The Talk

Marcus leaned back on the futon, Chloe’s body sinking into the crushed velvet as he crossed her legs at the ankle. The smirk on her borrowed face was all too familiar—smug, self-assured, the kind of grin that made Michael’s borrowed skin itch. "So, you like the place or what?" he asked, his voice full of amusement.

"I mean it's a lot. I don't know what to think honestly," Michael replied casually.

Marcus looked at him, friendly demeanor slightly faltering. "Relax, man. You just got here. It takes a bit to grow on people but every hopper I've ever recruited eventually loves it here."

"Yeah, I guess I could see the allure," Michael trailed off. Seeing Marcus's face again, albeit on the body of a young college woman, only brought up one question in his mind "Hey, Marcus," Michael began, his tone cautious but direct, his eyes locked onto Marcus’s face. "When you were in Sadie… my mount, what exactly was the job you were doing? You mentioned something about a high-profile client."

Marcus leaned back on the couch, sinking deeper into the cushions. He chuckled, running a hand through the borrowed hair. "Oh, that? Yeah, that was a fun one," he said, his voice casual, as if they were discussing something mundane. "Your mount works at the hospital, right? As a nurse?"

Michael nodded stiffly, his jaw tightening. Already regretting calling Sadie a "mount."

"Well," Marcus continued, his grin widening, "one of the patients—some rich dude—saw her during her rounds and got a little… interested. Wanted to know what it’d be like to have her, if you catch my drift. He reached out to us, paid us like $5,000 for one night, and… well, I got the call form upstairs."

Michael felt his hands clench into fists at his sides, the blood rushing to his head as Marcus’s words sank in. The image of Sadie’s body being used. Her pussy being taken by some stranger, some client, it sent a surge of white-hot rage through him. Sadie didn’t even get a say in this. She had no idea. She’d been violated in the most intimate way possible, her body treated like some kind of rental car for some rich asshole’s fantasies. And then, beneath the fury, something else stirred. A possessive, primal jealousy. She belonged to him. Her pussy belonged to him. That intimate space belonged to him, to the man she loved. It was theirs, their shared intimacy, their connection. The thought of someone else residing in that space...made him white hot with rage.

Marcus must have seen the anger Michael's face because he quickly apologized again. "Hey, hey, look—I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know she was your mount. I didn’t mean to intrude," he said, his tone earnest. "In fact, we've got a legit rule in our bylaws that says not to mess with another hopper’s mount. I swear, if we'd known, we wouldn't have taken the job."

Michael took a deep, shaky breath, forcing himself to calm down. Every muscle in Mary’s body felt tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap. He couldn’t afford to lose control here, not in this den of vipers. He needed answers, not a fight. "Yeah, I get it," he said through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice steady. "But what exactly is the business here? What do you guys do?"

Marcus grinned, holding up a finger. "Hold that thought, gotta get this damn thing off. It's getting a bit ripe in here." Without ceremony, he reached behind Chloe’s back, unhooking the sheer bodysuit with practiced ease. The fabric peeled away, damp with sweat, and he tossed it carelessly onto a pile of discarded lingerie in the corner. Chloe’s body was left in nothing but a pair of black lace panties, her skin flushed and glistening under the dim light.

Michael wrinkled his nose slightly as the scent hit him—musky, warm, the unmistakable tang of sweat clinging to skin that had been trapped in tight fabric for hours. Marcus didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He flopped back onto the futon, stretching Chloe’s arms overhead with a groan before lazily dragging a hand between her breasts, wiping away the sheen of sweat gathered there.

"Fuck, that’s better," he muttered, flicking the moisture off his fingers. "You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been in that thing." He smirked, rolling Chloe’s shoulders. "Clients like the look, but damn if it ain’t a sauna under there."

"Now to answer your question, we're a bodyhopping service to put it simply. We’re basically a high-end service provider for very wealthy clients. We sell anything that a bodyhopper's unique ability can provide. From ****, information gathering—like diving into a mount’s sleeping mind to pull out secrets. And, yeah, sex. A lot of sex. The sex business is probably our biggest money maker. Think about it—some billionaire wants to fuck a celebrity, or a politician’s wife, or a broad who’d never look twice at him in real life. We make it happen. We’re like the ultimate fantasy fulfillment company. Of course, all for the right price." Marcus’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the explanation.

