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When Logan is invited by his friend Ryan to participate in a experiment, the last thing he is expecting is for his mind to be copied into the body of a brain slug.
However, instead of trying to fix things when she discovers this, Ryan sets her sights on fulfilling her all longheld ambitions with Logan's newfound abilities.
Logan is initially keen with just going along things as he possesses more bodies and pushes the extent of his capabilities. However, when a desire to be more than just her golden goose begins to stir within him, he soon finds himself starting to make plans to fulfill his own longheld desires...
However, instead of trying to fix things when she discovers this, Ryan sets her sights on fulfilling her all longheld ambitions with Logan's newfound abilities.
Logan is initially keen with just going along things as he possesses more bodies and pushes the extent of his capabilities. However, when a desire to be more than just her golden goose begins to stir within him, he soon finds himself starting to make plans to fulfill his own longheld desires...
mtf possession lesbian identity theft transformation Male to Female mind alteration Unrequited Love
by
Eb18
· 03 Feb 2026
Ryan invites Logan to participate in experiment with some unexpected results.
A story written by my good friend Eagle_Bacon
Please check out some of their art and other work on Chyoa, Deviantart, X, or Patreon
Story concept by MonsterInNeed
Please check out their work on Chyoa under MonsterInNeed and Patreon or Smashwords under Dominic H. Hugh
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Kyle is a guy that is looking to live a straight life after getting out of jail recently, have been caught up in a life of crime early on in life.
However, when an old friend contacts him to steal a priceless artifact together, Kyle decides to turn back to his old ways.
Things quickly go wrong during the score, which results in him unexpectedly swapping bodies with the city's number 1 superheroine. He knows the right thing to do would be to figure out a way to swap them back, but that idea becomes increasingly difficult when he finds out just the kind of life and pleasure her body truly has to offer him.
Kyle learned early that luck was a finite resource, and whatever share he'd been allotted had been spent before he turned sixteen. He grew up in a neighborhood where police sirens were background noise and everyone knew which streets to avoid after dark - dangerous and belonging to someone. Trouble wasn't something you sought out there. It found you, it waited, and if you didn't learn fast enough, it took what it wanted.
Kyle hadn't learned fast enough. By the time he was seventeen, he'd been arrested twice - one for running lookout, once for possession he swore wasn't his. The judge hadn't cared. The system rarely did. He'd done his time in juvenile detention, learned how to keep his head down, how to read people, how to pick locks with nothing but patience and a bent piece of metal. Skills that weren't exactly résumé-friendly. Now, at twenty-eight, he stood behind a coffee counter that smelled perpetually burnt no matter how often he cleaned it and wearing a stained apron with a name tag that felt like a lie. 'Kyle.'
The bell above the café door chimed, and another customer stepped up, already frowning.
"Large oat milk latte. Extra hot. and make sure it's not bitter this time."
Kyle forced a smile.
"Sure thing."
Behind him, one of his coworkers leaned against the prep counter scrolling through their phone. His supervisor - who showed up late every shift and still somehow found the time to criticize - hovered nearby, arms crossed.
"Try not to mess it up," she muttered. "We've had complaints."
Kyle bit back the response that came to mind, he always did - Rent didn't care about pride.
When the café slowed down - mid-afternoon lull and the sunlight slanted through the windows - Kyle leaned against the counter and let his thoughts drift upward. Literally. A massive digital billboard across the street flickered with life, displaying the familiar image: Elasti-Woman, mid-leap, limbs extended impossibly as she saved a collapsing monorail car. The city's favorite heroine. Strong, confident, sexy and smiling like she belonged exactly where she stood.
Kyle watched, transfixed. She was tall, 6ft with shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes, a model-like face, and a curvaceous, athletic build that Kyle absolutely adored. Every time he thought of her, he caught himself in daydreams. She made it look effortless. Being admired, being needed. Being someone.
He imagined it sometimes - what it would feel like to be that. To matter. To have people look at you with awe instead of suspicion. To have power instead of apologies. And, he also fantasized about her. He wasn't blind, or dead. The thought of someone like Elasti-Woman even glancing his way - let along sharing a night with him - was ridiculous. He knew that. He wasn't delusional but that still didn't stop his chest from tightening every time she smiled. Reality snapped back when his supervisor cleared her throat sharply.
"Kyle. Table three's been waiting."
He nodded, moved, served, and apologized for things that weren't his fault.
That night, as he trudged back to his apartment, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it, almost.
"Yeah?" he said into the device, keys jingling around his finger.
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice, rougher than he remembered, but unmistakable.
"Damn, man. You still answer like you're expecting trouble."
Kyle stopped fiddling with his keys, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Evan?"
"Still alive," The man replied, laughing. "Mostly. Heard you got out clean."
"Clean enough," Kyle said cautiously. "How'd you get this number?"
He didn't know Evan too well. But they did get into trouble with each other a few times.
"Mutual acquaintance. Relax. I'm not calling to drag you into anything."
Somehow, Kyle didn't believe that and snorted in response.
"That's new."
They talked, caught up as much as they could, shared stories that carefully avoided their worst years. Evan had bounced around - inside, outside, always skirting the edge. Eventually, Kyle sighed and realized - he wanted something.
"Alright," he said. "You didn't call me just to reminisce. I know that, but that's as much as I do know."
Evan hesitated, a little too long.
"There's a job," he explained. "Easy one. Museum slash pawn shop. I'm working security nights. They just got this artifact - private collection. Worth millions if you know the right people."
Kyle's stomach sank. "No," he said immediately. "Besides, what type of museum also runs a pawn shop? That doesn't make sense."
"Heard the guy's shady. Runs it for tax evasion or some shit," Evan dismissed his concerns and then continued. "Just one night. In and out. I'll give you the layout, the security codes. You're better with locks than me."
It was true. Kyle was better.
He knew how to read the tension in a tumbler, to feel the give of a pin. It was almost instinct.
"You know how I live," Evan pressed, "A few days. Just this."
"No," Kyle repeated. "I'm done. I like my freedom."
Evan pushed and joked, promised it was clean. That there would be no heat and no alarms.
"Come on. Besides, what dead end job do you have that can actually support you?" Evan's question struck a nerve. "I've seen you. You're good. You're wasting your talent."
Kyle could almost see the artifact. He could imagine it sitting in a velvet-lined box, protected by glass. For a few hours of risk, it'd be enough to move out of his apartment, maybe go somewhere new and actually start fresh. To pay for a night with someone like her - no. He shut that down immediately.
"I... I can't, Evan. I'm sorry." The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and disappointed. Kyle pictured Evan's face - jaw tight, eyes already turning inward, and recalculating.
"Alright," Evan said at last. "your call." The line then went dead.
Kyle stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment, the city humming around him like static. When he finally unlocked his apartment and stepped inside, the door shut with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
The place smelled faintly of cheap detergent and he stared at the crumbling wallpaper stained yellow with old cigarette smoke. He learned the back of his head against the door and sighed. Freedom, Evan had said. What freedom was this?
Kyle huffed a quiet, humorless laugh and crossed the apartment. This wasn't freedom, this was a holding cell. A cage built out of rent, reputation, and the kind of mistakes that never quite stopped following you. That night passed, then another.
The next few days were uneventful in the most exhausting way possible - early mornings, bitter coffee, aching feet, incompetent bosses and coworkers. The call faded, dulled by routine. Kyle told himself that was it. That Evan had taken the no and moved on.
Nearly a week later, his phone buzzed while he was sitting alone in his apartment, half-watching a muted news segment about another villain sighting downtown. Evan again. Kyle frowned at the name, thumb hovering over the screen.
For a minute, he considered ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail and letting the past stay where it belonged. But curiosity got the better of him and he swiped it open where an image filled the display.
An exquisite silver chain dripped with the light of a thousand tiny rose-cut gems, their soft blush catching the light with every subtle movement. Suspended from this delicate chain is a magnificent centerpiece: a single, flawlessly faceted pink diamond, cut so deeply that its heart seems to pulse with a captured sunset and refused to let go. It didn't look fake, it looked important.
"This is it," Evan's message followed. "They think it's worthless. Owner's a drunk. Barely remembers it's there. You know this is your way out. This is something that can support you."
Kyle stared at the photo longer than he meant to - Until the edges blurred and the necklace dissolved into color and light, and something else took its place in his mind - a familiar figured stretched across the skyline, confident and untouchable. Elasti-Woman, smiling like the city belonged to her. Kyle locked his phone and set it face-down on the table.
Later that night, the temperature dropped, the chill creeping in through the thin walls. He went to his closet to grab a hoodie - nothing dramatic, something he did a thousand times before. He pulled one free and something heavier shifted on the shelf above.
A pair of gloves slid into view, worn, thin and familiar. He hadn't touched them in years. Kyle picked them up slowly, turning them over in his hands. The leather was cracked and softened by years of use. They fit perfectly still when he slipped them on - muscle memory kicking in before he could stop it. He should have thrown them out, years ago. He knew that. Told himself that he kept them because they were useful. Because you never knew when you might need them for something harmless. A stuck lock, a broken latch, pulling weeds... 'Just in case'. He took them off and set them back on the shelf, heart beating faster than it should have, then shut the closet door. He remembered the days of picking locks with them helping keep a steady hand.
The days rolled on - Coffee, complaints, the same tired routine. Kyle almost convinced himself the call had been a lapse - an old ghost rattling chains that didn't exist anymore. At least that was what it appeared as, Evan didn't push at first. Just checked in. Casual messages. An old joke he shared with Kyle and one other in the past. Then, every few days, another reminder slipped in. A comment about rising prices. A nudge about people he knew who'd 'made it out.' About how unfair it was that some people got powers and others got scraps. Once, late at night while Kyle laid in bed, another photo appeared - the necklace again and closer this time. The pink diamond caught the light differently, deeper, warmer. For a second, Kyle swore it looked like it was glowing.
He turned his phone face-down on his chest and went to bed, staring at the ceiling until morning. And then frustration did the rest - the café, the bills, the way his supervisor talked to him like he was disposable. The way customers smiled politely until they stepped away and the way the city celebrated its heroes and forgot everyone else existed. By the time he finally picked up his phone, his hands were steady. He typed one word.
"When?"
Two days later, Kyle and Evan found themselves standing before the building Evan had described. It was a strange place: half museum, half pawn shop. The sign above the entrance, written in faded gold lettering, read: The Reliquary & Loan.
The front windows displayed a jumble of antique weapons and dusty paintings, while just beyond them, in a more curated space, sat a collection of pristine artifacts under bright spotlights. The place felt... liminal. Not quite legitimate, not quite criminal. At night, the building seemed to loom taller than he remembered when they did the daytime walk-by Evan had insisted was 'all the recon they'd need.'
The outside itself was marble façade with reinforced glass for the antiques. It seemed too clean or well-lit for something that supposedly blended museum curation with pawnshop discretion. Private collection acquisitions always meant money, and money meant security. Kyle adjusted the thin gloves on his hands and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Tell me again," he murmured, "Why the service entrance doesn't have a guard?"
Evan, crouched beside a side door and working far too confidently on a tablet that looked older than Kyle's phone shrugged.
"Because they cut costs. Owner's cheap."
Kyle didn't like that answer. He liked them to be specific - Names, timetables.
Still, the door opened cleanly under his picks, the lock giving way with a familiar, almost comforting click. For a moment, muscle memory carried him - same old dance, same steady hands.
The rush crept in anyway, uninvited. Inside, the air smelled like polish from one of those machines, freshly scrubbed of all the dirt, and the air was almost stuffy - like it was still. The floor plan Evan had given him flashed in Kyle's mind as they moved - but almost immediately, it didn't match.
Display cases sat where corridors were supposed to be. A security camera tracked lazily across a hall that should have been blind. Kyle, thankfully, stopped short and grabbed Evan's sleeve. "That camera wasn't on your map. I thought you said you fucking worked here before?!" he whispered sharply.
Evan, for the first time, looked nervous.
"They... must have updated. It's fine. It's on a loop. I saw the log myself." The excuse was thin. Too thin. But they were already inside. Backing out now felt like a bigger risk than pushing forward. Kyle hated that about himself - how easily sunk costs turned into forward momentum.
The deeper they went, the quieter Evan got. And Kyle led. He always did. But he knew how to read spaces - how sound carried, where footsteps echoed too long, how security sensors felt even when you couldn't see them.
He spotted slightly raised plates just before stepping on them, freezing, and then carefully stepping over. Evan didn't even notice until Kyle grabbed him again.
"Watch where you step," Kyle whispered. "Or this ends with both of us in cuffs."
Despite Kyle's skill, it was his partners that always let him down and it infuriated him.
"Relax," Evan muttered. "You're the pro, right?"
That only served to irk him more, none of this shit was supposed to be here. It was supposed to be easy.
The vault room sat lower than expected, tucked behind a reinforced exhibit wall disguised as a historical installation. This was the real test. Kyle knelt before the keypad, his fingers hovering over the numbers. Evan had given him the code. A sequence that supposedly cycled weekly.
"You're sure about this?" Kyle asked, his heart starting to thrum a heavy, anxious rhythm against his ribs.
"I'm sure," Evan said, though he wouldn't meet Kyle's gaze.
Kyle entered the code. The keypad beeped. ACCESS DENIED
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Kyle's chest. "You're an idiot," he seethed. "You gave me the wrong code."
"No, no, I... maybe I typed it wrong?" Evan stammered, fumbling with his tablet again.
"There's a master override. I just need to... Here, I got a new code. Let me enter it."
Evan moved closer, his fingers dancing across the panel, but again; ACCESS DENIED
This time the panel beeped, - just once - a warning. Kyle closed his eyes for half a second, unable to believe this.
"Move."
He knelt, rolling his eyes while pulling tools from his kit. The panel resisted him immediately - newer model, nested failsafes, the kind designed to punish impatience. Sweat prickled along his spine as he worked, fingers moving with slow, careful, practiced precision. Time stretched, every second felt loud and long. When the lock finally disengaged, Kyle nearly laughed in relief.
Inside, the safe stood under that cold white light.
It was already open - probably from the laziness of said owner, thinking that no one would even find the vault. And there it was, resting on a simple black velvet pad. The necklace. The chain was impossibly fine, the rose-cut gems glowing with a soft, internal warmth. The pink diamond at its center was huge. And it was beautiful, it shone like it wanted to be noticed.
Evan gasped, moving towards it.
"See? I told you."
But Kyle didn't move. He stood there, staring. This was it. The whole reason for this risky, half-assed plan. But something was wrong. The hairs on his arms were standing up. A low hum emanated from the necklace, almost imperceptible at the edges of his hearing. He took a step closer.
The closer he got, the more aware he became of it - it wasn't a sound, or a pull exactly, but a pressure - as if he was being hugged. His fingers hovered before touching it.
"Don't just stand there," Evan whispered. "Grab it!"
Kyle wrapped his hand around the chain. It was warm, like holding those hand-warming satchels in the dead of winter while snow drifted all around you. A shiver ran through him, sharp and inexplicable, and for a split second he thought he heard something - not words but a suggestion of a voice, distant and close at the same time. He wasn't sure if the necklace had some other attribute to it. But it certainly felt like it. Then all that focus drained away as soon as Evan swore loudly.
Kyle spun just in time to see Evan's foot catch on a cable that should not have been there. The alarm detonated, exploding outward with sound. Not just a single sound but layers - sirens, lights, automated voice warnings cascading through the building. Kyle's heart slammed into overdrive, the memories of being caught by police, time and time again flashing through his mind. "I told you to watch-!"
"I didn't see it!"
"Because you don't look!" He whispered pointedly.
Kyle swiped the necklace, the gems feeling warm in his palm as they began to run.
He took point again, cutting left where the shortest path should've been - but the corridor ended in a security gate slamming down inches from his face.
"Plan B!" Evan yelled.
"There was no fucking Plan B!"
Kyle's shoes skid as they doubled back, ducking through exhibits as emergency shutters began sealing rooms behind them, Kyle's lungs burned, grip tight around the pendant like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Halfway to the exit, Evan grabbed his arm.
"Give it to me," he shouted over the alarms. "I know a buyer-"
Kyle yanked free, spinning on him. "No. You don't touch it."
"What?! That wasn't the deal!"
"The deal didn't include you set off every alarm in the building!"
Evan's face hardened. "You think you can just take it?"
Kyle didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew the answer. If anyone could find a buyer, it was Kyle.
They started at each other for a moment too long - sirens screaming, lights flashing red - and in that moment they knew that they had to split up.
"Split up," Kyle ordered, "Now."
Evan hesitated, then cursed and bolted in the opposite direction. Outside, the streets were swarming with police but Kyle managed to slip past them and turned the corner at a dead run, nearly slamming straight into her. Elasti-Woman dropped from above and touched down lightly in front of him, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. She straightened with confidence, already between him and the street beyond. The glow of emergency lights reflected faintly off the red-and-silver of her suit.
"End of the line," She said, voice calm and practiced, unlike the police who would have been screaming at him to get down.
Kyle skidded to a halt, hands coming up automatically. His heart pounded so hard it made his vision pulse.
"You've got the wrong guy."
She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced.
"Funny. I hear that a lot."
Then she moved first. Her arm snapped forward, stretching impossibly, and Kyle barely managed to duck under it. He stumbled, boots slipping on loose gravel and the alley suddenly felt too narrow - like the walls were closing in. He bolted sideways as her leg elongated in a sweeping kick that cracked against brick where his head had been a second earlier. Kyle thought his best chance would be to get close, so he charged her. Her arm came out and he grabbed at her sleeve, trying to throw her off balance but she caught his wrist. For a moment they were tangled, both straining, both adjusting to the other's movement. Then the pendant slipped free from his jacket, it swung between them and they both instinctively - stupidly - reached for it. Kyle's fingers closed around the chain at the same moment hers did and then the world spun and bent.
Then Darkness swallowed him. When he came to, the first thing he registered was pain. A deep, echoing throb behind his eyes, like his skull had been rung like a bell. He groaned and tried to roll onto his side - and nearly overbalanced.
Something was wrong. His weight didn't sit where it should. His body felt... redistributed. His chest rose and fell more noticeably with each breath, warm pressure pulling differently against gravity.
A curtain of dark, brown hair brushed his jaw and neck, tickling skin that felt oversensitive, almost electric - a tingle of pleasure running through his spine. He blinked, vision swimming, and looked down as his breath caught.
The suit stretched over a shape that definitely had not been his moments ago. Breasts - unmistakable, solid, rising and falling with his labored breathing. Despite the tight suit, they jiggled almost unperceptively. His gloved hands looked narrower, wrists slimmer when he lifted them into view. A soft groan sounded beside him. Kyle turned his head - and froze.
His own body lay a few feet away, sprawled awkwardly against the alley wall. The ski mask tilted as his eyes fluttered open.
"What - what did you do?!"
His voice sounded scared and panic surged immediately, drowning out everything else. Sirens wailed closer and he reacted.
His arm snapped forward - and didn't stop. It stretched, the sensation bizarre and nauseating, like his bone had turned to rubber. His fist connected solidly with his own jaw and his old body crumpled. Kyle stared at his extended arm, then pulled it back. The limb snapped back into place as if it had never been three times his length. Police boots thundered closer and there was little time to process. Kyle played the part and acted as if he were Elasti-Woman. He wasn't sure how exactly he could mimic her movements or mannerisms but it seemed he played the part perfectly.
When the police finally cleared out and the street fell quiet, the silence hit him harder than the sirens had. He had pocketed the pendant and knew that his old body would only have a short stint in jail and that the police wouldn't believe that they've swapped bodies. She'd sound insane to them. His skin was alight as his suit hugged him in places his old clohes never had, stretching smoothly with the movement. A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it - sharp, incredulous, almost hysterical.
"This is insane," he muttered, the voice startling him all over again.
When he brushed his knuckles against his neck, he felt the slide of loose hair, the faint scent of something clean and expensive. He loved it. He looked down again, the tight suit around his breasts poked out and it made him curious. His hands slid up his side before cupping the full breasts. He stood there, blushing to himself as he pinched the hard nubs between his index and thumb. Another jolt of electricity ran down his spine and he gasped slightly.
"Oh... I see," he said to himself.
This power was not only for fighting criminals. This was a power for himself. He had an idea, a risky one, but one that he had to do before he could think about a way to reverse the body swap. He had to see himself.
“I’ll fix it after this,” he told himself, though the words rang hollow even as he said them.
The thought of giving this back - of stepping out of this skin and returning to his old, invisible life - made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He pushed the feeling away, then something caught his eye. A motorcycle - hers. He approached it cautiously, heels clicking against the pavement. He expected no reaction but the moment he swung a leg over, the bike seemed to recognize him. Then he sat, feeling the plush skin of his ass press against the seat.
"Shit..." He muttered.
When the engine roared to life, the vibration traveled up through his legs and spine, through his crotch. The pleasure made him buckle over the handles. The GPS flared to life, a single destination already marked. Home. Kyle hesitated, hands tightening on the grips, then leaned forward and eased into the street, still feeling awkward - yet excited - in the stride of the world's most celebrated heroine.
The bike led him to the last place he expected. A luxurious mansion out in the countryside, set up-top a large hillside. At first, he was just going to park into the drive-way until the motorcycle lights lit up what looked like a normal cliff. A portion of the rock face shimmered, then slid silently away to reveal a dark opening. He guided the motorcycle inside, the rock closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud. The garage was vast. Cars, training equipment, and racks upon racks of weaponry he didn't have names for. In the center, a single white circle glowed on the floor. He dismounted, the bike's engine dying behind him as he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and the world dissolved into white light.
"Welcome home, Carmen." A robotic, almost AI-like voice echoed.
His eyes widened at the revelation, Carmen... Starr? His eyes darted down his body, his lips parted. It made sense after some thought. She was rich, prominent. She would have all the means to do something like this. But that also made his fist tighten, nails biting into his feminine hands.
