As he continues to violate you, he strips off his vest, and removes your shirt and under shirt, and soon the two of you are sweaty and naked. You sob and collapse in a fetal position as he proceeds to dress himself in your clothing. He then produces a black marking pen, and writes on your damp smooth chest in big letters, "SLAVE."
He then forces you into his leather gear. It's odd, he was bigger than you when you entered, but your clothing fits him perfectly. At first you think he shrank, but you realize as he puts the leathers on you that his head is still the same height relative to you, so your clothing grew to fit him. Similarly, your new leather outfit seems to have shrunk to fit you. You notice that the marking pen has changed. It looks like it's a tattoo. Your fingers run over the printing on your chest. It doesn't smear. It's under the skin. It is a tattoo.
You look up at him, the gruff guy still has the same facial features he head, but he's now clean shaven, and well groomed. You on the other hand have a five o'clock shadow, and notice your pit hairs have vanished. You glance down at where your treasure trail used to be, and frown. You look up into your grinning master's face.
He looks inside your wallet and grins. He turns the wallet toward you so you can see the driver's license. It's got your name and address, but the photo has morphed into the big blond guy. The id stats have changed too. Your weight is greater on the card, as is your height, and the eye color is now grey, and hair blond. You were brown haired, brown eyed, and as you glance in the mirror, you see you still are, but you're no longer you.
You look in your wallet, which is on a chain from your belt loop into your front pocket. There are only three cards in the wallet. The first is a slave registration card. The second is a membership card to a private club with a pink triangle logo. The third is a driver's license with your photo and stats. The name isn't yours, but somehow it is. You have no idea how to get to Holmes Street, but that's where you know you live.
"Confused, kid?" the new you asks.
"Yes, sir?" you rub your aching head with one hand and your sore ass with the other.
"Here's the skinny. I was a gay biker who just got out of jail. I couldn't get a job with my record, and my bike ran out of gas just up the highway from here. In prison, my cellmate was this old cajun guy-really into voo-doo. Anyway he taught me this spell, I thought it was hokum, but there was nothing else to do in stir, 'cepting," he grinned and made a lewd gesture over his crotch, "well, you know. Anyway, he pointed out that anybody I swapped with would end up just as mean a son of a bitch as I was unless, I altered my reality, and hence yours. So I got myself a slave registration number, and used that marker with another spell the old guy taught me."
He didn't say any more, he didn't need to, as his memories were now filling your brain. He produced a dog collar and leash, and led you back to your own car. He put you in the trunk, and started the engine. You wonder idly whether he's taking you to your new home, or to his new one, or maybe to that gay club or maybe--? You cry yourself to sleep in the darkness moving with the rhythm of the highway.