"We don’t mess with **** though—that’s a hard line. But anything short of that? Yeah, we’ve got it covered." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "It’s a lucrative business, man. And you’re sitting on a goldmine with your talent. You could be pulling in high six figures in no time."

"So you guys are basically a pimping service?" Michael asked, his voice tight, his disgust barely concealed.

Marcus laughed, the sound echoing off the wood-paneled walls. "Pimping? Nah, man, it’s luxury fulfillment at the very least. We’re not some street-corner operation. We’re a high-end service for high-end clients. Think of us more like… concierges of the impossible. Want to know your rival’s trade secrets? Done. Want to experience what it’s like to be with someone way out of your league for one night? Done. Think of us like power brokers."

Michael’s stomach churned at the thought. This wasn’t just exploitation—it was a calculated, systematic invasion of people’s lives, their bodies, their autonomy. "And what about the mounts?" he asked, still hating the term. "The people whose bodies you’re using? What happens to them?"

Marcus shrugged, his borrowed body shifting in the chair. "They’re fine. They don’t even know it happened. They wake up, go about their day, none the wiser. We’re careful. We vet the marks. We've got rules. It’s all very professional."

Michael leaned forward, his curiosity piqued despite his unease. “Rules? Like what? The guy out in the lobby, the one getting basically skewered on that pole mumbled something about an allergy rule. And you mentioned not messing with another hopper’s mount just now. What else is there?”

Marcus grinned, he reached over to a drawer in the desk and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He opened it up and pulled out a small booklet of about 20 or so pages. “This,” he said, slapping it down on the table, “is the Body Mason’s Doctrine. It’s our Bible. Every hopper and every client has to follow these rules. Oh, and by the way,” he added, nodding toward the door, “we call that thing out there the one-bar prison. Classic punishment for breaking the rules. It’s a creative deterrent, keeps everyone in line. The professional mounts hate it. They say it leaves their pussies sore as hell but hell that means it a good punishment, right?”

Michael glanced at the booklet, the title Body Mason’s Doctrine stamped boldly across the top. His stomach turned at the thought of this being some kind of sacred text for this organization. “And what’s in here?” he asked, flipping through the pages briefly.

“Everything,” Marcus said, his tone almost reverent. “How to properly select a mount, how to ensure ethical usage—yes, we do have ethics—rules about not causing permanent harm, procedures for client interactions, protocols for… well, you get the idea. The Doctrine keeps this place running smoothly. Break a rule, and you’ll find yourself on the one-bar prison—or worse.”

Michael eyes looked up as he rewound the conversation in his head relaying the mention of professional mounts. “Wait, hold on,” he said, leaning forward, his curiosity now overriding his revulsion. “You said professional mounts a second ago? You mean there are women out there who actually volunteer for this? For bodyhoppers to take over their bodies?”

Marcus grinned, clearly enjoying Michael’s reaction. “Oh yeah, man. You’d be surprised. Some women are actually all about this type of shit. Don't get me wrong we vet the hell out of them but yeah. They get paid, obviously. Good money too. It’s a job for them. They sign contracts, NDAs and shit. But agree to the terms, and boom—they’re part of the Body Mason’s roster. They get to keep living their lives when they’re not ‘on duty,’ and when they're called up, they come in and take a little nap while we drive.”

Michael shook his head in disbelief. “And they’re okay with it? With having their bodies taken over like that?”

Marcus shrugged, his borrowed body leaning back casually. “Hey, everyone’s got their own reasons. Some like the money, some like the thrill, some want to just spend some time away from it all, and some just get off on the idea of being mounted. Ultimate loss of control. And honestly, it’s way easier than dealing with random mounts. Say a client needs a date for an event. Just give the client the current roster book and let them pick. It really speeds up the process too. We know their limits, their medical history, their preferences. And because it's less risky, it's cheaper for the clients too.”

Michael’s mind raced. He couldn’t imagine Sadie—or any woman, for that matter—voluntarily letting someone take control of their body like that. But then again, he thought, people did all sorts of things for money. “And these women… they’re okay with the… the sex stuff? With clients using their bodies for that?”

