One second I'm on my couch scrolling through my phone, the next I'm standing ass-naked in a bathroom that screams "medieval rich people."
"What the fuck?"
Marble everywhere, gold fixtures, a bathtub big enough to swim laps in. Fancy oils and perfumes line the shelves, and it smells like flowers and money.
That's when I notice: these aren't my hands. These definitely aren't my abs—since when do I have abs?
And holy shit, this is NOT my dick.
I'm staring down at my new equipment, equal parts shocked and impressed. Whoever's body I'm wearing was seriously blessed, and now I'm the one benefiting.
I catch my reflection in a polished metal mirror. Dark hair, blue eyes, jaw that could cut glass—I look like one of those romance novel cover models. Athletic build, broad shoulders, perfect proportions.
It's like I got upgraded from economy to first class in the body department.
Before I can process this insanity, the door swings open.
The woman who enters is gorgeous—mid-thirties with auburn hair pinned up, wearing a silk robe that clings to every curve. Her features scream "nobility," and that robe hugs a body that definitely puts her in MILF territory.
We freeze, staring at each other.
Her eyes travel down my body—chest, abs, then lower. I watch her throat move as she swallows hard.
I'm getting hard. Can't help it—this body has zero fucking control. My cock rises, thick and heavy, and her eyes lock onto it like she's hypnotized.
"I—" she starts, but no words follow.
Her hand clutches her robe tighter, which only emphasizes her breasts. Her nipples are clearly visible now through the thin silk, hard little points that betray her arousal. She's breathing faster.
"Who..." she tries again, but instead of backing away, she takes a step closer.
My cock is fully erect now, standing proud and thick. A drop of pre-cum glistens at the tip. Her eyes track it, and I swear her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
"I can explain," I lie, because I absolutely cannot explain shit.
"You're..." Her voice comes out breathy, shaky. She's staring at my cock like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Her thighs press together.
For one wild heartbeat, I think she's going to reach out and touch me. Her hand actually lifts from her side, trembling.
Then reality crashes back. Her face flushes deep red—arousal and embarrassment mixing together.
"GUARDS!" she screams, finally remembering she should probably not be eye-fucking the naked stranger in her bathroom.
"Wait, wait!" I hold up my hands, very aware I've got nothing to cover myself with. "I can explain! Actually, I can't explain shit, but I'm just as confused as you are!"
Heavy footsteps thunder down the hallway. The door bursts open and three men in actual medieval armor charge in with swords drawn.
"Lady Vivienne, stand back!" one shouts.
So her name's Vivienne. *Lady* Vivienne. I'm starting to get a really bad feeling about this.
"Seize him!" she orders, her voice steadier now, though her cheeks are still flushed and her eyes dart to my cock one more time before the guards grab me.
"Look, there's been a mistake," I try while they rough me up. "Different dimension! Different body! Can I at least get a towel?"
One of them smacks something hard against the back of my head.
Everything goes dark.
---
I wake with my head pounding like I've been on a three-day bender. Stone walls with suspicious stains, straw on the floor, iron bars, and a wooden bucket in the corner that's definitely the toilet.
At least I'm not naked anymore—though these clothes barely count. Rough fabric that smells like it's been worn by multiple dudes who've never heard of soap.
"Rise and shine, adulterer," a guard grunts from outside my cell. His beard is wild and his teeth look like they're actively rotting. "The Duke wants your head for trying to seduce his wife."
"Adulterer?" I laugh, which makes my head hurt worse. "Buddy, I literally just got here."
He spits on the floor. "Save it for the judge."
Through the tiny window, I can see it's morning. I've been out all night.
---
The trial hall is packed with nobles in outfits that look like a Renaissance faire threw up on them. Puffy pants, elaborate dresses, the works.
At the center sits a red-faced man in a small crown—the Duke, clearly. Next to him sits Lady Vivienne, playing the demure, offended wife perfectly.
But when our eyes meet, I see it: the slight flush in her cheeks, the way she shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together under her elaborate gown.
She remembers. And she's thinking about it.
