tagGay MaleBorrowing His Body

Borrowing His Body


Note: This is my first attempt at erotic, fiction writing, or any fiction writing for that matter. Hope you enjoy the read! More to come with this story...



The clock read 8:47.

What the hell, I thought. It was Sunday, or at least I was fairly sure it was Sunday, and someone was fumbling around my room in the semi-dark of the early morning. Before I could even start to think who was in my room, normally kept locked, an unforgiving blast of sunlight interrupted my barely coherent thoughts and I cursed.

"Fuck! Close the goddamn blinds!"

"Devlin! I will not have you speaking to me like that! Now I wouldn't have to do this if you'd just set your alarm. You know we have church at nine!"

Well shit. This was a fucked up dream. Several things were seriously wrong with it. For one, my name isn't Devlin. It's Jake. And although I had no idea who the fuck this miffed, prissy lady was yelling at me, the mentioning of church was so strange that I couldn't even register her. So I rolled over and squeezed my eyes shut figuring I'd wake up in a few dream-minutes totally freaked out.

The lady didn't leave.

"Don't pretend not to hear me," she shouted grabbing the pillow I had just yanked over my head. "I want you ready and down stairs in five minutes, mister!" The door slammed. Eyes squeezed tight, I listened as the clacking sound of her shoes faded from earshot.

I sat up, only to find I wasn't in my room. And, at this point I kind of started freaking out. It was Sunday, nearly nine o'clock in the morning and I had no idea where I was or what was going on. So yeah, I'd been drinking last night, but it couldn't have been that much. It definitely couldn't have been that much.

There was no way.

I dragged my ass out of bed and over to an average-sized mirror hanging above the squat dresser of the strange room I had landed myself in, and...holy shit. Let's just say it wasn't my own smiling face staring back.

Definitely not a dream.



My family had a long history of mildly successful and seemingly unexciting subsistence. The only thing worth further examination would be the insistence of several eccentric relatives -- those relatives incontrovertibly deemed "apeshit crazy" by the rest of the family -- on the occurrences of several highly unexplainable events. Very few of my relatives would tell these unusual stories: my second cousin Barry had a few crazy ones, and so did Uncle Stew, but my favorite case study in this intriguing matter was my paternal grandfather. He was most adamant about his tales, and whereas others admitted to have been drunk or otherwise intoxicated when real oddities presented themselves, he was stone cold sober and entirely serious.

Back when he was still alive, he laid claim to many strange stories, such as having awoken one morning to find himself locked in a garden shed, and not even his own: the garden shed of a stranger who lived half a mile from his home. This was apparently the least peculiar of the inexplicable events he had experienced, for it was the only one he had been apt to share with non-family members. As his favorite grandson (lucky me), he would tell me how he once dreamt he was trapped in the body of a cat, that he was a cat, and that when he woke up he realized it wasn't a dream at all. I was younger when he first told me. Obviously being far more impressionable at the time, I believed every word, and it didn't help that for years my grandmother would do nothing but encourage him and corroborate his every word.

"Yes I remember that day, Harold. It was the day you went missing. Devvy, I searched for him the whole day, and you wouldn't believe it, there wasn't the slightest trace of him. And the whole time our cat Chubs, usually a quiet little critter, was following me around mewling and crying at me. Just the strangest thing, it was. Next morning I woke up with your grandfather back in bed saying he spent the day as our kitty cat!" She'd chime in when he told his stories, lending credibility, amusing me with her singsong and tuneful voice. She had an explanation for everything, this and several other similar disappearance stories, and I believed it all. My imagination was a lot freer then, and it just seemed so funny.

My grandmother died when I was ten, and it was pretty rough. My grandparents were dear to me, as my parents made sure to make them a part of my young life -- especially since my mother's parents had passed long before I was born. In the last years of my grandfather's life he was put into a home; my parents arranged it, seeing as we were closest to him. He was floundering without my gran and he seemed to grow more hare-brained without his partner, his anchor: the one person who believed his tales without question or hesitation of doubt. My father, forever the cynic, was embarrassed or worried, I suppose, and though my grandfather seemed perfectly lucid, and mostly sane save the stories, my father had him examined by a psychiatrist and prescribed something. I think that might've been the last nail in the coffin, because after that my grandfather grew cold and laconic. He wasn't the same, and he died only six short months later.

