From Cowboy to Saloon Whore (Patreon)

"So you're saying that," Jack continued in a whisper, forgetting about sitting "properly" and not noticing how his thin, delicate voice slipped into a slight tremble, "that the medallion..."

His voice broke off again when Jack's gaze met his own eyes, which looked so ridiculous on that guilty face and immediately darted away. It still looked so strange and absurd that for a moment Jack's old "act normal, not like some chick" almost escaped his plump lips, something he had said especially often to Mary in the first days after the body swap. But now the words simply got stuck, and he realized that for quite a while now he himself had not been sitting at all "like Mary the courtesan."

He closed his eyes, immediately feeling his long eyelashes, which he had only managed to learn to coat with mascara in the third week after much cursing and struggling, softly brush his cheeks, his breasts sway heavily after the deep breath and the corset, as usual, fucking as usual, squeeze his ribs, keeping him from drawing as much air into his lungs as he wanted, and he froze for a few seconds, trying to assemble everything he had heard into a picture that made at least some sense.

"Okay, one more time," Jack breathed out and opened his eyes. "The medallion is gone?"

Mary, in his body, squeezed the enormous hands between her knees a little tighter, looked somewhere toward the bottle of whiskey and meekly breathed out only:

"Uh huh."

Jack kept looking at her, waiting for anything else to follow, but Mary only pulled her head even farther into his incredibly broad shoulders and began studying her own boots with such concentration that it seemed the other half of the answer might be found right there.

"'Uh huh'?" he finally asked again, and his face twisted at the sound of his own thin voice, which had nearly broken into a squeak. "Mary, do you understand what this means?"

Mary raised her eyes, and the way his own weathered face looked at him so guiltily made Jack want either to turn away or punch his own face, which, considering the current difference in their weight, would have ended just as humiliatingly for him either way.

"I understand," she said quietly.

"No, you don't. If you understood, you wouldn't be sitting there like that and mumbling. You'd tell me where it is, who destroyed it and how we're going to make that bastard put it back together."

"They threw it into a smelting furnace, Jack."

Jack froze. His breasts swayed heavily in the corset again as he sucked in a sharp breath, and his thin voice came out hoarsely:

"Melted down."

He straightened in his chair, spread his legs wide in his high boots and struck the table with his palm hard enough to make the shot glasses clink. A cowboy in a hat at the next table glanced over, but Jack was no longer paying attention.

"Mary. Do you even understand that if they melted it down, we're going to stay like this?"

Despite the loud music and noisy voices, Jack's ringing voice

Despite the loud music and noisy voices, Jack's ringing voice traveled much farther across the saloon than he wanted. Several men at the bar turned around, the pianist faltered for a moment, and the mustached cowboy at the next table gave his cleavage an interested look and smirked.

Jack noticed it, instinctively brought his knees together and immediately spread them again, growing even angrier now, at himself too.

"Keep it down," Mary asked in his former deep voice and carefully reached one enormous hand across the table as if she wanted to cover his fingers, but stopped halfway. "And please sit properly..."

"PROPERLY?!" Jack repeated, rising slightly, so loudly that now the pianist stopped the melody completely and a deathly silence hung over the saloon for a moment.

Jack sat back down, but it was already too late. Every gaze turned toward their table at once, and Jack felt them almost physically, on his flushed face, on his bare shoulders, on his tits, which the corset already shoved on display, and on the nipples that had treacherously slipped out again. A month ago, at a moment like this, he would certainly have jumped up, knocking over his chair, and invited anyone who wanted to give him that look again outside, but now...

"Everything all right, sweetheart?" Tom Hardy, the owner of the saloon, said in a serious and very concerned tone, already out from behind the bar and now wiping his hands on his apron. His gaze slid from Jack's petite, feminine figure to the huge, filthy cowboy, lingered on the holster at his hip, and then the owner's face grew even darker. "This brute isn't hurting you, is he?"

"Everything..." he began and stopped when he noticed Mary across from him desperately signaling with her eyes toward his posture.

Jack lowered his gaze. His legs were spread wide again, his elbow rested on the table, and his long fingers with their neat nails gripped the shot glass so tightly that it was nearly slipping out of his palm.

He slowly placed it on the table, clenched his teeth and forced his knees together.

"Everything's fine, Mr. Hardy," Jack said more quietly now and even tried to stretch his lips into the smile he had spent an entire month practicing on his face while trying to be "Mary" in front of the customers. To his horror, it worked far too well. "Mr. Cole and I just had a little disagreement."

Jack twitched almost imperceptibly at the sound of his own name.

Mary, who was now sitting in Jack Cole's body, hurriedly nodded instead, and she did it so timidly that Tom looked over at the huge, filthy cowboy covered in fresh scrapes and frowned even harder.

"Jack," he said cautiously, "what's got you so quiet today?"

"Tired," Mary answered in a bass voice.

"Yeah," Tom drawled.

Jack closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose for a second, flinching when the long nails touched his eyes.

"Tom, everything's fine. Really. Just pour everyone else a drink on my tab and give us five minutes."

"On your tab?" Tom looked at him in surprise.

Jack realized the mistake at the same time as Mary.

"On his," he quickly corrected himself, pointing one long nail across the table at his own former body.

For several seconds, Tom silently looked from one of them to the other.

"Of course," he finally muttered and slowly walked back to the bar.

Jack waited until the pianist started striking the keys again and the conversations around them gradually muffled whatever was said at their table, then leaned sharply toward Mary.

"See?" he hissed. "We can't even pretend to be each other properly anymore."

Mary guiltily pursed the lips on his bearded face.

"You seemed to manage for a month..."

