The Doctor Who Borrowed Bodies to Fuck His Wife

Damián Quintero was thirty-four years old, had a face that women’s magazines described as “intelligent and dangerous,” and a reputation as a hypnotherapist that had put him among the most sought-after in Rosario. His workshops on mental control and emotional release sold out in a matter of hours. The supplements called him “the mind magician.” But Damián kept a secret he didn’t share even with his wife Carla, a dark-haired woman with long legs and a firm mouth, or with his colleagues. Three months earlier, a car accident had torn away what he considered the very center of his power.

The doctors called it “permanent nerve damage.” He called it death. His cock, which had once earned praise from half of Rosario before marriage, now hung limp and mute between his legs, a pale-meat mockery that answered neither desire nor will. Carla never reproached him for anything. She kissed him with the same tenderness, held him in bed, stroked his hair when he woke up sweating. And that, for Damián, was even worse.

—Do you still love me? —he asked her one night, sitting on the edge of the mattress with a cup of cold tea in his hands.

Carla came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and sat down beside him. The lamp’s light illuminated half her face.

—I love you, Damián. You’re my husband.

—But do you want me? —he insisted, with that new intensity he’d had since the accident—. Look at me. Is this enough for you?

—I didn’t marry your cock. I married you.

—That’s the same as telling me yes, then no more —he murmured. If it were the other way around, I’d leave you, he thought, and hated himself for thinking it.

That night Carla tried to give him something back. She knelt between his legs, kissed him where he used to drive her crazy, worked her mouth with heartbreaking patience. Damián closed his eyes and felt the wet heat, the brush of lips, the firm tongue. But the flesh didn’t respond. When she lifted her face, they were both crying in silence.

It was there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, that the idea came to him. It was so clean, so obvious, that it almost felt like a gift. If his flesh wouldn’t respond, he would borrow someone else’s. He was a hypnotist. The best in the city. He knew how to shut a mind down. He knew how to slip, whispering, into another person’s subconscious. The question was what would happen if, instead of leaving that mind at the end of the trance, he decided to stay.

***

The first was Gastón, the guy in the apartment next door. A muscular, quiet type who looked at Carla with the mixture of respect and envy nobody even bothered hiding anymore. One afternoon Damián invited him up to the terrace for a beer, and in the middle of the conversation he let slip one of his “relaxation techniques.” Ten minutes later Gastón had glassy eyes, a slack jaw, and a will soft as wax.

Damián closed his own eyes and concentrated. The transition was strange, like slipping into a borrowed skin suit. He suddenly felt the weight of Gastón’s arms, the coarse hair on his chest, the smell of fresh tobacco. And he felt the cock: hard for no reason, ready, alive. A firm pulse between the legs that he hadn’t remembered in months. He grabbed it over the pants and almost laughed with delight.

—Go down. The lady in nine asked you to check her bathroom leak —he said, his own voice coming out of the neighbor’s throat—. Come in through the service door.

Carla opened the door wearing an old T-shirt and her hair tied up. She frowned when she saw Gastón, with his crooked smile and his eyes fixed a little too intently.

—Damián sent me —“Gastón” said—. He told me to come in, that he’s tired.

She looked at him without understanding. But when he took her by the waist and pulled her against his body, when for the first time in three months she felt the rock-hard bulge of an eager cock pressing against her belly, the confusion mixed with something older, lower. Damián, inside Gastón, buried his mouth in her neck and yanked her T-shirt up in one motion.

—What are you doing, Gastón? —she whispered, but her hands no longer pushed him away.

—What your husband asked me to —he replied, hoarse, biting her shoulder—. Stay still.

He fucked her against the hallway wall, without patience, with the urgency accumulated over three months of silence. He dragged her little pants down to her ankles, lifted one leg, and drove into her in a single thrust. Carla let out a muffled cry and clung to his shoulders. Through Gastón’s eyes, Damián saw his wife’s face open with pleasure and fright, her lips parted, her eyelashes wet. He felt every centimeter of her around the borrowed cock, the tight heat, the involuntary spasms. He thrust with a beautiful rage, telling her in her ear things he had never dared say to her.

