine she's far behind.

You stumble into the bedroom and slam the door. You jump onto the bed, sliding on the black silk sheets. You grab the pack of cigarettes. Then you scramble off the bed onto your butt and brace your feet against the closed door.

Your wheezing breath is loud in your ears yet you can hear the thumping of someone quickly ascending the stars. Footfalls pound down the hall. "Stop!" you scream, "or I'll destroy your cigarettes."

There is a pause. "Is that supposed to be a threat?" comes a voice from right on the other side of the door.

"Don't try to bluff me bitch," you hiss back, "I've been in your mind. I know how much these things mean to you. They're the most important things in your miserable little life and if you try to come through that door or light that cigarette I'll tear them apart, swallow them."

Another pause. "So what do you want?"

"What I've always wanted, to switch us back. I know you don't want to have sex. It's possible to switch bodies just by touching. I've never tried it before but I might be able to do it. We'd just have to hold hands or something."

"And how do I know you won't reach over and snap my beck as soon as we're back? How do I know you won't send my soul to some mystical void or something?"

"Look in my memories. You'll see I've never killed anyone. You'll see that I don't know how to do anything to anyone's soul but make it switch bodies. Just check."

"No," she says angrily.

"Just check. A little bit of my memories won't destroy you."

"You're a lying cunt."

"Well maybe it would be a good thing if some of me did rub off on you. I've seen enough of your mind to know that you're lonely and miserable and hate yourself. You could be so much happier…" Even as you say it you realize that it won't persuade her. The mind currently in the woman's body hates itself so much that it doesn't want to be happy. It wants to punish itself by stewing in shame and hatred. It has kept its conscience alive just so it can torture itself with the horror of the things it has done.

"Look," you plead, "You don't trust me and I don't trust you, but the current situation isn't working for either of us. There's got to be a way we can switch back. Like…" you try to push aside the desire to hurt her so you can think logically, "…what if one of us is outside and one of us is inside, we do the chain, touch fingertips. Then when we switch back neither of us can hurt the other."

There's a pause and her voice comes through the door. "You better get me dressed. I don't want to get stuck locked outside buck naked."

"Okay," you say, "but don't touch the door while I'm getting dressed. I'll have the cigarettes in my mouth and if anything happens they're toast.

You scoot back from the door and wait, watching the doorknob. It doesn't move and after a second you try to get to your feet. The world seems to be spinning and you sit back down again lest you fall. That cunt must have fucked you up when she slammed your head into the wall.

You half-close your eyes and try to concentrate on your body. You can barely remember how to do this. It seems like it's been years even though you know it's been days at most. You try to picture the swelling in your brain and you command your body to fix it. It's so hard to remember that you pound your thigh in frustration.

Slowly you try to stand. You still feel dizzy but not as badly. Perhaps your meditation was able to do some good or perhaps you just needed to sit for a second. You grab the jeans and put them on, not bothering to put on underwear or remove the condom hanging from your penis.

"You fucked up your hand pretty good," muses the female voice on the other side of the door.

"Yeah," you say, "well, you'll be lucky if you don't get a concussion." You sit on the bed and pull the black t-shirt on over your chest. Then, elbows on your knees, you rest for a second.

She still wants to keep the body she's in. She's just waiting for the right opportunity to attack. And she's got to know there's a good chance you know, so she'll be expecting you to try something.

You look at the cigarettes in your right hand. If only there was some way you could light one. You don't smoke, and as far as you now she has the only lighter. If you could get to the kitchen you could light one on the stove. If this were McGyver you could break open the lightbulb and light the cigarette with an electric spark, but this is the real world and it would never work. You're just grasping at straws now.

"What's taking so long?" she demands.

"Hold the fuck on," you yell, your anger surprising you, "don't fuck with me bitch." You grab the socks and start yanking them on.

You force yourself to calm down and examine the problem at hand: you've got to convince her that she doesn't want to stay in you body. "I have AIDS," you shout, "Do you know that? If you've rifled through my memories at all, you know that."

"Stop lying," she shouts back.

"You really don't know? Then you'd better fucking check. Or don't, if you don't care about dying of AIDS."

"It's not working. You're not going to trick me. If know you have control over your body. I know you used your witch powers to turn yourself into this fine-ass redhead bitch from some wimpy-ass faggot. No way you're going to have AIDS."

"I can tell my body what to do. I can't tell the AIDS virus what to do. But fine, don't believe me, I don't care. It's not like you can stay in my body anyway. I mean, what do you think happens if I walk out this door and you snap my neck? What do you think happened to you, the serial killer?"