After my grandfather's passing, I thought I was done with the sort of things that had made my dad's jaw clench and brow sweat at their mere mentioning. Of course I wasn't. When I was fourteen, my dad went missing for an entire weekend. It was strange on several levels -- he wasn't particularly mad at my mom, my little sister, or me, so it was unlikely he stormed off as he sometimes did -- but mostly because he had left everything at home. Phone, wallet, car, keys: everything. After two days the police found him two counties west of us, almost fifty miles from home. He was bare-foot, in his pajamas, and unkempt, as I'd never seen him before. The only reason they even found him was because he had finally scrounged up enough change to use a pay phone and make a call home.

Now this seemed to me a curiously similar incident to the ones in the stories my granddad would spew at us, what with the inexplicable distance jumping overnight, but when questioned my father refused to address the matter. After that weekend he would simply refer to it as the "goddamn time he was forced to beg for change like a hobo." Apparently it wasn't too fun, yet it was all too suspicious to me. I began to wonder what exactly this familial aberration was.

Several family reunions later, I had gathered that anyone with outlandish, basically impossible stories to tell, those akin to my granddad's and my dad's, all happened to be of paternal relation. Given my quarries were usually inebriated when I attempted to extricate from them further details of their disappearance stories, I only managed to conclude that something bizarre was happening to male family members on my dad's side when they were in a state of rest, semi or unconsciousness.

In any event, by the time I reached the last years of high school I was obsessed with my genealogical background. I don't know if my love for history grew out of my obsession or vice versa, but I found myself feverishly researching my personal history, talking to my oldest relatives, trying to scratch up any stray detail or story about these mysterious happenings, wondering and half hoping something unbelievable would happen to me.

I couldn't have hoped for anything worse.

On Sunday, the thirtieth of January 2012 -- the crisp morning of a lovely day at the start of the second semester of my fantastic final year of high school, my eighteenth year -- I, Devlin Patterson, awoke to find myself not quite myself: sprawled out naked, with a bit of a headache in a room that smelled vaguely of marijuana and old pizza. As soon as I felt my shoulder, which was sore for some reason, I knew I wasn't myself at all, for what was normally slender and a bit bony was solid and bulky and ripped and...definitely not my shoulder. Oh god.



Goddammit, goddammit. Shit, shit, fucking shit...

There was a stream of profanities running through my head, and that's what I remember most clearly. After staring at not my own reflection in the mirror and realizing the floppy hair and cute pointed chin that belonged to it also belonged to one of my classmates, Devlin Patterson, I was interrupted by a little girl who barged into not my room and yelled at me to get some clothes on.

"Dev, Mom's going to kill you! We're already late!" she said.

So this was apparently his (my?) sister. I just stood there looking incredibly dumb as she glared and swished out the door. Jumping back into reality, I panicked and starting rifling through his dresser. I grabbed a pair of jeans from the second one I checked, threw them on, then continued checking before realizing the kid didn't keep any of his shirts in there. I stumbled to the closet, tripping as I tried to steer the kid's gangly legs, ripped a shirt off a hanger and threw it on. I was out the door and down the stairs in the next minute only to find his mother at the door in a beige pantsuit, his father dressed in slacks, and his sister in the nauseatingly pink skirt I failed to notice before and...I definitely wasn't dressed for the occasion.

Devlin Patterson's father (Mr. Patterson? his dad? my dad?) just gave this tired sigh, and his mother jabbed her hand into her side and scoffed. "Normally I'd march your sorry ass right back upstairs to change, but seeing as we're already late," she said with a pointed look that poured out disapproval and screamed extra chores for a week. All I could do was stand there. I had nothing to say. They'd definitely notice I wasn't their son if I spoke up.

"Let's just get in the car, Maryanne, and maybe we won't miss the sermon," said Mr. Patterson as he heaved open the door.

