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The shift came with the scent of eucalyptus and sweat. One moment, I was buried in my own duvet, lost in a lazy Saturday morning haze. The next, I was standing on cool, damp tile, surrounded by the echo of laughter and the rustle of fabric.

My body was different. Compact, powerful. I looked down and saw strong, tan thighs, a flat stomach etched with muscle, and a sports bra straining over a generous, firm chest. Damp hair, the color of dark honey, clung to my neck. I was in a locker room, steam curling from a nearby shower stall.

And I was not alone.

The room was full of them. Young women, mostly in their early twenties, in various states of undress. A brunette was twisting her hair into a messy bun, her back arched, completely topless. Two others were comparing the neon patterns on their leggings, one hopping on one foot to pull them up. The air was thick with the smell of shampoo, deodorant, and the clean, healthy scent of youthful bodies. They teased each other with an easy intimacy, swatting towels, laughing about some guy from a party.

I just stood there, frozen by the shower entrance, a towel wrapped around my hips. My heart—her heart—was pounding. This wasn't a dream. The chill of the tile under my bare feet, the drip of water from my hair down my spine—it was all viciously real. My gaze, helpless, traveled from one stunning form to another, lingering on the curve of a hip, the sway of a breast, the smooth line of a back. I felt a traitorous heat rise in this new body, a completely different physiological response. My mouth had actually gone a little dry.

“Aria, you okay? You’re staring at my butt like you’re grading it.”

The voice snapped me back. A tall, redheaded girl with a constellation of freckles across her shoulders was smirking at me, hands on her hips. She was fully dressed in black leggings and a cropped tank top.

Aria. Right. I was Aria now. The yoga instructor, according to the logo on the damp towel.

“Just… appreciating the alignment,” I heard myself say, my voice a smooth, confident alto that carried a hint of a laugh. It was the perfect instructor-y response, and the redhead laughed, turning back to her friend.

The close call snapped me into action. I couldn’t just stand here drooling. I moved to a bench where a neat stack of clothes sat: loose, charcoal-gray harem pants and a fitted, burnt-orange tank top. I dressed quickly, the fabric clinging to my still-damp skin. The sensation was everywhere—the slide of soft cotton over sensitive nipples, the brush of the pants against my thighs. I felt exposed, hyper-aware, but also thrumming with a strange, borrowed power.

A glance at the clock on the wall told me class started in five minutes. I followed the stream of young women out of the locker room and into a bright, airy studio with warm wood floors and wall-to-wall mirrors. About fifteen students were already rolling out their mats. I took my place at the front, facing them. Their eyes were on me, expectant, trusting.

The class began. And with it, a delicious opportunity presented itself.

“Let’s move into Utthita Trikonasana,” I said, my voice taking on a calm, guiding tone that felt both alien and instinctive. “Extended Triangle Pose.” I demonstrated, my new body folding into the position with a fluid, breathtaking ease. “Remember, it’s about length, not depth. Don’t collapse into the front hip.”

As they moved into the pose, I walked among them. This was my domain. My authority.

“Let me help you,” I murmured to the freckled redhead, Megan, according to her friend’s call. I knelt beside her mat. My hands, strong and sure, went to her hips, guiding her alignment. I leaned in close, my face near the nape of her sweaty neck. I took a deep, subtle breath. She smelled of coconut sunscreen and clean exertion. “There,” I whispered, my thumbs pressing into the dip of her waist. “Feel that opening?”

I moved on. To a shy-looking girl with glasses, whose downward dog was shaky. I placed my hands firmly on the backs of her thighs to “encourage engagement,” my fingers sliding perilously close to the edge of her shorts. I inhaled the scent of her laundry detergent and nervous sweat.

For an hour, I was a benevolent tyrant of touch and proximity. I “adjusted” shoulders, “supported” backs, “guided” breaths. My hands, under the guise of instruction, charted a map of warm skin, toned muscle, and soft fabric. I got close enough to see the individual lashes of the brunette from the locker room, to smell the peppermint on her breath. The power was intoxicating. They thanked me, their faces open and grateful, completely unaware of the voyeuristic tourist piloting their teacher.

Class ended with a chorus of serene namastes. As the students filed out, chatting and rolling up their mats, I retreated back to the sanctum of the locker room. It was empty now, silent save for the drip of a faucet.

The adrenaline of performance faded, replaced by a more urgent, buzzing energy. This body was awake, alive, and mine for now. I grabbed my bag—Aria’s bag—and headed for the large, single-person accessible shower stall at the far end, locking the door behind me.

The water was blissfully hot. As it sluiced over the tight muscles of my shoulders and back, I had an idea. A record. Proof. I found her phone in the bag’s side pocket. It unlocked with a glance from these unfamiliar eyes. I propped it up on a dry shelf above the toilet, angling it towards the shower stall. The glass was frosted, but the silhouette would be clear.

Then, under the steaming spray, I let my hands explore without pretense or pedagogy. This was pure, selfish discovery. The water made every touch slick and intense. I learned the responsive geography of this body, finding spots that made my—her—breath catch. The pleasure built, sharp and coiling, fed by the entire morning’s voyeuristic feast. I didn’t try to stay quiet. The acoustics of the tiled room amplified every gasp, every low moan that erupted from Aria’s throat. It was a raw, unfiltered sound, echoing off the walls. My hand moved with a frantic rhythm, chasing a peak that was—

***

I woke up with a jolt, tangled in my own sweaty sheets. The morning sun was high in my window. My room. My bed. My aching, unsatisfied body.

A dream. Another impossibly vivid, torturously detailed dream. I groaned, rolling over, the phantom sensations of power and pleasure evaporating like mist, leaving only a dull frustration.My phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzed.

I grabbed it. A message. From an unknown number.

My thumb hovered, a strange dread and hope warring in my chest. I opened it.

There were two attachments. The first was a video. I played it.

It was shot from a high angle in a tiled room. It showed the foggy outline of a fit woman in a shower, her head thrown back, water sluicing over her form. The audio was crystal clear: the sound of the shower, and the unmistakable, loud, open cries of a woman hitting her climax. The video ended just as the silhouette shuddered.

Beneath the video, a text message followed:

Saw you enjoying the view this morning. Have to agree, Megan is seriously hot. Think I’ll offer her some extra help with her hip flexors next week. ;) If you’re ever in Crestwood, look me up. I owe you a private lesson. – Aria

I stared at the screen, the reality of it settling in my gut like a stone. She’d been there. Watching me watch. And she wasn’t angry. She was… collaborating. An accomplice in her own possession.

The address for the yoga studio was tagged at the bottom of the message. Crestwood was a six-hour drive away. I looked at the clock, then back at the frozen, blurry image on my screen.

The frustration was gone, replaced by something else: a thrilling, terrifying sense of invitation.