You pause and there's no answer, so you continue. "No, really, I want you to tell me what you think is going to happen to your disgusting little mind. Tell me."

There's another pause and the woman's voice speaks. "As long as I don't try to access your memories I'll be fine." She sounds unsure.

You laugh as loudly as you can. "You need to get your facts straight before you do something really stupid. You can't stay in my body. You will be obliterated. If you refuse to access my memories you might last a couple of days at most, but then you'll be gone forever. Do you hear me?"

No answer.

"So yeah," you continue "maybe I'm trying to trick you, or maybe I'm telling the truth. Are you really willing to take that chance? I don't think you are." You grab the shoes and start putting them on.

There's a pause and then she says "well if you're going to become me and I'm going to become you, then why don't you just stab yourself and then I'll eventually turn back into you?"

You lace up the right shoe. The harshness involuntarily leaves your voice. "Because… I'm my soul. I mean… this is all very college-philosophy-class-bullshit, but… I'm not my neurons. I'm my soul, and if I stab the body I'm in right now then my soul is going to wherever souls go after we die, and I'm not ready for that. I mean yeah, I'd rather die then turn into you, but what I'd really prefer is to get back to my body. So just follow along, no tricks, okay?"

"Yes already," she says impatiently, "I already told you I'd do it."

You stand and pull on his leather jacket. "Okay," you say, "open the door."

The door opens and you see the muscular but curvy naked body of the redhead. The sight of it excites you, makes you want to rape and defile her. This bitch hit you and you'd love to teach her a lesson.

"What?" she asks, staring at you.

"Nothing. Just move to the far side of the hall," you motion in the direction opposite the stairs, "I'll go downstairs and leave. Then you come down, put up the chain and open the door. We'll touch fingertips and I'll try to put us in the right bodies."

"Try to? What happens if you fail?"

"Nothing. We stay in the bodies we're in now."

"And what about my cigarettes?"

"What, are you stupid? I'll have them, all except for the one in your mouth right now, and when we switch bodies you'll have them."

After a moment she nods yes and then moves down the hall. You watch her for a second and she stares at you impatiently. You head down the stairs, looking over your shoulder frequently. You go over the plan in your head, tying to think of any way it could go wrong.

When it's done she (he'll be a he then) will be free to run off. The bitch will just get away with fucking with you. Maybe you can slam her fingers in the door, trap her. When you switch bodies you'll have the only lighter, so she can't use her cigarettes. She will have a knife though. When you're back in the female body some little wimp with a kitchen knife will be no match for you. You'll crush the bitch's fingers in the door and while she's paralyzed with pain you'll open the door, kick the knife out of her hands and drag her inside. And then you'll fucking make her hurt.

No, you won't do that. That's not you. You are not a cruel person. If you do anything it will be to remove a serial killer from the streets.

You undo the locks and exit the apartment. You close the door behind you. You're in a concrete walled hallway with stairs at one end and an elevator at the other. This was some sort of industrial building before downtown got gentrified and this place was converted to luxury apartments. For a moment you wonder how you can afford to live here. Then you remember the rich businessman and the pictures you have of him. You've blackmailed him into giving you his mistress' apartment. It is disturbing how faint these memories are.

You hear her moving the chain and the door opens. "Okay, go for it," is spat through the door. You see her fingers peeking through the crack. You push your fingers in, touching her palm. You close your eyes and concentrate.

Several seconds later she says "well?"

"I can't… too much of me has slipped away. I'm not as good as I was before. Look… if you were to help, maybe together we could do this. You'd have to open yourself up to my knowledge."

"Fat chance."

"No, look. If we do this then it won't matter if you start slipping into me because we'll be back where we belong. Our souls will match our brains and we'll both go back to normal. So just look inside yourself and try to remember how to switch bodies. Your soul isn't as strong as mine so you won't be able to do it on your own but maybe you can help."

"My soul isn't strong?" she seethes.

"It's not an insult. It's just… I've undergone mystical experiences that have strengthened my soul, that's how I'm able to do the stuff I do."

"Okay, whatever, let's try this again."

You touch fingers, concentrate, nothing happens.

"Okay," you say, "let me in."

"I'm not letting you put your dick inside me."

"I don't need to do that. I just need to have a strong orgasm. Let me in, I'll figure something out."