Jack opened his mouth to object, but the memories from that month, especially the evening and nighttime ones where he rode men's cocks, took them into his mouth and woke up on their chests, explaining all of it to himself by saying that otherwise someone was bound to notice something was wrong, suddenly came flooding back with such clarity that the objection he had prepared disappeared.

Jack slowly closed his mouth.

"Well, shit," he muttered in a completely different tone now.

Mary raised her eyebrows.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Jack."

"I said nothing," he snapped and instinctively pulled the edge of his neckline higher, only now noticing how familiar the movement had become. His fingers adjusted the fabric on their own, exactly the way Mary had shown him back in the first week, after which Jack stared silently at his own hand for several seconds.

Mary was looking too.

"Don't even start," he warned her.

"I'm not starting anything," Mary said, but the corner of the mouth on Jack's bearded face twitched almost imperceptibly.

Jack closed his eyes. He squeezed them shut more tightly, as if that could erase the last month, the hand movement he had just noticed and the expression on his own bearded mug across from him.

"I can't spend the rest of my life as a dumb whore," Jack finished more quietly now, almost under his breath, and immediately grimaced because it came out nothing like he had intended.

Mary stopped smiling.

She slowly straightened in his enormous body, making the chair creak pitifully beneath her, and for the first time in the entire conversation, she looked Jack directly in the eyes.

"As if I'm thrilled by the thought of spending the rest of my life as a stinking brute with a small cock."

Jack stared at her for several seconds without blinking.

"It's a normal size."

Mary arched one thick eyebrow.

"That doesn't sound very convincing coming from a dumb whore."

This time, the corner of Mary's bearded mouth did creep upward.

Jack stared at her, then slowly lowered his eyes to the shot glass and said with as much dignity as it was possible to maintain at all in a burgundy corset and with a red feather above his ear:

"We need to find another medallion."

Mary choked on air, bursting into loud laughter.

"Another one? Do you think they're lying around in every state?" The laughter, hysterical and completely unsuited to his deep voice, escaped Mary so loudly that she hurriedly covered her mouth with one enormous hand. "Sorry. It's just... Jack, I don't understand, what are you suggesting? Ask at Mr. Brown's shop? See if a body swapping medallion got lost somewhere between his ammunition and constipation remedy?"

"Very funny."

Jack was about to add something else, but instead caught himself pursing his lips in a wounded pout. The realization came a second later, and he immediately forced his face back into its old stern expression, although with Mary's plump lips, long eyelashes and cheeks still burning with anger, the result looked more petulant than anything else.

At that moment, the heavy, warm palm of one of the cowboys passing by came down on Jack's fragile shoulder, but he did not even flinch, because after a month such violations of personal boundaries had become normal, considering Mary's work.

Instead, he turned and, without even thinking, stretched his plump lips into a broad smile, the very one he had learned over the last month to use when greeting especially pushy customers, friendly enough not to offend them and empty enough not to promise anything.

"Need something, honey?" flew out of his mouth before Jack had time to realize exactly what he had said and in what tone.

Only after he finished speaking did Jack understand what he had done.

The cowboy with his hand on Jack's shoulder turned out to be a lanky redheaded guy named Billy Haynes, whom Jack had already seen here about four times, and twice he had left Mary, meaning Jack, more than the usual fee for an hour of "work." Billy smiled, clearly taking Jack's smile as an invitation, and leaned a little closer to him.

"I wanted to know if you'd be free a little earlier tonight, gorgeous?"

"I..."

Jack fell silent.

The realization that this was now his life and his body, potentially forever, hit him harder than the news about the medallion.

Not 'until we find it.' Not 'a few more days.' Not 'I just have to endure it and avoid suspicion.'

Forever.

Jack slowly shifted his gaze from the smiling Billy to the hand still resting on his shoulder, then to his own thin fingers with their long, carefully groomed nails resting calmly on the burgundy skirt. The worst part was not even Billy or the question he had just asked, but the fact that only a second ago Jack had answered him completely automatically.

Smiled automatically.

Called him "honey" automatically.

And even the touch of that heavy male hand had not made him flinch.

"Mary?" Billy tilted his head slightly. "What's wrong?"

Jack looked up at him and suddenly discovered that he had absolutely no idea what to say. Before, there had always been a 'later.' Later they would find the medallion. Later he would return to his own body. Later he would be able to forget everything he had been forced to learn over this cursed month.

Now there was no 'later.'

"Not tonight, Billy," he finally said, and only after that did he notice one more unpleasant detail: his voice had come out soft all by itself. "I have... business."

"With him?" Billy nodded at Mary and smirked. "Anything serious?"

Jack had already drawn breath to tell him to go to hell, but Mary suddenly stood up.

The chair slid across the floor with a heavy scrape. Jack Cole's enormous figure loomed over the table, and Billy instantly took his hand off the girl's shoulder.

"She said she's busy," Mary said.

Jack slowly looked up at her.

Over the month, he had heard his own voice coming from someone else many times, but now, for the first time, there was something in it so familiar and at the same time so completely not his anymore that a chill ran down his spine.

Billy raised both hands.

"All right, I get it. What are you so worked up about, Cole?"

He walked away toward the bar, while Mary remained standing for another second, frowning as she watched him go, before awkwardly lowering herself back onto the chair and almost immediately bringing her enormous knees together again.

Jack watched her silently.

"What?" Mary asked.

Jack wanted to snap at her, to say, 'You shouldn't have treated me like some helpless little girl, I can stand up for myself,' and a lot more besides, but instead he looked after Billy, then at his own hands neatly folded in his lap and said quietly:

"Nothing."