Living In Sin free porn video

LIVING IN SIN By Jenny North "I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." - Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ Chapter 1: Blithe Spirit God, I looked good. I gazed longingly at my reflection and gave myself a sexy little pout as I ran my hands sensuously down my body. Three long years it's taken me. All the dieting and exercise, the painful surgeries...but it's all been worth it to finally have the body I deserve. I marveled at the changes to my face, thankful for the vast improvements in medical technology over the years. This used to be a lot harder. Even a hundred years ago I was reduced to stuffing my bodice to recreate the curvy figure I had when I was alive, but now between the hormones and implants it feels almost like it used to. And my vagina...well, it's a fair approximation. I don't miss getting my period, and it's much better than the alternative. In my mind, I can hear my host's protestations getting louder, screaming at me for usurping his body, begging me to stop. They always try to convince me, pleading for the sake of their manhood, their wives or girlfriends, their families, their jobs. As if I cared about any of that. Beauty is its own reward, couldn't they see that? Sometimes I wonder what happens to my hosts after I move on. I imagine it's easier for the women, stuck having to explain why they suddenly decided to quit their jobs and run themselves into debt on a hedonistic spending spree of expensive clothes, jewelry, and surgical nip-and-tuck procedures. I paused to admire myself in the mirror again, my perfect tits on fetching display in my scandalous designer dress as I tossed my hair, setting my diamond earrings to twinkling. This guy was going to have a hard time convincing his family and friends that everything he'd done was just some kind of ill-considered mid-life crisis. I sighed, recollecting my own family. Sometimes I'd think about them and wonder if they were even still out there. It used to be obvious, but the world has changed so much that now when I read in the news another murder/suicide rampage I'm not even sure if it's my brother anymore. Oh, sure, I'd hear about some politician falling from grace or a greedy Wall Street type being indicted and I might get my hopes up that my siblings were behind it, but it's hard to be sure. And these days someone putting on two hundred pounds isn't even noteworthy unless it's a hot little pop star. Though honestly of the lot of them my little sister was the only one that I ever really enjoyed hanging out with, and even she could be a bit much. I enjoyed a good roll in the hay as much as the next girl, but she was absolutely insatiable! I ran my hands over my curves again and admired myself in the mirror. See, that was the problem with my siblings. The six of them left nothing but chaos and destruction in their wake, leaving their hosts dead, imprisoned, or as hollow burnt-out shells of the people they once were. But me? I didn't destroy, I created! I was an artist. I worked tirelessly and thanklessly to bring beauty into the world, taking these crude lumps of clay and remolding them into stunning visions of womanhood. I primped in the mirror as I remembered what this guy looked like when I first moved in. Overweight, unshaven, slovenly...and now just look at him! Venus on her fucking clamshell. Seriously, I am a straight-up miracle worker...I have every right to be proud of my accomplishments! And with this bod I'm sure he'll have no problem finding a sugar daddy to pay off all those bills I racked up. I touched up my lipstick and sensed my host mentally give a despondent whimper as I gave my ample cleavage a little fluff. It made me sad. All my hard work, all the painful and time-consuming procedures and surgeries to remake myself into the goddess I had once been, and the second I leave I bet he'll be whining and crying and trying to undo everything I've done to get his stupid little life back. Pearls before swine. I had only hours left in this body, I could feel it now. After that, I'd be in somebody new, starting all over in some brand-new "fixer upper," so tonight is my big sendoff. There's gonna be drinking, debauchery, and lots and LOTS of sex--I'll be thinking of you, little sis!