Some people get all the luck... When they opened again, he was standing in her home. It wasn't what he expected. The entire back wall of the main room was a single pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking view of the city below, lights glittering like a fallen constellation. The rest was clean, minimalist, almost sterile - white walls, polished marble floors, furniture that looked more like art than something you'd actually sit on. It was a space for looking, not for living. It was beautiful, but it felt like a show home. He walked through it, footsteps echoing, feeling like an intruder in a museum dedicated to a person he was currently wearing. He wanted to find a mirror and he found one in the bedroom - a full-length slab of polished glass. When he had stepped out from the open living space and set foot into the bedroom, his heels sunk into the fine and soft carpet, giving him pause just for a moment. They no longer made a sound as he approached the large bed and mirror which shimmered with light next to the bathroom door. He honestly kind of liked the sound of heels against stone.
Elasti-Woman stared back at him from the mirror. Her face - his face - was flushed, a stray strand of brown hair clinging to her cheek. Those brilliant blue eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and something else he couldn't name yet, were fixed on him. He felt hot - both sweaty and aroused. He knew he had to see more. He licked his lips, tasting something slightly strawberry across those beautifully plump lips. He took a few steps in front of the mirror, watching the curves of his body. He raised both hands and pushed his chest out, he felt a little embarrassed but at the same time... he felt sexy. It felt worth it. A strange, tingling sensation began to grow in his core. It felt... different, compared to anything he's felt before. It felt warmer, hotter, and more... explosive.
He turned away from the mirror and || twirled to give a quick view of his new body from all angles, his head and body still buzzing with a strange new energy. The desire to see more - to feel more - was overwhelming. He had to take off the suit. His fingers fumbled at the hidden seam of her suit, the release catch resisting him for a moment before it gave way with a soft hiss. The material peeled away from his skin, clinging for a second before loosening its grip. The cool air of the room hit his bare shoulders, a stark, shocking contrast to the tight, warm embrace of the suit. He shivered, a reaction to the temperature and the sudden, jarring vulnerability. He slid the red and silver material down over his hips, letting it pool around them. The reflection was breathtaking. She was muscular, but not bulky. Athletic. The muscles in her arms and stomach were defined without being grotesque, her skin smooth and flawless. Her breasts were perfect. High and firm, topped with nipples that were currently hard. His skin shimmered with sweat, the scent was sweet and slightly tangy. "I'm... so sexy..." He muttered, "But... Carmen doesn't normally look like this. This body is much more full. The hair is longer than normal too."
As he looked down his body, he noticed that the suit was so tight that one could easily see a camel-toe and he snickered to himself. That was part of the reason why he felt so hot. He felt a bit more emboldened as he watched his sweaty skin in the mirror. Then he raised his arm and smelled underneath. He nearly gasped at how much it turned him on. He smelled incredible. He found himself craving more of this scent, more of this body, more of this feeling. He felt like he couldn't control himself. He didn't want to be some sort of gross pervert but... the temptation was too strong. His reflection watched as he raised a hand, the fingers slender and graceful. He hesitated, then slowly brought the hand to his breast, letting the pad of his thumb brush against the hard nipple. A soft gasp escaped his lips.
The pleasure was sharp, immediate, and so much more intense than he'd ever anticipated. He did it again, this time pinching the bud lightly, rolling it between his fingers. The jolt that shot through him was electric. He watched, transfixed, as the nipple hardened even more, a deep rose color against the pale skin of his breast. The other breast felt neglected, so he brought his other hand up to it, mirroring the motions. Soon, both breasts were being kneaded and teased, the twin points of pleasure sending waves of warmth down his body, coalescing in the pit of his stomach. He could feel a wetness growing between his legs, a slick heat that was both alien and utterly intoxicating.
He had to get out of this suit and pulled one of his legs free while balancing on the other, a black thong poked out, soaking wet and dripping with so much pussy-juice that it slid down his thighs. Kyle pulled at the elastic suit surrounding his hips,. He needed to see more. He needed to see everything that the masterpiece in the mirror had to offer. He kicked the soaked fabric away, leaving it lying on the carpetted floor like a discarded secret. Now, laid bare except for the heels, he fully examined her body and posture - how she stood up straight and tall despite large breasts, how her skin was a creamy and attractive shade, how her legs were smooth and long. Her thighs gapped but not too much, just to tease her camel-toe in her one-piece suit.
He lifted his breasts, seeing the sweat built up underneath. The cold air felt amazing against his skin, but he wanted to see some of his backside too. He turned, subconsciously further than any normal person could. The curve of his ass was amazing and he bounced up and down, laughing softly as the skin jiggled. His eyes traced down the black of the thong that slid between his butt-cheeks. He was getting too excited, and his breath hitched. Without much of a thought, his hand came up, out, and then smacked the jiggling flesh.
He made a sound half-way between a moan and a yelp, which surprised even himself. He liked the sting of the reddening skin though and that only made him more aroused.
He then slid a finger down across his stomach. It tickled in a way - but also elicited tingling sensations and a hitch of his breath as his fingers glided to the thong's fabric. The warmth emanated from it as he slowly pulled it down. His reflection was a study in contrasts: a powerful, athletic body flushed with arousal, a face that was both his and not his, contorted in a mask of pleasure and disbelief. He took a step back, then another - watching his reflection in the mirror until eventually, he landed on the bed. The silken sheets were cool and a very different contrast against the heat of his plush ass. He loved the way that it felt like he was sitting on a cushy yet firm pillow everytime he sat down, having experienced it once from the motorcycle. He spread his legs, giving himself an unobstructed view of his new sex. It was beautiful, a perfect pink flower glistening with moisture. He watched as he slowly reached down, the journey of his hand feeling like it took an eternity. He parted the delicate folds with his fingers, the sensation sending another shiver through him. He was so wet, so ready. He found the small, sensitive bud of his clit, and when he touched it, he saw stars.
Slowly, he inserted one finger, then two. He took a deep breath, his fingers pumping in and out faster and faster. As he got more comfortable he added a third, then fourth. Soon he was loose and comfortable. His left hand reached up, squeezing his full breast as his knuckles slipped past his entrance. His vision filled with hot static as he gasped, the sound from his mouth was like an Angel's gasp. He tried a different angle, lifting his long leg up, while the other slid across the sheets then pumped his hand a bit faster, squeezing against his knuckles. Then it happened; a sudden, intense pressure bloomed in his core. It was like a dam breaking, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over him, pulling him under.
He cried out, a high, keening sound that was half-sob, half-shout of triumph. His body convulsed, the muscles in his legs and stomach clenching as he rode out the orgasm, his fingers still buried deep inside him.
When the waves finally subsided, he was left panting, his body slick with sweat and other, more intimate fluids. He leaned against the cool silk sheets of the bed, the smooth surface a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation. He looked at himself, at the woman in the mirror. She looked thoroughly fucked, her hair a mess, her face flushed, her legs trembling. And she looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.
A slow smile spread across his face. He looked down at the discarded suit, then at the reflection of the incredible woman he'd become. He picked up the thong, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating, a potent mix of his new arousal and something uniquely Carmen.
But he wasn't done, he hadn't even begun to use her powers. His arms stretched, coiling like snakes around his breasts, the pressure made his back arch.
"Mmmphf..."
Then they went further, moving down, around his sides and started to play with his pussy from behind. Then he stretched his neck, lowering his head to his perked and swollen nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He moaned against his own skin, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through him. He could taste the salt of his sweat, the subtle sweetness of his skin. He was a closed loop of sensation, a self-contained universe of pleasure. He spent the next hour like this, exploring every inch of his new form with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He stretched and contorted, testing the limits of this incredible body, mapping every erogenous zone, cataloging every gasp and shiver. He discovered that if he stretched his torso just right, the tension in his core would build to an almost unbearable peak, and a single, well-placed touch would send him over the edge into another shuddering orgasm.
The finalé began when he pulled his rounded hips and firm buttocks up to his face. His pussy, quivering and dripping with copious amounts of fluid, sat in front of his own face. The scent was sweet, musky, and entirely too enticing. His tongue darted out and a full-body shudder crawled up his spine and straight to his brain. The sensation was unlike any other, even through all the orgasms. He could feel the slick folds on his tongue, the hard nub of his clit against the tip. He could taste himself, and it was divine. He ate himself out with a fervor he hadn't known he possessed, his tongue lapping and probing, his nose buried in the folds of his own sex.
He sucked in the lips of his labia, hot breath running over his hole and clit. His legs shook and tightened around his head, acting like a pillow.
He felt like he was melting, his mind going blank with pleasure. His body was a symphony of sensation, and he was the conductor, the orchestra, and the audience all at once. His cock would never have been able to compare, he thought to himself as he ate himself out. When the final, most intense orgasm of the night finally ripped through him, it was a white-hot nova of sensation that left him boneless and panting on the floor, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. He lay there for a long time, just breathing, the cool air of the room caressing his sensitized skin. He felt... complete. Whole in a way he never had in his own skin. He'd spent his entire life feeling like an outsider, a ghost in his own life. But here, in this body, he felt like he finally belonged.
Eventually, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting in the most delicious way. He caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering behind him. The woman in the glass looked wild, untamed. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, her eyes were dark with a satisfaction that was almost predatory. He smiled, a slow, lazy grin that was all Kyle and all Carmen at the same time. This is not how he had imagined this night to go, lest of all a night in Elasti-Woman's bed. He laid there and finally decided. He couldn't go back to his own body. Not only did this body feel so much better but it had everything he ever desired. And now the world would know this new Elasti-Woman.
However, when an old friend contacts him to steal a priceless artifact together, Kyle decides to turn back to his old ways.
Things quickly go wrong during the score, which results in him unexpectedly swapping bodies with the city's number 1 superheroine. He knows the right thing to do would be to figure out a way to swap them back, but that idea becomes increasingly difficult when he finds out just the kind of life and pleasure her body truly has to offer him.
Kyle learned early that luck was a finite resource, and whatever share he'd been allotted had been spent before he turned sixteen. He grew up in a neighborhood where police sirens were background noise and everyone knew which streets to avoid after dark - dangerous and belonging to someone. Trouble wasn't something you sought out there. It found you, it waited, and if you didn't learn fast enough, it took what it wanted.
Kyle hadn't learned fast enough. By the time he was seventeen, he'd been arrested twice - one for running lookout, once for possession he swore wasn't his. The judge hadn't cared. The system rarely did. He'd done his time in juvenile detention, learned how to keep his head down, how to read people, how to pick locks with nothing but patience and a bent piece of metal. Skills that weren't exactly résumé-friendly. Now, at twenty-eight, he stood behind a coffee counter that smelled perpetually burnt no matter how often he cleaned it and wearing a stained apron with a name tag that felt like a lie. 'Kyle.'
The bell above the café door chimed, and another customer stepped up, already frowning.
"Large oat milk latte. Extra hot. and make sure it's not bitter this time."
Kyle forced a smile.
"Sure thing."
Behind him, one of his coworkers leaned against the prep counter scrolling through their phone. His supervisor - who showed up late every shift and still somehow found the time to criticize - hovered nearby, arms crossed.
"Try not to mess it up," she muttered. "We've had complaints."
Kyle bit back the response that came to mind, he always did - Rent didn't care about pride.
When the café slowed down - mid-afternoon lull and the sunlight slanted through the windows - Kyle leaned against the counter and let his thoughts drift upward. Literally. A massive digital billboard across the street flickered with life, displaying the familiar image: Elasti-Woman, mid-leap, limbs extended impossibly as she saved a collapsing monorail car. The city's favorite heroine. Strong, confident, sexy and smiling like she belonged exactly where she stood.
Kyle watched, transfixed. She was tall, 6ft with shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes, a model-like face, and a curvaceous, athletic build that Kyle absolutely adored. Every time he thought of her, he caught himself in daydreams. She made it look effortless. Being admired, being needed. Being someone.
He imagined it sometimes - what it would feel like to be that. To matter. To have people look at you with awe instead of suspicion. To have power instead of apologies. And, he also fantasized about her. He wasn't blind, or dead. The thought of someone like Elasti-Woman even glancing his way - let along sharing a night with him - was ridiculous. He knew that. He wasn't delusional but that still didn't stop his chest from tightening every time she smiled. Reality snapped back when his supervisor cleared her throat sharply.
"Kyle. Table three's been waiting."
He nodded, moved, served, and apologized for things that weren't his fault.
That night, as he trudged back to his apartment, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it, almost.
"Yeah?" he said into the device, keys jingling around his finger.
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice, rougher than he remembered, but unmistakable.
"Damn, man. You still answer like you're expecting trouble."
Kyle stopped fiddling with his keys, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Evan?"
"Still alive," The man replied, laughing. "Mostly. Heard you got out clean."
"Clean enough," Kyle said cautiously. "How'd you get this number?"
He didn't know Evan too well. But they did get into trouble with each other a few times.
"Mutual acquaintance. Relax. I'm not calling to drag you into anything."
Somehow, Kyle didn't believe that and snorted in response.
"That's new."
They talked, caught up as much as they could, shared stories that carefully avoided their worst years. Evan had bounced around - inside, outside, always skirting the edge. Eventually, Kyle sighed and realized - he wanted something.
"Alright," he said. "You didn't call me just to reminisce. I know that, but that's as much as I do know."
Evan hesitated, a little too long.
"There's a job," he explained. "Easy one. Museum slash pawn shop. I'm working security nights. They just got this artifact - private collection. Worth millions if you know the right people."
Kyle's stomach sank. "No," he said immediately. "Besides, what type of museum also runs a pawn shop? That doesn't make sense."
"Heard the guy's shady. Runs it for tax evasion or some shit," Evan dismissed his concerns and then continued. "Just one night. In and out. I'll give you the layout, the security codes. You're better with locks than me."
It was true. Kyle was better.
He knew how to read the tension in a tumbler, to feel the give of a pin. It was almost instinct.
"You know how I live," Evan pressed, "A few days. Just this."
"No," Kyle repeated. "I'm done. I like my freedom."
Evan pushed and joked, promised it was clean. That there would be no heat and no alarms.
"Come on. Besides, what dead end job do you have that can actually support you?" Evan's question struck a nerve. "I've seen you. You're good. You're wasting your talent."
Kyle could almost see the artifact. He could imagine it sitting in a velvet-lined box, protected by glass. For a few hours of risk, it'd be enough to move out of his apartment, maybe go somewhere new and actually start fresh. To pay for a night with someone like her - no. He shut that down immediately.
"I... I can't, Evan. I'm sorry." The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and disappointed. Kyle pictured Evan's face - jaw tight, eyes already turning inward, and recalculating.
"Alright," Evan said at last. "your call." The line then went dead.
Kyle stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment, the city humming around him like static. When he finally unlocked his apartment and stepped inside, the door shut with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
The place smelled faintly of cheap detergent and he stared at the crumbling wallpaper stained yellow with old cigarette smoke. He learned the back of his head against the door and sighed. Freedom, Evan had said. What freedom was this?
Kyle huffed a quiet, humorless laugh and crossed the apartment. This wasn't freedom, this was a holding cell. A cage built out of rent, reputation, and the kind of mistakes that never quite stopped following you. That night passed, then another.
The next few days were uneventful in the most exhausting way possible - early mornings, bitter coffee, aching feet, incompetent bosses and coworkers. The call faded, dulled by routine. Kyle told himself that was it. That Evan had taken the no and moved on.
Nearly a week later, his phone buzzed while he was sitting alone in his apartment, half-watching a muted news segment about another villain sighting downtown. Evan again. Kyle frowned at the name, thumb hovering over the screen.
For a minute, he considered ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail and letting the past stay where it belonged. But curiosity got the better of him and he swiped it open where an image filled the display.
An exquisite silver chain dripped with the light of a thousand tiny rose-cut gems, their soft blush catching the light with every subtle movement. Suspended from this delicate chain is a magnificent centerpiece: a single, flawlessly faceted pink diamond, cut so deeply that its heart seems to pulse with a captured sunset and refused to let go. It didn't look fake, it looked important.
"This is it," Evan's message followed. "They think it's worthless. Owner's a drunk. Barely remembers it's there. You know this is your way out. This is something that can support you."
Kyle stared at the photo longer than he meant to - Until the edges blurred and the necklace dissolved into color and light, and something else took its place in his mind - a familiar figured stretched across the skyline, confident and untouchable. Elasti-Woman, smiling like the city belonged to her. Kyle locked his phone and set it face-down on the table.
Later that night, the temperature dropped, the chill creeping in through the thin walls. He went to his closet to grab a hoodie - nothing dramatic, something he did a thousand times before. He pulled one free and something heavier shifted on the shelf above.
A pair of gloves slid into view, worn, thin and familiar. He hadn't touched them in years. Kyle picked them up slowly, turning them over in his hands. The leather was cracked and softened by years of use. They fit perfectly still when he slipped them on - muscle memory kicking in before he could stop it. He should have thrown them out, years ago. He knew that. Told himself that he kept them because they were useful. Because you never knew when you might need them for something harmless. A stuck lock, a broken latch, pulling weeds... 'Just in case'. He took them off and set them back on the shelf, heart beating faster than it should have, then shut the closet door. He remembered the days of picking locks with them helping keep a steady hand.
The days rolled on - Coffee, complaints, the same tired routine. Kyle almost convinced himself the call had been a lapse - an old ghost rattling chains that didn't exist anymore. At least that was what it appeared as, Evan didn't push at first. Just checked in. Casual messages. An old joke he shared with Kyle and one other in the past. Then, every few days, another reminder slipped in. A comment about rising prices. A nudge about people he knew who'd 'made it out.' About how unfair it was that some people got powers and others got scraps. Once, late at night while Kyle laid in bed, another photo appeared - the necklace again and closer this time. The pink diamond caught the light differently, deeper, warmer. For a second, Kyle swore it looked like it was glowing.
He turned his phone face-down on his chest and went to bed, staring at the ceiling until morning. And then frustration did the rest - the café, the bills, the way his supervisor talked to him like he was disposable. The way customers smiled politely until they stepped away and the way the city celebrated its heroes and forgot everyone else existed. By the time he finally picked up his phone, his hands were steady. He typed one word.
"When?"
Two days later, Kyle and Evan found themselves standing before the building Evan had described. It was a strange place: half museum, half pawn shop. The sign above the entrance, written in faded gold lettering, read: The Reliquary & Loan.
The front windows displayed a jumble of antique weapons and dusty paintings, while just beyond them, in a more curated space, sat a collection of pristine artifacts under bright spotlights. The place felt... liminal. Not quite legitimate, not quite criminal. At night, the building seemed to loom taller than he remembered when they did the daytime walk-by Evan had insisted was 'all the recon they'd need.'
The outside itself was marble façade with reinforced glass for the antiques. It seemed too clean or well-lit for something that supposedly blended museum curation with pawnshop discretion. Private collection acquisitions always meant money, and money meant security. Kyle adjusted the thin gloves on his hands and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Tell me again," he murmured, "Why the service entrance doesn't have a guard?"
Evan, crouched beside a side door and working far too confidently on a tablet that looked older than Kyle's phone shrugged.
"Because they cut costs. Owner's cheap."
Kyle didn't like that answer. He liked them to be specific - Names, timetables.
Still, the door opened cleanly under his picks, the lock giving way with a familiar, almost comforting click. For a moment, muscle memory carried him - same old dance, same steady hands.
The rush crept in anyway, uninvited. Inside, the air smelled like polish from one of those machines, freshly scrubbed of all the dirt, and the air was almost stuffy - like it was still. The floor plan Evan had given him flashed in Kyle's mind as they moved - but almost immediately, it didn't match.
Display cases sat where corridors were supposed to be. A security camera tracked lazily across a hall that should have been blind. Kyle, thankfully, stopped short and grabbed Evan's sleeve. "That camera wasn't on your map. I thought you said you fucking worked here before?!" he whispered sharply.
Evan, for the first time, looked nervous.
"They... must have updated. It's fine. It's on a loop. I saw the log myself." The excuse was thin. Too thin. But they were already inside. Backing out now felt like a bigger risk than pushing forward. Kyle hated that about himself - how easily sunk costs turned into forward momentum.
The deeper they went, the quieter Evan got. And Kyle led. He always did. But he knew how to read spaces - how sound carried, where footsteps echoed too long, how security sensors felt even when you couldn't see them.
He spotted slightly raised plates just before stepping on them, freezing, and then carefully stepping over. Evan didn't even notice until Kyle grabbed him again.
"Watch where you step," Kyle whispered. "Or this ends with both of us in cuffs."
Despite Kyle's skill, it was his partners that always let him down and it infuriated him.
"Relax," Evan muttered. "You're the pro, right?"
That only served to irk him more, none of this shit was supposed to be here. It was supposed to be easy.
The vault room sat lower than expected, tucked behind a reinforced exhibit wall disguised as a historical installation. This was the real test. Kyle knelt before the keypad, his fingers hovering over the numbers. Evan had given him the code. A sequence that supposedly cycled weekly.
"You're sure about this?" Kyle asked, his heart starting to thrum a heavy, anxious rhythm against his ribs.
"I'm sure," Evan said, though he wouldn't meet Kyle's gaze.
Kyle entered the code. The keypad beeped. ACCESS DENIED
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Kyle's chest. "You're an idiot," he seethed. "You gave me the wrong code."
"No, no, I... maybe I typed it wrong?" Evan stammered, fumbling with his tablet again.
"There's a master override. I just need to... Here, I got a new code. Let me enter it."
Evan moved closer, his fingers dancing across the panel, but again; ACCESS DENIED
This time the panel beeped, - just once - a warning. Kyle closed his eyes for half a second, unable to believe this.
"Move."
He knelt, rolling his eyes while pulling tools from his kit. The panel resisted him immediately - newer model, nested failsafes, the kind designed to punish impatience. Sweat prickled along his spine as he worked, fingers moving with slow, careful, practiced precision. Time stretched, every second felt loud and long. When the lock finally disengaged, Kyle nearly laughed in relief.
Inside, the safe stood under that cold white light.
It was already open - probably from the laziness of said owner, thinking that no one would even find the vault. And there it was, resting on a simple black velvet pad. The necklace. The chain was impossibly fine, the rose-cut gems glowing with a soft, internal warmth. The pink diamond at its center was huge. And it was beautiful, it shone like it wanted to be noticed.
Evan gasped, moving towards it.
"See? I told you."
But Kyle didn't move. He stood there, staring. This was it. The whole reason for this risky, half-assed plan. But something was wrong. The hairs on his arms were standing up. A low hum emanated from the necklace, almost imperceptible at the edges of his hearing. He took a step closer.