So, I ended up going to church for the first time in six years: a nice Sunday morning family outing with the properly dressed Patterson's. The service was long, and the church was kind of stuffy, but it gave me time to think, well at least when I wasn't suffering from frequent bursts of sweaty panic and anxiety.

When we returned home I was awkward, and I couldn't really say anything. I was so nervous they'd know something was wrong, and there was no doubt they'd think their son was suddenly mentally unsound if I tried to tell them I wasn't their son. After a few noncommittal noises in vague agreement to what Devlin's parents told me they planned for the day I ran upstairs and locked myself in the kid's room.

I needed to talk to Devlin, or what I assumed would be Devlin somehow ironically trapped in my body.



I was a good kid, to say the least. I rarely argued with my parents, always did my homework and earned excellent marks in all my classes. I got along reasonably well with my "tween," twelve-year-old sister, did all of my chores, and took great care in tending to my cat, Evelyn. I went to church without ever voicing my dissenting opinions of the institution. I was gay and had known it for some time, but remained hung up in the closet at home and never caused any trouble, i.e. my parents still didn't know even if all my friends did. I was meticulous, studious, and the furthest from disputatious you could possibly get. By all standards: I was a good kid.

Why then, was I cruelly and extemporaneously hurled from my own beloved body into the body -- albeit a toned and absolutely beautiful body -- belonging to one of the biggest problems I had in high school? The body of my persecutor, the hotshot jock, Jake Currant, one of the three or four guys who made a hobby of hassling me, some of my friends, and any of the other, for lack of a more pejorative term, "effeminate" guys at my school. The body that I lusted after for three years, unbeknownst to him and despite how much of a douche he was.

Even if Jake wasn't the main perpetrator, he certainly never dissociated himself with the assholes that picked on me, and he was frequently present and totally capable of preventing things. In my mind he was equally culpable, and having an unavoidable crush on the guy really didn't help the situation.

In the back of my mind, I must have instantly known what was going on, but first I tried to talk myself into thinking it was a dream, a fantasy really, in which I'd become the object of my desire because I simply couldn't stop thinking about him. Nevertheless, my analytic mind, one often plagued by fanciful thoughts of a clandestine family gift, latent and lurking, instantly snapped to the conclusion: it'd happened. What I'd been waiting for had happened. I finally experienced the freak "Patterson" happenstance and found myself in some unknown location or in the wrong body, and in my case both. I went to sleep last night after finishing that chapter of The Hunger Games and jacking off to some fantasy I'd concocted involving several hot jocks from my school. I woke up in the body of one of those guys: the guy.

So there I was, in this guy's room. As I began to stir I realized how much I felt like shit. I seemed to have ended up in the bed I was in, in the state I was in, after a wholly unceremonious strip-down and an equally ungraceful face-plant. I pushed myself onto my arms, flipped over, and both my head and stomach lurched at the movement. I moaned.

The sound that came out of me was insanely erotic. It was the sound I'd been imagining for far too long, but real and sexy as hell and bizarrely resonating in my own chest. Ignoring the upset state my body was in -- most likely a hangover, knowing this guy's drinking habits -- I began to run Jake's hands over his body. Damn, I was toned...or he was toned. Regardless, the body I inhabited was smooth, tan, and all muscle, rippling with lean strips of it. I briefly thought how peculiar it was that I was so instantly hard just by feeling the body I recognized as my own, but quickly discarded the thought seeing as this was probably the only opportunity I'd ever have to touch this amazing body, whether I was housed in it or not.

So I did what any hormone-crazed, lusty gay teen would do presented with the current circumstance: I slid my hand down those sculpted abs and grabbed Jake's swollen cock. My god, his dick had to be at least an inch longer and thicker than mine. And it was veiny and purplish in hue and leaking pre-cum simply because I was so excited to actually wrap my fingers around it, even if my fingers weren't actually mine.

So there I was, sprawled out, stroking this hard body, running one hand up and down his abs and chest, worshipping the muscles, stroking the other up and down Jake Currant's gorgeous cock. The feel of it was just too much, and I think I was harder than ever, wild with lust. I was really jerking his cock hard. My grip was stronger than I'd ever experienced, and I really had this insane torque to jerk his cock fast. Really fast, and hard. I felt a familiar tingling in my balls, well Jake's balls, and his lower abdominals clenched of their own accord. It wasn't long before I was cumming all over Jake's hard stomach and smooth chest. I came a ridiculous amount in a ridiculously short amount of time.