Marcus smirked. “They sign up knowing what they’re getting into. But hey, if you’re curious, I can introduce you to a few. They’re always happy to chat with new recruits.”

Michael shook his head quickly. “I mean maybe some other time. This is a lot to take in.”

Michael took a deep breath, almost knowing the answer to his next question before he asks. Gesturing toward Marcus’s borrowed body—Chloe according to the announcer from earlier. “So, what about her? Is she a pro, or did you just pick her up on the way in?”

Marcus glanced down at Chloe’s body with a smirk, his borrowed fingers tracing the curve of her breast almost possessively. "Oh, Chloe? Nah, she’s not a pro," he said, pinching her nipple between his fingers with idle amusement. "Just some college girl I scooped up on my way in tonight. Cute, right?"

He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, watching it stiffen under his touch. "Found her at a coffee shop near campus. Textbook perfect—tight little body, pretty face, no boyfriend according to her sleeping mind. Easy pickings." His grin widened as he gave her tit a lazy squeeze. "Clients love the ‘girl next door’ types. Makes ‘em feel like they’re getting away with something. But hey no real harm comes. That's the beauty of it."

Michael frowned, unable to hide his disgust. "Except for Chloe? Seems like she's getting the bad end of the deal."

Marcus shrugged Chloe’s shoulders, her bare skin glistening under the dim light. "What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her," he said, his tone dismissive. His borrowed fingers drummed lazily against Chloe’s thigh, as if the entire concept of consent was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Then his smirk sharpened, his gaze flicking pointedly over Mary’s corset-clad body. "And don’t act all high and mighty, man. You’re currently riding shotgun in some chick too."

He leaned forward, Chloe’s cleavage pressing against her own knees as he jabbed a finger toward Michael. "What’s her name, huh? Did she agree to this? Or did you just snatch her up like the rest of us?"

Michael stiffened, Mary’s borrowed pulse spiking under his skin. The accusation hung in the air like a challenge. He had taken Mary without permission. He’d justified it to himself—necessary reconnaissance, no real harm done—but the hypocrisy stung.

Marcus didn’t wait for an answer. He snorted, flopping back against the futon. "Yeah, thought so. Face it, man. We’re all the same. No big deal."

Michael clenched his fists, the frustration bubbling up inside him. But he quickly realized there was no getting through to Marcus. This world, this business, was so far removed from Michael’s sense of right and wrong that arguing would be pointless. Marcus genuinely didn’t see the harm in what they were doing. It was just another transaction to him, another job.

Michael took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Alright," he said, his voice tight but steady. "So when are you dropping Chloe here back off anyway?"

Marcus’s eyes lit up with a mischievous glint but only for a second. He stretched Chloe’s arms overhead with a groan before cracking her borrowed neck side to side. "Eh, I’ve got to dump her back at her place soon," he mused, absently running a hand down the smooth curve of the girl’s bare stomach. His fingers paused just above the waistband of her panties, tapping idly. "Got some serious work tonight. Top priority stuff."

The gleam in his eye—Michael realized was something he hadn't seen in Marcus up until that point. It was predatory. Excited.

The reporter, Michael realized. Naomi Cross. The name burned in his mind like acid. Marcus was already planning to silence her, God only knew how.

But Michael kept Mary’s face neutral, forcing a smirk. "Big shot, huh?"

Marcus grinned, thin lips pulling taut over borrowed teeth. "You’ve got no idea," he winked. "It's actually a real bummer though because Chloe here has a best friend who's fucking hot has hell. I'm talking model level hot. I was planning on slipping her on when I dropped Chloe off. But the job has to come first," he said with a overly pronounced sigh. The motion causing Chloe's bare chest to rise and fall in dramatric fashion.

"Yeah, I guess that's a real bummer," Michael said, doing his best to act like he was upset by it too.

Marcus suddenly perked up, Chloe’s body shifting eagerly on the futon. “Oh shit, dude—you wanna see her? Chloe’s best friend? Sarah according to Chloe's memories here.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Marcus hooked his fingers into the waistband of the panties he was wearing and yanked them down, exposing Chloe's bare pussy to the cool air of the room. Then, without hesitation, he shoved two fingers deep into her wet folds, his borrowed face contorting slightly as he fished around inside her.