--but as a thank-you to my host I always try to time my last orgasm to coincide with my departure. It's a nice little denouement for me, but I'd like to think that starting their new lives on a high note might help convince them not to tear down all my hard work. That'd be nice. I sighed and wondered if I'd get a woman next time. Women were easier. * * * * * Chapter 2: Not For Love or Money If you would indulge me for a moment, permit me to ask you a question. Do you expect to live forever? My question isn't philosophical or theological in nature, but rather a pragmatic acknowledgement that--my siblings and I perhaps notwithstanding due to our noncorporeal nature--man's time on Earth is limited. So, given that man is both a material and mortal being, then I would submit that the pursuit of material things is a natural consequence of the human condition, wouldn't you agree? To wit: to accumulate material things is to acknowledge the impermanence of man's tenure and remind us how precious and fleeting life is. God, as it were, is in the details. What differentiates me from my siblings is that while they have remained steadfastly focused on their singular desires, I have learned the wisdom of taking a new approach. Oh, certainly they've adapted with the times to take advantage of new technologies and new societal mores, but only as a means to their very specific ends, which they haven't changed in centuries. I, on the other hand, have evolved. When I first began my journey lo those many years ago, I saw the accumulation of material things as an end unto itself. Later, I came to realize that the celebration of the temporal reminded us of the preciousness of life. But as a callow youth, I focused on a singular means to achieve my ends. I am referring, of course, to money. In those early days, my methods were always the same. Upon entering a new host, it would quickly become a mad scramble to amass what fortune I could in the time I was given, accumulating precious artwork and artifacts, material possessions that would symbolize the struggle to hold onto something in a life cursed to impermanence. Looking back, my naivete seems almost childish. My moment of clarity came some decades ago when I found myself in a new host--painfully bourgeois--and I came into possession of a piece of ceramic art depicting the maiden flight of a winged pig. The artwork was unremarkable apart from being quite valuable and utterly hideous. I'd actually purchased it from an estate sale sight unseen, knowing only the artist and the price, caring for it only as in investment. But when I opened the crate and beheld the ceramic swine, I was stunned to realize that I recognized the piece. I had purchased it some years before in a prior host body, and receiving it again struck me with the realization of the never-ending cycle I had embarked upon. I then beheld the other pieces I had collected, wondering when they, too, would be passed back to me in a new host body. In that moment I realized the error of my ways, and recognized that the mere accumulation of material goods was meaningless without the personal connection they created. The man I inhabited would have no appreciation of the items I had diligently acquired, valuable though they might be, and the moment I left him he would have learned nothing except that his children would not be going to college unless he could develop contacts in the art world that would allow him to divest himself of that ceramic pig. (Ironically, the phrase "when pigs fly" leaps to mind.) I decided then that I would become a teacher, and I delved as never before into my hosts' lives, their interests, their secret passions, and it was there I found my footing to climb to greater heights. No more would I merely amass collections or indulge in anything as crass as hording; now I would provide for each of my hosts a personalized experience in my own inimitable fashion. Take for instance the gentleman I now inhabit. Upper middle class, married with two young boys, and a comfortable job at a respectable law firm where his wife also works. Seemingly right up my proverbial alley, though I had misgivings about married men since my methods have been known to lead to expensive divorce settlements, and I have never been one to give away half of my possessions to receive nothing in return! But upon observing the wife's apprehensiveness at losing her social standing, I realized she could well become an ally. I soon discovered that my host's secret passion was transvestism, a fact he had worked assiduously to keep secret from everyone, including his wife. His collection of women's garments was meager, but I recognized this as my opportunity. I immersed myself in the culture and was pleasantly surprised to discover a broad opportunity for commercial expenditure. I'd inhabited women's bodies many times before so I was well familiar with the expense of the clothes, shoes, accessories, and makeup, but now there were an endless number of foundation garments, corsets, wigs, breast forms and such to consider! Yet I was unsatisfied. I'd hardly scratched the surface with the expenditures, and I knew that once I was forced to move on, my self- conscious host might be less than willing to continue his acquisitions once they became too difficult to hide. There was only one thing to do. By the time I "came out" to my host's wife, I'd also discovered some fiscal improprieties she had