The closer he got, the more aware he became of it - it wasn't a sound, or a pull exactly, but a pressure - as if he was being hugged. His fingers hovered before touching it.
"Don't just stand there," Evan whispered. "Grab it!"
Kyle wrapped his hand around the chain. It was warm, like holding those hand-warming satchels in the dead of winter while snow drifted all around you. A shiver ran through him, sharp and inexplicable, and for a split second he thought he heard something - not words but a suggestion of a voice, distant and close at the same time. He wasn't sure if the necklace had some other attribute to it. But it certainly felt like it. Then all that focus drained away as soon as Evan swore loudly.
Kyle spun just in time to see Evan's foot catch on a cable that should not have been there. The alarm detonated, exploding outward with sound. Not just a single sound but layers - sirens, lights, automated voice warnings cascading through the building. Kyle's heart slammed into overdrive, the memories of being caught by police, time and time again flashing through his mind. "I told you to watch-!"
"I didn't see it!"
"Because you don't look!" He whispered pointedly.
Kyle swiped the necklace, the gems feeling warm in his palm as they began to run.
He took point again, cutting left where the shortest path should've been - but the corridor ended in a security gate slamming down inches from his face.
"Plan B!" Evan yelled.
"There was no fucking Plan B!"
Kyle's shoes skid as they doubled back, ducking through exhibits as emergency shutters began sealing rooms behind them, Kyle's lungs burned, grip tight around the pendant like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Halfway to the exit, Evan grabbed his arm.
"Give it to me," he shouted over the alarms. "I know a buyer-"
Kyle yanked free, spinning on him. "No. You don't touch it."
"What?! That wasn't the deal!"
"The deal didn't include you set off every alarm in the building!"
Evan's face hardened. "You think you can just take it?"
Kyle didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew the answer. If anyone could find a buyer, it was Kyle.
They started at each other for a moment too long - sirens screaming, lights flashing red - and in that moment they knew that they had to split up.
"Split up," Kyle ordered, "Now."
Evan hesitated, then cursed and bolted in the opposite direction. Outside, the streets were swarming with police but Kyle managed to slip past them and turned the corner at a dead run, nearly slamming straight into her. Elasti-Woman dropped from above and touched down lightly in front of him, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. She straightened with confidence, already between him and the street beyond. The glow of emergency lights reflected faintly off the red-and-silver of her suit.
"End of the line," She said, voice calm and practiced, unlike the police who would have been screaming at him to get down.
Kyle skidded to a halt, hands coming up automatically. His heart pounded so hard it made his vision pulse.
"You've got the wrong guy."
She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced.
"Funny. I hear that a lot."
Then she moved first. Her arm snapped forward, stretching impossibly, and Kyle barely managed to duck under it. He stumbled, boots slipping on loose gravel and the alley suddenly felt too narrow - like the walls were closing in. He bolted sideways as her leg elongated in a sweeping kick that cracked against brick where his head had been a second earlier. Kyle thought his best chance would be to get close, so he charged her. Her arm came out and he grabbed at her sleeve, trying to throw her off balance but she caught his wrist. For a moment they were tangled, both straining, both adjusting to the other's movement. Then the pendant slipped free from his jacket, it swung between them and they both instinctively - stupidly - reached for it. Kyle's fingers closed around the chain at the same moment hers did and then the world spun and bent.
Then Darkness swallowed him. When he came to, the first thing he registered was pain. A deep, echoing throb behind his eyes, like his skull had been rung like a bell. He groaned and tried to roll onto his side - and nearly overbalanced.
Something was wrong. His weight didn't sit where it should. His body felt... redistributed. His chest rose and fell more noticeably with each breath, warm pressure pulling differently against gravity.
A curtain of dark, brown hair brushed his jaw and neck, tickling skin that felt oversensitive, almost electric - a tingle of pleasure running through his spine. He blinked, vision swimming, and looked down as his breath caught.
The suit stretched over a shape that definitely had not been his moments ago. Breasts - unmistakable, solid, rising and falling with his labored breathing. Despite the tight suit, they jiggled almost unperceptively. His gloved hands looked narrower, wrists slimmer when he lifted them into view. A soft groan sounded beside him. Kyle turned his head - and froze.
His own body lay a few feet away, sprawled awkwardly against the alley wall. The ski mask tilted as his eyes fluttered open.
"What - what did you do?!"
His voice sounded scared and panic surged immediately, drowning out everything else. Sirens wailed closer and he reacted.
His arm snapped forward - and didn't stop. It stretched, the sensation bizarre and nauseating, like his bone had turned to rubber. His fist connected solidly with his own jaw and his old body crumpled. Kyle stared at his extended arm, then pulled it back. The limb snapped back into place as if it had never been three times his length. Police boots thundered closer and there was little time to process. Kyle played the part and acted as if he were Elasti-Woman. He wasn't sure how exactly he could mimic her movements or mannerisms but it seemed he played the part perfectly.
When the police finally cleared out and the street fell quiet, the silence hit him harder than the sirens had. He had pocketed the pendant and knew that his old body would only have a short stint in jail and that the police wouldn't believe that they've swapped bodies. She'd sound insane to them. His skin was alight as his suit hugged him in places his old clohes never had, stretching smoothly with the movement. A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it - sharp, incredulous, almost hysterical.
"This is insane," he muttered, the voice startling him all over again.
When he brushed his knuckles against his neck, he felt the slide of loose hair, the faint scent of something clean and expensive. He loved it. He looked down again, the tight suit around his breasts poked out and it made him curious. His hands slid up his side before cupping the full breasts. He stood there, blushing to himself as he pinched the hard nubs between his index and thumb. Another jolt of electricity ran down his spine and he gasped slightly.
"Oh... I see," he said to himself.
This power was not only for fighting criminals. This was a power for himself. He had an idea, a risky one, but one that he had to do before he could think about a way to reverse the body swap. He had to see himself.
“I’ll fix it after this,” he told himself, though the words rang hollow even as he said them.
The thought of giving this back - of stepping out of this skin and returning to his old, invisible life - made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He pushed the feeling away, then something caught his eye. A motorcycle - hers. He approached it cautiously, heels clicking against the pavement. He expected no reaction but the moment he swung a leg over, the bike seemed to recognize him. Then he sat, feeling the plush skin of his ass press against the seat.
"Shit..." He muttered.
When the engine roared to life, the vibration traveled up through his legs and spine, through his crotch. The pleasure made him buckle over the handles. The GPS flared to life, a single destination already marked. Home. Kyle hesitated, hands tightening on the grips, then leaned forward and eased into the street, still feeling awkward - yet excited - in the stride of the world's most celebrated heroine.
The bike led him to the last place he expected. A luxurious mansion out in the countryside, set up-top a large hillside. At first, he was just going to park into the drive-way until the motorcycle lights lit up what looked like a normal cliff. A portion of the rock face shimmered, then slid silently away to reveal a dark opening. He guided the motorcycle inside, the rock closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud. The garage was vast. Cars, training equipment, and racks upon racks of weaponry he didn't have names for. In the center, a single white circle glowed on the floor. He dismounted, the bike's engine dying behind him as he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and the world dissolved into white light.
"Welcome home, Carmen." A robotic, almost AI-like voice echoed.
His eyes widened at the revelation, Carmen... Starr? His eyes darted down his body, his lips parted. It made sense after some thought. She was rich, prominent. She would have all the means to do something like this. But that also made his fist tighten, nails biting into his feminine hands.
Some people get all the luck... When they opened again, he was standing in her home. It wasn't what he expected. The entire back wall of the main room was a single pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking view of the city below, lights glittering like a fallen constellation. The rest was clean, minimalist, almost sterile - white walls, polished marble floors, furniture that looked more like art than something you'd actually sit on. It was a space for looking, not for living. It was beautiful, but it felt like a show home. He walked through it, footsteps echoing, feeling like an intruder in a museum dedicated to a person he was currently wearing. He wanted to find a mirror and he found one in the bedroom - a full-length slab of polished glass. When he had stepped out from the open living space and set foot into the bedroom, his heels sunk into the fine and soft carpet, giving him pause just for a moment. They no longer made a sound as he approached the large bed and mirror which shimmered with light next to the bathroom door. He honestly kind of liked the sound of heels against stone.
Elasti-Woman stared back at him from the mirror. Her face - his face - was flushed, a stray strand of brown hair clinging to her cheek. Those brilliant blue eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and something else he couldn't name yet, were fixed on him. He felt hot - both sweaty and aroused. He knew he had to see more. He licked his lips, tasting something slightly strawberry across those beautifully plump lips. He took a few steps in front of the mirror, watching the curves of his body. He raised both hands and pushed his chest out, he felt a little embarrassed but at the same time... he felt sexy. It felt worth it. A strange, tingling sensation began to grow in his core. It felt... different, compared to anything he's felt before. It felt warmer, hotter, and more... explosive.
He turned away from the mirror and || twirled to give a quick view of his new body from all angles, his head and body still buzzing with a strange new energy. The desire to see more - to feel more - was overwhelming. He had to take off the suit. His fingers fumbled at the hidden seam of her suit, the release catch resisting him for a moment before it gave way with a soft hiss. The material peeled away from his skin, clinging for a second before loosening its grip. The cool air of the room hit his bare shoulders, a stark, shocking contrast to the tight, warm embrace of the suit. He shivered, a reaction to the temperature and the sudden, jarring vulnerability. He slid the red and silver material down over his hips, letting it pool around them. The reflection was breathtaking. She was muscular, but not bulky. Athletic. The muscles in her arms and stomach were defined without being grotesque, her skin smooth and flawless. Her breasts were perfect. High and firm, topped with nipples that were currently hard. His skin shimmered with sweat, the scent was sweet and slightly tangy. "I'm... so sexy..." He muttered, "But... Carmen doesn't normally look like this. This body is much more full. The hair is longer than normal too."
As he looked down his body, he noticed that the suit was so tight that one could easily see a camel-toe and he snickered to himself. That was part of the reason why he felt so hot. He felt a bit more emboldened as he watched his sweaty skin in the mirror. Then he raised his arm and smelled underneath. He nearly gasped at how much it turned him on. He smelled incredible. He found himself craving more of this scent, more of this body, more of this feeling. He felt like he couldn't control himself. He didn't want to be some sort of gross pervert but... the temptation was too strong. His reflection watched as he raised a hand, the fingers slender and graceful. He hesitated, then slowly brought the hand to his breast, letting the pad of his thumb brush against the hard nipple. A soft gasp escaped his lips.
The pleasure was sharp, immediate, and so much more intense than he'd ever anticipated. He did it again, this time pinching the bud lightly, rolling it between his fingers. The jolt that shot through him was electric. He watched, transfixed, as the nipple hardened even more, a deep rose color against the pale skin of his breast. The other breast felt neglected, so he brought his other hand up to it, mirroring the motions. Soon, both breasts were being kneaded and teased, the twin points of pleasure sending waves of warmth down his body, coalescing in the pit of his stomach. He could feel a wetness growing between his legs, a slick heat that was both alien and utterly intoxicating.
He had to get out of this suit and pulled one of his legs free while balancing on the other, a black thong poked out, soaking wet and dripping with so much pussy-juice that it slid down his thighs. Kyle pulled at the elastic suit surrounding his hips,. He needed to see more. He needed to see everything that the masterpiece in the mirror had to offer. He kicked the soaked fabric away, leaving it lying on the carpetted floor like a discarded secret. Now, laid bare except for the heels, he fully examined her body and posture - how she stood up straight and tall despite large breasts, how her skin was a creamy and attractive shade, how her legs were smooth and long. Her thighs gapped but not too much, just to tease her camel-toe in her one-piece suit.
He lifted his breasts, seeing the sweat built up underneath. The cold air felt amazing against his skin, but he wanted to see some of his backside too. He turned, subconsciously further than any normal person could. The curve of his ass was amazing and he bounced up and down, laughing softly as the skin jiggled. His eyes traced down the black of the thong that slid between his butt-cheeks. He was getting too excited, and his breath hitched. Without much of a thought, his hand came up, out, and then smacked the jiggling flesh.
He made a sound half-way between a moan and a yelp, which surprised even himself. He liked the sting of the reddening skin though and that only made him more aroused.
He then slid a finger down across his stomach. It tickled in a way - but also elicited tingling sensations and a hitch of his breath as his fingers glided to the thong's fabric. The warmth emanated from it as he slowly pulled it down. His reflection was a study in contrasts: a powerful, athletic body flushed with arousal, a face that was both his and not his, contorted in a mask of pleasure and disbelief. He took a step back, then another - watching his reflection in the mirror until eventually, he landed on the bed. The silken sheets were cool and a very different contrast against the heat of his plush ass. He loved the way that it felt like he was sitting on a cushy yet firm pillow everytime he sat down, having experienced it once from the motorcycle. He spread his legs, giving himself an unobstructed view of his new sex. It was beautiful, a perfect pink flower glistening with moisture. He watched as he slowly reached down, the journey of his hand feeling like it took an eternity. He parted the delicate folds with his fingers, the sensation sending another shiver through him. He was so wet, so ready. He found the small, sensitive bud of his clit, and when he touched it, he saw stars.
Slowly, he inserted one finger, then two. He took a deep breath, his fingers pumping in and out faster and faster. As he got more comfortable he added a third, then fourth. Soon he was loose and comfortable. His left hand reached up, squeezing his full breast as his knuckles slipped past his entrance. His vision filled with hot static as he gasped, the sound from his mouth was like an Angel's gasp. He tried a different angle, lifting his long leg up, while the other slid across the sheets then pumped his hand a bit faster, squeezing against his knuckles. Then it happened; a sudden, intense pressure bloomed in his core. It was like a dam breaking, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over him, pulling him under.
He cried out, a high, keening sound that was half-sob, half-shout of triumph. His body convulsed, the muscles in his legs and stomach clenching as he rode out the orgasm, his fingers still buried deep inside him.
When the waves finally subsided, he was left panting, his body slick with sweat and other, more intimate fluids. He leaned against the cool silk sheets of the bed, the smooth surface a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation. He looked at himself, at the woman in the mirror. She looked thoroughly fucked, her hair a mess, her face flushed, her legs trembling. And she looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.
A slow smile spread across his face. He looked down at the discarded suit, then at the reflection of the incredible woman he'd become. He picked up the thong, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating, a potent mix of his new arousal and something uniquely Carmen.
But he wasn't done, he hadn't even begun to use her powers. His arms stretched, coiling like snakes around his breasts, the pressure made his back arch.
"Mmmphf..."
Then they went further, moving down, around his sides and started to play with his pussy from behind. Then he stretched his neck, lowering his head to his perked and swollen nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He moaned against his own skin, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through him. He could taste the salt of his sweat, the subtle sweetness of his skin. He was a closed loop of sensation, a self-contained universe of pleasure. He spent the next hour like this, exploring every inch of his new form with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He stretched and contorted, testing the limits of this incredible body, mapping every erogenous zone, cataloging every gasp and shiver. He discovered that if he stretched his torso just right, the tension in his core would build to an almost unbearable peak, and a single, well-placed touch would send him over the edge into another shuddering orgasm.
The finalé began when he pulled his rounded hips and firm buttocks up to his face. His pussy, quivering and dripping with copious amounts of fluid, sat in front of his own face. The scent was sweet, musky, and entirely too enticing. His tongue darted out and a full-body shudder crawled up his spine and straight to his brain. The sensation was unlike any other, even through all the orgasms. He could feel the slick folds on his tongue, the hard nub of his clit against the tip. He could taste himself, and it was divine. He ate himself out with a fervor he hadn't known he possessed, his tongue lapping and probing, his nose buried in the folds of his own sex.
He sucked in the lips of his labia, hot breath running over his hole and clit. His legs shook and tightened around his head, acting like a pillow.
He felt like he was melting, his mind going blank with pleasure. His body was a symphony of sensation, and he was the conductor, the orchestra, and the audience all at once. His cock would never have been able to compare, he thought to himself as he ate himself out. When the final, most intense orgasm of the night finally ripped through him, it was a white-hot nova of sensation that left him boneless and panting on the floor, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. He lay there for a long time, just breathing, the cool air of the room caressing his sensitized skin. He felt... complete. Whole in a way he never had in his own skin. He'd spent his entire life feeling like an outsider, a ghost in his own life. But here, in this body, he felt like he finally belonged.
Eventually, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting in the most delicious way. He caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering behind him. The woman in the glass looked wild, untamed. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, her eyes were dark with a satisfaction that was almost predatory. He smiled, a slow, lazy grin that was all Kyle and all Carmen at the same time. This is not how he had imagined this night to go, lest of all a night in Elasti-Woman's bed. He laid there and finally decided. He couldn't go back to his own body. Not only did this body feel so much better but it had everything he ever desired. And now the world would know this new Elasti-Woman.
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When Philip and Jack are given the challenge of going on a panty raid through the sorority next door to secure their place as pledges at Delta Epsilon, Philip's heart sinks.
With the sorority girls having already taken well known countermeasures to deal with any would be panty thieves, he thinks the chances of completing the challenge are near zero.
However, when his best friend Jack claims to have a plan involving a little magic and burrowing the bodies of his crush Vanessa and her roommate Katy, he knows he is in for a long night ahead when things don't exactly end up going to plan...
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The floor of Delta Epsilon’s house was sticky.
Beer, cheap cologne, and stale pizza had seeped into the carpet like a second skin, and Philip had the honor of scrubbing it clean while half a dozen brothers lounged on couches watching basketball highlights.
“Missed a spot,” one of them called, deliberately tilting a red Solo cup so that the last of his drink bled out onto the carpet inches from Philip’s sponge.
Philip clenched his jaw. He’d been degraded all semester, fetching fast food at three in the morning, running errands that skirted the edge of being criminal, serving as human furniture during drinking games. He told himself it would be worth it. Delta Epsilon’s parties were legendary, the kind of place girls lined up to get into. More importantly, alumni connections meant a shot at internships that led to real careers. You suffered now, you cashed in later.
Jack, naturally, thrived. He was perched on the arm of a sofa, balancing a tray of wings for two seniors, grinning like the humiliation was a party of its own.
“How’s that knee grease holding up, Phil?” he teased, eyebrows bouncing. Philip muttered something under his breath, pressing the sponge hard enough to leave his knuckles white. He’d thought pledging with his best friend would make things easier. Instead, Jack’s bottomless energy only made Philip feel like the boring one, always one step away from quitting.
The pledge master, Trent, finally called them over once the brothers had eaten their fill.
“You’ve made it further than many,” he said, addressing both Philip and Jack while tapping the ash off his cigar. “Scrubbing toilets, babysitting drunk brothers, taking whatever punishment we throw at you, you did it all without complaint. But Delta doesn’t hand out membership for free. There’s one last hurdle.”
Jack’s eyes lit up, while Philip felt his stomach knot. Trent leaned forward. “You’ve got until Saturday morning to bring us proof that you’re worthy of being Delta Epsilons. And by proof, I mean the underwear of one of the Theta sisters across the street.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Someone whistled. Another shouted, “Better hope they’re lace!”
Philip’s face burned hot. He’d expected something brutal. A dangerous stunt, or maybe even a tattoo or branding, not…this. Not something that felt like the set-up to a police record for being a creep.
Jack, of course, grinned like he’d just been handed a golden ticket. “Piece of cake,” he said.
“Piece of felony,” Philip muttered.
Trent ignored the comment. “You get caught, that’s your problem. Theta girls are sick of pranks. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you sneaking around. Fail, and you’ll have to re-pledge next semester, if we even let you back in. Succeed, and you’ll be full brothers by sunrise.”
He flicked his cigar ash into an empty beer can, and the matter was closed. Philip and Jack were dismissed like servants, slipping out into the cool night air. The frat house behind them thumped with bass as the next round of drinking games began.
Across the street, the Theta house glowed with warm yellow light, its windows alive with the silhouettes of girls laughing, moving and living in a world that felt forbidden.
Philip shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “This is insane. They want us to break into a sorority house. Forget expulsion, that’s actual jail time if we’re caught and reported.”
Jack slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Come on, man. It’s tradition. Everybody who ever wore Delta letters has done something crazy like this. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Philip shrugged him off. “You mean you’ll figure it out. And drag me with you.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Exactly. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” That phrase, I’ve got a plan, was the single most dangerous thing Jack could say. Philip knew better, but as he stared up at the Theta house, he couldn’t shake the truth. They’d come too far to back out now.
Philip assumed Jack’s “plan” would be something stupid but doable. Like sneaking into the Theta laundry room, bribing a janitor, or maybe finessing a stolen bra from lost-and-found.
What he didn’t expect, as their deadline creeped ever closer, was Jack pulling a battered paperback out of his backpack like he’d just smuggled the Necronomicon out of the library and declaring their troubles were about to be a thing of the past.
“What is that?” Philip asked, eyeing the faded title embossed with moons and symbols.
“Wiccan Rites and Rituals of the Body,” Jack said with a grin so wide it could split his face. “This baby is going to get us in.”
Philip stared. “That’s not a plan you idiot. That’s…props from a bad horror movie.”
“Correction,” Jack said, flipping through pages until he landed on one marked with a sticky note. “It’s a possession spell. All we need is something personal from the Thetas. Hair is perfect. One strand, and we’re golden.”
Philip blinked. “Hair. You want us to pluck a strand off someone’s head, mix it into some potion, and what? Astral-project into their underwear drawer?”
Jack leaned forward, whispering even though there was nobody else around. “Exactly. But into them, not their underwear drawer.”
For a moment, Philip couldn’t even find words. His friend was dead serious. His blue eyes glittered with the manic light of a man who believed in his own insanity. Philip pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack, you need help.”
“Correction again. We need help, and this is it. Think about it. We don’t sneak around, we don’t break and enter, we just become them. Walk right in the front door. Grab what we need and walk back out again. Easy as pie.”
Philip wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell Jack this was why pledges got expelled, why college urban legends started with two idiots reading a so-called spell book. But something about Jack’s certainty unsettled him.
“How do you even plan to get the hair?” Philip asked, deciding to humor him.