Michael’s jaw dropped, his stomach churning at the sheer invasiveness of what he was witnessing. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

Marcus ignored him, his face focused as he twisted his fingers around. "Ah, found it," he said, still trying to get a good grasp on what ever "it" was.

Michael stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Marcus slowly withdrew a glistening smartphone from her slick, wet depths. The device was coated in a shimmering layer of her natural lubrication, the light catching on the moist surface as Marcus pulled it free with practiced ease. He held it up triumphantly, a proud smirk playing on Chloe’s borrowed lips. He dangled the phone between Chloe’s fingers, the device still glistening with her arousal as droplets of slick moisture dripped onto the futon. He gave it a casual shake, flinging stray beads of her wetness across the cramped office before wiping the screen clean against her inner thigh with a rough, possessive stroke.

"Perfect hiding spot when you're wearing an outfit with no pockets. Now hold on just one second...password’s 4-2-0-6," he announced, tapping the digits in with a wet click from her damp fingertips. The screen illuminated, displaying Chloe’s lock screen—a selfie of her and another girl, their cheeks pressed together, grinning. The other girl—Sarah—was, as promised, breathtaking. Sun-kissed skin, full lips, and wild, honey-blonde curls tumbling over one shoulder.

Marcus swiped to Chloe’s photo gallery, scrolling through a stream of intimate snapshots—Sarah in a bikini at the beach, Sarah laughing with a cocktail in hand, Sarah bent over a pool table in tight jeans, the curve of her ass unmistakable. He lingered on that last one, zooming in with a low whistle. "See what I mean? Grade-A prime cut right there."

Michael couldn’t help but stare, not at the photos of Sarah but at what Marcus had just done. How long had that phone been inside his pussy? He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his stomach twisting in a mix of horror and perverse fascination. The phone was soaked. Driping. Michael swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You’re insane,” he muttered, unable to process what he’d just witnessed.

Marcus blinked, Chloe’s borrowed face twisting in confusion. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

Michael just gestured wordlessly at the phone in Marcus’s grip.

Marcus followed his gaze, then burst out laughing—a deep, masculine sound that clashed horribly with Chloe’s soft features. "Oh, that? Dude, it’s not insane, it’s efficient. Think about it—where else am I supposed to stash shit when I’m wearing a bodysuit with no pockets? A purse? Please. That’s just asking to get robbed. A mount's pussy is nature’s perfect storage compartment. Warm, secure, self-lubricating—hell, half the time the mount’s already wet just from being mounted. You ever tried keeping a phone in a bra? Falls out the second you bend over. Pussy? That shit’s locked in."

Michael's mind was still reeling from what he’d just seen. But all he could think about was the audacity of Marcus’s actions—and the sickening reminder of how utterly powerless Chloe was in all of this.

Marcus glanced at the wet phone screen, swiping a thumb across the moisture still clinging to it. "Ah, shit—look at the time," he muttered, tapping Chloe’s inner thigh absentmindedly with her free hand. "Gotta get her home and start prepping for the next job."

Marcus exhaled sharply through his nose—half-laugh, half-groan—as he turned the device over in his grip, watching the light catch on the thin sheen of wetness clinging to its surface.

"Alright, back in you go," he murmured, more to himself than to Michael, his voice thick with dark amusement. Chloe’s thighs fell open easily under his control, her body pliant, her folds already glistening from the phone’s earlier extraction. Marcus bit his lower lip between his teeth, his borrowed eyes gleaming as he guided the phone toward her entrance. The tip of it pressed against her slick flesh, parting her with slow, deliberate pressure. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped Chloe’s lips as he worked the device deeper, his fingers gripping the edges to keep it from slipping. His expression was one of pure, twisted satisfaction. Eyebrows lifting slightly, mouth slack with concentration, he worked with rapt fascination as the phone disappeared inch by inch into Chloe’s tight warmth. His breath hitched as her body resisted for a fraction of a second—then yielded, swallowing the device whole with a wet, obscene sound.

Marcus exhaled sharply through his nose, his borrowed chest rising and falling with the effort. A bead of sweat rolled down Chloe’s temple as he adjusted his grip, pressing his fingers against her lower lips to ensure the phone was fully seated inside. His lips twitched into a smirk, his eyes dark with amusement as he gave her pussy a final, possessive pat.

