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"If I had known things would go this far, then..." — Private detective Harry cut himself off, choking on another wave of panic.
The dark leather seats of the expensive SUV rubbed against his bare skin. Too much bare skin. His gaze dropped down to his chest, confined in a red bikini. God. The slight shaking of the road made his breasts bounce with every bump, a constant reminder of the new weight on his body. It was driving him insane.
He gritted his teeth, trying to focus. All of this—this was the result of that damned deal with that strange guy who had promised him cover. A curse? An experiment? Magic? He hadn’t figured it out yet, but the fact remained: he, Harry Drake, a detective with ten years of experience, was now trapped in this body and was finally being taken to the infamous elite club, Amber Room—a place so secretive that even the most powerful people barely knew of its existence. A place where reality disappeared, and power and debauchery mixed with occult rituals.
Harry was certain this was connected to the media mogul’s heiress, who had mysteriously vanished under unexplained circumstances.
— Relax, baby. — The driver chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road. — Stop squirming like you’re sitting on needles.
Harry pressed his knees together, feeling heat rise to his face. "Fuck, pull yourself together!" he barked at himself mentally. But it was harder than expected when his body betrayed him, reacting to every single movement.
— Why the hell did I even have to strip? And why take all my stuff? — Harry muttered, glancing down again.
The panties were tight, digging into his skin, their thin straps pulled so taut they felt like they’d snap at any moment. Every movement brought unfamiliar sensations—his skin was too sensitive, his body felt strangely light and yet… uncomfortable.
He clenched his teeth as his breasts jiggled again when the car made a sharp turn.
The driver shot him a quick glance through the rearview mirror—assessing, predatory.
— Listen, doll, you really don’t get it, do you? Your stuff? Your past? No one gives a shit about that anymore. Forget it. You’re just here to look pretty, got it?
Harry froze. His heart pounded wildly. "Fuck, why the hell am I freaking out so much? I knew what I was getting into, and yet I feel like some scared little girl."
He was a detective, for fuck’s sake! Ten years in this dirty business, working with dangerous people, bullets, chases. He had been through the hell of investigations and betrayals, but now… Now he felt something spreading inside him—it wasn’t just panic. It was vulnerability. He wanted to shrink, to close himself off, but every fiber of this new body was reacting too emotionally, too… femininely.
Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself to regain control, to prove—if only to himself—that he was still in charge.
— The deal was… — Harry struggled to keep the tremor out of his voice, but it still sounded too… feminine, with an almost pleading undertone. — Completely different. I was just supposed to… talk, find out where we… — He swallowed hard. His voice betrayed him: high, too soft, too… fragile.
The driver snorted, flashing a grin as he turned onto a narrower road. Dense trees lined the sides. It felt like an eternity as his gaze lingered on Harry’s exposed body, but then, suddenly, the brakes screeched, and the car came to an abrupt stop. Harry felt his body lurch forward helplessly.
— Listen up, doll, — the driver finally turned, resting his elbow on the headrest, his stare sharp, piercing, drilling into him. — You really don’t understand where you’re going, do you? Or how things work there. So open those cute little ears: you don’t ask questions, you don’t argue. You’re just decoration. Got it?
A black velvet blindfold appeared in his hands.
— Hey, what the… — Harry flinched, but the driver was already reaching out, gripping his chin.
— If you don’t want things to get rough, put the blindfold on. Or I’ll do it myself… and it won’t be gentle.
His heart pounded harder. Harry swallowed, clinging to the last shreds of his dignity. "Come on, it’s just part of the cover. Just part of the game," he reminded himself, tying the blindfold over his eyes.
Darkness.
Only his own ragged breathing and the distant sound of raindrops against the window.
A soft click of the car door. Someone slid in beside him. The faint scent of musk and light cigarettes drifted through the air as a hand slowly trailed down his thigh, sending an involuntary shiver through him.
The smell. Cigarette smoke, but light, thin, with a musky undertone. A man. His palm rested lightly, almost carelessly, on Harry’s thigh, skimming over smooth skin. His body betrayed him again—every nerve seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Harry bit his lip instinctively, not even realizing it, as a cold shudder ran down his spine. Controlling this body was harder than he thought.
— Relax, baby. It’s just… an interview. — The voice was velvety, warm, but with an undertone of icy confidence.
He took Harry’s wrist, guiding his hand downward, toward something hard, long, and… warm. Harry felt his fingers tremble as they brushed against something solid, hot. Inside, everything clenched with panic and disgust.
He knew what was happening. He knew this was part of the cover, but his brain refused to accept reality.
His fingers tensed, hesitated, barely touching—he was about to pull back when the man’s warm, strong hand covered his own, forcing his grip to tighten.
— That’s it, — the voice was low, velvety, almost gentle. — Just be a good girl, show me what you can do. It’s important for the job.
Harry tried to speak, but his voice got stuck in his throat. Only a weak breath escaped his lips. He could feel the heat creeping up his cheeks, how his body—this alien body—reacted too… unpredictably.
— But I already… I already spoke with that guy… The interview… it was already… — Harry trailed off. His voice sounded too whimpering, too soft, almost pleading. Like it wasn’t even his. "Fuck, what’s happening to me? I’m—"
— Shhh… You’re in the middle of it, baby, — the man leaned in closer, his breath burning against his ear. — Just nice and slow… up. And down. Yeah, just like that.
The stranger adjusted his grip, guiding his movements.