Jack smirked. “You’re partnered with Vanessa in chem lab. I’m with her roommate, Katy. Both of them happen to belong to the Theta Sorority. Boom. Easy.”
Philip’s stomach lurched. Vanessa, the Vanessa, the girl he’d spent the better part of a semester trying not to stare at. She was sharp, funny, gorgeous, and so out of his league it hurt. The idea of stealing a strand of her hair wasn’t just impossible, it was mortifying.
“Jack, if I even look at her hair the wrong way she’ll know. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be branded as the campus creep for the rest of my life.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Relax. I’ll take care of mine. You just…fumble your way through like usual. She likes you, right? I’m sure she’s called you sweet before. She won’t even notice.”
Lab that afternoon was a fluorescent blur of glassware and nerves. Bunsen burners hissed, and the sharp scent of acetone hung in the air. Vanessa tied her glossy black hair into a messy bun as she leaned over the counter, the soft hum she made under her breath cutting through the low chatter of other pairs.
Philip adjusted the clamp on their stand and tried to steady his hands, pretending to check the thermometer while sneaking a glance at her profile. The long lashes, the soft curve of her cheek when she smiled. He’d barely worked up the nerve to say something to her, when the door swung open and Ryan Hale strolled in.
Ryan wasn’t a student in their class, he was a teaching assistant who was busy with his Masters. The kind of nerd who looked more like he belonged in a movie poster than a chemistry lab. The Henry Cavill of the campus. Tall, effortlessly confident, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing forearms that probably did not belong to someone who spent his evenings doing titration reports.
“Need a hand, Vanessa?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth enough to make the words sound like an inside joke.
Vanessa’s whole face lit up. “Ryan! You’re still hanging around the underclassmen? I thought you were too cool for basic chem.”
“Guess I missed the fun crowd.” He winked, stepping close enough that Philip caught the faint smell of his cologne. Something woodsy and smug. Philip’s stomach twisted. He busied himself pretending to check their notes, but every word between Vanessa and Ryan pulled his focus like a hook through his ribs.
“Still showing off that perfect technique, huh?” Ryan teased, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Could use someone like you to calibrate my disastrous love life.”
Vanessa laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I told you last time, you need better lab partners, not better lines.”
“Maybe I just need one who actually likes me,” he said, voice dipping into something low and knowing. “You still wearing that purple dress that makes everyone else forget the experiment?”
She grinned, shaking her head. “Keep talking, and you’ll set the sprinklers off again.”
Ryan chuckled, backing away with a little salute. “Worth it.”
Philip’s jaw locked so tight it hurt. He shifted his beaker just to make noise. “Vanessa, uh, the solution’s ready,” he muttered.
She turned back, still smiling, a faint pink on her cheeks. “Right, sorry, I got distracted.” The way she said it made Philip want to vanish into the nearest fume hood.
Ryan gave him a nod that felt more like dismissal. “Good work, man. Don’t let her boss you around too much.”
Philip forced a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When Ryan finally moved on to check another table, the tension in Philip’s shoulders eased only slightly. Vanessa was still smiling to herself, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “He’s such a dork,” she said fondly.
“Yeah,” Philip replied, voice flat. “A real geek.”
She glanced at him, oblivious. “You okay? You look kind of pale.”
“Fine,” he lied. His pulse thundered. He hated how obvious it felt. The jealousy, the ridiculous possessiveness over a girl who barely saw him as more than a partner for lab reports.
Meanwhile, across the room, Jack was all charm. Katy, tall, athletic, focused on the work at hand with cool intensity, rolled her eyes at his constant jokes, but she didn’t seem to actively hate him. Jack’s hands moved casually, as if the experiment was background noise to whatever ridiculous story he was spinning.
Philip’s heart pounded. He couldn’t do it. Not to Vanessa. The thought of deliberately stealing a piece of her felt worse than any frat punishment. But then her bun slipped, and a single strand drifted onto the lab bench.
Philip froze and stared at it like it was radioactive. One perfect strand, right there. All he had to do was pick it up without her noticing. His hand twitched. Sweat beaded at his hairline. Vanessa reached for the pipette, and he panicked. He grabbed the strand too quickly, shoving it into his pocket like a thief.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “You good?” she asked.
Philip’s laugh came out strangled. “Yeah. Totally. Fine. Just, science, you know?”
She gave him a strange look, then turned back to the experiment. Across the room, Jack caught his eye and subtly flashed a triumphant thumbs-up. He mouthed, Got it. Philip wanted to throw up.
After class, they met outside, ducking into a quiet corner near the library. Jack pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket and wiggled it proudly. Katy’s strand of hair gleaming inside. Philip shoved his hands deep into his hoodie, where Vanessa’s strand burned against his palm like contraband.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “If she’d caught me, I’d have been ruined.”
Jack was practically buzzing. “But she didn’t. We’ve got everything. Today, we drink the potion. Tomorrow, we’re legends.”
Philip stared at him, feeling his chest tighten. It wasn’t the frat house that scared him anymore. It was Jack’s unwavering certainty, the gleam in his eye like he’d already crossed a line Philip couldn’t even see.
Back in their room, Jack had cleared his desk, pushing aside textbooks and laundry to make space for the battered paperback and a mess of supplies that looked like they’d been stolen from a Spirit Halloween clearance bin. Mason jars, candles, a bag of salt and something that Philip really, really hoped was red food coloring.
Philip sat on the bed, arms crossed, trying not to look at the plastic bag in his pocket. Inside was Vanessa’s hair, a single dark strand that felt heavier than lead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re going to set off the fire alarm, and we’ll get kicked out before we even fail the pledge.”
Jack was hunched over the desk, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he measured powder into a chipped coffee mug.
“Correction. You’re going to stop being so negative, because we’re going to waltz into Theta’s house like we own it and take our time finding the perfect proof. Something small, sexy and lacy. Then we hand it to Trent and we’re done. Easiest initiation ever and we’re lifelong members of the Delta Epsilon brotherhood.”
Philip shook his head. “You actually believe all the crap coming out of your mouth, don’t you?”
“Yes. Because I know this is going to work.” Jack’s grin was feral. He held up his mug, fizzing with something dark and faintly purple. “And very soon, you’re going to have to swallow all your pessimistic, dismissive words and admit that I’m the GOAT.” Without waiting for a response, he dropped Katy’s wavy strand of hair into the concoction.
Philip looked at his own brew, waiting for him on the desk. It reeked faintly of vinegar and something metallic. “This looks like cough syrup that went bad.”
Jack grabbed the paperback, muttering words under his breath. Latin? Gibberish? Philip couldn’t tell. The candlelight threw shadows across Jack’s face, making him look more unhinged than usual.
“Jack,” Philip said slowly, “You get that if this doesn’t work, we may be drinking poison?”
“Trust me,” Jack said, gesturing meaningfully at Philip’s mug. Those two words had been the prelude to every disaster Philip had lived through with him. The broken window in high school. The near arrest in freshman year. And now this.
Philip sighed, pulled Vanessa’s hair from his pocket, and dropped it into the liquid. It curled and fizzed, dissolving into the mixture like it had never been.
“Bottoms up,” Jack said cheerfully, chugging the contents in one long pull.
Philip raised his mug. The liquid shimmered oddly, like heat ripples above asphalt. He pinched his nose and tossed it back. It burned. Like swallowing melted pennies chased with bleach. His stomach roiled instantly, bile rising up.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked, slamming the cup down. “That’s not magic, that’s battery acid.”
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, coughing hard, but his grin didn’t falter. “Wait for it.”
Philip blinked and the dorm room folded in on itself. Candlelight bent sideways and the next breath tasted like coffee and paper. He was not in their room anymore. He was sitting at a table under tall windows, late afternoon light spilling amber over open textbooks and half empty cups.
The scent was library quiet and caffeine. Hair slid across his cheek. Definitely not his. It was long and silky. His hands were smaller, nails pink, wrists delicate. The weight on his chest tugged when he breathed. He was looking through Vanessa’s eyes.
Across from him, Katy sat in a chair with a pen in her hand and her mouth parted in a quiet, startled sound that belonged to Jack. “Holy shit,” Jack whispered in Katy’s voice.
Philip’s pulse spiked. “How the hell did I get here?” he asked under his breath, before the realization hit him fully. Jack’s crazy plan worked. He glanced down, eyes bugging at the soft cleavage he encountered. He was on the verge of completely freaking out. “Keep it together,” he muttered to himself. The sound of Vanessa's voice only sent him spiraling further into chaos.
Jack’s grin curled slow and wicked as he looked down at himself and then around them. He started to pull the top of Katy’s tank forward so he could peek at her breasts, before Philip shot him a look that could choke a man at twenty paces.
“Don’t,” Philip hissed. “Katy would never do something like that in public!”
Jack laughed, high and breathy in Katy’s voice. “You’re telling me you’re not even curious? Come on, man. We’re in. This is unreal. Don’t you want to know what it feels like to them when we touch them?”
Philip swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. He gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from spiraling into sensory overload.
“This…this isn’t possible,” he whispered. But the evidence pressed in from every side. The scent of citrus shampoo in his hair, the tug of bra straps against his shoulders, the fullness in his chest when he inhaled. The emptiness where his cock should be.
Philip’s eyes darted anxiously around the library cafe. “We need to get out of here before someone notices something off,” Philip said. “People pick up on the smallest wrong note.” He was terrified that someone would realize the girls were possessed.
He spent way too much time staring at Vanessa, but that didn’t mean he could copy her actions. If anyone watched them closely, they’d know immediately that there were impostors inhabiting Vanessa and Katy.
“We should go back to their room and fool around,” Jack suggested immediately, hands on Katy’s breasts, squeezing idly.
“Jesus, Jack, stop that! They’re in public. We’re in public…”
This was such a mind-fuck. Clearly they were literally possessing Vanessa and Katy’s bodies. Where was Vanessa's consciousness now? Asleep? Aware? He didn’t feel like someone was watching him, so hopefully she had no idea what he was doing. And where were his and Jack’s bodies? Still in their dorm room? Fuck. If he’d known there was any chance of this working, he’d never have gone through with it.
“Come on bestie, let’s go home,” Jack cooed at him. “I’m just dying to get out of these pesky clothes.”
Jack clearly had zero second thoughts about any of this. Then again, Jack had never had a second thought in his life. He rarely had first ones. Philip decided that only made him a bigger idiot for always following his friend’s crazy plans.
Philip took a deep breath, gathered Vanessa’s things and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder before getting up on shaky legs. The plan was to reach Theta house without interacting with anyone who knew the girls.
Vanessa was outgoing and popular, so he kept his eyes trained on the ground to avoid any accidental socializing.
He was doing his best to focus on the mission, but every move betrayed him. Vanessa’s curves shifted differently from his own. Her hips swayed without permission when he walked. The tug of the denim skirt around her thighs was tighter than he was used to, the waistband sitting higher, the soft curtain of hair continuously falling into his eyes. And he kept fighting the urge to run his fingertips over her lustrous, satiny skin.
Philip thanked his lucky stars that it was late afternoon sliding toward evening and most of the Theta girls were either at dinner, in class, or busy with the mixer prep.
The second piece of good luck was the fact that the first year members of the sorority had the downstairs bedrooms and Katy and Vanessa had their names picked out in glittery wooden letters on their door. Which saved him and Jack from being caught wandering aimlessly into someone else’s room and rifling through their underwear.
“Come on,” he hissed at Jack, nearly having heart failure when he heard Vanessa’s sweet, bubbly voice, before remembering it came from his own mouth.
As soon as they entered the room, Philip froze like a deer in headlights.
The room smelled like them. A heady mix of perfume, make-up and detergent. Several photos of Vanessa and Katy were pinned to the notice board. Keys with a little Theta charm lay on a desk. Lip gloss on each bedside table. A folded flyer about the upcoming mixer. Every object made him feel like an intruder in a life that wasn’t his.
Then he looked up and saw his reflection thrown back at him from the floor length mirror fastened to the opposite wall. Vanessa stared back. Her round face framed by shiny black hair, lips glossed in pale pink, eyes wide with Philip’s panic.
“This isn’t possible,” he murmured hoarsely.
Jack crossed the room with Katy’s energetic stride, hair swinging over her shoulder. He leaned down, far too close, eyes alight with mischief.
“Possible or not, it’s happening. And we’ve got hours before it wears off. Wanna play?” Philip’s pulse thundered. He was in Vanessa’s body. Jack was in Katy’s. He had no idea what their real bodies were doing or where, only that they were not here. For the first time since pledging Delta, he realized he was more terrified of his best friend than of any frat brother.
Jack was practically bouncing around like a kid in a candy store, repeatedly mentioning how awesome it is to have tits.
“This is insane,” Philip muttered, running a hand through Vanessa’s long hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, brushing the back of his neck, constantly in his peripheral vision. Every little tickle made him twitch. “I feel like I’m drowning in shampoo.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah. It’s fucking awesome. Look at this.” He shook his head, letting Katy’s long, dark hair fall over her shoulders, framing her face, then bit her lower lip between her teeth and winked at Philip seductively. “Tell me this doesn’t look hot.”
Philip turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of the curve of Katy’s collarbone, the tan line along her shoulder where a sports bra must’ve once sat. He gritted his teeth.
“We’re only here to grab underwear and then we get out. That’s it.” Jack made a distracted sound, which didn’t entirely sound like agreement.
He was testing everything. Squeezing Katy’s biceps and delighting in the subtle muscle definition, stretching out one long leg and flexing her calf muscles, even bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet as if testing how springy she was.
Philip was still focused on the reflection in the mirror. He stepped closer, and the image followed, familiar and foreign all at once. He raised a hand. She raised a hand. Jack appeared beside him, sliding Katy’s body into view. She was taller, leaner, her shoulders broader than Vanessa’s.
Katy was studious and fairly quiet normally, but Jack’s grin warped her into something hungry. A femme fatale in search of her next prey.
“Dude, look at us,” Jack whispered. “We actually pulled it off. We’re fucking hot!”
Philip swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. “We shouldn’t be looking. This is… it’s too much.”
“Too much fun,” Jack corrected. He pressed closer to the mirror, tilting Katy’s head, pursing her lips, sticking out her tongue just to see how it looked. He laughed in delight. “God, the way this mouth moves, it’s unreal.”
Philip tried to drag his eyes away, but curiosity betrayed him. His gaze dipped, catching sight of Vanessa’s chest in the reflection. The neckline of her shirt clung close, clearly showing the outline of her nipples. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned away sharply. He was not going to lift her top and take a peek.
“You’re staring,” Jack teased, slipping behind him and resting Katy’s hands on Vanessa’s hips.
Katy’s reflection loomed over Vanessa’s smaller frame in the mirror. “What’s it like, having the body of your crush? Bet you’ve fantasized about having unfettered access to her before. Touching every inch of her. Running your palms over her perky tits. Cupping her pussy.”
Philip’s face went hot. “Shut up.”
Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping, Katy’s lips brushing dangerously near Philip’s ear. “She’s soft, isn’t she? Curvy. Everything you imagined. And she’s right here. Aching to know what your hands would feel like sliding all over her.”
Philip’s breath caught. He could feel the warmth of Jack’s presence, the whisper of Katy’s hair brushing his cheek. He tried to step away, but Vanessa’s body didn’t obey with the same steadiness as his own.
His hip bumped the desk, throwing him off balance. Jack’s hand shot out, steadying him. Grabbing his hips instead of his arm. Philip stiffened. The pressure of Katy’s palm against Vanessa’s midriff was startling. A hot reminder that this wasn’t a joke anymore.
“Jack,” Philip said, voice low with warning. But Jack only grinned, tightening his grip slightly, fingertips sliding along the hem of Vanessa’s shirt, tickling the strip of skin underneath.
“Relax. We’ve got time before the potion wears off. Why waste it panicking when we could explore?”
Philip shoved his hand away, heart hammering too fast. “We came here for one reason. Don’t fuck this up with your usual bullshit.”
Jack backed off in mock surrender, leaning against the wall and raising Katy’s hands. “Fine, fine. You want to pass up a once in a lifetime opportunity by being a pussy, instead of playing with one, go ahead.”
Philip ignored him and pulled open one of the dresser drawers, coming face to face with the mother lode.
A mass of lace and cotton, bright colors and neutrals, G-strings and briefs and bras, all folded neatly in little piles. He fumbled, pulling out a pair at random, trying not to notice the little bow stitched along the waistband, or theorize about which of the girls it belonged to.
“Got it,” he muttered, stuffing it into his pocket.
“We should leave and go and stash this somewhere so we can retrieve it when we’re us again.”
“Plenty of time for that. Are you seriously passing up the opportunity to find out what turns your crush on?”
Philip’s chest heaved, the bra beneath his shirt pinching tighter with the movement. Every tiny sensation was amplified in this shape. He had no idea girls had such sensitive bodies. If Vanessa's neck and shoulders were this responsive to stimuli, what about the more… delicate areas?
Jack leaned against the wall, watching his friend closely. Katy’s arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up in a way that made Philip avert his eyes.
“You really think you can ignore this?” Jack asked softly. “Ignore her?”
Philip didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, even as he tried to ignore it, every nerve in Vanessa’s body was alive with a tingling feeling he couldn’t shut off.
He told himself he wouldn’t look at the mirror again. That he had the underwear and all that was left to do was wait for the potion to burn off. But every time he moved, Vanessa’s body reminded him he wasn’t himself. The way her thighs brushed together when he shifted his stance. The heat trapped in the curve between her breasts. The way her nipples tightened when she saw the way Katy stared at her. The sudden, sharp contraction of pleasure between her legs.
Each detail was louder than thought. And Jack wouldn’t fucking give him space to breathe.
“You’re wound too tight,” Jack murmured, stepping closer again. Katy’s taller body loomed behind him, all lean lines and toned strength. He set Katy’s hands on Vanessa's shoulders from behind, massaging with deliberate slowness.
“Loosen up.”
Philip froze. The sensation was alien. Slender fingers pressing into the slope of Vanessa’s shoulders, kneading muscle softer than his own. His back arched without meaning to, chest pushing forward. He could feel the heat in his panties and almost smell the pheromones in the air.
“Jack-”
“Shh.”
Katy’s breath ghosted over his ear, warm and taunting. “Allow her to feel it. Her body isn’t fighting me. She likes this.”
Philip hated the way heat rippled through him at the words. The way Vanessa’s nipples pebbled instantly, turning aching and hard beneath her bra when Jack’s thumbs kept sensually running across her muscles.
He tried to step away, but Jack’s grip on her waist drew her back. Katy’s chest pressed flush against Vanessa’s back. Firm breasts molding against soft skin. Philip gasped, a small, betraying sound.
“That’s it,” Jack whispered, lips brushing the shell of Vanessa's ear. “You feel that, don’t you? How different it is?”
Philip bit his lip hard. But it didn’t stop his body from reacting. His chest ached with sensitivity, every brush of fabric against his nipples sparking hot shivers. His hips shifted against Jack’s hold, searching without meaning to. His ass pressing back, almost expecting to feel an erect cock there, relaxing when all he encountered was softness.
Jack slid one hand lower, over Vanessa’s flat stomach, fingertips grazing the waist of her denim skirt. Philip’s pulse spiked. He could feel the shape of her body in ways he’d only imagined.
“God, you’re actually shaking,” Jack teased. He pressed his palm harder, dragging upward until he cupped one of Vanessa’s breasts through her shirt. His hand molded perfectly to the curve, fingers sinking in slightly before closing over the nipples and pinching.
Philip jolted like he’d been shocked. The pressure sent heat exploding through him. So much sharper than he ever imagined. A moan slipped out, broken and needy, before he could stop it. Jack laughed low, his voice a husky echo in Katy’s mouth.
“I knew it. You’re loving this.”
Philip shook his head, but his body betrayed him. Vanessa’s breasts were soft in his own hands when Jack pulled them into place, squeezing and kneading.
The ache in his chest spread downward, a molten restlessness that coiled between his legs, where there was no longer any familiar weight. Only a slick, sensitive heat that made his thighs tense. Jack leaned closer, kissing the side of Vanessa's neck.
Katy’s lips left tingling sparks against her skin. He gasped again, tilting his head back without meaning to, giving Jack room to explore.
“You always wanted to know what she felt like, didn’t you?” Jack murmured between kisses. “Now you do. Every inch. Every little twitch. If you ever get the chance, you could make her cum in minutes.”
Philip squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to want this. But Vanessa’s body was singing beneath his skin, her curves hypersensitive to every touch, every squeeze. When Jack dragged his hand lower, cupping the swell of her ass through denim, Philip’s knees went weak. He stumbled, and they tumbled together onto the nearest bed. Vanessa’s smaller frame pinned beneath Katy’s.
Jack landed on top, grinning down, hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces. “Just lie back and enjoy it,” he said, voice husky. “I’ll do all the work and you can take notes in your head.”
Katy’s hips pressed down, grinding just enough for Philip to feel the press of her pussy against Vanessa's. The pleasure nearly made him see stars. What would it feel like if Katy actually touched her clit? Dragged her tongue over it? Sucked it between those soft lips?
Philip whimpered, his hands trapped between them, pressed against the curves of Katy’s sides. He could feel the warmth of skin through fabric. Every nerve screamed with arousal. Jack leaned down, lips hovering over his.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
Philip’s heart thundered. His lips parted, and he didn’t know if he was going to say I don’t or kiss Katy. His pulse roared in his ears. He could feel the weight of Vanessa’s chest rising and falling too fast, her heartbeat thundering in her ribs like a trapped animal.
Jack hovered over him, Katy’s taller frame caging him against the mattress, their borrowed hair spilling together in a curtain that smelled faintly of fruit.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” Philip rasped, but his voice cracked, betraying the tremor of arousal under the words.
Jack smirked. “I’m not joking.” He lowered Katy’s body until their breasts touched, brushing Katy’s peaked nipples against Vanessa’s rock hard ones. The friction alone made Philip gasp, heat shooting through him. It wasn’t like pressing chest-to-chest with another guy.
The give, the shape, the electric sting of nipples touching, every detail was overwhelming. He had no idea breasts were so receptive to the slightest touch. Vanessa's wasn’t even uncovered and they made him squirm.