Let's just say I liked this body swap already. Sure beat trading places with a cat for the day.


After coming down from an insane, out-of-body orgasm, I cleaned up with the conveniently located roll of paper towels I found at the side of his bed and for the first time really took in my surroundings. This guy's room was a catastrophe, a deplorable state of affairs. The clock read 10:27 and seeing as I wasn't yet interrupted or rudely awoken I figured Sundays were pretty lazy at the Currant residence -- after all, whenever I'd seen them, the Currants, they didn't really seem the churchgoer type.

I crawled out of bed and began searching for clean clothes, as there were plenty of dirty ones strewn about the floor or heaped in piles and hampers. While it was no mystery where the faint odor of sweaty gym socks came from, the smell of old pizza continued accosting me, wafting from an as of yet undetermined location. I finally found a basket of rumpled shorts and tees that at first appeared to be almost as sullied as the other garments in the room, notwithstanding the fresh linen scent still lingering on the fabric, indicating relative cleanliness. So I threw on some athletic gear, figuring I might as well try to look and act the part of gorgeous, hunky jock.

Maneuvering through the obstacle course of Jake's room, I made it to the door, which I found was locked. Noting relief and thinking I should start locking my own bedroom, I turned the lock, then the doorknob, and stepped into the dead silent hall.

Realizing I really needed to pee but having no idea where their bathroom was, I stumbled down the hall until I found an open door on the left. I leaned in and flicked the light on the wall. It was a workout room, a really nice one, but I needed a bathroom, so after flicking off the switch I quickly turned out of the doorway...

"Umph! Hey, watch where you're going there, sport, almost knocked me over the railing!" A balding and slightly pudgy, middle-aged man gripped the railing. Still getting used to the powerful new body, there was probably far more force in that turn than intended.

"I...uh...sorry Dad..." I muttered.

"Eh, no biggy, my fault for trying to sneak up on you. What are you checking for in there anyway?"

Thinking quickly I went for the dazed teenager who just woke up bit and groggily mumble, "Um...thought it was...the bathroom...heh...whoops..."

"Right...how much did you and your friends drink last night?"

Shit. This guy knew I was hungover. "Um...I didn't?"

Jake's father bursts out laughing. "Jake, I told you, even if your mother isn't, I'm okay with you having a little fun, so long as you do it safely, and you don't get yourself caught, ha. Your friend Christina dropped you off last night, and I saw her haul your ass to the door, so I take it you got yourself a good designated driver. Now get your ass to the toilet before you piss yourself."

Apparently I had been leaning funny or something, because Mr. Currant must've realized I was on the verge of peeing where I stood. I dashed, a little overzealous, to the next open door down the hall to find the bathroom -- thank God -- and I quickly shut the door. Close call. At least now I knew Jake's dad wasn't so bad.



So I didn't have this kid's number. I made a point of not associating with him, and not just because my buddies made his life a living hell. We weren't as horrible as we used to be now that schools had started cracking down on "bullies" -- in freshman year Devlin spent at least a dozen or so minutes a week trapped in his locker -- but Devlin didn't really deserve any of it, and I didn't really want any part of it.

It wasn't like I had a choice though. If I stood up for the kid, my friends would most likely turn on me, and though I couldn't be sure they would, I really couldn't risk sympathizing with "fags." It's part of this macho, jock image I was forced to keep up. I shouldn't complain. I wasn't a victim, after all. It was just hard to fake something for so many years, especially when I sympathized with Devlin.

About that...I guess I better explain it now before things get more messed up. At the beginning of my sophomore year I started to get strange feelings for guys, and not really the guys I butted heads with on the field. I was into the charming, nerdy guys who usually avoided me, the guys my friends and I picked on. I wasn't sure what was wrong with me, so I ran from the feelings and started dating girls the same year.

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byerotic_synchronicity© 29 comments/ 85596 views/ 121 favorites

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