Escort (Patreon)

[body swap, muscle theft, humiliation]

Roy picks me up in a wood-sided stationwagon with a busted headlight and a major dent in the passenger side door. The twisted metal loudly screeches as I open the door. I can tell Roy is savoring the shocked look on my face. I’ve been in his garage, where he’s got a Mercedes AND a Bentley. He went out of his way to buy this clunker just so we could be seen in it on our night together.

Roy’s wearing so much cologne that my eye stings when I get in the car. He leans over to give me a kiss, his snow white beard unkempt and scratchy. (Again, this is intentional; when he needs a shave and a haircut, a barber comes to his house. His name is Clive and he’s been on Roy’s payroll for thirty years.) He tongues my ear, tweaks my nipples.

I’ve got my shirt unbuttoned to my navel as he requested. He tries to pinch my abs, grinning when I flex them to make the task harder. He kisses me deep, squashing my head against the seat’s torn leather.

It’s still light out. He chose to meet me at a busy street corner because he was hoping for the crowd the forms, gawking at us. We look like a grandpa and his dumb jock grandson. Roy has no illusions about this. He’s wearing a thick cableknit sweater to complete that image. He wants us to look ridiculous. Humiliation is his kink. As his escort, I’ve agreed to all of this ahead of time.

Admittedly, the first time he hired me I didn’t realize what he was saying when he made the offer. I thought he was speaking in metaphor. See, Roy’s not into BEING humiliated for being a silly old man. Roy can swap our bodies, and when he hires me, he puts me in his portly 70-year old frame while he walks around in as lean, muscular 25 year old me.

He’s not my favorite client. However, I have gotten out of a mountain of debt thanks to him.

The restaurant we go to is called Sootfish. He tips the valet a crumpled single as he hands him they keys: “Take good care of her, will you?” He knows that later on, I’ll be the one who has to face him.

The host’s eyes twinkle a bit as I approach. I have no illusions about my effect on men. If I weren’t with Roy, I would probably have hit on him. I see Roy studying me studying the host as we approach. I know he’s making a note for later. That’s how his brain works.

“Table for two,” Roy says, grabbing my hand and holding it up, giving it a kiss. He waits for the host’s moment of surprise, then he winks at me. At the table, he starts gorging on bread. I want to tell him to slow down; I’ll be carrying that around in my stomach later.

“That host,” he says, taking a large swig of wine. He smears butter on the bread. Dairy makes him farty. “Did you think he was cute?”

I smile and lean forward. “I didn’t even notice,” I say with a smile. I know the role he wants me to play. I also know he likes a little challenge.

“In ten minutes I want you to go hit on him,” Roy says. He’s got butter in his moustache. I’m not sure if he realizes that or not.

“Deal,” I agree.

“How do you like the cologne I picked for you?” he asks. It had arrived at my door that morning, along with a shell necklace I scoffed at initially.

“I love it,” I say with a grin.

“Do you like mine?” he says with a wink. It’s coming off him in a strong cloud. Mind you, Roy’s retired but he’s still on the board of the two companies he built from the ground up. He’s not the befuddled old man he wants people to think he is when we’re together–rather, when I’m him.

The waiter was approaching when it happened again. I felt the tingle behind my eyes, felt like I was floating, then a moment of nausea as I realized I was on the other side of the table. I could feel the aches in my joints, the gurgling in my stomach. My vision was cloudy.

I was looking at my own face across from me, saddled with a paunch and a very scratchy beard. The young man finishes taking Roy’s order–or, I guess, MY order–and turns to me. I stutter when I speak, still shocked to hear Roy’s scratchy voice from my throat.

“Uh, burger, rare,” I say. Roy clucks his tongue, shakes his head. He’s so confident in my body. He looks down on everyone. I wonder if that’s how he thinks someone like me is.

“Gramps,” he says, leaning forward. “You just repeated my order. You wanted the salmon, remember?”

I nod. “Yes, sorry, I… I forgot. Slipped my mind.” I look like a silly old man. The waiter looks at me with a look of patronizing kindness.

“We have a very nice stewed tomato side dish,” he offers.

“Great,” the young stud I’m with says. “The softer the better. He’s always forgetting to chew, keeps him up all night with cramps.”

I sigh as the waiter walks away. The sweater is too heavy; I’m damp under my armpits, Roy’s B.O. gathering strength around me. I sip some water, hoping it will calm the rumblings in my belly. A loud, squeaking fart slips out despite my best effort.

“Well, gramps,” he says, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. “Ten minutes is up.” I realize it’s time to make good on my agreement. As I stand, I notice the host has already gotten off work. He’s seated at the bar alone. I know this will make my advances seem even more seedy. Roy knows this too.

*

Roy strips off the shirt he asked me to wear as we approach the club. He pokes me in the gut and says, “I think that host was VERY polite to you. Maybe he even had a grandpa fetish?”

He was mortified to talk to me, moreso when I let out a hot, silent fart just as I sat down. I have no idea how Roy saw the whole thing, but he’s been relaying the details ever since it happened.

