The Displaced Detective, Part 2 - A Body Hopper Tale free porn video

The car's tires squealed in protest as the sedan made a sharp left turn and moved away from the hospital is a speed that was a bit more than the posted limit. "Sorry about that," he said, glancing over at me. "I just want to put some distance between us and anyone who might be coming after us." I gave just the slightest of nods in acknowledgment of his apology, but continued to stare at him. As if waiting for him to say something more. Which, actually, I was. After a few minutes of weaving through the sparse traffic, he navigated the vehicle onto the highway, then glanced back over at me. "What?" he asked. My eyes never left his face. "Care to explain what the hell you meant when you said this body was corrupting my mind?" He shook his head and changed lanes. "Not now, Jack," he said. "Even if the police aren't hunting us yet, the Order definitely is. We need to get someplace safe." He glanced away to look at the road. "I promise to tell you everything once we're not running for our lives. At least, everything I know." I didn't take my eyes off him for a few more seconds, then I sighed loudly. "Fine," I said grudgingly. With my new voice, it sounded more like a protesting whine. "Well, we can't go to my place. That's the first place anyone would look. And something tells me that since the Order grabbed you off the street, they know who you used to be. The investment banker you, I mean." He nodded, his eyes continually flicking up to the rear-view mirror. "Finally, even if we knew who this is," I gestured at myself, more for my benefit than his, "we couldn't go to her house either." "What about an out of the way motel? Or just keep driving until we're several states away?" I shook my head. "Unless you popped by an ATM at the hospital to make a withdrawal, you only have twenty bucks in my wallet. If you try to get cash now, or use my credit cards, it will leave a paper trail leading to us." "Okay. Since you've been nice enough to point out all the places we can't go," he said, finally looking over at me. "Do you have any ideas of where we can hide?" It only took me less than a minute to formulate an answer. "Yes," I said, pointing at an approaching exit sign. "Take this exit and head toward the lakefront. I know a place that is, like, totes perfect." I saw him glance over at me out of the corner of my eye, but I was too focused on getting us off the street to be concerned with whatever it was that was bothering him. "What about them tracking this car? Can they do that?" I shook my head. The sedan was my personal vehicle, registered with the police, but titled in my name. As such, it didn't have the usual GPS devices installed in patrol cars. There was a radio, but it was currently turned off and posed no threat of giving away our position. Shit! "My phone!" I said, turning half in the seat to look at him. "It was in the inside pocket of that jacket. Is it still there?" Not-Me took one hand off the wheel to fish around inside the coat he wore. After a second or two, his hand came out holding my phone. He held it in my direction. "Calling someone who can hide us?" "Nope!" I grabbed the device from him and rolled down the window. Without so much as a "vaya con Dios", I flung the phone into the night air. Hopefully, someone behind us would run over it and turn it into a pile of useless plastic and circuitry. "What the hell was that?" he asked. I rolled the window up, looking over at him with a smirk that felt more sassy than smug. "They could have used that to locate us," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. The sensation of my body's breasts pushing against my forearms was both unnaturally distracting and uncomfortably familiar. "Oh, I thought that was just something from the movies." I rolled my eyes, then pointed at a spot down the street. "At the next light, turn right. About five or six miles down that road, you'll see a sign for Lakewood Estates. That's where we're headed." An incredibly long, fifteen minute drive later, we pulled to a stop in front of a pair of immense wrought-iron gates. "Now what?" the man beside me asked. I shook off the errant thoughts coursing through my mind and turned to see him looking at me with that same uncomfortable expression. "What?" He raised his hand, pointing at me. No. Pointing at my head. Funny enough, it only took a half a heartbeat to realize what had brought him to give me such a concerned look. During the ride, as the adrenaline from our escape wore off, I'd begun to twirl a thick strand of honey gold around and around one finger as I attempted to plan our next move. I hadn't even realized I was doing it, but was unconsciously it provided me with a small level of comfort. However, I was also fully aware that it was something that my former self would never have done. "Fuck!" I said, the word sounding horrible to my ears due to my youthful high-pitched tone. His response was to shrug and gesture at the security keypad next to his window. "I hope you have the code for this thing. Otherwise, we're going to be up the creek without a paddle." Still reeling from