Dennis needed to get laid. In his previous incarnation it had been easy, he'd been handsome then, tall and sure footed across the warm planking of the ship he crewed. Woman, and a few men, had pressed themselves on him in that body. It had taken every last ounce of his willpower not to screw the French whore he'd encountered in the islands the first night. By the second, drunk and starting to get suspicious looks from his ship-mates, he'd been unable to resist. She'd dropped to her knees on him and pop. Body number 117. That one hadn't been bad either, a rather pretty Japanese school-teacher, but not as entertaining as the pirate had been. He'd tried getting her laid in her boss’s office as soon as he could, but of course the selfish bastard never finished the job so he'd had to sleep around the school a while whilst fending off the principal’s advances. Finally, Mr. Reynolds, the weirdly gawky (but apparently well practiced) history teacher had finally succeeded and now here he was.
A bald little middle-aged man in an ultra conservative religious compound somewhere in the woods without a hope in hell of anything but a self inflicted orgasm. It wasn't that there weren't women there. There were, and they were happily screwing away with a few of the more influential fellows in the compound, all behind their long skirts and bibles. This body was no-one here and the few women he'd approached had either denounced him as a perverted sinner or simply laughed in his face.
It had been three years. Three bloody years during which he simply couldn't escape. He didn't have outside privilege. As the mission station bell started ringing, the same panicky thought overtook him that had haunted at least two and a half of those years. What if this was it? What if he simply wasn't ever getting out of here. A tight, hot feeling started in his chest, a panic that spread into the corners of his vision as encroaching darkness. Sinking to his knees, Dennis started to pray.
(Image from wikimedia commons)