“‘So, what does a guy your age drink?’” he says, imitating my–HIS–gruff voice. “Honestly, the way you perform my identity is quite insulting. You’re lucky I don’t take it personally.”

I want to retort–I’m allowed to retort, mind you; don’t think that because he’s a paying client that he would be furious for me to snap back–but I’ve suddenly considered something shocking about my identity… about who I am when I don’t have my looks.

“How would you like to be as big as that bouncer?” Roy asks. I’m stunned; questions about “me” are almost always about the elderly man he’s trying to portray me as. This sounds like a legitimate prompt for my honest opinion. I’m not used to this.

The bouncer he was referring to towers over me; my tired eyes come up to his nipple (which is clearly visible through his skin tight “staff” t-shirt). Roy, in my body, is taller, but still a head shorter than the big brute, who seems as wide and thick as a refrigerator. His body is comprised of swollen muscles. It looks like a lot to carry around.

“I… don’t think I would…” I respond. I have no idea how my answer will alter the course of my evening, so I play it safe.

As the line advances, Roy looks down at his (my) physique, running his hands down my obliques, raising his arms to run fingers into my deep armpits. Of course the men around us light up at the show, but Roy seems oblivious to the attention for once, regarding my body the way he would look at a garment he tried on. “You know, you could do so much more with this.” My eyes are still trained on the bouncers thick, veiny arms, but Roy turns my gaze to him with a finger on my chin. “Do you ever think of, you know, bulking up?”

“I was a lot bigger when I was younger,” I say aloud. The two twinks behind us, swaying as they lean against each other for balance, titter at my comment. It looks, to them, as if I’m talking about the way I look now.

“It’s easy to just coast on genetics,” Roy says. It’s a lecture; when he’s not tormenting me, he’s mentoring me. “But when you’re older–and it will sneak up on you–you’ll regret coasting on a pretty face for so long. All this will fade. Who will want you then?”

“By then I’ll be retired,” I say. The two twinks behind me giggle and whisper again.

“What if–” Roy says, and the sadistic tone is back in his voice, “--I swap that bouncer with the homeless guy in the alley over there.” Roy points and I see an old unwashed man lying down, head lolling back and forth. He holds a lighter to a glass pipe he twirls as he smokes. “What a status shift that would be!” he says.

The bouncer is checking IDs, using his big pecs and his broad shoulders to intimidate the twinks behind us. He has no idea what Roy could do with a casual thought. I grab Roy’s hands and drag him into the club.

“You have thirty minutes to get someone to buy you a drink,” Roy shouts over the pounding bass of the house remix vibrating my teeth, “or I’m putting YOU into that homeless man.”

The trickiest thing about Roy is that his threats are only sincere half the time. I scan the club for anyone who might be willing to spot an old man.

I look ridiculous, forty years older than the next oldest man in the bar, and my sweater is soaked by the time I’ve arrived at the bar. I shrug, stripping it off and tossing it aside, running my hands through the coarse white fur covering my sagging upper body. I luck out; a man falling off his stool is willing to buy me a drink because I said I lost my wallet. He can barely open his eyes; there’s no way he has any idea who’s speaking to him, but there were no conditions to Roy’s bet. I can’t find him once I’ve got my drink, but I know Roy well enough to know he’s aware. He never misses anything. (Maybe he pops in and out of people for just long enough to spy on me?)

I turn around and my face hits a rippling abdomen saoked in hot sweat. I look up to a brute bigger than the bouncer; the guy towering over me is wearing tiny leather shorts and a harness. He looks to be about 6’5”, 300 pounds (although my perspective on size is always distorted when I’m Roy).

He reminds me of a roommate I had a few years back. He was always eating eggs, doing dips with chains on his shoulders and sticking needles in his ass. He used to do guy/guy wrestling videos under the name “Musclebull” that always ended with him fucking the guy.

The dude towering over me is at least as big as Musclebull, if not bigger. His sweat tastes exactly the same, too. The pierced nipples and nose ring really complete the “bull” aesthetic.

“Grandpa Polar Bear,” he scoffs. He moves me aside with his groin–literally bulge-bumps me out of the way as he stomps toward the bathroom, fists on his hips. I can’t tell if the crowd is parting for him or if he’s just mowing through them with all the momentum in his huge body.

I see Roy walking in just after him. He glances back at me. We make eye contact. He doesn’t savor the sight of my shirtless 70-year old body surrounded by fit young gay men. This means he has something planned.

I stand, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to come back. When he does, I nearly drop my glass.

I wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the sight of my belt. It’s snapped, still belted but burst on the side because Roy, in my body, has somehow gotten BIGGER. He towers over the crowd, his body swollen with muscle. He still walks with the same cocksure fluidity he always does when he’s me, but now it’s with a hundred extra pounds. It’s like watching a walrus do ballet.

He approaches me and I still can’t believe it’s him. The face (which is one I’m used to seeing in the mirror) is different now, puffed up and blocky. My pants are shredded; Roy’s huge thighs have hulked out of them. He crosses his arms (his pecs bulging ludicrously, obscuring his face as I stare up at him) and says, “The fuck are YOU looking at? Let’s go!”