the latest slap in the face that I wasn't who I was supposed to be, I glared at him. "Duh! It's 5-8-7-4-2-1-1." He arched a brow, then rolled down his window and input the numbers. A second later, the red light on the front of the panel turned green and the heavy gate before us rolled slowly open. Not-Me pulled forward past the entrance. "At the end of this street, turn right. Then go to the lone house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Number sixty-five-oh-nine." He nodded. "Got it." I tapped my finger against my lip for a moment, then sighed. "You know, I never did get your name." "My name?" he asked, cutting his eyes over at me. I nodded, trying to look relaxed instead of the impatience I felt. His answering a question with a question was getting on my last freaking nerve. "Well, I sure as hell am not call you 'Jack'," I said. He took a second or two before answering. "You can call me Matthew, I suppose." He tapped his chest. "That's who I was before I became her ... I mean, you." I narrowed my eyes at him, practically seeing the holes in his explanation. "But that wasn't who you've always been, right? The man the Order grabbed this morning wasn't your original body. Was it?" He shook his head. "No. I've only been that guy for about five years." "Oh," I said, injecting a healthy dose of sarcasm into the words. Amazingly enough, my new, higher-pitched voice was perfect as conveying the snark. "So, when you get tired of your life, do you just go out and, like, steal another? As if you were boosting a car or something?" His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "It's not like that, Jack." His jaw clenched tightly. I nearly told him to knock it off before he broke one of my crowns. Damned things were as expensive as a Prada bag. After a few seconds, he sighed loudly. "Look, can we just table this discussion until we're off the street and behind a locked door?" "Whatever," I said, turning my head as our destination neared. "Pull into the garage." Before he could point out the fact that the door was closed, I opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small remote control. With a flick of my pink-lacquered thumb, a shade I couldn't disagree was completely cute, I pressed the button, and the windowless garage door rolled up. The area inside was spacious, large enough to fit three of my sedans inside with little chance of them bumping into each other. Other than the neatly organized racks of assorted items lining the far wall and a huge chest freezer dominating one corner, the only thing inside was a shiny black Humvee. Matthew pulled to a stop next to the SUV, shifted into park, then looked over at me. "Who's house is this?" There was no mistaking the fact that he was impressed. "An old Army buddy." Opening my door, I climbed out of the car. "Not many people know about him, and he's out of town for the next week or so on a deep-sea fishing expedition in the Gulf of Mexico." "You just happen to have a key to his house?" I shrugged. "I'm supposed to be feeding his cat." My shoes clacked loudly on the concrete floor as I strolled toward the lone door on the back wall. Matthew climbed out as well, glancing around the garage before following me to the door. I quickly tapped a series of number into the keypad next to it, humming softly as I did. At the beep, the red light on the pad turned green and the sound of a lock being disengaged emanated from the other side of the door. "Thomas likes his privacy," I said as I opened the door. After flashing Matthew a wide grin, I walked inside. The kitchen we stepped into was humongous, larger than I remembered. Stainless steel appliances gleamed from the faint light drifting in through the doorway on the other side. As I moved toward the fridge, I realized that the reason the room seemed so big was because I was a much smaller size than normal. Matthew followed me, whistling low as he took in the opulence of the room. The expression on his face, however, was one of valued appreciation rather than raw impression. Hell, for all I knew he might have had a house this size before today. The house was quiet and mostly dark, with only a few lamps on timers illuminating the downstairs area. I kicked off the evil dress shoes and wiggled my socked toes on the cool tile of the floor, sighing with exquisite relief. No matter how adorable the damned things looked, their one-inch heels were not made for sprinting. Especially not along sidewalks or hospital corridors. Leaving Matthew to look around, I padded over to the fridge and pulled it open. I couldn't help but grin at the row of imported beers staring back at me. Thomas was a connoisseur. I grabbed one of the bottles and twisted it open using the towel hanging on the oven door. Matthew stood there watching me, a slightly amused look on his face. I held the bottle up in a mock toast and took a long, deep swallow. The next thing I knew, I was leaning over the sink, coughing and sputtering. The horrible-tasting liquid had set my throat ablaze and caused my tummy to roll in protest. Tears ran down my face as I fought to get the gagging under control. A second later, I felt