committed with our mutual employer, so after a few veiled threats I felt secure that my host's dual-income stream would be in no danger from divorce. However, neither she nor my host were prepared for my next proclamation--that I would be starting a regimen of female hormones, post haste! I could hear the cries from both without and within as they each harangued me, but both husband and wife were powerless to change my decision. Several months later, I announced my intent to procure some top of the line breast implants, by which point both parties were utterly resigned to the outcome. The law firm was equally unhappy with my "new life direction" but their progressive nondiscrimination policy left them no choice but to stare in amazement as I swiveled into the office on my brand new Jimmy Choos in a low-cut Givenchy business suit and carrying a matching Hermes purse. I suspect I have at most a few months remaining in this host, but by the time I leave, I will do so secure in the knowledge that he'll be committed to his luxurious new lifestyle. The boys are having a bit of difficulty adapting to having two mommies, but with the aid of a sufficiently trained therapist, I'm certain they'll adjust. It is, after all, only money. * * * * * Chapter 3: Judge, Jury, and Executioner "Has the jury reached a verdict?" "We have, your honor." I grit my teeth. I fucking hate this part. HATE it. Ugh, it was a simple enough plan. Bust in, shoot the place up and take everyone out, blow my own brains out, then move on to the next host. Easy, right? Then, just as I'm ready to kill myself, the fucking gun jams. Can you believe the luck? I told my lawyer I wanted to sue the gun manufacturer for shoddy workmanship, but he didn't think I had a case. He also said I had other things to worry about. "Will the defendant please rise?" I stood up. It's all bullshit, anyway. I can feel myself slipping out of this host, but it just steams my clams when I think of all the months I've been sitting in jail wasting my time when I could have been working. Everyone assumes I just kill for killing's sake, but they don't get me at all. All the other Sins are all about self-interest, but me? I'm about justice. I have to work with what I'm given and fan the flames of my host's indignation so that I can mete out my righteous vengeance. So really, the killing isn't even my fault, because if my host didn't have a beef with anybody, I wouldn't have a target. And you know what? After hundreds of years, I've yet to find anybody like that. Just look at this mousy little thing I'm in right now. Went to a frat party, had a little too much to drink and the guys had some fun with her. She was so scared and embarrassed that she didn't even press charges. So when I landed in here there was no doubt who I'd be going after. Of course when she realized what I was going to do to them I could hear her mewling little protests in the back of my mind, but when I started blowing away those guys away she shut up right quick. Afterwards my hosts always claim it was just the shock and horror of the whole thing that stunned them into silence, but I know in that moment they were probably living it up getting the revenge they were too scared to seek themselves. And then it all gets ruined by a jammed gun. The next thing I know some guys are dogpiling on top of me and with these skinny little arms there wasn't much I could do to stop them. I freaking hate being a woman. "How say you?" Of course, my host might not have that problem for much longer. Unlike the other Sins, my influence is so strong that it manifests long after I'm gone. The buzz cut and tats were as much this little chippie's idea as my own, and I bet she doesn't stop there. She sure as shit won't be wearing hair bows and flowered skirts after living with me this long. As I looked at the jury, I admit I was a little curious how this was going to turn out. Usually my host is dead and I've moved on by this point, so I don't have to put up with all the legal bullshit. But by now I could hear my host's voice getting louder inside my head and I could feel myself starting to get pulled out of her body, so I knew I didn't have long. My shyster thought we had a shot at a temporary insanity plea, which I gotta say was pretty insulting because the "temporary insanity" was ME. I have feelings too, dickwad. Still, I guess it'd be kind of nice for my host if she didn't end up in prison for the rest of her life or with a needle in her arm. "We the jury, on all three counts of murder in the first degree..." Fuck, I could feel myself slipping away! Wait, I want to hear this! "...find the defendant..." Come on, come on... "...Laurie Monaghan..." With that, I felt the familiar rush as I was yanked out of her body and the feeling of disorientation as I landed in somebody new. "Goddamn it!" * * * * * Chapter 4: I'll Have What She's Having Life sucks. I don't just mean me, I mean life in general. And I'm kinda an expert since I've been LOTS of different people over the years, aaaand... it sucks. Every joy you have will be fleeting. Every person you love will die. Oh, and you'll die, too. But the best part? You probably think it's a bad thing. Well, friend, I'm here to tell ya, the alternative is worse. Lots of my hosts have died. Hell, I'm the one to shuffle 'em off their mortal coil, just on the off chance that the powers that be will get confused and take me along for the ride. But no such luck. On to the next poor shmuck where the carousel of suckitude that is my life can spin again. You want to know my beef? It's that I've got it the worst of my whole freaking family, 'cause I have pretty much ALL their problems put together. My brother wants money and stuff? I want money and stuff! My other brother wants to indulge in food and drink? So do I! My sister wants to fuck everything in sight? Get in line, sis! You get the idea. They're lucky since they at least get to chase after their desires, but not me. No, I don't get anything, because I want EVERYTHING. I'm like the mule that starves to death when it's standing between two bales of hay and can't decide which way to go. Yeah, I can indulge one desire, but it's always at the expense of something else! So, sure, I could pig out on those cakes and treats that I saw in the bakery window--assholes, putting them on display to tempt me like that--but then if I do that, I'll pork out and nobody will fuck me, which I ALSO want! But I had a plan. It occurred to me when I was fucking this chick--it might have been my host's wife, honestly I've no idea--and I was thinking how much more she seemed to be enjoying it than me. But here's the thing--I've BEEN a woman, and believe me there have been plenty of times I've been laying on my back lookin' up at the guy and thinkin' how he was obviously enjoying the ride more than I was. So that's when it hit me: what if I had the best of BOTH worlds? Smart, right? It took me a few rolls of the dice to land in a guy that could pull it off, but I settled in and got started right away lining up surgeons and stuff. And the best part was, I knew what guys like, so I knew how to turn myself into the skankiest, sluttiest bimbo trash you can imagine, but with a little extra surprise tucked away in her panties if you get what I mean...and I think you do. What I mean is, I kept the cock, so I'd be a shemale. Was that clear? I think it was clear. So, anyway, I get the tits and ass, big cocksucking lips, the whole "skanky ho" package. I even got a whole new wardrobe to show off the goods. Oh, but get this! I'm talkin' to the doctor before my boob job and telling him how I want even BIGGER tits, and he tells me it'll cost me even MORE! How's that fair? I mean, he's going in there either way...it's not like the extra silicone is going to set him back that much. I actually had to choose between some glitzy new jewelry I saw or getting the bigger tits. I HATE choosing. But I've gotten to be a pretty damn good thief over the years, and a few nights later, I had the jewelry and enough cash to pay for my tits. And that diamond necklace is gonna look freaking sweet snuggled in my cleavage. Of course meanwhile, my host is going on and on in my brain about how I'm ruining his life and how he's going to have to spend the rest of his life looking like a freak, and if they find the jewels I stole he's going away to a men's prison looking like a fuck doll, yada yada yada. On and on, this guy. And I'm like, hey, buddy, I've got problems too! But at least I'm out there trying to improve my situation! So I told him to man up, shut up, and tell me if the zebra print push-up bra made us look desperate and tacky. But was he any help? Of course not. I gotta do everything myself! Okay, so here's me, all dolled up and hot to trot, right? I'm all tits and lipstick, and down below, I've got a giggle stick that's rarin' to go to the distance. I swear I'm like a little kid on Christmas morning, all set to play with his/her new toys. Pretty soon I find a bar and I'm getting it on with some guy, and it's goin' pretty good as we start to make our way towards his car. And that's when his hand goes south and I guess he came up with a little more than he bargained for. But he TOTALLY overreacted, if you ask me. It makes me sad I can't choose my next host, 'cause I'd totally like to see HIM looking like this with a killer rack and trying to find a casual way to mention to his date that he has a wang. ("Oh, hey, speaking of peeing standing up...") Guess what? You'll spend several lifetimes looking for that kind of a conversational opening. Believe me, I know. Well, anyway, lesson learned there. But did I give up? No! 