“God,” he groaned before he could stop himself. Jack’s grin widened in satisfaction.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Every touch goes both ways. You squeeze her,” He pressed Katy’s hand down onto one of Vanessa’s breasts, forcing Philip to feel it fully, “And you are her.”
Philip arched into the contact despite himself. His hands moved up without any conscious thought. The weight of her breast in his palm, the nipple reacting instantly under his touch, each tiny spark flooded through him in a way his male body never reacted to anything but pressure on his cock.
He kneaded once, twice, and heat surged low in his stomach, between his thighs, turning his panties damp. His back bowed off the mattress, mouth falling open in a helpless sound.
Jack kissed him then. Katy’s mouth grazing Vanessa's jaw, the corner of her mouth, teasing as it moved around.
Every brush of her sweet lips left a wet, burning mark. Philip turned away, breathless, but Jack followed, biting gently at Vanessa’s neck until Philip gasped.
His thighs clenched hard. Something slick and molten was spreading there, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He could feel the absence, the soft, tender heat where his cock would usually be straining.
The pressure of denim against it only sharpened the ache. He needed Jack to touch Vanessa's pussy. He needed pressure. Jack ground down lightly and Philip bucked up helplessly, his own hands gripping Katy’s hips tight, chasing the friction he’d die without.
“Stop,” he panted, but the word broke halfway, turning into a moan. Jack chuckled low.
“Your body doesn’t want me to stop.” He kissed Vanessa again. Her lips plump, glossy, trembling beneath Katy’s teasing press. Philip’s breath hitched and his tongue flicked nervously against the edge of his teeth.
Every nerve screamed to close the distance, to taste what it felt like to kiss as a girl, to be kissed as a girl. Jack deepened the grind of their hips. Philip’s breath hitched sharply, a helpless whimper leaving his throat.
Heat surged through his belly, down his thighs, the ache between his legs swelling into a throbbing need. He arched against Katy, nails digging into her waist. There’s no way he was going to be able to say no. Jack had to make him cum.
Jack pulled back slightly, asking with twinkling eyes, “Shall we see how good Katy is at eating pussy?”
Philip knew what his answer should be, but his entire body was throbbing, yes yes yes.
Their mouths hovered a fraction apart, breaths mingling. The world narrowed to that single point of contact waiting to happen. Philip’s lips parted, ready, needy.
“Vanessa? Katy?” The voice cut through the fog like a blade, followed by the rap of knuckles on the door.
Philip’s eyes flew wide. Jack froze above him, both of them panting hard. “Vanessa, Katy!” another girl called from the hall. “We need you for the final discussions for tonight’s mixer!”
Silence. Only their ragged breaths, the hot press of bodies still locked together. Jack swore under his breath, rolling off Vanessa reluctantly.
“Just when things were about to get really good.”
Philip scrambled upright, Vanessa’s hair tangling in his face, chest heaving, nipples still hard and aching. He shoved shaky hands through the strands, trying to compose himself, though the slick heat between his thighs throbbed in open defiance.
He knew they should have kept their heads. If they let curiosity drag them off course they would blow the whole point of the night. The spell would end when it wanted and they had no idea when that would be.
Another knock. “Come on, you two! Hurry up! Megan saw you get in earlier, I know you’re in there.”
Jack smirked, tugging Katy’s tank top straight as if they hadn’t just been seconds from fucking each other into oblivion.
“Guess there’s more fun ahead. Don’t think you’re off the hook though, I’m still going to eat that pussy later and I fully expect to get repaid in kind.”
Philip sat frozen, heart still hammering, his mind spinning so fast he worried he might throw up.
With the sorority girls having already taken well known countermeasures to deal with any would be panty thieves, he thinks the chances of completing the challenge are near zero.
However, when his best friend Jack claims to have a plan involving a little magic and burrowing the bodies of his crush Vanessa and her roommate Katy, he knows he is in for a long night ahead when things don't exactly end up going to plan...
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The floor of Delta Epsilon’s house was sticky.
Beer, cheap cologne, and stale pizza had seeped into the carpet like a second skin, and Philip had the honor of scrubbing it clean while half a dozen brothers lounged on couches watching basketball highlights.
“Missed a spot,” one of them called, deliberately tilting a red Solo cup so that the last of his drink bled out onto the carpet inches from Philip’s sponge.
Philip clenched his jaw. He’d been degraded all semester, fetching fast food at three in the morning, running errands that skirted the edge of being criminal, serving as human furniture during drinking games. He told himself it would be worth it. Delta Epsilon’s parties were legendary, the kind of place girls lined up to get into. More importantly, alumni connections meant a shot at internships that led to real careers. You suffered now, you cashed in later.
Jack, naturally, thrived. He was perched on the arm of a sofa, balancing a tray of wings for two seniors, grinning like the humiliation was a party of its own.
“How’s that knee grease holding up, Phil?” he teased, eyebrows bouncing. Philip muttered something under his breath, pressing the sponge hard enough to leave his knuckles white. He’d thought pledging with his best friend would make things easier. Instead, Jack’s bottomless energy only made Philip feel like the boring one, always one step away from quitting.
The pledge master, Trent, finally called them over once the brothers had eaten their fill.
“You’ve made it further than many,” he said, addressing both Philip and Jack while tapping the ash off his cigar. “Scrubbing toilets, babysitting drunk brothers, taking whatever punishment we throw at you, you did it all without complaint. But Delta doesn’t hand out membership for free. There’s one last hurdle.”
Jack’s eyes lit up, while Philip felt his stomach knot. Trent leaned forward. “You’ve got until Saturday morning to bring us proof that you’re worthy of being Delta Epsilons. And by proof, I mean the underwear of one of the Theta sisters across the street.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Someone whistled. Another shouted, “Better hope they’re lace!”
Philip’s face burned hot. He’d expected something brutal. A dangerous stunt, or maybe even a tattoo or branding, not…this. Not something that felt like the set-up to a police record for being a creep.
Jack, of course, grinned like he’d just been handed a golden ticket. “Piece of cake,” he said.
“Piece of felony,” Philip muttered.
Trent ignored the comment. “You get caught, that’s your problem. Theta girls are sick of pranks. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you sneaking around. Fail, and you’ll have to re-pledge next semester, if we even let you back in. Succeed, and you’ll be full brothers by sunrise.”
He flicked his cigar ash into an empty beer can, and the matter was closed. Philip and Jack were dismissed like servants, slipping out into the cool night air. The frat house behind them thumped with bass as the next round of drinking games began.
Across the street, the Theta house glowed with warm yellow light, its windows alive with the silhouettes of girls laughing, moving and living in a world that felt forbidden.
Philip shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “This is insane. They want us to break into a sorority house. Forget expulsion, that’s actual jail time if we’re caught and reported.”
Jack slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Come on, man. It’s tradition. Everybody who ever wore Delta letters has done something crazy like this. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Philip shrugged him off. “You mean you’ll figure it out. And drag me with you.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Exactly. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” That phrase, I’ve got a plan, was the single most dangerous thing Jack could say. Philip knew better, but as he stared up at the Theta house, he couldn’t shake the truth. They’d come too far to back out now.
Philip assumed Jack’s “plan” would be something stupid but doable. Like sneaking into the Theta laundry room, bribing a janitor, or maybe finessing a stolen bra from lost-and-found.
What he didn’t expect, as their deadline creeped ever closer, was Jack pulling a battered paperback out of his backpack like he’d just smuggled the Necronomicon out of the library and declaring their troubles were about to be a thing of the past.
“What is that?” Philip asked, eyeing the faded title embossed with moons and symbols.
“Wiccan Rites and Rituals of the Body,” Jack said with a grin so wide it could split his face. “This baby is going to get us in.”
Philip stared. “That’s not a plan you idiot. That’s…props from a bad horror movie.”
“Correction,” Jack said, flipping through pages until he landed on one marked with a sticky note. “It’s a possession spell. All we need is something personal from the Thetas. Hair is perfect. One strand, and we’re golden.”
Philip blinked. “Hair. You want us to pluck a strand off someone’s head, mix it into some potion, and what? Astral-project into their underwear drawer?”
Jack leaned forward, whispering even though there was nobody else around. “Exactly. But into them, not their underwear drawer.”
For a moment, Philip couldn’t even find words. His friend was dead serious. His blue eyes glittered with the manic light of a man who believed in his own insanity. Philip pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack, you need help.”
“Correction again. We need help, and this is it. Think about it. We don’t sneak around, we don’t break and enter, we just become them. Walk right in the front door. Grab what we need and walk back out again. Easy as pie.”
Philip wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell Jack this was why pledges got expelled, why college urban legends started with two idiots reading a so-called spell book. But something about Jack’s certainty unsettled him.
“How do you even plan to get the hair?” Philip asked, deciding to humor him.
Jack smirked. “You’re partnered with Vanessa in chem lab. I’m with her roommate, Katy. Both of them happen to belong to the Theta Sorority. Boom. Easy.”
Philip’s stomach lurched. Vanessa, the Vanessa, the girl he’d spent the better part of a semester trying not to stare at. She was sharp, funny, gorgeous, and so out of his league it hurt. The idea of stealing a strand of her hair wasn’t just impossible, it was mortifying.
“Jack, if I even look at her hair the wrong way she’ll know. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be branded as the campus creep for the rest of my life.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Relax. I’ll take care of mine. You just…fumble your way through like usual. She likes you, right? I’m sure she’s called you sweet before. She won’t even notice.”
Lab that afternoon was a fluorescent blur of glassware and nerves. Bunsen burners hissed, and the sharp scent of acetone hung in the air. Vanessa tied her glossy black hair into a messy bun as she leaned over the counter, the soft hum she made under her breath cutting through the low chatter of other pairs.
Philip adjusted the clamp on their stand and tried to steady his hands, pretending to check the thermometer while sneaking a glance at her profile. The long lashes, the soft curve of her cheek when she smiled. He’d barely worked up the nerve to say something to her, when the door swung open and Ryan Hale strolled in.
Ryan wasn’t a student in their class, he was a teaching assistant who was busy with his Masters. The kind of nerd who looked more like he belonged in a movie poster than a chemistry lab. The Henry Cavill of the campus. Tall, effortlessly confident, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing forearms that probably did not belong to someone who spent his evenings doing titration reports.
“Need a hand, Vanessa?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth enough to make the words sound like an inside joke.
Vanessa’s whole face lit up. “Ryan! You’re still hanging around the underclassmen? I thought you were too cool for basic chem.”
“Guess I missed the fun crowd.” He winked, stepping close enough that Philip caught the faint smell of his cologne. Something woodsy and smug. Philip’s stomach twisted. He busied himself pretending to check their notes, but every word between Vanessa and Ryan pulled his focus like a hook through his ribs.
“Still showing off that perfect technique, huh?” Ryan teased, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Could use someone like you to calibrate my disastrous love life.”
Vanessa laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I told you last time, you need better lab partners, not better lines.”
“Maybe I just need one who actually likes me,” he said, voice dipping into something low and knowing. “You still wearing that purple dress that makes everyone else forget the experiment?”
She grinned, shaking her head. “Keep talking, and you’ll set the sprinklers off again.”
Ryan chuckled, backing away with a little salute. “Worth it.”
Philip’s jaw locked so tight it hurt. He shifted his beaker just to make noise. “Vanessa, uh, the solution’s ready,” he muttered.
She turned back, still smiling, a faint pink on her cheeks. “Right, sorry, I got distracted.” The way she said it made Philip want to vanish into the nearest fume hood.
Ryan gave him a nod that felt more like dismissal. “Good work, man. Don’t let her boss you around too much.”
Philip forced a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When Ryan finally moved on to check another table, the tension in Philip’s shoulders eased only slightly. Vanessa was still smiling to herself, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “He’s such a dork,” she said fondly.
“Yeah,” Philip replied, voice flat. “A real geek.”
She glanced at him, oblivious. “You okay? You look kind of pale.”
“Fine,” he lied. His pulse thundered. He hated how obvious it felt. The jealousy, the ridiculous possessiveness over a girl who barely saw him as more than a partner for lab reports.
Meanwhile, across the room, Jack was all charm. Katy, tall, athletic, focused on the work at hand with cool intensity, rolled her eyes at his constant jokes, but she didn’t seem to actively hate him. Jack’s hands moved casually, as if the experiment was background noise to whatever ridiculous story he was spinning.
Philip’s heart pounded. He couldn’t do it. Not to Vanessa. The thought of deliberately stealing a piece of her felt worse than any frat punishment. But then her bun slipped, and a single strand drifted onto the lab bench.
Philip froze and stared at it like it was radioactive. One perfect strand, right there. All he had to do was pick it up without her noticing. His hand twitched. Sweat beaded at his hairline. Vanessa reached for the pipette, and he panicked. He grabbed the strand too quickly, shoving it into his pocket like a thief.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “You good?” she asked.
Philip’s laugh came out strangled. “Yeah. Totally. Fine. Just, science, you know?”
She gave him a strange look, then turned back to the experiment. Across the room, Jack caught his eye and subtly flashed a triumphant thumbs-up. He mouthed, Got it. Philip wanted to throw up.
After class, they met outside, ducking into a quiet corner near the library. Jack pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket and wiggled it proudly. Katy’s strand of hair gleaming inside. Philip shoved his hands deep into his hoodie, where Vanessa’s strand burned against his palm like contraband.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “If she’d caught me, I’d have been ruined.”
Jack was practically buzzing. “But she didn’t. We’ve got everything. Today, we drink the potion. Tomorrow, we’re legends.”
Philip stared at him, feeling his chest tighten. It wasn’t the frat house that scared him anymore. It was Jack’s unwavering certainty, the gleam in his eye like he’d already crossed a line Philip couldn’t even see.
Back in their room, Jack had cleared his desk, pushing aside textbooks and laundry to make space for the battered paperback and a mess of supplies that looked like they’d been stolen from a Spirit Halloween clearance bin. Mason jars, candles, a bag of salt and something that Philip really, really hoped was red food coloring.
Philip sat on the bed, arms crossed, trying not to look at the plastic bag in his pocket. Inside was Vanessa’s hair, a single dark strand that felt heavier than lead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re going to set off the fire alarm, and we’ll get kicked out before we even fail the pledge.”
Jack was hunched over the desk, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he measured powder into a chipped coffee mug.
“Correction. You’re going to stop being so negative, because we’re going to waltz into Theta’s house like we own it and take our time finding the perfect proof. Something small, sexy and lacy. Then we hand it to Trent and we’re done. Easiest initiation ever and we’re lifelong members of the Delta Epsilon brotherhood.”
Philip shook his head. “You actually believe all the crap coming out of your mouth, don’t you?”
“Yes. Because I know this is going to work.” Jack’s grin was feral. He held up his mug, fizzing with something dark and faintly purple. “And very soon, you’re going to have to swallow all your pessimistic, dismissive words and admit that I’m the GOAT.” Without waiting for a response, he dropped Katy’s wavy strand of hair into the concoction.
Philip looked at his own brew, waiting for him on the desk. It reeked faintly of vinegar and something metallic. “This looks like cough syrup that went bad.”
Jack grabbed the paperback, muttering words under his breath. Latin? Gibberish? Philip couldn’t tell. The candlelight threw shadows across Jack’s face, making him look more unhinged than usual.
“Jack,” Philip said slowly, “You get that if this doesn’t work, we may be drinking poison?”
“Trust me,” Jack said, gesturing meaningfully at Philip’s mug. Those two words had been the prelude to every disaster Philip had lived through with him. The broken window in high school. The near arrest in freshman year. And now this.
Philip sighed, pulled Vanessa’s hair from his pocket, and dropped it into the liquid. It curled and fizzed, dissolving into the mixture like it had never been.
“Bottoms up,” Jack said cheerfully, chugging the contents in one long pull.
Philip raised his mug. The liquid shimmered oddly, like heat ripples above asphalt. He pinched his nose and tossed it back. It burned. Like swallowing melted pennies chased with bleach. His stomach roiled instantly, bile rising up.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked, slamming the cup down. “That’s not magic, that’s battery acid.”
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, coughing hard, but his grin didn’t falter. “Wait for it.”
Philip blinked and the dorm room folded in on itself. Candlelight bent sideways and the next breath tasted like coffee and paper. He was not in their room anymore. He was sitting at a table under tall windows, late afternoon light spilling amber over open textbooks and half empty cups.
The scent was library quiet and caffeine. Hair slid across his cheek. Definitely not his. It was long and silky. His hands were smaller, nails pink, wrists delicate. The weight on his chest tugged when he breathed. He was looking through Vanessa’s eyes.
Across from him, Katy sat in a chair with a pen in her hand and her mouth parted in a quiet, startled sound that belonged to Jack. “Holy shit,” Jack whispered in Katy’s voice.
Philip’s pulse spiked. “How the hell did I get here?” he asked under his breath, before the realization hit him fully. Jack’s crazy plan worked. He glanced down, eyes bugging at the soft cleavage he encountered. He was on the verge of completely freaking out. “Keep it together,” he muttered to himself. The sound of Vanessa's voice only sent him spiraling further into chaos.
Jack’s grin curled slow and wicked as he looked down at himself and then around them. He started to pull the top of Katy’s tank forward so he could peek at her breasts, before Philip shot him a look that could choke a man at twenty paces.
“Don’t,” Philip hissed. “Katy would never do something like that in public!”
Jack laughed, high and breathy in Katy’s voice. “You’re telling me you’re not even curious? Come on, man. We’re in. This is unreal. Don’t you want to know what it feels like to them when we touch them?”
Philip swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. He gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from spiraling into sensory overload.
“This…this isn’t possible,” he whispered. But the evidence pressed in from every side. The scent of citrus shampoo in his hair, the tug of bra straps against his shoulders, the fullness in his chest when he inhaled. The emptiness where his cock should be.
Philip’s eyes darted anxiously around the library cafe. “We need to get out of here before someone notices something off,” Philip said. “People pick up on the smallest wrong note.” He was terrified that someone would realize the girls were possessed.
He spent way too much time staring at Vanessa, but that didn’t mean he could copy her actions. If anyone watched them closely, they’d know immediately that there were impostors inhabiting Vanessa and Katy.
“We should go back to their room and fool around,” Jack suggested immediately, hands on Katy’s breasts, squeezing idly.
“Jesus, Jack, stop that! They’re in public. We’re in public…”
This was such a mind-fuck. Clearly they were literally possessing Vanessa and Katy’s bodies. Where was Vanessa's consciousness now? Asleep? Aware? He didn’t feel like someone was watching him, so hopefully she had no idea what he was doing. And where were his and Jack’s bodies? Still in their dorm room? Fuck. If he’d known there was any chance of this working, he’d never have gone through with it.
“Come on bestie, let’s go home,” Jack cooed at him. “I’m just dying to get out of these pesky clothes.”
Jack clearly had zero second thoughts about any of this. Then again, Jack had never had a second thought in his life. He rarely had first ones. Philip decided that only made him a bigger idiot for always following his friend’s crazy plans.
Philip took a deep breath, gathered Vanessa’s things and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder before getting up on shaky legs. The plan was to reach Theta house without interacting with anyone who knew the girls.
Vanessa was outgoing and popular, so he kept his eyes trained on the ground to avoid any accidental socializing.
He was doing his best to focus on the mission, but every move betrayed him. Vanessa’s curves shifted differently from his own. Her hips swayed without permission when he walked. The tug of the denim skirt around her thighs was tighter than he was used to, the waistband sitting higher, the soft curtain of hair continuously falling into his eyes. And he kept fighting the urge to run his fingertips over her lustrous, satiny skin.
Philip thanked his lucky stars that it was late afternoon sliding toward evening and most of the Theta girls were either at dinner, in class, or busy with the mixer prep.
The second piece of good luck was the fact that the first year members of the sorority had the downstairs bedrooms and Katy and Vanessa had their names picked out in glittery wooden letters on their door. Which saved him and Jack from being caught wandering aimlessly into someone else’s room and rifling through their underwear.
“Come on,” he hissed at Jack, nearly having heart failure when he heard Vanessa’s sweet, bubbly voice, before remembering it came from his own mouth.
As soon as they entered the room, Philip froze like a deer in headlights.
The room smelled like them. A heady mix of perfume, make-up and detergent. Several photos of Vanessa and Katy were pinned to the notice board. Keys with a little Theta charm lay on a desk. Lip gloss on each bedside table. A folded flyer about the upcoming mixer. Every object made him feel like an intruder in a life that wasn’t his.
Then he looked up and saw his reflection thrown back at him from the floor length mirror fastened to the opposite wall. Vanessa stared back. Her round face framed by shiny black hair, lips glossed in pale pink, eyes wide with Philip’s panic.
“This isn’t possible,” he murmured hoarsely.
Jack crossed the room with Katy’s energetic stride, hair swinging over her shoulder. He leaned down, far too close, eyes alight with mischief.
“Possible or not, it’s happening. And we’ve got hours before it wears off. Wanna play?” Philip’s pulse thundered. He was in Vanessa’s body. Jack was in Katy’s. He had no idea what their real bodies were doing or where, only that they were not here. For the first time since pledging Delta, he realized he was more terrified of his best friend than of any frat brother.
Jack was practically bouncing around like a kid in a candy store, repeatedly mentioning how awesome it is to have tits.
“This is insane,” Philip muttered, running a hand through Vanessa’s long hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, brushing the back of his neck, constantly in his peripheral vision. Every little tickle made him twitch. “I feel like I’m drowning in shampoo.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah. It’s fucking awesome. Look at this.” He shook his head, letting Katy’s long, dark hair fall over her shoulders, framing her face, then bit her lower lip between her teeth and winked at Philip seductively. “Tell me this doesn’t look hot.”
Philip turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of the curve of Katy’s collarbone, the tan line along her shoulder where a sports bra must’ve once sat. He gritted his teeth.
“We’re only here to grab underwear and then we get out. That’s it.” Jack made a distracted sound, which didn’t entirely sound like agreement.
He was testing everything. Squeezing Katy’s biceps and delighting in the subtle muscle definition, stretching out one long leg and flexing her calf muscles, even bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet as if testing how springy she was.