Matthew's hand rest lightly on my back, rubbing slowly. "Yeah," he said in a quiet voice. "Sorry about that. I probably should have warned you." "Warned me?" I croaked, turning my face in his direction. He nodded. "You've probably been drinking alcohol in some form for decades, Jack. However, I'm pretty sure that body hasn't developed the taste, or tolerance, for booze. Perfectly natural response." I nodded, still feeling like I might puke or something, and closed my eyes. The hand making slow circles on my back felt wonderful and relaxing. A warm fuzziness wrapped itself around my brain, whispering alien thoughts. Then, just as I was about to give myself over to the sensation, my eyes flew open. I spun around to put a few feet between me and the body-jacker. "Easy with the touching, you perv," I said, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring up at him. "We aren't here so you can get a cheap feel. A hard look formed on his face, his fingers curling into a fist before dropping to his side. He shook his head, his features slowly softening to an expression of disappointment. "I was only trying to make you feel better, Jack," he said. "Believe me, I feel no sexual desire toward you. Not as you are." I arched a brow. "Oh really? What's the matter? I'm not sexy enough? Or do you prefer men?" He shrugged. "Sexual orientation is mostly biological, Jack. So, your body's orientation is my orientation." Then he laughed. "However, when I look at you I see 'cute'. Not 'sexy'." Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen. For a second, I felt weirdly upset by his comment, then shook my head to chase that thought away. Grabbing a bottle of water from the shelf above the beers, I twisted open the top and followed him into the living room. Matthew plopped down on the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was not without some trepidation that I recognized the gesture as one that I often performed. Usually right before I had to give a victim's family member bad news. I walked over to take the chair across from him. "Sorry," I said, taking up residence on the chair opposite him. "I'm having trouble dealing with all these new sensations and thoughts and feelings. It's like, they're me and not-me at the same time." He nodded. "It's a part of the process. An acclimation of the mind and body." "Acclimation?" I sat back in the seat and stared at him. "Is that what you meant by me being corrupted?" He nodded. "Perhaps corrupted wasn't the right term." When I gestured for him to continue, he sighed. "I don't know the specifics of how it works, but here's what I can tell you. When a Body Hopper switches places with someone, some residual essence from the former owner remains behind. It helps to blend in with our new lives." "Blend in?" I asked, tilting my head to the side in inquiry. "You mean it allows you to take over someone's life without raising suspicions?" Matthew nodded. "Something like that. Say you're right-handed, but Hop into the body of a lefty. That residual essence makes it easier to use your new dominant hand. Or if the person you replace had an accent or regional lilt. Without it, you'd sound different. People might start notice the change." "So, it's a defense mechanism?" He shrugged. "Like I said, I don't know why it happens. Only that it does. Until today, I didn't realize the effect went both ways. I don't usually have too much discussion with someone after we've swapped." "Really?" I said, unable to contain the sarcasm overflowing in that single word. "I can't possibly imagine why you wouldn't want to have a chat with the person whose life you just stole." His jaw clenched again, then he shook his head. "Unlike some other Hoppers, Jack, I don't steal people's lives. It's usually an ... arranged affair. This is the first time in over three hundred years I've Hopped into someone without their permission. There's usually more planning and foresight involved." "You've got to be kidding me," I said as I leaned back in the chair, automatically crossing my legs at the knees. "What kind of a person would just let someone hijack their body?" "It's not hijacking. At least, not when I do it." He frowned. "Sure, there are plenty of Hoppers who enjoy taking a body from the unwilling. However, I only switch with people who already want to die." I felt my mouth drop open. "You mean, people who are suicidal?" He nodded. "If someone is completely determined to end their life, there's not much anyone can do to dissuade them. I simply make those people the offer to take over their lives and let them move on from this world without fearing eternal damnation." "So," I said slowly, trying to wrap my mind around his words. "You find someone who wants to die, then convince them to let you have their body. After the two of you have switched, you murder them so they don't have to worry about going to Hell?" He shook his head. "Not exactly. First I poison myself, then we swap. They drift off to sleep in my old body and I start living in theirs." "That's, like, the most stupidest thing I've ever heard of." His stare turned hard. "You would rather I just let them kill