'Cause after the bruises healed I'm back out there swinging. And I mean that literally, since I'm after both men and women this time. But this time I'm a little more careful to make sure the guy knows what he's getting and by the time we get back to his place we're all over each other. He's groping my tits, I'm grabbing his crotch, and we're goin' at it like a couple of teenagers. Oh, and of course my host is being a complete dick at this point just screamin' in the back of my mind to stop. I mean, like that's gonna happen! Anyway, we get to his bedroom and it's the big moment, right? So I take off my dress. Awesome. I take off my bra and give my melons a little shake. He's lovin' it. Then I pull down my panties so now I'm just in my high heels and my dick is hanging there, and I'm thinkin', "Is he gonna be okay with this?" So he gets real quiet and just looks at me and he's like, "After I fuck you in the ass, I'm gonna blow you like you wouldn't believe." And my cock is like, DOING! So I bounce into bed like a happy puppy and I'm waggin' my ass excitedly, and then--I swear to God, RIGHT THEN--just as he's about to make me the happiest little shemale on earth, that's when I get yanked from that body and dumped into this new shmoe. My fucking luck. God, when I think of my old host back in control of his body and squealing and yelping while that guy reams his ass as his hair is fallin' in his face and his huge tits are hangin' down and wobblin' all over...man, some guys get all the luck. You know what? Fuck it. I'm gettin' back on the horse. This time it'll be perfect. No hesitation this time. Bigger tits, bigger butt, bigger lips...bigger fuckin' everything. Best of both worlds, I tell ya. * * * * * Chapter 5: Worth the Wait If I'm being honest, it really bothers me that nobody really seems to get me. Even my siblings just see me at this disgusting overweight slob with absolutely no self-control. And--yes--okay, I admit that's part of it, but that's not ALL of who I am! I'm not the least bit ashamed to admit that I enjoy indulging myself in the finer things, but here's the thing that nobody seems to appreciate: indulgence requires anticipation. And anticipation means discipline. Like right now, take this woman I'm in. I love being a woman. When I'm a guy and I start to chow down, even if the guy is an Adonis I can get away with eating whatever I want. But a woman? In our beauty-obsessed society if I land in a woman's body more often than not I'll end up in some salad-picker who eats a sliver of dark chocolate and grouses about how naughty she's being. Oh, spare me. I mean, the people I inhabit will complain in the back of my mind constantly once they realize that my gourmet appetites are more 'appetite' than 'gourmet,' but I'd be lying if I didn't detect a subtle whiff of satisfaction from some of the women at the sheer indulgences I was providing them. From their view in the back seat they got to experience all of the pleasure, and since I was the one in the driver's seat, they had no reason to feel guilty. How awesome is that? Now, admittedly once I moved on to my next host I did tend to leave them holding the check, so to speak, but that's not really anybody's fault. I mean, God, you can't blame me for enjoying myself, right? And if my hosts don't like how I leave things, they can hop on a treadmill. What was I talking about, again? Oh, yeah. Anticipation. See, this woman here is a great example, since from the second I landed in her body, I practically cried with joy. A middle-aged divorcee with enough money to easily last my time here, she was thin and attractive and obviously took good care of herself. So as I thumbed through her wardrobe for just the right outfit for my first dinner tonight, my biggest regret was that she had so many sexy outfits and that pretty soon I wouldn't be able to fit into most of them. (And it didn't seem like she had many with elastic waistbands, either. That was a bummer since I didn't much care for clothes shopping.) But tonight, as I slipped into a slinky evening gown and made myself up for a night on the town, I wished my siblings could see me, right at this moment. Because they only knew me from later in the cycle when I'll admit that my insatiable appetites tended to eclipse my table manners. I don't want to be like that, but I can get a wee bit single-minded. Put a flourless chocolate torte in front of me and I forget which fork to use, so sue me. (Actually, I tend to forget that silverware exists. Or napkins. My point is, it's not pretty.) But this...this right here was the moment of anticipation, the quiet breath just before the deep plunge. And I savored every second, knowing what was to come. By the time I arrived at the restaurant, the ravenous hunger was threatening to drive me to distraction, but I smiled politely as the waiter held the chair out for me and I daintily slipped the