Philip was still focused on the reflection in the mirror. He stepped closer, and the image followed, familiar and foreign all at once. He raised a hand. She raised a hand. Jack appeared beside him, sliding Katy’s body into view. She was taller, leaner, her shoulders broader than Vanessa’s.
Katy was studious and fairly quiet normally, but Jack’s grin warped her into something hungry. A femme fatale in search of her next prey.
“Dude, look at us,” Jack whispered. “We actually pulled it off. We’re fucking hot!”
Philip swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. “We shouldn’t be looking. This is… it’s too much.”
“Too much fun,” Jack corrected. He pressed closer to the mirror, tilting Katy’s head, pursing her lips, sticking out her tongue just to see how it looked. He laughed in delight. “God, the way this mouth moves, it’s unreal.”
Philip tried to drag his eyes away, but curiosity betrayed him. His gaze dipped, catching sight of Vanessa’s chest in the reflection. The neckline of her shirt clung close, clearly showing the outline of her nipples. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned away sharply. He was not going to lift her top and take a peek.
“You’re staring,” Jack teased, slipping behind him and resting Katy’s hands on Vanessa’s hips.
Katy’s reflection loomed over Vanessa’s smaller frame in the mirror. “What’s it like, having the body of your crush? Bet you’ve fantasized about having unfettered access to her before. Touching every inch of her. Running your palms over her perky tits. Cupping her pussy.”
Philip’s face went hot. “Shut up.”
Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping, Katy’s lips brushing dangerously near Philip’s ear. “She’s soft, isn’t she? Curvy. Everything you imagined. And she’s right here. Aching to know what your hands would feel like sliding all over her.”
Philip’s breath caught. He could feel the warmth of Jack’s presence, the whisper of Katy’s hair brushing his cheek. He tried to step away, but Vanessa’s body didn’t obey with the same steadiness as his own.
His hip bumped the desk, throwing him off balance. Jack’s hand shot out, steadying him. Grabbing his hips instead of his arm. Philip stiffened. The pressure of Katy’s palm against Vanessa’s midriff was startling. A hot reminder that this wasn’t a joke anymore.
“Jack,” Philip said, voice low with warning. But Jack only grinned, tightening his grip slightly, fingertips sliding along the hem of Vanessa’s shirt, tickling the strip of skin underneath.
“Relax. We’ve got time before the potion wears off. Why waste it panicking when we could explore?”
Philip shoved his hand away, heart hammering too fast. “We came here for one reason. Don’t fuck this up with your usual bullshit.”
Jack backed off in mock surrender, leaning against the wall and raising Katy’s hands. “Fine, fine. You want to pass up a once in a lifetime opportunity by being a pussy, instead of playing with one, go ahead.”
Philip ignored him and pulled open one of the dresser drawers, coming face to face with the mother lode.
A mass of lace and cotton, bright colors and neutrals, G-strings and briefs and bras, all folded neatly in little piles. He fumbled, pulling out a pair at random, trying not to notice the little bow stitched along the waistband, or theorize about which of the girls it belonged to.
“Got it,” he muttered, stuffing it into his pocket.
“We should leave and go and stash this somewhere so we can retrieve it when we’re us again.”
“Plenty of time for that. Are you seriously passing up the opportunity to find out what turns your crush on?”
Philip’s chest heaved, the bra beneath his shirt pinching tighter with the movement. Every tiny sensation was amplified in this shape. He had no idea girls had such sensitive bodies. If Vanessa's neck and shoulders were this responsive to stimuli, what about the more… delicate areas?
Jack leaned against the wall, watching his friend closely. Katy’s arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up in a way that made Philip avert his eyes.
“You really think you can ignore this?” Jack asked softly. “Ignore her?”
Philip didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, even as he tried to ignore it, every nerve in Vanessa’s body was alive with a tingling feeling he couldn’t shut off.
He told himself he wouldn’t look at the mirror again. That he had the underwear and all that was left to do was wait for the potion to burn off. But every time he moved, Vanessa’s body reminded him he wasn’t himself. The way her thighs brushed together when he shifted his stance. The heat trapped in the curve between her breasts. The way her nipples tightened when she saw the way Katy stared at her. The sudden, sharp contraction of pleasure between her legs.
Each detail was louder than thought. And Jack wouldn’t fucking give him space to breathe.
“You’re wound too tight,” Jack murmured, stepping closer again. Katy’s taller body loomed behind him, all lean lines and toned strength. He set Katy’s hands on Vanessa's shoulders from behind, massaging with deliberate slowness.
“Loosen up.”
Philip froze. The sensation was alien. Slender fingers pressing into the slope of Vanessa’s shoulders, kneading muscle softer than his own. His back arched without meaning to, chest pushing forward. He could feel the heat in his panties and almost smell the pheromones in the air.
“Jack-”
“Shh.”
Katy’s breath ghosted over his ear, warm and taunting. “Allow her to feel it. Her body isn’t fighting me. She likes this.”
Philip hated the way heat rippled through him at the words. The way Vanessa’s nipples pebbled instantly, turning aching and hard beneath her bra when Jack’s thumbs kept sensually running across her muscles.
He tried to step away, but Jack’s grip on her waist drew her back. Katy’s chest pressed flush against Vanessa’s back. Firm breasts molding against soft skin. Philip gasped, a small, betraying sound.
“That’s it,” Jack whispered, lips brushing the shell of Vanessa's ear. “You feel that, don’t you? How different it is?”
Philip bit his lip hard. But it didn’t stop his body from reacting. His chest ached with sensitivity, every brush of fabric against his nipples sparking hot shivers. His hips shifted against Jack’s hold, searching without meaning to. His ass pressing back, almost expecting to feel an erect cock there, relaxing when all he encountered was softness.
Jack slid one hand lower, over Vanessa’s flat stomach, fingertips grazing the waist of her denim skirt. Philip’s pulse spiked. He could feel the shape of her body in ways he’d only imagined.
“God, you’re actually shaking,” Jack teased. He pressed his palm harder, dragging upward until he cupped one of Vanessa’s breasts through her shirt. His hand molded perfectly to the curve, fingers sinking in slightly before closing over the nipples and pinching.
Philip jolted like he’d been shocked. The pressure sent heat exploding through him. So much sharper than he ever imagined. A moan slipped out, broken and needy, before he could stop it. Jack laughed low, his voice a husky echo in Katy’s mouth.
“I knew it. You’re loving this.”
Philip shook his head, but his body betrayed him. Vanessa’s breasts were soft in his own hands when Jack pulled them into place, squeezing and kneading.
The ache in his chest spread downward, a molten restlessness that coiled between his legs, where there was no longer any familiar weight. Only a slick, sensitive heat that made his thighs tense. Jack leaned closer, kissing the side of Vanessa's neck.
Katy’s lips left tingling sparks against her skin. He gasped again, tilting his head back without meaning to, giving Jack room to explore.
“You always wanted to know what she felt like, didn’t you?” Jack murmured between kisses. “Now you do. Every inch. Every little twitch. If you ever get the chance, you could make her cum in minutes.”
Philip squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to want this. But Vanessa’s body was singing beneath his skin, her curves hypersensitive to every touch, every squeeze. When Jack dragged his hand lower, cupping the swell of her ass through denim, Philip’s knees went weak. He stumbled, and they tumbled together onto the nearest bed. Vanessa’s smaller frame pinned beneath Katy’s.
Jack landed on top, grinning down, hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces. “Just lie back and enjoy it,” he said, voice husky. “I’ll do all the work and you can take notes in your head.”
Katy’s hips pressed down, grinding just enough for Philip to feel the press of her pussy against Vanessa's. The pleasure nearly made him see stars. What would it feel like if Katy actually touched her clit? Dragged her tongue over it? Sucked it between those soft lips?
Philip whimpered, his hands trapped between them, pressed against the curves of Katy’s sides. He could feel the warmth of skin through fabric. Every nerve screamed with arousal. Jack leaned down, lips hovering over his.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
Philip’s heart thundered. His lips parted, and he didn’t know if he was going to say I don’t or kiss Katy. His pulse roared in his ears. He could feel the weight of Vanessa’s chest rising and falling too fast, her heartbeat thundering in her ribs like a trapped animal.
Jack hovered over him, Katy’s taller frame caging him against the mattress, their borrowed hair spilling together in a curtain that smelled faintly of fruit.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” Philip rasped, but his voice cracked, betraying the tremor of arousal under the words.
Jack smirked. “I’m not joking.” He lowered Katy’s body until their breasts touched, brushing Katy’s peaked nipples against Vanessa’s rock hard ones. The friction alone made Philip gasp, heat shooting through him. It wasn’t like pressing chest-to-chest with another guy.
The give, the shape, the electric sting of nipples touching, every detail was overwhelming. He had no idea breasts were so receptive to the slightest touch. Vanessa's wasn’t even uncovered and they made him squirm.
“God,” he groaned before he could stop himself. Jack’s grin widened in satisfaction.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Every touch goes both ways. You squeeze her,” He pressed Katy’s hand down onto one of Vanessa’s breasts, forcing Philip to feel it fully, “And you are her.”
Philip arched into the contact despite himself. His hands moved up without any conscious thought. The weight of her breast in his palm, the nipple reacting instantly under his touch, each tiny spark flooded through him in a way his male body never reacted to anything but pressure on his cock.
He kneaded once, twice, and heat surged low in his stomach, between his thighs, turning his panties damp. His back bowed off the mattress, mouth falling open in a helpless sound.
Jack kissed him then. Katy’s mouth grazing Vanessa's jaw, the corner of her mouth, teasing as it moved around.
Every brush of her sweet lips left a wet, burning mark. Philip turned away, breathless, but Jack followed, biting gently at Vanessa’s neck until Philip gasped.
His thighs clenched hard. Something slick and molten was spreading there, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He could feel the absence, the soft, tender heat where his cock would usually be straining.
The pressure of denim against it only sharpened the ache. He needed Jack to touch Vanessa's pussy. He needed pressure. Jack ground down lightly and Philip bucked up helplessly, his own hands gripping Katy’s hips tight, chasing the friction he’d die without.
“Stop,” he panted, but the word broke halfway, turning into a moan. Jack chuckled low.
“Your body doesn’t want me to stop.” He kissed Vanessa again. Her lips plump, glossy, trembling beneath Katy’s teasing press. Philip’s breath hitched and his tongue flicked nervously against the edge of his teeth.
Every nerve screamed to close the distance, to taste what it felt like to kiss as a girl, to be kissed as a girl. Jack deepened the grind of their hips. Philip’s breath hitched sharply, a helpless whimper leaving his throat.
Heat surged through his belly, down his thighs, the ache between his legs swelling into a throbbing need. He arched against Katy, nails digging into her waist. There’s no way he was going to be able to say no. Jack had to make him cum.
Jack pulled back slightly, asking with twinkling eyes, “Shall we see how good Katy is at eating pussy?”
Philip knew what his answer should be, but his entire body was throbbing, yes yes yes.
Their mouths hovered a fraction apart, breaths mingling. The world narrowed to that single point of contact waiting to happen. Philip’s lips parted, ready, needy.
“Vanessa? Katy?” The voice cut through the fog like a blade, followed by the rap of knuckles on the door.
Philip’s eyes flew wide. Jack froze above him, both of them panting hard. “Vanessa, Katy!” another girl called from the hall. “We need you for the final discussions for tonight’s mixer!”
Silence. Only their ragged breaths, the hot press of bodies still locked together. Jack swore under his breath, rolling off Vanessa reluctantly.
“Just when things were about to get really good.”
Philip scrambled upright, Vanessa’s hair tangling in his face, chest heaving, nipples still hard and aching. He shoved shaky hands through the strands, trying to compose himself, though the slick heat between his thighs throbbed in open defiance.
He knew they should have kept their heads. If they let curiosity drag them off course they would blow the whole point of the night. The spell would end when it wanted and they had no idea when that would be.
Another knock. “Come on, you two! Hurry up! Megan saw you get in earlier, I know you’re in there.”
Jack smirked, tugging Katy’s tank top straight as if they hadn’t just been seconds from fucking each other into oblivion.
“Guess there’s more fun ahead. Don’t think you’re off the hook though, I’m still going to eat that pussy later and I fully expect to get repaid in kind.”
Philip sat frozen, heart still hammering, his mind spinning so fast he worried he might throw up.
mtf
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Kent is young guy that has to spend the summer paying off his debt after accidentally damaging his bitch of a neighbour Julie’s car while playing a game with his friend Marcus. Kent resigns himself to working as Julie’s glorified servant, that is until he finds an odd looking idol that allows him to possess her body. Now with a summer of freedom ahead and Julie’s hot body to do with as he pleases, Kent is looking forward to making up for lost time and having some fun.
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The push mower's dull rattle droned in Kent’s ears, blades whirring through the grass. His body strained beneath the midday sun, and through damp lashes, he caught the blur of a cherry-red convertible roaring down the road—top down, laughter trailing like exhaust.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, wiping away another hand of sweat.
The mower sputtered as he yanked it over a thick patch near Julie’s hydrangeas. He imagined Marcus at the wheel, music cranked, their friends crowded in the back seat, already sunburned and salty from the ocean. They wouldn’t miss him today; they probably hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t around these days.
The sun seared, hammering against his back, arms, the nape of his neck where his hair stuck and tangled. Kent tried not to groan, but it was getting harder not to resent the injustice of it all. He trudged along, kicking dust into the air, each pass of the mower a reminder of how thoroughly he'd been screwed.
Two weeks ago, he’d been carefree, tossing a ball back and forth with Marcus in his front yard. It had all gone wrong so fast: Marcus’ wild throw, laughing at Kent’s half-hearted protest, goading him to catch it. Kent squinted against the sky; his hand fumbled the air. The dull clang was the sound of his afternoon crashing against Julie’s car, leaving a perfect circle of incrimination in the glossy finish.
They'd both stared—Marcus with lips curled around the brink of a "whoops," and Kent with his gut unraveling through his shirt.
Marcus caught his eye and smiled like he’d planned the whole thing. "No one saw. Chill, man!" Kent opened his mouth, closed it, hoped it wasn’t as big a deal as he feared.
It was.
The door slammed with the sharp report of impending disaster, and there was Julie in full fury, an avenging angel with a tan. "Which one of you incompetent brats—" She halted, eyes narrowing at the guilty-looking crease on her convertible’s door. Her voice fell, low and venomous. "—thinks this is funny?"
Kent swallowed. He hated the dryness in his mouth, the stickiness on his palms. He hated the dent in the car, hated Marcus's grin, and hated even more how it slid away into something else. Something innocent, friendly. "Hey, Ms. Bentley. We were just leaving a note."
She crossed the lawn with the gait of someone used to having her way, every step as dangerous as an exclamation mark. "Try again, boys."
"We were—"
"He threw it," Kent interrupted. "It got away from him. We’ll get it fixed."
"Kent..." Marcus raised his eyebrows, a betrayed chorus of one.
"You’re damn right you’ll get it fixed." Julie’s attention speared Kent and held. He could feel Marcus shifting, inching toward the door. "And you’ll work off every cent. Both of you."
The pause stretched longer than the afternoon sun. "I guess I can help," Marcus finally said, with the agonized reluctance of a guy donating a kidney. "If I don’t work weekends, and if Mom doesn’t ground me again—"
"Save it," Kent muttered, already caught, already sentenced. He’d seen this play out before. "I’ll take care of it."
Marcus’s hand clamped on his shoulder with all the sincerity of a condolence card bought half-price. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
"I know you will," Kent had replied, staring past Julie's gloating smile to where Marcus, framed by sunlight and betrayal, had slouched away.
Back in the present, the sun hadn’t moved. Kent kicked the mower into a new row, ignoring how his arms shook from the effort, ignoring how his thoughts spun through pointless what-ifs. He ducked his head, let the work and heat crush him down until he was too small to bother with.
The next pass went easier. Resignation did that—took the sting out of unfairness like Novocain. Kent mowed numbly, lines and rows blurring into one another until the grass lay behind him.
Two more weeks of this? A lifetime? Might as well. Julie was a woman who knew how to wield silence as well as threats. Not for the first time, Kent wondered why Marcus ever threw the damn ball.
He finished, choked the mower dead, wiped sweat from his eyes. His skin felt crispy and tight. All he needed was a dive, no a dip—of his toe into the pool. That would fix it all.
"Is this a joke to you?" Julie's voice, another thing that refused to wilt in the heat.
Kent was shaken back to the present, and caught in the scent of chlorine and coconut oil threading through the afternoon air. He was standing on the edge of the water as Julie stretched relaxingly, every move as intentional as the flick of her gaze.
Her bikini clung like sweat, and Kent's eyes traced its path against his will.
"This isn't acceptable," she said. "Again."
He wanted to disappear into the chlorinated depths, but she was already lounging back, already dismissing him from her thoughts as she dangled new chores between them like a cat with an injured mouse.
"A kid your age shouldn’t have such a hard time keeping up." Julie's eyes glinted like a promise he wasn't going to get. Kent swallowed a retort, tasted salt on his upper lip instead. She knew the effect she had, both in giving orders and ignoring them. "My daughter could do better."
"I doubt that." The words slipped out with a touch more venom than he'd meant.
Kent turned away, wanting to muffle the clink of ice against her glass with his own hands around her throat. Or maybe his own hands around his own throat. He couldn’t decide.
"I don't need attitude. I need that lawn mowed right."
It was a subtle dance of dominance. One she performed like a pro, even reclining. Julie's skin shone like polished bronze under the sun. The same sun had Kent looking like a washed-up sweat rag by comparison. A rag that hadn't worked off his debt, yet.
Julie glanced back at the pool, effectively tossing him from her thoughts, while he stood dumbly in the tangle of lust, obligation, and a boy’s last ounce of pride.
"You want me to go over it again?" His voice cracked—broke around the words.
Her chin tilted up, uninterested. "If it’s not perfect, you’ll keep doing it until it is. Start with the hedges. I expect more from you."
Kent shuffled away, back toward the toolshed.
Home. Kent made his way home that night, in a huff. The familiar house sat quiet and useless, just like his last three paychecks.
Mom greeted him as he trudged through the kitchen door, hand resting on his shoulder—too gentle to be real sympathy. Dad folded a corner of the paper down, equally gentle. "Get it all finished up?"
Kent slumped into the chair across from them, felt himself sink. "Not quite. She keeps adding stuff—"
Mom shook her head. "She wouldn’t do that if you did it right the first time, honey."
"I did do it right! She’s just—" Beautiful, unreasonable, half-naked, impossible. The words tangled up in each other, fell into a frustrated heap at his feet. "—Julie. I’ll never get it done."
Dad was halfway through a reply when Kent cut in. "Can you at least admit this is bullshit?"
"Language, Kent." Mom’s voice held the same note Julie’s did. "You know why you have to finish. We’ve been over this. A hundred times."
"A thousand," Kent grumbled, feeling very young and very old at once.
"A hundred," Dad agreed, unfolding another section of newspaper.
It wasn’t what Kent wanted, but it was more than he'd get from Julie. "She says it’ll take weeks."
"Not if you stick with it," Mom said.
That sounded suspiciously like something he told himself when he woke up to do it all over again.
"I’m not being unreasonable. Marcus should—"
Dad’s look cut him off. "Marcus should listen to his mother and be more like you. Get your things done instead of complaining. It’ll build character, son."
Kent braced against the edges of their insistence, the too-smooth conviction he felt slipping past him like oil on water. He needed it rougher, sharper, like sandpaper. Instead, they filed him down to nothing, left him to carry the pieces.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Character."
Kent walked through the inferno to Julie’s again the next morning. The sprinklers had done more to cool the yard than he ever would.
She let him in, and Kent found himself in the toolshed again. He was being dramatic, he knew it, but he saw himself doomed to middle age before he left this hellscape.
That’s why you did it, Marcus. To build character. That’s what Kent wanted to believe.
He hoisted a gas can, hated the way it felt so familiar. "Get it all finished up?" he muttered, mocking more than himself.
At the edge of the yard, Marcus’s words snagged his thoughts. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
Kent cringed inwardly, the flashback was as unwelcome as Marcus’s easy grin. He wasn’t getting anything out of this. The mower whirred to life again, drowning out the last bit of sanity Kent had.
Task 2: Move an ungodly amount of boxes.
Julie watched from the side of the pool again, an ice cube balanced between her lips, as Kent hauled a heavy box across the patio. His steps were an awkward choreography of anger and heat exhaustion. She stretched a leg, attention already back on her phone. "I’m not running a charity, Kent. I expect all of those moved by the end of the day."
His body screamed for rest, but he plowed forward. If she wanted to break him, it would take more than a few shopping sprees and heat waves to do it.
"Commitment, Kent. I need to see you’re committed to paying what you owe," Julie said. She reached lazily for a magazine. Kent nearly buckled under the weight. The sprinklers sputtered on, mocking him. His arms throbbed, and the boxes felt heavier with every step.
Kent glared back at the pool. "Is this all of them?"
Julie sipped her drink, feigning deep consideration. "We'll see, won’t we?"
The heat was a solid thing. He dragged himself back for the next load, ignored the stubborn itch of humiliation as he passed her sun chair. Julie's skin was already bronzed, glowing against the red of her bikini like Christmas in July. She wasn't even watching. Her complete lack of attention chafed worse than his sticky shirt. Maybe this wasn’t better than the lawn.
Kent shook his head and moved another box.
Julie seemed perfectly at ease, flipping the pages without even glancing at him. In turn, each glance he stole fueled the resentment he was supposed to be working off. No, it grew. Larger than him, larger than life.
Kent sighed. Three trips later and Kent's shoulders felt like they were shredding. Julie's calm was like ice in his throat, grating.
She made a bored gesture in his direction.
"I’m going, I’m going," he muttered, head lowered. Prisoner.
"I almost believe you, dear."
Kent rubbed his shoulder, wished he could ignore it as easily as she ignored him. He wanted to break something, maybe her resolve. Maybe his own.
Halfway through the stack, the boxes became heavier. How? Kent’s eyes bulged as her struggled to keep a box in his arms, needing to use his legs to stabilise it.