themselves?" I shrugged. "Afterwards, that residual essence stuff lets you avoid tipping your hand about you not being them?" I arched a brow. "Gestures and accents are one thing. What if the person didn't speak any English? If you swapped with someone from China, would you be able to speak Mandarin?" "I wouldn't immediately know the language," he said after a few seconds. "However, I would be fluent in a few days." He shrugged. "I never know to what extent the residual essence will have. Back in the 70s, I swapped with a guy who was a professional billiards player. Two days later, I was doing trick shots and running the table as if I'd been playing all my life. I didn't have to even try, it just came to me." His eyes, my eyes, bored into me. "It eventually becomes automatic." I frowned. "So that's why my speech has become ... strange, isn't it? And why certain things I used to do feel off and things I've never done before, like twirling my hair, seem natural?" I looked down at myself. "I'm turning into this girl." "No," he said, leaning forward. "You're not turning into her. It's just that parts of her are overwriting parts of you. Your memories of being who you were aren't going to suddenly replaced by her memories." He sighed. "Your reactions, mannerisms, and stuff like that, however ..." I gave him a quizzical look and he continued. "For example, I'm going to try my own hand at sleuthing and surmise that you've never worn a pair of high heels in your life? Not even while home alone on a dull Saturday night?" I shook my head, unable to suppress the tiny smile that formed on my face. "Sorry, Matt. I'm a little too straight-laced to perform in drag." He chuckled, though I noticed his amusement seemed to be more at me, than with me. "Yet, I bet if you put a pair on right now, you'd be strutting around like a seasoned pro within ten minutes. Unless that girl never wore hells either. Part of it would be the body's muscle memory, but not all. Likewise, your speech has undergone some ... changes ... because we're not normally conscious of the way we talk. We just talk. It's automatic." He shrugged again. "Except now, the automatic portions are more attuned toward a teenaged schoolgirl and less a seasoned police officer." I frowned. Of course I had noticed the marked difference in my words and tone. The worrying part was that I also realized I was noticing it less and less the longer I was stuck. Would I eventually sound like some dippy valley girl? Did valley girls even exist anymore? I continued to stare at him. "I suppose that extends to other things?" I asked. "Like applying makeup or braiding hair?" My hand reached up to my head, finger extended. Luckily, I stopped myself before the damned twirling could start. Matthew waited a few moments before answering, obviously concerned about his response. "Eventually," he said. I shook my head, flashing him my most serious look, and jumped out of my seat. The finger that I had about used to wind my hair around was instead pointed in his direction. "There isn't going to be an eventually, Matthew. You know why? Because I don't plan to be, like, in this body any longer." I stepped closer, stabbing his shoulder with my outstretched finger. "Switch us back. Right now!" He stared up at me for a few moments, then nodded. Standing, he placed his hands on my shoulders and leaned in until our noses almost touched and our eyes were mere inches apart. For several long seconds, we stood there, staring into each other's eyes. I began to feel a tugging at the base of my skull. As if there were a thread that ran through my brain from the back portion to the front. And someone was tugging on the thread. Hard. Then the pulling sensation ceased and a wave of exhaustion rolled through me. I swayed on my feet, feeling the room tilts wildly. Before I could hit the floor, a strong hand grabbed my shoulder and guided me back to the chair. I collapsed as soon as my legs hit the soft cushion of the seat, my head rolling around loosely on my shoulders. I felt like someone had just punched me right in both of my temples at the same time. "Damn, that hurt," Matthew mumbled, returning to the couch. He rubbed at his own head, grimacing. "What was that?" I croaked, momentarily feeling like I was going to hurl. "It wasn't like that the last time." Blinking a few times, Matthew shook his head. "I don't know. I've never had that happen." Then he looked at me. "It's possible the Order's drugs are still in your system. That might be preventing me from switching us back." The throbbing was slowly subsiding, but the nausea threatened to hang around for a bit. "How long until I'm clean?" He responded with a silent shrug. It took a few more minutes before my stomach felt stable enough to stand up. When Matthew gave me a look, I pointed to the ceiling. "I need to go to the bathroom," I said. Before he could respond, I turned and headed across the room to the stairs leading up to the second floor. I was sure he was going to question why I didn't use the one we passed when we exited the kitchen. Fortunately, he was more interested in turning on the giant television mounted above the fireplace. At the top of the steps, I continued down a hallway covered in thick, fluffy carpet toward the door standing closed at the end of the hall. When I reached it, I put my hand on the knob and hesitated, convincing myself that what I was about to do wasn't some form of perverse vanity. It was necessary. Thomas and his ex-wife Sheila had divorced several years back. However, they shared joint custody of their seventeen-year-old daughter, Karen. It was the absent teen's room I found myself standing outside, nervousness making my arms and legs tremble. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Panic wasn't something to which I was accustomed. I knew, logically, what I was experiencing was likely the residual emotional responses inherent of the former owner of my body. I was only feeling scared because she would have been scared. However, the knowledge didn't do a damned thing to make the sensations any less overwhelming. And that was the part that scared me. Back at the hospital, I'd managed to remain calm and detached. Natural reactions which had assisted in our escape from the clutches of Order of the Dawn. Probably because I had expected my strange physical situation to be both brief and temporary. However, now there was a gnawing thought hovering at the back of my mind whispering warnings that the longer I remained stuck where I was, the less I would react like the seasoned cop I was and more like the young schoolgirl I inhabited. After several long minutes, I managed to compose myself enough to reach out, turn the knob, and open the door. It swung open easily, making almost no sound. The cavernous room beyond was dark, looming before me like a pitch black cave leading into the realm of the unknown.3 Even though I?d been in Thomas? house more times than I could count, I had never so much as peeked into Karen?s room. I drew in a breath as I moved a step forward, reaching my tiny hand into the inky blackness to feel the wall beside the door for the light switch. After a few pulse-pounding seconds, my fingers brushed across the cold metal plate. I flicked the lever up, causing the overhead lights to flare into life. Steeling myself, I stepped across the threshold and found myself in the middle of the sanctum sanctorum of a teenaged girl. The walls were painted a pastel blue, almost the color of a robin?s egg, and the off-white curtains over the double set of windows sported a tiny pink flower pattern. There was a door on the far side of the room standing partially ajar. Through it, I could make out the curve of a sink and the gleam of a mirror. The bathroom. A white, four-poster bed dominated the center of the space. The curtains that had obviously once hung down from the top rails had been removed, leaving just the corner columns rising nearly to the ceiling. The red and white striped duvet looked warm and inviting. A part of me thought a nice nap would go a long way to recharging my batteries. I was just barely able to shake off the not-completely alien impulse to crawl beneath that thick blanket and cry myself to sleep. I tore my gaze away from the siren call of the bed and glanced over at the white wooden nightstand. In addition to a small lamp, the shade decorated with a myriad of heart and moon stickers, there was also an expensive-looking clock radio. The digital numbers glowing with a soft blue light informed me that it was nearly ten o?clock. Nearly fourteen hours since the incident outside the caf?. Less than a day and I was already losing the fight against the overwhelming emotions and personality that came with this body. Even if Matthew was honest, and I never actually turned into this girl, how long before my own sense of self was completely replaced? There was another closed door on the other side of the room, next to a three-drawer dresser in the same color and style as the nightstand and bed. I walked over to the door, twisted the knob, and pulled it open. As I?d surmised, a large walk-in closet was on the other side. There must have been some sort of motion sensor inside, because the second I walked across the threshold, the lights overhead flickered on, brightly illuminating the cavernous storage area. I stood in the middle of the closet, turning around as I stared at the abundance of clothing hanging from the double sets of rods lining the side walls. Dresses and skirts, blouses and shirts, sweaters and slacks. Everything was separated by both style and color. I pulled a light peach colored sweater from one of the hangers. The tag inside confirmed my suspicion that Thomas? daughter preferred designer labels. There was a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the door. Stepping closer, I stared at the image being reflected back at me. Other than the brief moment outside the caf?, I hadn?t really seen what my new body looked like. And since that had taken place in the heat of the action, I hadn?t really focused on all the details. The girl looking back wore a doubtful, almost timid expression on her youthful face. She was cute, rather than pretty. However, I could see her really blossoming in the next couple of years. The makeup on her face was