Borrowed Pleasure

Which is odd, you know, because it did feel like the pleasure of me. It felt like the pleasures of this body were mine, like they belonged to me.

Even though I knew they didn't.

Voices in my head kept on reminding me of that, kept on screaming it out for me to know and hear. They kept on telling me, over and over and over again, that this was all just borrowed pleasure and a borrowed body and that none of it was real or really mine at least.

At this point I was certain that this wasn't a dream. However it had happened, I had been transported into this body and so I couldn't say that it was real.

But what I could say was that none of it was mine, not really. It all belonged to Emily Ross and that wasn't my name and though this life was close to mine, it was distant still.

Borrowed time. A borrowed body. Borrowed pleasure.

None of it belonging to me.

So the question was what did it say about me to indulge in it? What did it say about me to not be able to help myself? What did it say that it felt so damn good to me?

It did. Lust in her veins was so much more intense than in mine and excitement in her body thrilled me more than I ever thought it could. Not just because it was all new and all uncertain, but for so much more than that. Because it was more. Because she could feel more. Because when every inch of her body was suffused with that pleasure it was more intense than anything that I'd ever experienced as a man before.

And I wanted to believe that it was really just that. Pleasure was pleasure and I was a simple human being, falling into it because it felt good. I could even believe that, all of me but a single little part of me and a dark little voice in the back of my mind that told me with a sneer that I was lesser than because of it.

This same voice had been speaking to me all my life. It grumbled in the back of my mind when I backed out of riding the ferris wheel at the travelling fair because it scared me. Told me, when I was flattened on my back during tryouts for the school football team, that I was failing because of my own inadequacies. It had been the voice that told me to stay on the farm, that told me that I didn't belong in the big city, that told me that a real man made his living from the sweat of his brow and the tension of his arms.

But then again, it said to me with a mocking sneer, you were never much of a man now were you?

Right now, staring into the mirror and seeing the body of a beautiful woman caught in lust and need, it was having a field day. All of its truths were coming to fruition and while I should have been wanting and needing and lusting it was, instead, mocking me.

Mocking me in an endless refrain. Mocking me and telling me that every moment I spent here was proof of my own inadequacy and proof that they were right all along.

Telling me that a real man would be able to resist, that a real man wouldn't want it. Painting the picture of me over and over again last night with all those men. With Lucas and Blake and the strangers in the crowd and anyone who would have.

Because it would have been anyone and it could have been anyone.

Because a part of me cannot deny the truth which is that I wanted it. I wanted the pleasure and I wanted the satisfaction and I wanted to feel it then as I did now.

Oh god I wanted to touch myself, to build up the heat until it bubbled over into undeniable satisfaction. I wanted to cum, but more than that...

I wanted someone to make me cum.

That voice, that little voice of my own inadequacy, laughed at the certainty of that. And it spoke in the voice of my father, telling me that I couldn't hack it so I might as well just quit now.

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