"There we go," he muttered, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "Snug as a bug."

Chloe’s body trembled faintly beneath his touch—not from pleasure, not from fear, but from the sheer strangeness of the sensation. Marcus didn’t care. He stretched her arms overhead with a groan, rolling her shoulders as if settling back into a favorite chair. His smirk never wavered.

Marcus pushed himself off the futon. His borrowed knees wobbled slightly as he bent to scoop up her discarded clothes—jeans and a loose tank top—both crumpled in a heap on the floor. "Alright, time to get this show on the road," he muttered, shaking out the tank top before tugging it over Chloe’s head.

Michael watched, his borrowed skin prickling with discomfort as Marcus dressed Chloe’s body with practiced efficiency. But something was off. Every time Marcus bent her over—to pull up her jeans, to adjust the waistband—he paused, just for a fraction of a second, his borrowed lips pressing into a thin line. His fingers twitched at her sides, his breath hitching ever so slightly.

Michael realized with a jolt what was happening. The phone. It was definitely giving him some problems. Maybe not such a good storage space after all.

Marcus straightened Chloe’s body with a soft grunt, rolling her shoulders as if trying to settle something deep within her. His fingers lingered at the waistband of her jeans, pressing lightly against her lower stomach—feeling, Michael guessed, for the outline of the device nestled inside her.

"You know," Marcus continued casually, as if he weren’t currently adjusting to the weight of a smartphone lodged in Chloe’s pussy, "working here’s got perks you wouldn’t believe. The money’s insane—six figures easy if you play your cards right. Clients pay top dollar for discretion, for the experience. And let’s be real, man, what else are you gonna do with this ability? Work some nine-to-five? Waste your talent?"

He bent again to fasten Chloe’s sandals, his borrowed body stiffening as the movement shifted the phone inside her. A sharp inhale escaped his lips, his fingers tightening around her ankle for balance.

"And it’s not just the cash," he added, straightening with a slow, careful motion. "It’s the community. You ever meet seen as many hoppers together as you did tonight? Here, you’re not some freak. You’re valued. We look out for each other."

Marcus smirked, running a hand through Chloe’s hair to tousle it back into something resembling her usual style. His other hand drifted absently to her hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh there.

"Think about it," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "No more hiding. No more pretending. Just… freedom."

He took a step forward—then froze, Chloe’s body tensing as the phone shifted inside her once again. A faint, almost imperceptible shiver ran through her borrowed frame, her lips parting around a quiet, involuntary gasp. Marcus exhaled through his nose, his borrowed fingers pressing lightly against Chloe's lower stomach. "Gotta admit," he muttered, shifting her weight from foot to foot, "the first few minutes are always the worst. Takes a bit for everything to... settle in."

A faint tremor ran through Chloe's body as the phone shifted inside her, the hard edges pressing against sensitive inner walls in ways they weren't meant to. "Like wearing new shoes," he continued with a strained chuckle, rolling Chloe's hips in a slow circle. "Gotta break 'em in."

Marcus looked at Body Masons’ Doctrine booklet lying atop the manila envelope, his borrowed lips curling into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This,” he said, pushing the envelope toward Michael, “and everything inside? Is yours.”

Michael frowned, eyeing the envelope before flipping it open. Inside, lay a crisp application form—thick, expensive paper emblazoned with the same TBM insignia from the business card. There was also another booklet. It's cover simply reading "TBM Roster." Michael aready knew what that meant.

Marcus started toward the door, Chloe’s body swaying slightly as he continued to adjust to the weight nestled inside her. “Read the Doctrine cover to cover,” he said. His voice was light, but something in his tone had changed and it sent a chill down Michael’s spine. “Fill out the app. Take your time.” He stepped toward the door, pausing with one hand on the knob.

When he turned back, Chloe’s face was eerily still—no smirk this time, no chuckle. Just cold, calculating calm. “I hope you make the right choice, man." A beat passed. Then, in a softer tone, like a blade sliding between ribs: “The alternative… well it isn't always pretty.”

He was gone before Michael could ask him to elaborate, the door clicking shut behind him.