—Do you like it like this? Tell me you like it, bitch.

—Yes —she gasped—, yes, yes…

The orgasm hit him with a roar that wasn’t his own. He felt Gastón’s balls tighten, the hot discharge emptying into his own wife. For a few seconds he wasn’t the impotent psychologist. He was the neighbor, he was the stud, he was the man his wife had always deserved. And when, afterward, he returned to his own body, sitting on the living-room couch with his dead cock between his legs, he sat there crying with happiness.

***

The addiction set in fast. Gastón was the proof. Then came the search for something bigger, rougher, more impossible. He thought of Bermúdez, the neighborhood butcher. A mustached man with tattooed arms, with an abdomen that pushed out over the apron like a promise of strength. At the corner bar the men spoke of him in low voices. Not only of his mastery with the knife: they spoke of his taste for other men’s wives and, above all, the tool he carried between his legs, a rod more than one customer had remembered for weeks with a crooked smile.

Damián felt the hot knot in his stomach the moment he heard the rumor. That was the one. He didn’t want another mediocre neighbor. He wanted an animal, a predator. He wanted Carla to know, for one night, what it was to be taken by something like that.

He went into the butcher shop on a Friday just before closing. Bermúdez was wiping the knife with a cloth.

—Doctor, what brings you to the slaughterhouse? —he asked, with a crooked smile—. Do I have to tell you what’s on your mind?

—Something like that —Damián answered, and began lowering his voice, slipping into the monotonous rhythm the trade had taught him—. I came to offer you a new technique for highly stressed workers. Five minutes. Then you tell me if it helps.

In less than five minutes Bermúdez was sitting on a stool, his jaw loose, his gaze lost in the reflection of the steel. Damián closed his eyes and slipped inside. And if entering Gastón had been like putting on a borrowed suit, taking over Bermúdez was like pulling on the skin of an old god. He felt the weight of the body, the calluses on the hands, the smell of fresh meat and sweat. And he felt the thing: heavy, semi-erect for the mere fact of existing, a hot serpent hanging there with undeniable authority. He squeezed it over the apron and Bermúdez’s whole body vibrated like an engine.

That night, the butcher rang the apartment bell. When Carla opened the door, her face went from astonishment to a chill in a single second.

—Your husband asked me to come by and check on some problems of yours —Bermúdez said in Damián’s voice, but with a smile that wasn’t his husband’s.

She didn’t answer. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, knowing this night was going to be different. Damián, inside Bermúdez, stripped her with the butcher’s rough hands, looking at every curve through the eyes of a stranger. He bent her over on all fours on the marital bed and opened her with that cock that seemed to have no end. Carla screamed, not from pain, but from sheer surrender. Through Bermúdez’s eyes, Damián saw his own wife giving herself to a tool that made her doubt its size, feeling every centimeter stretch her to the limit. Every thrust was a revenge, an assertion of power.

—I’m splitting you open, bitch —Damián panted in the other man’s voice—. Say my name.

—Bermúdez —she moaned, biting the pillow—, Bermúdez…

The other man’s name hurt and excited him at the same time. He finished inside her with a roar that shook the windows, and when he woke up in his couch, with his own dead cock and his mind burning hot, he knew he wouldn’t be able to live any other way anymore.

***

Others came. A medical student he seduced at a conference. A package courier with broad shoulders. A stiff-collared executive whom he slipped the suggestion to in the middle of a paid session. Each one gave him a different texture, a new way to penetrate Carla. And Carla, who at first was frightened, began to change. She bought more revealing clothes. She started doing her hair as soon as it got dark. She left the bedroom door open. One night, in bed, while Damián pretended to be reading, she masturbated in front of him without saying a word and, when she finished, asked him almost as a joke:

—Who do you want me to be today, love?

Everything inside him turned over. He adored her and hated her in the same breath. He had created a monster and the monster loved him.