napkin into my lap. He handed me the menu, and although my hands were starting to tremble, I forced a pleasant smile as I handed it back to him. "You know, I'm feeling a little bit naughty," I told him. "I think I'll start with dessert." As he smiled and went to get the dessert cart, I reached for my fork. But by the time he wheeled it over, I knew I wouldn't be needing one. * * * * * Chapter 6: Slut Shaming I swear to God, if you call me a slut, I will fucking cut you. Sorry, I'm just having a shitty day. Being on the rag is one of my least favorite things to begin with, but being horny--which, incidentally, is all the time with me--at the same time is a total bitch. And just try to find some guy willing to go down there at that time of the month! If I found one I'd marry him, if I were the marrying kind. Though I gotta say, maybe it's just my personal preference, but I do tend to enjoy sex more as a woman than I do as a man. (And no, it's not just because of the multiple orgasms, although they are pretty awesome.) Both sides have their charms and an orgasm is an orgasm, but when a guy knows what he's doing, sex as a chick can be pretty mind-blowing. In fact, my secret fantasy is to fuck myself when I'm both the guy and the girl...I doubt it'll ever happen, but my life is already pretty fucking weird, so who knows? But let's just say that over the years I've learned a LOT of tricks on both sides of the fence, and I'm probably the only one kinky enough to get me. It does grind me though when I run into one of those know-it-all douchebags who's like, "Oh, I'm way more kinky than you." Bitch, please. I've been running around having anonymous sex with people for hundreds of years and I don't even have to stick around to deal with the consequences. Pregnancy? I'll never see that that kid take its first step. STDs? Somebody else's problem, man. Seriously, go to the dictionary and find any terrifying word you can that ends in "-philia," and I was probably the intrepid explorer who found it and named it. Christopher Columbus can kiss my ass, I'm taking credit for bufonophilia, which is an excessive love of motherfucking TOADS. Oh, but hey, buddy, you got a nipple piercing and like to do it doggy style? You wild man, you. I've have committed every sex act you can imagine (and a bunch I guarantee you can't) to everything, as everyone. But you know what? I still love doing it. I am forever chasing after my next orgasm. For a long time I thought that was my curse--and having a perpetual case of blue balls does pretty much suck--but I've come to think of it as my calling. I mean seriously, I wake up every morning excited to go to work, how many people can say that? I love to fuck. And I'll look for ways to zazz it up from time to time. Like this one time, I'm in this guy, and he's nothing special, just a skinny little dweeb, and I'd just gotten off a turn in this woman that was just out of this world. She was wasting her life as a meter maid, and by the time I left she was pulling down a comfy six figures doing porn. I've never seen anybody orgasm so easily. One time, swear to God, I was in a bank talking to a teller about a flexible rate loan and I started getting wet just listening to him. She apparently stuck with the porn thing after I left, so I guess she knew a good thing when she felt it. I shoulda gotten a finder's fee for that one. Anyway, I was stuck in this dweeb's body and got to thinking that being in that last chick was awesome, but I could have done without getting my period. So, long story short, I figured I'd turn him into a chick. Makes sense, right? Woman's body, no periods, right up my alley. But GOD, you wouldn't believe the whining from that guy in my head! You'd think I was turning him into a quadriplegic or something. Women are half the human race, asshole! Well, by the time the dust settled with all the surgeries he looked pretty good and I guess the sex was okay, but the cunt surgery was just such a hassle. I mean, I'm not totally soured on the whole experience or anything, but I had to put up with months of dilating when all I wanted was some guy with a monster dick to ream me out. What a pain. Still, I think the whole sex change idea has merit. Maybe I'll give it a shot again and see if the technology has gotten any better. I mean, if they can come out with a new iPhone every year, I bet by now they've figured out how to make a better pussy. But, until then, I guess I'm back to cruising bars, shooting pornos, and turning tricks. God, I'm such a slut. * * * * * Chapter 7: Slow But Sure Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, here comes Sloth, bringing up the rear again. Well, that's me, what can I say? Because while my uptight, Type-A siblings are all running around bemoaning their situations, I'm content to just hang back and chill. I'm more of a "stop and