Grayson's Pain (body swap)

Grayson groaned. He was embarrassed, but the pain was worse than the embarrassment. He’d been a football practice with the guys and there’d been some horseplay, and he’d ended up with a groin injury. He couldn’t be sidelined for the big game, he just couldn’t.

The coach told him to go see a doctor who used to play on the team about 12 years ago. “In fact,” Coach Richards told him, “He used to play your same position.”

Grayson was a bit apprehensive when he pulled up at the clinic. Dr. Bruce didn’t work out of a medical building or clinic, he had an office in an old house off a gravel lined paved road in a small town just outside of the city. Still the sign in front read, “Doctor Wayne D. Bruce, M.D., Ph.D., S.T.D.” Hm, he thought, “STD: Sexually Transmitted Diseases? If that’s his specialty, Grayson could understand his office being off the beaten path. He’d hurt his groin, but it certainly wasn’t sexually transmitted. Was this the right doctor to be seeing? Still sexually diseases and groins did seem to go together. Grayson parked his car, and headed up to the doctor’s office.

A little brass bell rang as Mark Grayson entered. The waiting room looked like something out of a movie, or maybe television show. An oriental rug covered the floor, tufted chairs, and sofas lined the walls. A chandelier hung from the old room’s high 12 foot paneled ceiling. Large paintings which Mark recognized as Monet’s work hung on the walls. It was odd to think such valuable paintings would be hanging in an unlocked lobby. Then he hit the heel of his hand against his forehead. They had to be replicas. He’d just taken a course last spring in Art History, and he’d done his term paper on Monet. The odd thing was he’d thought he’d looked at photos and slides of every Monet painting known to exist, but these ones weren’t among them. Still he was sure they were Monet’s works.

He saw a small frosted glass window in the corner next to a door, so he went over and tapped on the glass. About 30 seconds later an old withered hand slid the glass aside, and handed him a clipboard.

“Sign in here,” the old man said.

“Doctor Bruce?” Mark Grayson asked.

“No. He’ll be with you shortly,” there seemed to be a certain sadness in the old man’s voice.

Changing the subject, Grayson asked, “These paintings in the waiting room--they’re Monet’s works right?”

“Why yes!” exclaimed the old man, in pleasant surprise. “They are.”

“You know I did a paper on his stuff, and I’ve never seen these ones before. Where are the originals?”

“They are originals. The doctor picked them up in Paris, oh, decades ago.”

“Years ago? The coach said that he played football at college only twel-”

“Yes, I did. You must be Mark Grayson!” said the young doctor opening the door next to Mark. “Good old coach, it seems like only yesterday that I was out on the gridiron passing that football around,” he said with a sigh, adding, “The best years of my life. Now, you can do the paperwork later, come back here with me,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. I pulled my groin, and I really need to play in this Friday’s game.”

“Of course, you can rest assured that your young body will be on that field Friday,” the doctor said escorting him to an examination room. The old man glared at the doctor, which Mark thought odd, maybe he was the doctor’s father or uncle or boyfriend? The doctor didn’t have a wedding ring, and he did specialize in S.T.D.’s.

The hallway was weirder than the waiting room. Old tribal masks, wicker figurines, paintings depicting medieval demons, Greek or Roman friezes of pagan rituals, and the like lined the walls. The exam room itself was covered in striped wallpaper, and had an exam table and a small antique desk and stool. An old fashioned medicine cabinet hung from the wall. There was a cane coat rack in the far corner. The walls were decorated with stone hieroglyphics and pictoglyphs, a couple Egyptian gold death masks, a shelf with a statue of an animal headed man, and other relics Mark assumed were from the King Tut exhibit.

“Why don’t you get undressed, and then I can examine you,” the doctor said jovially.

“Whatever you say, doc,” was his reply.

When he was down to his blue Perry Ellis boxer briefs and white socks, Mark asked, “So where’s the paper gown?”

“I’ve got to examine you down there, and I hardly think modesty dictates you cover your bare chest,” snorted the doctor, “besides why should I waste two bucks on a gown you don’t even need?”

The doctor had him there, so Mark shrugged and stepped out of his boxers and added them to the hat rack atop the clothes tree.

“Now let’s see what I’ve got to work with, Marky,” the doctor said playfully, as reached for and lifted Mark’s cock.

“Hey!” Mark exclaimed swatting the hand away from his cock. “It’s the inside of my thigh, not my dick that’s the problem.

“No, but I have to move your penis to examine your thigh. I may have to move your scrotum too. Now spread your feet apart and let me examine you,” the doctor ordered.

He was down on his knees pawing the sensitive area between Mark’s legs. The top of the doctor’s hair brushed his other thigh and the underside of Mark’s scrotum. Mark shook his head, and looked up at the ceiling. He was sure the doctor could feel his penis stiffening in his hand.

“Well, you’re a healthy, normal young male,” the doctor announced.

“Then I’ll be able to play ball Friday?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, that’s a yes and a no. I guaranteed that I’d have your body on the field to play, but that’s a serious groin injury, and it’ll take months to heal properly.”

Confused, Mark sat on the table, and sighed. “What does that mean? Are you going to shoot me up with pain killers so I can play?”

“No, of course not. Sorry to be cryptic. I should have said that under normal circumstances it would take your body months to heal. But I’m no ordinary doctor.” He beamed.

Mark rolled his eyes. This had been a mistake. “Listen , doc, I’m not gay. Uh, maybe I should get dressed, and get going. If I ever get an S.T.D., I’ll be sure to look you up.”

