Miss Taken Identity - part 1 (Patreon)

He was inside Julia.

The sync was running through their XSync implants. Her breath was at his throat. He could feel his own breath through hers — the doubled inhale, the slight delay, the way her chest rose against his chest and the way his chest pressed back into hers, the loop closing on itself. Mutual proprioception. Real-time merge, a half-second delay.

His hips were doing the slow thing she liked, the one where you held just inside and let her come up to meet you. He could feel her around him — that tight wet grip about an inch and a half in where she always tensed first. He could feel himself inside her from her side of the sync too, the stretch of it, the heat of it, the dull pressure low in her belly that meant she was close. Both of those signals were live. He was running them in parallel. The implant logged the deltas and committed.

Then his side dropped out. His cock — gone. Not soft. Gone. The signal didn't fade, it cut. One frame his hips were working and the next there were no hips, no weight, no the-bed-under-his-knees, no the-cool-of-the-sheet-on-the-top-of-his-foot. Then the other body came in.

Fluorescent light. Hard floor through thin soles. A weight in his chest that pulled forward and down, two soft masses he could feel from the inside as their own small gravity — he hadn't moved yet and they were already moving, the slight independent sway of them as whatever-this-body was caught a breath. There was a band across his back, tight, riding up under the arms. Bra. The cups of it pressing the breasts flat against his ribs. He could feel the underwire on the left side digging a little.

His mouth was being kissed.

Wet, and sure of itself. A tongue, briefly, then gone. The other mouth tasted like cherry-flavored something — gum, candy, one of those. He felt the press of another body against the front of his — hips bumping his hips, and his hips were wrong, they were set wider, they took the contact differently, the bone-on-bone of it was farther out from his centerline than he had any reason to expect. Hair was in his face. Not his hair. Long, heavy, smelling faintly of airplane — that dry recycled-air smell hair gets after six hours in a cabin. It was attached to his scalp. He could feel each strand pulling slightly at the roots when the girl's hand cupped the back of his head to keep the kiss going.

Down low, in his pelvis, there was a weight.

Not the weight of being aroused. He knew that one and this wasn't it. This was the weight of carrying something. A small dense thing that had heft to it, that shifted a fraction of an inch when his body shifted its stance. It was sitting somewhere behind the pubic bone, low, full, the kind of pressure he'd associate with needing to piss except it wasn't bladder, it was further back and further in. He could feel the body holding it in place. The muscles around it were doing a small constant work he hadn't asked them to do. They'd been doing it for hours, maybe. They were tired.

There were panties. He could feel the elastic of them across his hips, riding up on the left. The fabric was damp. Not soaked. Just that warm clinging damp that meant the body had been nervous for a long time and was still nervous. The damp was between his thighs and on the inside crease of his thigh where it met the pelvis. He could feel a single bead of sweat slide down from where the bra band cut into his back, around the side of his ribcage, and stop at the elastic.

The kiss broke.

The girl was grinning at him. She had a smear of gloss across her front teeth. She gave his upper arm a squeeze, friendly, two fingers and a thumb, and he could feel exactly how much fat sat on his upper arm under her fingers, the give of it, the way the muscle underneath was small.

Customs. Arrivals hall. The polished tile floor that always squeaked. There were three other girls clustered loosely around him, all roughly his age, sundresses.

Past them, twenty feet out, was the man.

Pale linen jacket. Sunburn that started below his collar. His hands were folded in front of him at the waist, the left wrist over the right, no watch, the way a person stands who is going to stand like that for as long as it takes. He wasn't looking at the group. He was looking at him. The man's eyes were on the body he was wearing and they had been on it for a while.

And the boots.

Dark green. The hide had that small pebbled texture along the vamp and the deeper ridged pattern up the shaft. Alligator. They were polished to a finish that didn't belong to airport floors.

Down in the pelvis the weight shifted a quarter inch as he took his first uncertain step away from the group, and the muscles that had been holding it gripped tighter without being asked.

The man in the boots didn't move.