***

The perverse balance broke with Tomás. A kid in his early twenties whom Damián had chosen for his stallion cock and bottomless appetite. The first time it worked well: Tomás fucked Carla on the living-room sofa for two hours and returned to his body without remembering a thing. But the second time, Damián felt something strange germinate in his host’s chest. It wasn’t lust. It was tenderness. An idiotic devotion that grew like a tumor every time the boy’s eyes landed on Carla.

—Don’t fall in love with my wife, asshole —Damián shouted into the silence of the other man’s skull. But Tomás didn’t hear. Tomás dreamed. And he started showing up in the building uninvited, asking for the lady in four, leaving notes under the door.

Damián panicked. He couldn’t allow the kid to ruin his only territory. In the next session, instead of sending him to Carla’s bed, he whispered another command: You’re going far away. Tomorrow. You won’t remember Carla. You won’t remember me. You’ll take the first bus south and start over. The boy stood up from the chair with empty eyes, nodded, and left the street without looking back. Damián never found out where he went. He didn’t want to know. It was his first gratuitous cruelty, and the taste stayed tattooed on his tongue.

***

After Tomás, need turned into hunger. He chose badly. He met him at a anger-management seminar he himself taught: a black-eyed guy named Iván, with a silent past that Damián, in his arrogance, read as a challenge. Iván’s cock wasn’t just big. It was a weapon. When Damián slipped inside him, he felt for the first time that the other body wasn’t surrendering: it was letting him pass. It was like stepping into a cage with a chained beast that was laughing under its breath.

Iván rang the bell. Carla, who had been waiting for anyone for weeks, opened it with her smile already in place. It disappeared instantly. There are animal fears that can’t be reasoned with.

—Tonight they’re going to break you, little slut —hissed Damián, but the voice that came out was Iván’s, a low growl that made Carla’s knees go weak.

He didn’t take her to the bedroom. He shoved her onto the living-room rug, tore her clothes off in handfuls, and fucked her with a violence that even Damián, who was only a spectator in his host’s mind, found frightening. Carla, underneath, was a confused mixture of tears and pleasure, a body given over to a brutality she hadn’t asked for but that was soaking her against her will.

And then, in the middle of a thrust, Iván stopped. Still. Buried to the hilt. He smiled. A slow, terrifying smile that wasn’t for her.

—I know you’re in there, doctor —he said, and the voice was real, echoing in Damián’s mind as if they shared the same room—. I felt the tingle the second you got in. You thought you were putting me to sleep. I was actually waiting for you.

The mental struggle was fierce and silent. Damián felt how his consciousness, that trained and arrogant “I,” was being shoved into a dark corner by an iron will. It was like holding back a river with your hands. Iván wasn’t afraid of him. Iván had spent years learning how to be alone inside his own head, and he recognized the intruder the moment he stepped in.

—You asked for a body, I’m giving it to you —Iván murmured, still moving inside Carla—. I’m keeping yours.

With one last push of will, Iván closed the door. Damián found himself trapped in a dark corner of someone else’s mind, a prisoner in a cage he himself had opened, forced to watch without being able to do anything. Iván finished inside Carla with disconcerting calm, kissed her neck, and whispered to her:

—From now on it’s me. Do you like it when it’s me?

She, already broken by pleasure and fright, nodded against the rug. Nodded.

***

The rest was a formality. That same dawn Iván left the house, went to Doctor Damián Quintero’s apartment, opened it with his keys, and got into his bed. The next day Carla received a husband who was a little different, a little quieter, a little firmer. She liked it. She liked it so much that when, weeks later, “Damián” suggested admitting Mr. Iván Pereyra to a psychiatric clinic for a bout of delusion, she signed the papers without hesitation. The real Damián screamed in the body of a stranger locked in a white room, while another man lived his life, saw his patients, and fucked the woman he himself had turned into an addict for someone else’s sex.

Months later, Carla became pregnant with twins. She visited the “poor patient” on Thursdays, sometimes accompanied by her husband, who smiled at her with Iván’s black eyes from a body that wasn’t his own. Damián, imprisoned in a strange piece of flesh, tried to shout through his gaze. Carla never recognized him. The mind, he discovered too late, is the most dangerous territory of all. When you play with it, you always run the risk of getting lost in the game.