"Careful," she called without looking up, her foot dangling in the pool. The water, like the entire house, was a universe away. His jaw tightened like the strings of a cheap violin. His actions were almost noble if nobility felt like dirt, grit, and sarcasm. Maybe he wouldn’t get what he wanted—freedom, the beach, even Julie’s attention—but he could work until nothing mattered.
Task 3: Clean the attic.
Kent sneezed.
The attic smelled like dead things, old things, dust and age and memories. Light filtered through a single window, and dust motes mocked him as they danced around. He waved a hand in front of his face, spitting out dirt and frustration in equal measure.
Julie’s voice floated up the stairs, a siren call to hell. "Get it all done, Kent."
He choked on a reply and another sneeze. This was the worst. His arms screamed for relief, but he grabbed a broom instead. Webs clung to every part of the room, and Kent wondered if a spider bit him what kind of superpowers he’d get. Maybe he’d turn into a kid who had some actual free time.
Kent swept the floor with the same dedication that had gotten him here in the first place. He imagined Marcus at the beach, surrounded by friends and bikinis that weren’t his boss’s. The broom handle dug into his blistered palms, and he pushed harder, until the pile of dust and dirt became a small mountain of failure.
He coughed, doubled over. This was pointless. He rubbed his face with a dirty shirt sleeve, smeared the mess across his cheek. A week ago he might have cared.
The broom thudded against the wall. He leaned against it, feeling the sting of dust and sweat in his eyes. It was a lost cause. The whole thing.
Something caught his eye. A figure, cloaked under a dusty wool blanket. He reached for it, more curious than he should have been, and pulled the fabric away.
A doll? An idol?
Kent almost laughed at the absurdity. An old-fashioned thing, with yellowing lace and painted eyes that stared past him like Julie did. He wiped his hands on his shirt, reached for it, fingers closing around the figure. Maybe it—
One touch, and it was the last contact he had, the last time he felt a thing.
One step, and he felt himself shift and separate, pulling apart like a zipper splitting seams that held his mind and body tight. There was a ripping sensation, a fraying sensation, and then a lightness so complete Kent thought he might disappear entirely.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed in his mind.
Kent looked down at his hands, saw them glowing a pale blue that didn’t hide what was behind them. See-through? Transparent? He was floating-feather light, above the attic floor. Above the mess he’d made of it, above his own body, which was slumped where he’d left it.
His first thought was to panic. His second thought was that he already had. He drifted forward, then back. What just happened?
Was he dead?
No, that wasn’t right. Dead people didn’t get mad, and Kent was mad as hell. He was anything but dead.
He was alive, more alive than he ever felt. Alive, free of the heat and the drudgery and the persistent ache of muscle and bone. Alive, free, and…shimmering?
Kent felt the spark of something he hadn’t felt in weeks. Possibility.
His spirit stretched into the attic's corners, testing his new reach, dancing through the crowded loft. He shot past his old body, tempted to wave. He'd give it up again without a second thought. Let Julie wonder what magic swapped out her slave, wonder what left her so completely she couldn’t yell at it.
Kent skipped through the abandoned boxes, gliding over ancient bags, years of forgotten excess. One flick of his ghostly finger set the attic in motion, objects swaying like they finally believed in ghosts.
They had to believe. Kent wasn't even trying, not yet. He might have spent the entire day haunting her past, finding new things to set loose.
He stuck his head through the attic wall, through the attic floor, and stared at the room below. It was upside down, or maybe he was? Not that it mattered when he could fly—when he could phase. He could phase through walls. Kent laughed at the brilliance of it, the sheer giddiness of going where no one wanted him. He stretched his spirit like a growing boy, like a growing thought, and shot down into Julie’s world.
He peeked out through the window, head first of course. Then his shoulders followed, then his legs. Next thing, Kent was soaring over the manicured lawn that he manicured. He stopped short of her lawn chair, hovering in the blistering summer heat. He felt none of it. Nice!
The chair, the yard, the entire universe looked different when it wasn't pushing him around. A magazine perched on the small table next to her. She relaxed, as fully and completely as if he'd never existed.
Kent watched, waiting to see if she'd notice the power shift. Notice him. It was all he could do not to burst with thrill of possibilities.
But nothing happened. No matter how long he stared at her, she barely felt his eyes on her.
Then he nudged it, pushing at the magazine with a single finger. It slipped from the table, fluttering down onto the grass.
She glanced at it, not even removing her sunglasses. "Wind’s picking up," she mumbled, and leaned back into her own self-absorption.
"Okay," he thought to himself. "If you want to play, let’s play."
Kent pulled at the towel that draped her sun chair. It slipped to the ground with a thud. This time, Julie's eyes popped open. She stared around the yard like she'd just seen him flung from the roof, like her furniture flung itself from the roof.
Her eyes were slits, suspicious, curious, but not afraid. "Ha ha," Kent heard her say. Fine.
He tugged next at the sunscreen, nudging it off her lap, and watching it roll into the water. Julie sat up. Her brow furrowed, and after a long second she slowly slid the sunglasses down her nose. Kent almost laughed. She was so used to getting her way, she couldn't comprehend the universe acting out.
“It’s not funny,” she shouted at cosmic injustice, and at Kent. “Who’s there?”
Kent hovered above her, a cheeky grin spread across his face. The rules had changed—she was playing the game now, and he was the game master. Kent shoved at the drink in her hand, watched as it splashed cold ice, and lemonade on her sun-warmed skin. Julie yelped, surprised. An ice cube melted between her fingers, over her navel, all along the exact same path Kent’s thoughts wanted to travel.
This time, she stood.
However, it was the wrong move.
Kent yanked at the string on her bikini, wild and reckless. The top slipped loose, and before he could whoop with victory, the world stopped.
It happened again.
The same shifting, the same separation. Julie’s spirit rose out of her body like steam from a kettle. She stared down at herself, and then right through him. Kent froze. Her spirit paused, hovered.
Then Kent did what he did best.
He panicked.
How to fix this? How to fix this? How to not get caught?
Kent grabbed at Julie’s astral form, desperate to reverse what he’d done. Instead, it became even worse. When he came to his sense again, his astral form was anew—only it wasn’t. He was inside Julie’s spirit, possessing her essence.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed again. This time, out loud.
Kent looked down at himself, but all he saw was Julie’s astral body. Her real one took that very moment to slump sideways, falling on the lawn chair with all the grace of a corpse.
A beautiful, half-naked, very vulnerable corpse.
Kent—Julie—stood in shock, mind racing through the possibilities. He could leave her like this. She’d never know. But then another thought crashed over him, stronger than the first: If he didn’t get caught, he’d never get the chance again.
He dove for Julie’s body, not feeling the grass beneath his feet or the sun on his bare shoulders, feeling only the thrill of new freedom around him. It was a game, and he was winning. Kent entered her body through her astral form, through the space where she had left herself open to him.
He settled in.
Kent sat up, eyes going wide when he moved Julie’s body with his own will. The bikini top hung loose, her skin tingled from the lemonade, and he felt everything. Was everything. He was inside her, but more than that—he was her.
Kent—Julie—drew a breath and another, chest rising and falling in thrilling confirmation of what he’d done. This was crazy.
He looked down at himself, taking in the naked curve of Julie’s breasts, feeling the rich sensation of being in her skin—the weight of her breast sat on her chest, the sway of her streaky blonde hair tickling her back, the air on her damp stomach. He had never felt so much, so intensely, and it was all his.
He moved his hand, watched her manicured fingers respond, marveled at how it felt to have nails like these. The sensations were overwhelming, a tidal wave of newness crashing through him, and he was at the center of it all.
Kent rose from the lounge chair, feeling Julie’s legs unfurl beneath him. Her legs. His legs. He took a step and stumbled slightly—her body was so different from his own—but he laughed, a melodic sound that he’s only ever heard from an outsider’s perspective. Now, it was all around him.
He—Julie—stretched, arching her back, reveling in the supple bend of her spine. He swayed from side to side, his eyes drawn to her breasts as they moved with him, to the way her stomach stretched and flattened under her skin. He was gleeful, reckless, and ready to explore.
Kent hopped in place, feeling the heaviness of having breasts that large, of having them jiggle and shift with Julie’s every motion. He hugged her arms around herself, squeezing tight, feeling the way her soft skin gave under her own touch.
“My God,” he said under his breath. He reached up and cupped Julie’s breasts, felt the fullness of them in his new hands. This was better than he could have imagined. “The things I could do…”
A wicked grin spread across his face, a thought forming in his mind that he couldn’t let go of even if he tried. The lemonade was drying on his—her—skin, a sticky sweetness that called out to him. He trailed a finger across Julie’s stomach, felt the tacky residue there. He brought the finger to his mouth, tasted it, and shivered at the sensation. Her body was alive with feeling, with want—Kent’s wants.
“What a silly little blonde I am,” he said, mocking Julie with her own voice. “To spill lemonade all over my tits.”
Kent laughed, delighted with how it felt to be Julie, with how it felt to be free. He let her arms fall to her sides, let them hang loose as he enjoyed the sensation of heaviness on her chest, of the tightness in her bikini top still tied around his waist, and then with no warning at all, he tore it off.
He threw the top in an exaggerated motion that reminded him of Julie, letting it flop somewhere on the grass. With a satisfied sigh, he lay back down on the lounge chair, eager to savor it all. The sun was hot, and it warmed her skin, heating up the stickiness that covered him.
“Kent!” he called, dragging out the syllables of his own name. “The attic better be spotless. Ah, ah,” he tutted in Julie’s voice, as if he were really talking to himself. “I don’t need attitude. I need the attic clean, and I need it now!”
He laughed again, louder this time, and watched the way Julie’s breasts shook with it. He cupped them again, feeling the weight of them, the heat of them under his hands. He kneaded them, felt her nipples harden under his palms. “Yes please.”
The way she responded was electric, was addictive. He circled her nipples with her fingers, feeling the give and pull of her flesh under his touch. He pinched them, tugged at them, and gasped as the sensation rippled through her entire body.
Kent—Julie—arched off the lounge chair, relishing in the newfound closeness of her own skin against itself. Her body, his body now, was a treasure trove of feeling. Guilt was one of them, but Kent discarded it the moment he felt the heat of Julie’s skin.
His new skin.
Kent let his fingers wander, hesitating nowhere, exploring each inch of Julie’s body with an urgency that was all his own. His hands moved from her breasts to her stomach, reveling in the tautness of it, the smoothness. This was incredible. Nothing like his own body, nothing like the weak and overworked thing he’d left behind to gather dust.
The lemonade was a slick trail that led him further down, but Kent wanted to savour every part of Julie’s body.
He grabbed the abandoned cup and found two melting ice cubes in it. Without thinking, he placed one against the pulse point of her neck and felt the cold travel through him, felt it race along her veins in a shiver that made him gasp. He ran it down to her breasts, tracing the hard ice along the soft skin, watching as it left a shiny trail in its wake.
He groaned with pleasure as heat met chill, as her body—his body—reacted to every small sensation.
Kent teased the ice around Julie’s nipples, feeling it melt fast against her warmth, feeling the slickness of water and lemonade mix on her skin. This was too good. Too intense. He pressed harder, drawing circles until nothing but a wet pool remained. Then he took the second ice cube and slid it down her stomach, felt it slip over Julie’s navel, felt it dip lower. He shivered with raw want, with a hunger that was all his own.
Her body was so needy.
Kent couldn’t get enough of her breasts, wanted to hold them, squeeze them, lose himself in the swell and the softness. He ran his hands over her glistening skin, slick and sweet. He rolled Julie’s nipples between her fingers again, felt a tight heat coil at her center, felt the pleasure spread. He was giddy, greedy, and relentless.
Another pinch, another nipple. Kent felt harden beneath his touch—her touch—their touch. He groaned at the intensity of it, the foreignness of it. His fingers were relentless, trailing over Julie’s breasts, thumbs teasing every part of her perky pink nipples. They were like something he'd never felt, like she'd never let him feel. Moans pulled from somewhere within, or perhaps somewhere very far beyond him, mingled with the summer air.
His arousal grew, a heaviness that pulled in his stomach, one that wasn’t accompanied by the swelling of a cock—no. This was all heat and wetness. He could feel the warmth of it spreading, the want of it filling him, and he was unstoppable now, a force with no fear.
He couldn’t resist. Kent settled back against the lounge chair, really made himself comfortable, and let Julie’s fingers trail along her sides. His fingers hooked Julie’s bikini bottom strings, tugging it up higher, so high the fabric pulled tight through her legs, through pussy lips. Her wetness was slick against the bikini bottom, and he moaned, feeling the pressure, the friction of it.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, looking down at how the fabric tucked snug against Julie’s body, feeling the way her pussy responded to the tightness. It had him biting Julie’s lips, moaning softly.
Kent let the strings snap back, rolled his hips against the chair, felt every bit of Julie’s body respond with a raw hunger that was all his own. Then, he loosened one side, then the other, freeing the bikini bottom from her hips and sliding it slowly down. He watched it peel off with a slow stickiness, felt every inch of the cool air as it hit her bare skin, hit her exposed pussy. It left her bare and open to the world. Open to him.
Kent loved every second of it—he wanted more.
He let his hands roam, feeling the soft curve of Julie’s thighs, feeling their warmth, their strength, the way they flexed and tensed as he touched her.
The lemonade was everywhere now, a sweet slickness that begged for more attention. He slid his hands between her legs, feeling them part beneath his touch, feeling the wetness there—a different kind of wetness, one that made him ache, one that made his gasp.
Julie’s pussy.
It was soft, wet. So much wetter than any part of him used to be.
His fingers traced over the smooth skin of Julie’s waxed mound, and Kent knew he was lost to it. He spread her lips with Julie’s fingers, found wetness there, and the heat. It was incredible.
His fingers were sure of themselves, even if the feelings they caused were not. He couldn’t handle it as curiosity fuelled every actions—Kent traced the outer vaginal folds of Julie’s pussy, toying with the heat that roared inside him, that wanted him to dip his fingers in, to move faster, to make Julie come. He rubbed her clit in circles he could feel all the way through himself, all the way up to his nipples, all the way back down. He was breathing hard now, fast and shallow as a dog in heat.
His mind couldn’t handle it, but her body could. His body could. Kent’s fingers massaged her clit in slow, maddening circles, building the intensity of it, building the pressure. He could feel her start to float away from herself, from everything, and Kent whimpered as he felt it too.
He pushed two fingers inside her, felt the wetness close around them. It was tight and hot and nothing like what he’d imagined, but better, better than he’d imagined. He moved his fingers in and out, feeling the slickness grow, feeling her body respond to it. His thumb circled her clit, his other hand squeezing her breast—the sounds, they were music to his ears.
Kent pushed her fingers deep again, fucking into her with growing urgency. He was past the point of caring, past the point of restraint. He pumped her pussy, felt her tighten around the fingers, felt her breath catch in her throat as she started to let go, to really let go.
It was intoxicating, with each squelch, each stroke, a musk scent filled the air—a scent that Julie’s and his. He was so wet, so turned on, Kent was losing his mind. He gathered slickness on his fingertips, savoring it as he brought fingers to his mouth. Her lips parted; her tongue tasted it—tasted herself—and Kent shivered at the sensation, at how different it was from anything he'd known.
Kent moaned, Julie’s voice responded, and it was heaven. His fingers moved faster, more desperate. He was so close, so close to everything.
“Fuuuck,” Kent said, felt the pleasure build and coil. His other hand kneaded her breasts while he licked and sucked at his fingers, alternating between the two until both were coated in sweat and juice and the taste of summer freedom.
It was almost more than he could handle.
He pressed fingers against himself again, dipping deeper this time. Dipping farther into her—inside himself—felt the slick heat of her pussy wrap around him, pull him in. His breath came faster now. His hands moved with a mind of their own, slick against her skin, wet against his thighs.
Julie’s breathing was erratic, and Kent stretched out, arm falling behind his head, mouth parting on every moan, every whine. He turned his head, nose brushing against Julie’s armpit; she’d never let anyone near there before—not even herself.
He groaned again.
Kent-as-Julie buried her face in the hollow crook where arm met shoulder; her shoulder; their shoulder; felt another wave of dizziness at how hot and alive she smelled; tasted another drop of sweat as it ran down his cheek; hers; theirs.
He took a deep inhale, sniffing himself—herself—into a frenzy. She smelled of expensive perfume and a raw muskiness that came form sitting under the summer sun—she smelled of sex. It was new, and it was familiar, and it made him bite down on the skin there as his fingers moved faster, as he felt the pressure build and build.
Kent wanted to consume her.
His tongue darted out as his fingers kept moving, faster still, guided by instinct or greed or maybe just teenage hormones run amok. Julie’s skin tasted salty-sweet; her sweat tasted like freedom.
The world narrowed to the space between Julie’s legs, and Kent gave up entirely on restraint. He moved faster now, thrusting with an urgency that left him panting for breath.
Every touch sent shockwaves through him. It was a new kind of heat—a heat so intense it bordered on pain then circled back again. The sun bore down on him, too, like a spotlight as he squirmed and writhed beneath its attention.
It was happening.
He was going to come.
Kent rocked against the chair, against her fingers, against himself. He was so close.
His back arched off the chair as waves crashed over him: tidal waves, rogue waves; hard enough to knock sense loose from his head; hard enough that it didn’t matter when Julie's voice bubbled up inside, “Oh God oh God oh Godddddd…!”
He panted, fingers wet with her juice, body slick with her sweat, his mind blown. Kent lay still when it subsided—limp with satisfaction yet buzzing with energy.
A lazy smile spread across his face—her face as he let the warmth settle in. He was sated but hungry for so much more; dizzy from exertion yet clear-headed for once about what kind of summer awaited him now: One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The push mower's dull rattle droned in Kent’s ears, blades whirring through the grass. His body strained beneath the midday sun, and through damp lashes, he caught the blur of a cherry-red convertible roaring down the road—top down, laughter trailing like exhaust.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, wiping away another hand of sweat.
The mower sputtered as he yanked it over a thick patch near Julie’s hydrangeas. He imagined Marcus at the wheel, music cranked, their friends crowded in the back seat, already sunburned and salty from the ocean. They wouldn’t miss him today; they probably hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t around these days.
The sun seared, hammering against his back, arms, the nape of his neck where his hair stuck and tangled. Kent tried not to groan, but it was getting harder not to resent the injustice of it all. He trudged along, kicking dust into the air, each pass of the mower a reminder of how thoroughly he'd been screwed.
Two weeks ago, he’d been carefree, tossing a ball back and forth with Marcus in his front yard. It had all gone wrong so fast: Marcus’ wild throw, laughing at Kent’s half-hearted protest, goading him to catch it. Kent squinted against the sky; his hand fumbled the air. The dull clang was the sound of his afternoon crashing against Julie’s car, leaving a perfect circle of incrimination in the glossy finish.
They'd both stared—Marcus with lips curled around the brink of a "whoops," and Kent with his gut unraveling through his shirt.
Marcus caught his eye and smiled like he’d planned the whole thing. "No one saw. Chill, man!" Kent opened his mouth, closed it, hoped it wasn’t as big a deal as he feared.
It was.
The door slammed with the sharp report of impending disaster, and there was Julie in full fury, an avenging angel with a tan. "Which one of you incompetent brats—" She halted, eyes narrowing at the guilty-looking crease on her convertible’s door. Her voice fell, low and venomous. "—thinks this is funny?"
Kent swallowed. He hated the dryness in his mouth, the stickiness on his palms. He hated the dent in the car, hated Marcus's grin, and hated even more how it slid away into something else. Something innocent, friendly. "Hey, Ms. Bentley. We were just leaving a note."
She crossed the lawn with the gait of someone used to having her way, every step as dangerous as an exclamation mark. "Try again, boys."
"We were—"
"He threw it," Kent interrupted. "It got away from him. We’ll get it fixed."
"Kent..." Marcus raised his eyebrows, a betrayed chorus of one.
"You’re damn right you’ll get it fixed." Julie’s attention speared Kent and held. He could feel Marcus shifting, inching toward the door. "And you’ll work off every cent. Both of you."
The pause stretched longer than the afternoon sun. "I guess I can help," Marcus finally said, with the agonized reluctance of a guy donating a kidney. "If I don’t work weekends, and if Mom doesn’t ground me again—"
"Save it," Kent muttered, already caught, already sentenced. He’d seen this play out before. "I’ll take care of it."
Marcus’s hand clamped on his shoulder with all the sincerity of a condolence card bought half-price. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
"I know you will," Kent had replied, staring past Julie's gloating smile to where Marcus, framed by sunlight and betrayal, had slouched away.
Back in the present, the sun hadn’t moved. Kent kicked the mower into a new row, ignoring how his arms shook from the effort, ignoring how his thoughts spun through pointless what-ifs. He ducked his head, let the work and heat crush him down until he was too small to bother with.
The next pass went easier. Resignation did that—took the sting out of unfairness like Novocain. Kent mowed numbly, lines and rows blurring into one another until the grass lay behind him.
Two more weeks of this? A lifetime? Might as well. Julie was a woman who knew how to wield silence as well as threats. Not for the first time, Kent wondered why Marcus ever threw the damn ball.
He finished, choked the mower dead, wiped sweat from his eyes. His skin felt crispy and tight. All he needed was a dive, no a dip—of his toe into the pool. That would fix it all.
"Is this a joke to you?" Julie's voice, another thing that refused to wilt in the heat.
Kent was shaken back to the present, and caught in the scent of chlorine and coconut oil threading through the afternoon air. He was standing on the edge of the water as Julie stretched relaxingly, every move as intentional as the flick of her gaze.
Her bikini clung like sweat, and Kent's eyes traced its path against his will.
"This isn't acceptable," she said. "Again."
He wanted to disappear into the chlorinated depths, but she was already lounging back, already dismissing him from her thoughts as she dangled new chores between them like a cat with an injured mouse.
"A kid your age shouldn’t have such a hard time keeping up." Julie's eyes glinted like a promise he wasn't going to get. Kent swallowed a retort, tasted salt on his upper lip instead. She knew the effect she had, both in giving orders and ignoring them. "My daughter could do better."
"I doubt that." The words slipped out with a touch more venom than he'd meant.
Kent turned away, wanting to muffle the clink of ice against her glass with his own hands around her throat. Or maybe his own hands around his own throat. He couldn’t decide.