“What? S.T.D.? Oh, the sign out front. No, S.T.D. doesn’t stand for sexually transmitted diseases, it stands for doctor of sacred theology.

“Sacred Theology? I thought you were an M.D.?” Mark said inching toward his clothing.

“I am. I apply alternative medical treatments. And I have one that will have Mark Grayson’s body back on the gridiron on Friday.”

“I don’t do marijuana,” Mark said firmly, as the doctor lit an incense burner on the desk.

“Nor do I. The Rastafaris greatly exaggerate it’s medicinal value. Now, lie down on the examine table, and we’ll begin with a therapeutic massage. I know your groin is where your major pain is, but getting you completely relaxed first will help with the treatment. You know my life’s not half-bad. Independently wealthy, travel as much as I like, lots of respect for my degree, but I do miss the football field. Back in ‘67, Brent Richards and I were quite a pair on the field. Best receiver the college ever had.”

“’67? You don’t look that old? Besides, Coach Richards said you played twelve years ago? Aah,” Mark moaned with pleasure.

“Oh, I did. I’ve got this thing about football. Have had since I played for the college back in the 20’s.”

“Back in the 20’s?” Mark seemed to be drifting away. He couldn’t be hearing aright.

“Yes, I’ve accumulated a lot of wealth over the years. Started when I became Gaius’ personal physician in Alexandria. Now there was a man, Gaius Yulius Kaiser. Anyway, I’d discovered the ancient rites reserved for the Egyptian high priests and royalty, and you could say the rest is history.”

“How do you think you are?” moaned Mark as he struggled to open his eyes to remain conscious.

“I’m going to be 21 again, and you’re going to be 32, oh, and in about eight or ten years, Mark Grayson will be the doctor here, and then there’ll be another young athlete that needs to be on the field. Ah, there we go,” the doctor said.

Mark could sense something glowing inside him something changing his body. His muscles snapped, and his vertebrae extended, and his smooth chest became itchy with hair, but his groin still ached.

“AMON RA BE PRAISED!” shouted a voice. It sounded like Mark’s.

Mark sat bolt upright, and clutched at his groin as the sudden movement caused him pain. Standing opposite him already wearing his boxers was him? He blinked. Mark Grayson effortlessly bent his legs and jumped into his jeans.

“Yeah, Dr. Bruce, you’d better ice your groin regularly for the next few weeks. And Carlisle, the old guy out front who was on the team in 1957, will teach you some exercises to get you in shape. With this studly young body, even though it’s a tad shorter than what I’m used to wearing, I may finally make it to the pros. Anyway, Carlisle will fill you in, I’ve got to get to practice, and my old bud Brent Richards.” He buttoned the top button on Mark’s shirt. Picked up the college letterman’s jacket, and bolted out of the room

Mark leapt up to run after him, and moaned in pain dropping to his knees.

Carlisle was there standing over him reaching down helping him up with a plastic ice pack.

“I know it’s hard to believe. Believe me, I know it’s hard, I know because he did it to me 50 years ago. In a way it’s a fair trade. You get to live in luxury for 10-12 years, while he gets 10-12 years of your life. But you don’t get your old body back, and your stuck with Bruce’s old body, just like he’s stuck with mine.”

“I thought Dr. Bruce stole my body?” Mark asked as he applied the ice pack to his now 32 year old groin. Bruce’s temples were already turning grey.
“Oh, Gaius Yulius Kaiser is just the way the “doctor” pronounce Caesar--Julius Caesar’s name. He even knew Cleopatra. God only knows what his original name was, he’s had hundreds, perhaps thousands through the ages.”

“This can’t be happening. I’ll call the police, I’ll--”

“Don’t even think about it. That’s exactly what Bruce did when he found himself in my body. They put him in a psych ward. There he sits to this day fully medicated staring in a perpetual daze out the window at the park. I visit him monthly.”

“What?” the former Mark Grayson said with terror in his voice.

“It’s really not so bad. The bank account is practically unlimited, and even though we can only touch the interest it’s still seven figures of interest each year.”

“Only touch the interest?”

“The doctor wants to protect his principal from us, and he’s got the Zurich passcodes memorized. Still you’ve only lost 11 years. When he took my body, I was an 18 year old freshman, and Doctor Carlisle was pushing 50.”

“That’d make you nearly 100!”

“Well, the body is 94, but mentally I’m 66.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry, uh, isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Not really, except enjoy the luxury.”

“Right, luxury,” he snorted.

“Why me? Why you?”

“Groin injury. Seems to be a prerequisite for the body transformation, he palpitates something there while chanting, and well, you can see the results,” Carlisle said nodding at the full length mirror on the opposite wall beneath a shelf containing the statue of a crocodile headed man.

Saturday’s newspaper had a photo of Mark Grayson, number 69 making the winning touchdown for his college, and cinching there place in the playoffs. After crumpling the newspaper and throwing it at the trash can the new Dr. Bruce, smiled with pride that he was credited with helping his team make the playoffs, then he turned red with anger at the fact that the opportunity to do it had been stolen along with his body. He sipped his cognac, and passed out in it’s warmth. He had no idea, but the “doctor” had acquired this vintage from Napoleon’s wine cellar in the 19th century.

So a warning to all young football players out there, if you’re ever referred to a Dr. Mark Grayson, M.D., Ph.D., S.T.D., run, don’t walk in the opposite direction.

END

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