Waking Up a Whore

She took a long look and the man next to her. He lay on his back, his chest slowly moving up and down as his eyes remained closed. She studied him with great attention, looking at his neck and a small freckle that sat at the base of his throat, the way his muscular chest met in a valley and sprung up and came to an apex at two well formed pectoral muscles, his slightly formed abs with a small line of thin hair leading south past his belly button, and finally she became fixated on the massive cock that lay limp on his thigh. He had no hair around the base of his dick. She could not see his balls, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the way the head of his cock gently flowed over and revealed a slightly pinkish hue, and the hint of veins. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Then it hit her.

She shouldn’t be looking at a penis, shouldn’t be looking at a man next to her, didn’t know who she was or where she was. She didn’t know this man. Panic hit her. She snapped the covers off of her and threw her legs off the side of the bed. In one motion, she stood, but found her balance off. As she came upright, the body stirred behind her and heard, “babe, you ok?” She looked back, but the voice had already trailed off, and he was turning over and grabbing her pillow.

Her attention came back to her body quickly. She righted herself against the wall, and even though for a minute she knew wasn’t drunk, getting her mind straight was difficult. She took steps around the bed as if she knew where she was. Her heart was racing, a cold sweat broke out over her. She walked into the bathroom as if she knew where she was going, but once inside, and the lights were found without effort, she came face to face with herself, and discovered the horror. In front of her stood the reflection of a young 20 something female. A confused look dominated her face, but that drew little of her attention. Her eyes fixated on her chest, the massive breasts that hung off her body. She reached up toward her chest to find them on her body. But she shouldn’t have breasts. This body shouldn’t be her.

The weight of them were amazing and the disorientation when she got out of bed suddenly became understandable. When she lifted them, she felt the relief, if it could be called that, from her upper chest and back. When she released them, they fell immediately, making a barely audible slap against her abdomen and a slight giggle up the length of her breast. She grabbed her hardened nipple with two fingers, pulling it out and pulling her breast from her body. They elongated until her breast began to be removed from her abdomen and the weight of the tissue began to provide a bit of pain. She released it quickly.

She stood there for a minute and the confusion took over. Who was she? She asked herself if she really was this person, but then again, searching her memory, no alternative came. She didn’t feel that she was another person trapped in this body, but this body struck her as so alien that she felt she was violating someone else by standing there shirtless in the bathroom. There were no answers, and then she thought about the man in the other room. Was he her husband? Boyfriend? She couldn’t bear the possibility of anything else, but it was then that there was a small knock on the door and the voice came to her through the door.

“Babe, you ok? I gotta pee something crazy.”

Panic came over her once again. She felt like she should cover herself, but then again, there was a need for answers. She opened the door and didn’t say anything. He walked in and past her and stood over the toilet, raised the seat, and began peeing. The stream shocked her with its force, and as it wound down he seemed to do this slight wiggle with his body. She watched him intently, examining his muscular ass, dimpled in at the sides with the effort, and releasing to a perfectly rounded butt once finished. He turned to her and smiled, slightly bumped her out of the way, and washed his hands. Once done, he brushed his wet palms on the towel on the wall, and without a word, grabbed my chest, palms down. His large hands didn’t fit completely around each breast, but with a slight squeeze and some force toward me, he lifted them slightly and then squeezed tighter. His cold hands instantly caused goose bumps with rise on my chest and arms.

“Damn you got some great fucking tits. Can’t get over those things.”

……………

He released them as quickly as he took them in his possession. I stood shocked and fixated on the feeling of my breasts in his hands. I looked down at his penis dangling and he caught my eyes.

“Yeah babe, he likes them too.” He laughed and brushed past me once again, turned around with a smile, and began to speak again. As he stepped into his pants, underwear free, he said, “same as always I’m guessing.”

He continued the look he was giving me for a few seconds, and then continued to get dressed. After he had buttoned his pants and thrown his shirt on, unbuttoned, he pulled his wallet out and removed a stack of bills and placed them on the corner of the bed. I still didn’t speak.

“All right beautiful, same time same place.” He came over and kissed me on the cheek and before I could even understood what had just happened, he was gone.

I don’t know how long I stood there in shock, but it seemed like a lifetime. When I began to come back to reality, I sat on the corner of the bed, pink and blue silk panties, and nothing else, and took the wad of bills in my hand. Fifteen hundred dollars. Who in their right mind gave someone that much money and then leaves. Was I really a whore? I couldn’t be. I mean I saw the body in the mirror. It was the sexist thing I had ever seen in my life (did that mean I was really a man?—no clue), but still. Who would pay that much money to sleep with someone? No one in their right mind, or at least someone with a ton of money. I couldn’t imagine being a “kept” woman, someone that is at the beck and call of someone else. I didn’t know who he was, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

I walked into the living room and looked around. There were pictures of me with other people, some older, some younger. There were a few where the same people kept reappearing, others that looked like occasional pictures with people that I knew but were not close to (it appears to me at least to be completely obvious the difference between the two). I studied the woman, me, that appeared in most of the pictures. She seemed happy, normal—beautiful, but normal. She, me, was hugging close friends, doing things (camping, amusement parks, cook outs, etc.) that were perfectly normal, and now it seemed that I was her. Looking at the pictures, there seemed to be some truth to the entire situations within the picture. It was like through an interior fog I knew them to be true, that that was really me, but as hard as I could, I could not place who they were, their names, or anything about them.

I started thinking about me. What did I know about me. I knew I existed. I knew I had a mind and a general perception of reality and how the world worked, but I didn’t know who I was. How could I know what a whore was if I didn’t know who I was? How could I be attracted to myself? Was there some general notion of beauty that I was aware of, and now that I wasn’t connected to “myself” I had some knowledge of?

I didn’t know anything really other than I was naked in a strange place and the body I was in felt completely foreign. I decided that I had to at least put some clothes on.