He grabs my shoulder and yanks me harder than I expect. I’ve got whiplash as my head swings around just as I see a skinny man in an oversized harness scurrying out of the bahtroom holding up giant leather shorts with both of his scrawny hands.

“I’m done,” Roy says. “Let’s go.” I’m eager to go too, but not with this gigantic man! He’s like a new person. We’re outside when I finally realize what’s so terrifying about him now: it’s not that I’m afraid of his newfound size because I know Roy would never hurt me. Rather, when I’m with him, I’m used to looking at myself. All that familiarity is gone. I’m with a bodybuilding giant now, a genetic freak whose narcissistic desires led him to blow his body up to be bigger than everyone else. One glance at the jeans dispels the myth that bodybuilders have little dicks; his pants are about to burst with all the cock stuffed inside.

“I’m not going to fit in there,” Roy says when I pull the station-wagon around. I lean over to scoot the seat back and it happens: dizziness, floating, then I come crashing back to Earth.

I’m heavy… feel slow… god, my clothes are so TIGHT! I’m back in my body, along with Roy’s most recent modification. I stumble on the sidewalk at first; these hefty legs are a lot to deal with. It feels like so many parts of my body are bumping into other parts even when I’m just standing still. How the hell can anyone be this BIG and be okay with it?

“Now THAT is a body that will take you places,” Roy says. He’s done playing the senile old man. Even though he’s shirtless and sweat drenched, he still has the commanding air of a wealthy, powerful man.

“Roy, you can’t…” I catch my tongue. Roy chuckles.

“BIG man thinks he can tell ME what to do all of a sudden, eh?”

“Roy, I’m sorry, it’s just…” I can see the man he stole all this from stumbling out of the club. The big bouncer roughly shoves him. They’re treating him like he’s a tweaker, hallucinating about being someone else. He’s sobbing, confused.

“Your choice,” Roy says as he pulls away. “Fuck him and you’ll both go back to the way you were. But I will take it personally if you reject my gift.”

His last line is chilling. He will be spending all of the time until our next evening together dreaming of scenarios to trap me in. But I run up to the mini-bull and grab his hand.

“Sorry, he’s my boyfriend,” I say. Fuck, my voice RUMBLES out of my chest now. I’ve got all eyes on me now, moreso than ever before. Now, I’m not just a looker–I take up SPACE. My body has a smell to it now, more powerful than the cologne Roy had me wear. I can see the bouncer (who I’m bigger than now–FUCK, my dick twitches at that thought) and the men in line nearby reacting to that scent. Even I’m getting taken in by my pheromones. I feel like I’m in charge just because I AM.

Fuck. I suddenly realize Roy took a few shots while he was me. I would probably be blitzed without all this extra bodyweight.

Mini-bull does what I says, probably because my size and demeanor has made his little dick shoot to attention. “Listen, bud,” I say as I drag him down the street. “We’re going back to my place, all right? We fuck, you go back to normal, got it?”

I can’t help but marvel at the changes in mini-bull. He’s petite, his facial features softer. I know how he feels, suddenly in an unfamiliar body, demoted in the world.

Back at my place, every pump of my load into his ass blows him up like I’m inflating him with cum. I’m relieved with every satisfying clench of my body, both of the tension that had built all night and the fact that I finally felt at home in my body again. We collapse when it’s done and he’s huge again–and I’m me. He actually pulls me close, presses my face between his pecs–damn, it’s nice, and I slurp on his pierced nipples–before rolling over and falling asleep with me tucked under his arm like I’m his teddy bear.

The booze Roy drank as me hits me then, and I’m dozing in the big bull’s pitstink.

When I wake, he’s rifling through my closet. He squeezes into an old sweatsuit I keep around for comfort’s sake. It’s the biggest thing I own and I still hear the fabric pop every time he moves.

“We gotta do this again sometime,” he says as he’s leaving. He says his name is Blaze, but that’s gotta be a nickname or a porn name or something, right? Anyway, Blaze’s dick nearly busts out the front of my strained sweatpants when he talks about swapping sizes again. “God, I never knew how hot it could be to be dominated like that…” he said. “When that bouncer grabbed me…”

That does it; his dick rockets forward, busting through the stressed fabric. I’m never getting my comfy sweats back, I realize. I lend him a hoodie to tie around his waist.

“It’s only hot when you realize it’s not permanent,” I say as I send him out the door. I shower off Roy’s vile cologne–it takes too soap-ups–and get out of the shower to the sound of the doorbell.

There’s a bouquet of roses on my doorstep. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” I worry about taking them into my house, wondering if they’ll turn me to stone or into a frog or something. Then again, if I hurt Roy’s feelings, he may end up doing either, or worse, himself.

As I head back to bed to sleep off my hangover, a thought occurs to me: what if I gave Blaze’s number to Roy? I swat the idea away quickly. Not only would I never do that to the big, mostly innocent, lug, but I’d hate to lose my best worst client.