smell the roses" kinda guy. And my hosts have it easy...who wouldn't want to be on an extended vacation, am I right? Unfortunately it seems like most of the people I wind up inhabiting haven't saved up much money, which kind of sucks because then I have to figure out some way to make ends meet. Lazy buggers. When I'm forced to work, it's easier when I'm a chick since I can usually make some money with phone sex, which, incidentally, I invented. I shit you not, that was totally my idea! Of course it was some other guys that made a ton of money off it since I'm not so good on the follow through...I'm really more of an idea man. Still, the phone sex is less work than scamming people and it's way less hassle than prostitution, which used to be my best option. Unfortunately the online video chats have bit into that market, but unless I luck out and land in a really hot babe, it's too much effort to get all dolled up, to say nothing of having to exercise and keep myself in shape. (*snort* Ha, I kill me!) Oh, but check out this for slick thinking. So I land in this guy here-- no savings, dead-end job--and I'm like, shit, so much for sleeping in during the week. But then it hits me: phone sex! Why not, right? I practiced with my host's voice and I'd gotten it to a pretty husky purr, but unfortunately a lotta guys saw through the scam so I decided to spring for some vocal feminization surgery to tighten up his vocal cords. I think maybe I overshot the mark since now he sounds like an airheaded Barbie, but my customers love it. I just toss on a headset and tell the guy I'm a five foot two inch chick with double D tits wearing a silk nightie, and then just moan and tell him what a big dick he has. How easy is that? Sometimes I can still eat and play video games at the same time. Flippin' genius. And if guys ever want to see my picture I just giggle and send 'em a pic of some nude model or whatever. I'm totally doing this with the next guy I end up in...I may even use the same surgeon. Y'know, that reminds me of something. See, the thing about me is, I'm a thinker, obviously. So while my siblings are scampering around feeding their desires, I take the time to pause and reflect. Well, at least during the commercials or when I'm waiting on the microwave. And what deep conclusions have I reached in my ruminations? We are not alone. Even all those centuries ago when we started, me and my sibs knew some things were hinky. Like how we jump from person to person, but we can't control it. ("Help, I've _Fallen_ and I can't get up!" Ha! What, you're not a Denzel fan? Whatever.) Anyway, even though we don't get to choose our hosts we always somehow end up in people with a personality to suit us. It's like _Quantum Leap_ except there's no "Al" to guide us, so we pretty much just do what comes naturally. Except I think there IS an Al. 'Cause I think I'd remember hearing about a bunch of people screaming about how they were taken over by ghosts or spirits or whatever. It's a big planet, but my family gets around and I gotta believe that some bright light would have put two and two together by now. But you know what? Nada. So I figure somebody's looking out for us, covering our tracks, maybe picking our targets. A little effort and I'll bet I could even track them dow-- Whoa. I wonder if that means there's also a bunch of spirits out there representing the cardinal virtues possessing people? God, I feel sorry for those hosts. Temperance, diligence, chastity? Bleah. It'd be like an even MORE boring and white bread version of the Super Friends. Who'd watch THAT show? Holy shit, that'd be awesome. Not them, but us. Like if we had different teams, or something, like how they have different colors for Green Lanterns nowadays. I would definitely be down with hanging out with the Lust Lantern Corps, y'know what I mean? And even the Wrath Lanterns could be cool. And me, I'd be leading the Sloth Lantern Corps. Well, maybe not "leading," but you get the idea. We wouldn't exactly be a power to be feared, I grant you, but how cool would that be? Dang it, I lost my train of thought again. What was I just talking about? I remember saying it would take a little work. Sloth Lantern Corps, Lust Lanterns, something about the virtuous... Shit, I lost it. Ah, well, couldn't have been too important. Hey, check it out! They're running a _Star Trek_ marathon! Oh man, I'm totally staying in an ordering a pizza. Maybe I'll call and flirt with the guy with my phone sex voice and see if I can score a discount... * * * * * Seven for seven, I hope you enjoyed it! It's fun writing bad guys. :) Plus, there's a bonus chapter! If you'd like a little more, my companion story "The Sin Eater" is included in with this month's Mixed Tape anthology ("Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes: A TG Mixed Tape"), posted here on Fictionmania!