"Prisoner," the old judge intones from his platform, "you stand accused of trespassing in the Duke's private chambers and attempting to seduce Lady Vivienne. How do you explain your presence, naked, in her ladyship's bathroom?"
Before I can answer, the Duke roars, "This commoner admits his crime! I saw the evidence myself—the violation of my wife's honor!"
"Actually—" I start.
"He appeared in her most private chambers!" The Duke's spittle flies. "Without clothes! His intentions were clear!"
Vivienne's eyes flash to me again. Her hand moves to her lap, disappearing into the folds of her skirt. Is she...?
"How do you plead?" the judge demands.
Fuck it. If they're going to execute me anyway...
"Guilty," I say flatly. "Yes, I did it. Now end my misery and kill me already."
The courtroom explodes. Women gasping, clutching their pearls. Men shouting for my head. The Duke stands, hand on his sword, looking ready to skip the trial and just murder me right here.
"SILENCE!" the judge roars, banging his gavel.
Vivienne's breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling. Her hand moves slightly under her skirts. That flush spreads down her neck.
She's getting off on this. On me admitting it in front of everyone. On the danger.
Fucking hell, this world is insane.
"The penalty for such a crime is death," the judge announces. "Unless any noble wishes to speak in the prisoner's defense?"
Silence. Of course no one's going to defend the random naked guy.
I close my eyes, wondering if dying here means I wake up back on my couch, or if this is just game over.
"I don't believe their story."
The voice cuts through the room like a knife—cold, commanding, bored.
The crowd parts as a tall man strides forward. Late forties, silver streaks in dark hair, face that looks carved from stone. Unlike the other peacocking nobles, he wears simple black with minimal silver embroidery. Expensive simplicity.
"Lord Derek," the judge says, clearly surprised. "You wish to speak on this man's behalf?"
Derek's gray eyes study me like I'm an interesting specimen. "I will take responsibility for him. He will be my personal slave."
Wait, what? I've gone from execution to slavery in five seconds flat.
"My lord," the Duke sputters, "this man has admitted to—"
"I heard what he said." Derek cuts him off without even looking at him. "And I find it... improbable. A stranger appears in your wife's chambers with no explanation? No signs of forced entry? No witnesses to his arrival?" His eyes slide to the Duke with cold amusement. "Perhaps there are questions better left unasked, Duke Harrington."
The Duke's face goes from purple to white so fast I think he might pass out.
Derek clearly has serious fucking power around here. And he's implying something—that maybe Vivienne invited me? That the Duke has secrets he doesn't want examined?
"If Lord Derek requests it," the judge says carefully, "we will not oppose. This is his first such request in fifteen years of service to the crown."
Derek never asks for favors. So why me?
"Mr. Daren," the judge continues, "you are hereby released from execution. Your status is changed to slave, your freedom in the hands of Lord Derek."
As the words are spoken, I feel something weird—like a whisper at the edge of my mind, a subtle shift inside my chest. Not painful, just... different.
The Duke is still fuming but apparently doesn't dare challenge Derek openly.
As guards remove my chains and hand me over to Derek's men, I catch Vivienne's expression one last time.
She's biting her lip, eyes following me with unmistakable hunger. Her hand is still hidden in her skirts, and from the slight movement, I know exactly what she's doing.
This definitely isn't over between us.
---
Derek's men aren't the chatty type. They flank me as we leave the court and head into the city streets, making it clear that running would be a terrible idea.
Derek himself rides ahead on a sleek black stallion, sitting perfectly straight, not looking back once to check on his new "property."
The city is like a fantasy movie come to life—narrow cobblestone streets winding between stone and timber buildings, market stalls with merchants hawking their wares, the smell of fresh bread mixing with less pleasant odors like unwashed bodies and animal shit.
"So what's Lord Derek's deal?" I ask one of the guards who seems slightly less threatening. "He make a habit of collecting random prisoners?"
"Lord Derek collects what interests him," the man replies. "And you'd do well to keep your mouth shut unless spoken to."
We pass through the wealthy district where the buildings get taller and fancier, then out through a massive gate into the countryside.