The door shuts. You hear the chain being undone. You step back, suddenly more sure of yourself than you are used to. The doorknob turns. You rush forward and slam into the door with your foot. She's strong but you have enough momentum to cause the door to slam into her face and knock her backwards. You tumble into the room as she's falling backwards. As soon as her head hits the carpet you stomp at it. She gets a hand between you and her face but not fast enough. Your foot drives her hand into her face and you hear a crunch. She makes a pained bleating noise. She pushes your foot away and you let your knee buckle so that you're not catapulted over.

You fall to a crouch, your knees touching your chest, somehow you have managed to keep a hold of the knife in your one hand and the crumpled cigarettes in the other. You see that her lighter has fallen to the floor. She rolls over and grabs for it. You stab towards it with your bread knife and she yanks her hand back. The knife glances off the lighter and the tip is buried in the carpet. You let go of the knife and grab the lighter. Then you're pushing yourself to your feet and sprinting for the kitchen. You look back and see she is getting up, blood streaming from her face.

In the kitchen you open a cabinet over a counter. You grab a coffee mug and spin. She's coming through the doorway and you hurl the mug. She ducks. You put one of the cigarettes in your hand into your mouth, dropping the rest. You grab and hurl another mug, not bothering to look and see the result. Then you put the lighter to the cigarette and flick it.

"No!" she screams and launches herself towards you. You inhale the flame into the cigarette and the tobacco begins to burn. She slows down and as smoke fills your lungs she is floating slowly through the air. Her face moves slowly, muscles pulling to create a look of terror. You punch her in the back of the neck.

As she falls you tear up some dish towels and tie her up with them. Then you snuff out the cigarette on the counter. You don't want to use any more than you have to. You are full of affection for these strange little things. You almost call up the memory of how you got them, but you just barely catch yourself. She struggles but you've tied her well.

You drag her in to the living room and put her on the couch. "Look, we're just going to do this, okay?" She doesn't answer. "I've got to know. These cigarettes, where did you get them?" She glares at you. You yank her hair. "Tell me you bitch!"

"Found them," she spits, spraying blood on the couch.

"You just found them?" you demand incredulously. "You're just some random fucking loser who fantasizes about raping and killing women and you just happen to come across a pack of magic cigarettes and you think 'well good, I can start killing people now? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" She only glares.

"Whatever," you say, "let's just switch back." You look down at her. You don't want to be tied up when you switch bodies. You get the bread knife and put it to the strips of cloth tying her wrist. "Now listen bitch," you say, "I'm going to weaken these a little, so that I can get out of them when I switch back, but if I see you tense a single fucking muscle like you're going to try to get out of it I'll seriously fuck you up. You understand bitch?" She says nothing. You punch her in the back of the head. "Say yes!"

"Yes," she spits.

"Okay. Now I'm going to throw this knife away at the last second. You won't have time to do anything before we switch bodies so don't even try. When you get you body back I suggest you run. You've got at best half a second before I rip through these rags and come at you to tear you in half. Trust me, I'm a lot better at using that body than you are. You stick around to try anything funny and I'll fucking pull your fingers off one by one with my bare hands. You got me?"

"Yes," she glares.

You pace around her. You're going to need to have a strong orgasm if this is going to work. A strong orgasm loosens the physical world's bonds on your soul. Masturbating wouldn't do it, the orgasm wouldn't be nearly strong enough. Usually you're with someone who's enjoying you and you're enjoying them and you're sharing pleasure together, but that's not going to work here. There's another way to achieve a strong orgasm, although you've been trying to block it and deny it you realize now it may be your only choice. This thing you've become, this part-serial-killer part-androgyne, it gets off on raping and hurting. It doesn't want to like this cunt, or to give her pleasure or to have her consent. It wants to hurt her and defile her, and to do it against her will. You're getting hard just thinking about it. The part of you who is an androgye, who believes in equality and in sex as an expression of our right to pleasure, it's sickened by the idea. But sickened is good. Sickened turns you on. Sickened will make the orgasm strong enough to break down the barriers of this reality.

"Okay bitch," you say, unzipping your pants, "this is going to fucking hurt."

And then you're inside her. And you're hitting her and yanking on her hair and calling her names. You menace her with a knife. You think to yourself "I'm a sick fuck. I'm a pervert. I'm a monster." All the disgust for yourself, all the hatred you feel for the world, it all fuels the fire of the coming orgasm. It's going to be a good one.

And you don't want to stop being able to do this. All this anger and hatred pouring out into the sex act, it feels so good. You hate this cunt, just like you hate all cunts, and you want to hurt her and destroy her. So instead of switching bodies with her you slit her throat. And you stab her and stab her until the knife blade breaks off inside her. You have an orgasm and you've never felt more alive.


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