light, but it had been applied in the most flattering method. The golden blonde hair hanging down to just past her shoulders was in a bit of disarray, probably from the hospital pillow as well as the running for her life. Her green eyes were flecked with tiny bits of brown around the pupil and the nose between them was small and slightly upturned. The legs peeking out from the hem of her pleated skirt were short, slightly thin and coltish. One day they might fill out more, taking on a more sultry shape. However, right now they seemed to be built more for sprinting than sashaying. Runner?s legs. Turning to the side, I noticed that the curve of her rear wasn?t as pronounced as might be found on other girl?s her age. While there was definitely something hidden beneath the wool skirt, it would never be mistaken for a ?booty?. Of course, despite its size, the butt I was currently saddled with was much bigger than the one I?d had back when I was a teenaged boy. I stripped off the blazer and the white blouse, leaving my clad only in the bra. When I?d gotten dressed at the hospital, the lumps of flesh on my chest had seemed enormous. At least from my perspective. Looking at my reflection, however, I could see that they were actually not huge at all. I guessed them to be either a B or a small C in size. ?Hello,? I said to the girl staring back at me. ?I?m sorry you got caught up in this. I promise I?ll do my best to both take care of your body and find some way to get it back to you.? I pushed a smile onto my face, but it was apparent that it wasn?t genuine. Hell, I wasn?t even sure when, or if, I was going to get back into my own body. Getting the poor teen back to normal was going to be nearly impossible. Given that we didn?t even know who she was. In addition to the peach sweater, I grabbed a pair of jeans from the racks. In the dresser outside the closet, I found Karen?s underthings. Avoiding the more risqu? articles, I snagged a pair of pink socks, a flesh-tone bra, and a pair of light blue panties with pink stripes. It was the only non-thong choice in the whole damned drawer. Heading into the bathroom, I flipped on the light and turned on the faucet. I washed off all the cosmetics from my cheeks and around my eyes. When I was done, my cheeks and forehead had a slightly rosy glow to them. Removing the makeup, however, seemed to crank the clock backward a year on her appearance. I would be hard-pressed to believe she was a day over fifteen. I brushed the messy blonde hair and secured it back into a ponytail with one of the half-dozen hairbands littering the counter. Then I stripped out of my dirty, sweat-stained clothes and gave myself an impromptu bath from the sink. I concentrated on cleaning my armpits and neck, as well as other areas. As dirty as I felt running the wet washcloth over my breasts and between my legs, I made sure not to look in the mirror while doing it. That would have been too much, too soon. Of course, if my situation didn?t improve soon, I would have to get over the feeling of being a Hubert Humbert finally getting his hands on Lolita. For now, I chose the more restrictive path. I pulled on the purloined clothing, noticing that the bra was a bit small and the jeans slightly too long. However, I decided that clean trumped fit, and padded back down the steps with a pair of light green Nikes in my hand. Matthew was sitting on the ottoman, staring at the screen. There was a commercial for pickup trucks playing, and he turned to look at me as I neared, blinking a bit at my new appearance. Then he shook his head, giving me a strangely amused grin. ?You certainly don?t look like a Sasha,? he said. I stopped, tilting my head to the side. ?A what?? I asked. He pointed at the TV. ?Sasha. That?s who you are.? He shrugged. ?Or, that?s her body. Sasha Dellinger.? My mouth dropped open. ?Sasha Dellinger. As in Michael Dellinger?? Matthew nodded. ?That?s correct. Right now, they?re trying to discern out why the man on the street shot her, and why you ... I mean, Jack ... abducted her from the hospital. The Chief?s office gave a statement that implied protective custody.? I flopped down in the chair, placing my hand on my freshly scrubbed cheeks. ?This has totally gone from bad to worse.? One of Matthew?s bushy eyebrows arched. ?I?m not following.? I looked at him. ?Michael Dellinger owns a rather successful high-end construction company. If a new skyscraper is being erected downtown, or a new exclusive community being developed, more often than not the signage on the machinery and billboards says Dellinger Enterprises. Guy has his finger into everything.? ?So ... he?s rich?? I nodded, disliking the feeling of my tummy falling over the edge of a cliff. ?Oh yeah,? I said. ?Very rich and very connected. Plus, if the rumors are to be believed, and I?m totes sure they are, the construction gig is, like, just a front.? A frown passed across Matthew?s face, but he inclined his head in apparent interest. ?What?s that mean, exactly?? I sighed again and gestured at myself. ?It means that the father of the girl whose body you stole, the body I?m currently stuck in, is a member of the mafia.?