After about an hour's walk (Derek couldn't spare a fucking horse for his new slave?), we turn onto a tree-lined private road leading to what can only be described as a mansion.
Not quite a castle, but definitely more than a house—a massive stone structure with multiple wings, surrounded by manicured gardens and training grounds. Guards patrol the walls, servants rush about their business.
As we approach, I notice eyes turning toward us—toward me—with obvious curiosity.
Derek dismounts smoothly and hands the reins to a waiting stable boy. He finally glances my way, his gray eyes appraising me one more time.
"Take him to Madame Rosalind for processing," he orders his men, then strides into the mansion without another word.
"Processing?" I mutter. "That sounds ominous."
"Madame Rosalind runs the estate," one guard explains. "She determines where new servants fit."
As we cross the courtyard toward a side entrance, a woman emerges from the mansion.
And my brain just fucking stops.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
If Lady Vivienne was attractive, this woman is sex personified in human form.
Madame Rosalind looks late thirties, maybe forty, but age has only perfected her into something that shouldn't exist outside of fantasy.
Her tits are massive—straining against a deep burgundy corset that creates cleavage so deep you could lose your whole hand in there. The fabric creaks with each breath, barely containing the soft, heavy flesh desperately trying to spill out.
The corset cinches to an impossibly narrow waist before flaring to hips wide enough to grab with both hands and still not reach all the way around. Her ass is a perfect, rounded shelf that makes her dress sway hypnotically with each step.
Long, shapely legs extend down to surprisingly delicate ankles—how the fuck do they support all that glory above?
Her face is stunning: full lips painted deep red, high cheekbones, and eyes that promise both pleasure and pain in equal measure. Blonde-red hair cascades down her back in lush waves, catching the sunlight like fire.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Women like this actually exist here?"
The guard behind me cuffs my ear. "Eyes down before I gouge them out."
But Madame Rosalind has already noticed my reaction. A knowing smile curves those luscious lips.
She approaches with predatory grace, each step causing various parts of her anatomy to bounce or sway in the most distracting ways possible. Her perfume hits me—something exotic and spicy that makes my head swim and my cock start to swell.
"So this is Lord Derek's new acquisition from court?" Her voice is a rich, smoky purr designed specifically to make men hard. "How... interesting."
She circles me slowly, like a panther sizing up prey. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, smell that intoxicating perfume.
When she completes her circle, she stops directly in front of me, close enough that her massive tits nearly brush my chest.
"I'm Madame Rosalind," she says, tilting my chin up with one finger so I'm forced to meet her gaze. "I manage Lord Derek's household. Everything and everyone in it answers to me when his lordship is occupied. And he's often... occupied."
Her finger trails down from my chin to my chest, lingering there. The simple touch sends electricity through me.
"You caused quite a stir at court," she continues, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Appearing naked in Lady Vivienne's chambers. The rumors about your... dimensions... have already reached us here."
I swallow hard, very aware of how my body is responding to her presence. My cock is swelling in these rough pants, and there's no way to hide it.
"The rumors are greatly exaggerated," I manage, trying for humility.
Her eyebrow arches. Her eyes flicker downward to the obvious bulge growing in my pants, and her smile widens with genuine appreciation.
"We'll see about that," she purrs.
She steps back, and I nearly groan from the loss of her proximity.
"Take him to the servants' quarters," she instructs the guards. "The small room at the end of the hall. Make sure he's cleaned up and properly attired."
She turns back to me, and there's heat in her gaze now—raw, undisguised hunger.
"Once you're settled, I'll begin your... orientation."
The way she says "orientation" makes it absolutely clear we're not talking about a standard employee handbook review.
"Yes, Madame," I reply, deciding that subservience might be the smart play here.
Her smile turns predatory. "I'm going to enjoy breaking you in, slave."
As the guards lead me away, I glance back to see her watching me walk, her eyes fixed decidedly below my waistline, one hand absently trailing across her corset.
My cock is fully hard now, tenting my pants obviously. She licks her lips.
This is either going to be the best thing that's ever happened to me, or it's going to kill me.
Possibly both.