"I don't need attitude. I need that lawn mowed right."
It was a subtle dance of dominance. One she performed like a pro, even reclining. Julie's skin shone like polished bronze under the sun. The same sun had Kent looking like a washed-up sweat rag by comparison. A rag that hadn't worked off his debt, yet.
Julie glanced back at the pool, effectively tossing him from her thoughts, while he stood dumbly in the tangle of lust, obligation, and a boy’s last ounce of pride.
"You want me to go over it again?" His voice cracked—broke around the words.
Her chin tilted up, uninterested. "If it’s not perfect, you’ll keep doing it until it is. Start with the hedges. I expect more from you."
Kent shuffled away, back toward the toolshed.
Home. Kent made his way home that night, in a huff. The familiar house sat quiet and useless, just like his last three paychecks.
Mom greeted him as he trudged through the kitchen door, hand resting on his shoulder—too gentle to be real sympathy. Dad folded a corner of the paper down, equally gentle. "Get it all finished up?"
Kent slumped into the chair across from them, felt himself sink. "Not quite. She keeps adding stuff—"
Mom shook her head. "She wouldn’t do that if you did it right the first time, honey."
"I did do it right! She’s just—" Beautiful, unreasonable, half-naked, impossible. The words tangled up in each other, fell into a frustrated heap at his feet. "—Julie. I’ll never get it done."
Dad was halfway through a reply when Kent cut in. "Can you at least admit this is bullshit?"
"Language, Kent." Mom’s voice held the same note Julie’s did. "You know why you have to finish. We’ve been over this. A hundred times."
"A thousand," Kent grumbled, feeling very young and very old at once.
"A hundred," Dad agreed, unfolding another section of newspaper.
It wasn’t what Kent wanted, but it was more than he'd get from Julie. "She says it’ll take weeks."
"Not if you stick with it," Mom said.
That sounded suspiciously like something he told himself when he woke up to do it all over again.
"I’m not being unreasonable. Marcus should—"
Dad’s look cut him off. "Marcus should listen to his mother and be more like you. Get your things done instead of complaining. It’ll build character, son."
Kent braced against the edges of their insistence, the too-smooth conviction he felt slipping past him like oil on water. He needed it rougher, sharper, like sandpaper. Instead, they filed him down to nothing, left him to carry the pieces.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Character."
Kent walked through the inferno to Julie’s again the next morning. The sprinklers had done more to cool the yard than he ever would.
She let him in, and Kent found himself in the toolshed again. He was being dramatic, he knew it, but he saw himself doomed to middle age before he left this hellscape.
That’s why you did it, Marcus. To build character. That’s what Kent wanted to believe.
He hoisted a gas can, hated the way it felt so familiar. "Get it all finished up?" he muttered, mocking more than himself.
At the edge of the yard, Marcus’s words snagged his thoughts. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
Kent cringed inwardly, the flashback was as unwelcome as Marcus’s easy grin. He wasn’t getting anything out of this. The mower whirred to life again, drowning out the last bit of sanity Kent had.
Task 2: Move an ungodly amount of boxes.
Julie watched from the side of the pool again, an ice cube balanced between her lips, as Kent hauled a heavy box across the patio. His steps were an awkward choreography of anger and heat exhaustion. She stretched a leg, attention already back on her phone. "I’m not running a charity, Kent. I expect all of those moved by the end of the day."
His body screamed for rest, but he plowed forward. If she wanted to break him, it would take more than a few shopping sprees and heat waves to do it.
"Commitment, Kent. I need to see you’re committed to paying what you owe," Julie said. She reached lazily for a magazine. Kent nearly buckled under the weight. The sprinklers sputtered on, mocking him. His arms throbbed, and the boxes felt heavier with every step.
Kent glared back at the pool. "Is this all of them?"
Julie sipped her drink, feigning deep consideration. "We'll see, won’t we?"
The heat was a solid thing. He dragged himself back for the next load, ignored the stubborn itch of humiliation as he passed her sun chair. Julie's skin was already bronzed, glowing against the red of her bikini like Christmas in July. She wasn't even watching. Her complete lack of attention chafed worse than his sticky shirt. Maybe this wasn’t better than the lawn.
Kent shook his head and moved another box.
Julie seemed perfectly at ease, flipping the pages without even glancing at him. In turn, each glance he stole fueled the resentment he was supposed to be working off. No, it grew. Larger than him, larger than life.
Kent sighed. Three trips later and Kent's shoulders felt like they were shredding. Julie's calm was like ice in his throat, grating.
She made a bored gesture in his direction.
"I’m going, I’m going," he muttered, head lowered. Prisoner.
"I almost believe you, dear."
Kent rubbed his shoulder, wished he could ignore it as easily as she ignored him. He wanted to break something, maybe her resolve. Maybe his own.
Halfway through the stack, the boxes became heavier. How? Kent’s eyes bulged as her struggled to keep a box in his arms, needing to use his legs to stabilise it.
"Careful," she called without looking up, her foot dangling in the pool. The water, like the entire house, was a universe away. His jaw tightened like the strings of a cheap violin. His actions were almost noble if nobility felt like dirt, grit, and sarcasm. Maybe he wouldn’t get what he wanted—freedom, the beach, even Julie’s attention—but he could work until nothing mattered.
Task 3: Clean the attic.
Kent sneezed.
The attic smelled like dead things, old things, dust and age and memories. Light filtered through a single window, and dust motes mocked him as they danced around. He waved a hand in front of his face, spitting out dirt and frustration in equal measure.
Julie’s voice floated up the stairs, a siren call to hell. "Get it all done, Kent."
He choked on a reply and another sneeze. This was the worst. His arms screamed for relief, but he grabbed a broom instead. Webs clung to every part of the room, and Kent wondered if a spider bit him what kind of superpowers he’d get. Maybe he’d turn into a kid who had some actual free time.
Kent swept the floor with the same dedication that had gotten him here in the first place. He imagined Marcus at the beach, surrounded by friends and bikinis that weren’t his boss’s. The broom handle dug into his blistered palms, and he pushed harder, until the pile of dust and dirt became a small mountain of failure.
He coughed, doubled over. This was pointless. He rubbed his face with a dirty shirt sleeve, smeared the mess across his cheek. A week ago he might have cared.
The broom thudded against the wall. He leaned against it, feeling the sting of dust and sweat in his eyes. It was a lost cause. The whole thing.
Something caught his eye. A figure, cloaked under a dusty wool blanket. He reached for it, more curious than he should have been, and pulled the fabric away.
A doll? An idol?
Kent almost laughed at the absurdity. An old-fashioned thing, with yellowing lace and painted eyes that stared past him like Julie did. He wiped his hands on his shirt, reached for it, fingers closing around the figure. Maybe it—
One touch, and it was the last contact he had, the last time he felt a thing.
One step, and he felt himself shift and separate, pulling apart like a zipper splitting seams that held his mind and body tight. There was a ripping sensation, a fraying sensation, and then a lightness so complete Kent thought he might disappear entirely.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed in his mind.
Kent looked down at his hands, saw them glowing a pale blue that didn’t hide what was behind them. See-through? Transparent? He was floating-feather light, above the attic floor. Above the mess he’d made of it, above his own body, which was slumped where he’d left it.
His first thought was to panic. His second thought was that he already had. He drifted forward, then back. What just happened?
Was he dead?
No, that wasn’t right. Dead people didn’t get mad, and Kent was mad as hell. He was anything but dead.
He was alive, more alive than he ever felt. Alive, free of the heat and the drudgery and the persistent ache of muscle and bone. Alive, free, and…shimmering?
Kent felt the spark of something he hadn’t felt in weeks. Possibility.
His spirit stretched into the attic's corners, testing his new reach, dancing through the crowded loft. He shot past his old body, tempted to wave. He'd give it up again without a second thought. Let Julie wonder what magic swapped out her slave, wonder what left her so completely she couldn’t yell at it.
Kent skipped through the abandoned boxes, gliding over ancient bags, years of forgotten excess. One flick of his ghostly finger set the attic in motion, objects swaying like they finally believed in ghosts.
They had to believe. Kent wasn't even trying, not yet. He might have spent the entire day haunting her past, finding new things to set loose.
He stuck his head through the attic wall, through the attic floor, and stared at the room below. It was upside down, or maybe he was? Not that it mattered when he could fly—when he could phase. He could phase through walls. Kent laughed at the brilliance of it, the sheer giddiness of going where no one wanted him. He stretched his spirit like a growing boy, like a growing thought, and shot down into Julie’s world.
He peeked out through the window, head first of course. Then his shoulders followed, then his legs. Next thing, Kent was soaring over the manicured lawn that he manicured. He stopped short of her lawn chair, hovering in the blistering summer heat. He felt none of it. Nice!
The chair, the yard, the entire universe looked different when it wasn't pushing him around. A magazine perched on the small table next to her. She relaxed, as fully and completely as if he'd never existed.
Kent watched, waiting to see if she'd notice the power shift. Notice him. It was all he could do not to burst with thrill of possibilities.
But nothing happened. No matter how long he stared at her, she barely felt his eyes on her.
Then he nudged it, pushing at the magazine with a single finger. It slipped from the table, fluttering down onto the grass.
She glanced at it, not even removing her sunglasses. "Wind’s picking up," she mumbled, and leaned back into her own self-absorption.
"Okay," he thought to himself. "If you want to play, let’s play."
Kent pulled at the towel that draped her sun chair. It slipped to the ground with a thud. This time, Julie's eyes popped open. She stared around the yard like she'd just seen him flung from the roof, like her furniture flung itself from the roof.
Her eyes were slits, suspicious, curious, but not afraid. "Ha ha," Kent heard her say. Fine.
He tugged next at the sunscreen, nudging it off her lap, and watching it roll into the water. Julie sat up. Her brow furrowed, and after a long second she slowly slid the sunglasses down her nose. Kent almost laughed. She was so used to getting her way, she couldn't comprehend the universe acting out.
“It’s not funny,” she shouted at cosmic injustice, and at Kent. “Who’s there?”
Kent hovered above her, a cheeky grin spread across his face. The rules had changed—she was playing the game now, and he was the game master. Kent shoved at the drink in her hand, watched as it splashed cold ice, and lemonade on her sun-warmed skin. Julie yelped, surprised. An ice cube melted between her fingers, over her navel, all along the exact same path Kent’s thoughts wanted to travel.
This time, she stood.
However, it was the wrong move.
Kent yanked at the string on her bikini, wild and reckless. The top slipped loose, and before he could whoop with victory, the world stopped.
It happened again.
The same shifting, the same separation. Julie’s spirit rose out of her body like steam from a kettle. She stared down at herself, and then right through him. Kent froze. Her spirit paused, hovered.
Then Kent did what he did best.
He panicked.
How to fix this? How to fix this? How to not get caught?
Kent grabbed at Julie’s astral form, desperate to reverse what he’d done. Instead, it became even worse. When he came to his sense again, his astral form was anew—only it wasn’t. He was inside Julie’s spirit, possessing her essence.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed again. This time, out loud.
Kent looked down at himself, but all he saw was Julie’s astral body. Her real one took that very moment to slump sideways, falling on the lawn chair with all the grace of a corpse.
A beautiful, half-naked, very vulnerable corpse.
Kent—Julie—stood in shock, mind racing through the possibilities. He could leave her like this. She’d never know. But then another thought crashed over him, stronger than the first: If he didn’t get caught, he’d never get the chance again.
He dove for Julie’s body, not feeling the grass beneath his feet or the sun on his bare shoulders, feeling only the thrill of new freedom around him. It was a game, and he was winning. Kent entered her body through her astral form, through the space where she had left herself open to him.
He settled in.
Kent sat up, eyes going wide when he moved Julie’s body with his own will. The bikini top hung loose, her skin tingled from the lemonade, and he felt everything. Was everything. He was inside her, but more than that—he was her.
Kent—Julie—drew a breath and another, chest rising and falling in thrilling confirmation of what he’d done. This was crazy.
He looked down at himself, taking in the naked curve of Julie’s breasts, feeling the rich sensation of being in her skin—the weight of her breast sat on her chest, the sway of her streaky blonde hair tickling her back, the air on her damp stomach. He had never felt so much, so intensely, and it was all his.
He moved his hand, watched her manicured fingers respond, marveled at how it felt to have nails like these. The sensations were overwhelming, a tidal wave of newness crashing through him, and he was at the center of it all.
Kent rose from the lounge chair, feeling Julie’s legs unfurl beneath him. Her legs. His legs. He took a step and stumbled slightly—her body was so different from his own—but he laughed, a melodic sound that he’s only ever heard from an outsider’s perspective. Now, it was all around him.
He—Julie—stretched, arching her back, reveling in the supple bend of her spine. He swayed from side to side, his eyes drawn to her breasts as they moved with him, to the way her stomach stretched and flattened under her skin. He was gleeful, reckless, and ready to explore.
Kent hopped in place, feeling the heaviness of having breasts that large, of having them jiggle and shift with Julie’s every motion. He hugged her arms around herself, squeezing tight, feeling the way her soft skin gave under her own touch.
“My God,” he said under his breath. He reached up and cupped Julie’s breasts, felt the fullness of them in his new hands. This was better than he could have imagined. “The things I could do…”
A wicked grin spread across his face, a thought forming in his mind that he couldn’t let go of even if he tried. The lemonade was drying on his—her—skin, a sticky sweetness that called out to him. He trailed a finger across Julie’s stomach, felt the tacky residue there. He brought the finger to his mouth, tasted it, and shivered at the sensation. Her body was alive with feeling, with want—Kent’s wants.
“What a silly little blonde I am,” he said, mocking Julie with her own voice. “To spill lemonade all over my tits.”
Kent laughed, delighted with how it felt to be Julie, with how it felt to be free. He let her arms fall to her sides, let them hang loose as he enjoyed the sensation of heaviness on her chest, of the tightness in her bikini top still tied around his waist, and then with no warning at all, he tore it off.
He threw the top in an exaggerated motion that reminded him of Julie, letting it flop somewhere on the grass. With a satisfied sigh, he lay back down on the lounge chair, eager to savor it all. The sun was hot, and it warmed her skin, heating up the stickiness that covered him.
“Kent!” he called, dragging out the syllables of his own name. “The attic better be spotless. Ah, ah,” he tutted in Julie’s voice, as if he were really talking to himself. “I don’t need attitude. I need the attic clean, and I need it now!”
He laughed again, louder this time, and watched the way Julie’s breasts shook with it. He cupped them again, feeling the weight of them, the heat of them under his hands. He kneaded them, felt her nipples harden under his palms. “Yes please.”
The way she responded was electric, was addictive. He circled her nipples with her fingers, feeling the give and pull of her flesh under his touch. He pinched them, tugged at them, and gasped as the sensation rippled through her entire body.
Kent—Julie—arched off the lounge chair, relishing in the newfound closeness of her own skin against itself. Her body, his body now, was a treasure trove of feeling. Guilt was one of them, but Kent discarded it the moment he felt the heat of Julie’s skin.
His new skin.
Kent let his fingers wander, hesitating nowhere, exploring each inch of Julie’s body with an urgency that was all his own. His hands moved from her breasts to her stomach, reveling in the tautness of it, the smoothness. This was incredible. Nothing like his own body, nothing like the weak and overworked thing he’d left behind to gather dust.
The lemonade was a slick trail that led him further down, but Kent wanted to savour every part of Julie’s body.
He grabbed the abandoned cup and found two melting ice cubes in it. Without thinking, he placed one against the pulse point of her neck and felt the cold travel through him, felt it race along her veins in a shiver that made him gasp. He ran it down to her breasts, tracing the hard ice along the soft skin, watching as it left a shiny trail in its wake.
He groaned with pleasure as heat met chill, as her body—his body—reacted to every small sensation.
Kent teased the ice around Julie’s nipples, feeling it melt fast against her warmth, feeling the slickness of water and lemonade mix on her skin. This was too good. Too intense. He pressed harder, drawing circles until nothing but a wet pool remained. Then he took the second ice cube and slid it down her stomach, felt it slip over Julie’s navel, felt it dip lower. He shivered with raw want, with a hunger that was all his own.
Her body was so needy.
Kent couldn’t get enough of her breasts, wanted to hold them, squeeze them, lose himself in the swell and the softness. He ran his hands over her glistening skin, slick and sweet. He rolled Julie’s nipples between her fingers again, felt a tight heat coil at her center, felt the pleasure spread. He was giddy, greedy, and relentless.
Another pinch, another nipple. Kent felt harden beneath his touch—her touch—their touch. He groaned at the intensity of it, the foreignness of it. His fingers were relentless, trailing over Julie’s breasts, thumbs teasing every part of her perky pink nipples. They were like something he'd never felt, like she'd never let him feel. Moans pulled from somewhere within, or perhaps somewhere very far beyond him, mingled with the summer air.
His arousal grew, a heaviness that pulled in his stomach, one that wasn’t accompanied by the swelling of a cock—no. This was all heat and wetness. He could feel the warmth of it spreading, the want of it filling him, and he was unstoppable now, a force with no fear.
He couldn’t resist. Kent settled back against the lounge chair, really made himself comfortable, and let Julie’s fingers trail along her sides. His fingers hooked Julie’s bikini bottom strings, tugging it up higher, so high the fabric pulled tight through her legs, through pussy lips. Her wetness was slick against the bikini bottom, and he moaned, feeling the pressure, the friction of it.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, looking down at how the fabric tucked snug against Julie’s body, feeling the way her pussy responded to the tightness. It had him biting Julie’s lips, moaning softly.
Kent let the strings snap back, rolled his hips against the chair, felt every bit of Julie’s body respond with a raw hunger that was all his own. Then, he loosened one side, then the other, freeing the bikini bottom from her hips and sliding it slowly down. He watched it peel off with a slow stickiness, felt every inch of the cool air as it hit her bare skin, hit her exposed pussy. It left her bare and open to the world. Open to him.
Kent loved every second of it—he wanted more.
He let his hands roam, feeling the soft curve of Julie’s thighs, feeling their warmth, their strength, the way they flexed and tensed as he touched her.
The lemonade was everywhere now, a sweet slickness that begged for more attention. He slid his hands between her legs, feeling them part beneath his touch, feeling the wetness there—a different kind of wetness, one that made him ache, one that made his gasp.
Julie’s pussy.
It was soft, wet. So much wetter than any part of him used to be.
His fingers traced over the smooth skin of Julie’s waxed mound, and Kent knew he was lost to it. He spread her lips with Julie’s fingers, found wetness there, and the heat. It was incredible.
His fingers were sure of themselves, even if the feelings they caused were not. He couldn’t handle it as curiosity fuelled every actions—Kent traced the outer vaginal folds of Julie’s pussy, toying with the heat that roared inside him, that wanted him to dip his fingers in, to move faster, to make Julie come. He rubbed her clit in circles he could feel all the way through himself, all the way up to his nipples, all the way back down. He was breathing hard now, fast and shallow as a dog in heat.
His mind couldn’t handle it, but her body could. His body could. Kent’s fingers massaged her clit in slow, maddening circles, building the intensity of it, building the pressure. He could feel her start to float away from herself, from everything, and Kent whimpered as he felt it too.
He pushed two fingers inside her, felt the wetness close around them. It was tight and hot and nothing like what he’d imagined, but better, better than he’d imagined. He moved his fingers in and out, feeling the slickness grow, feeling her body respond to it. His thumb circled her clit, his other hand squeezing her breast—the sounds, they were music to his ears.
Kent pushed her fingers deep again, fucking into her with growing urgency. He was past the point of caring, past the point of restraint. He pumped her pussy, felt her tighten around the fingers, felt her breath catch in her throat as she started to let go, to really let go.
It was intoxicating, with each squelch, each stroke, a musk scent filled the air—a scent that Julie’s and his. He was so wet, so turned on, Kent was losing his mind. He gathered slickness on his fingertips, savoring it as he brought fingers to his mouth. Her lips parted; her tongue tasted it—tasted herself—and Kent shivered at the sensation, at how different it was from anything he'd known.
Kent moaned, Julie’s voice responded, and it was heaven. His fingers moved faster, more desperate. He was so close, so close to everything.
“Fuuuck,” Kent said, felt the pleasure build and coil. His other hand kneaded her breasts while he licked and sucked at his fingers, alternating between the two until both were coated in sweat and juice and the taste of summer freedom.
It was almost more than he could handle.
He pressed fingers against himself again, dipping deeper this time. Dipping farther into her—inside himself—felt the slick heat of her pussy wrap around him, pull him in. His breath came faster now. His hands moved with a mind of their own, slick against her skin, wet against his thighs.
Julie’s breathing was erratic, and Kent stretched out, arm falling behind his head, mouth parting on every moan, every whine. He turned his head, nose brushing against Julie’s armpit; she’d never let anyone near there before—not even herself.
He groaned again.
Kent-as-Julie buried her face in the hollow crook where arm met shoulder; her shoulder; their shoulder; felt another wave of dizziness at how hot and alive she smelled; tasted another drop of sweat as it ran down his cheek; hers; theirs.
He took a deep inhale, sniffing himself—herself—into a frenzy. She smelled of expensive perfume and a raw muskiness that came form sitting under the summer sun—she smelled of sex. It was new, and it was familiar, and it made him bite down on the skin there as his fingers moved faster, as he felt the pressure build and build.
Kent wanted to consume her.
His tongue darted out as his fingers kept moving, faster still, guided by instinct or greed or maybe just teenage hormones run amok. Julie’s skin tasted salty-sweet; her sweat tasted like freedom.
The world narrowed to the space between Julie’s legs, and Kent gave up entirely on restraint. He moved faster now, thrusting with an urgency that left him panting for breath.
Every touch sent shockwaves through him. It was a new kind of heat—a heat so intense it bordered on pain then circled back again. The sun bore down on him, too, like a spotlight as he squirmed and writhed beneath its attention.
It was happening.
He was going to come.
Kent rocked against the chair, against her fingers, against himself. He was so close.
His back arched off the chair as waves crashed over him: tidal waves, rogue waves; hard enough to knock sense loose from his head; hard enough that it didn’t matter when Julie's voice bubbled up inside, “Oh God oh God oh Godddddd…!”
He panted, fingers wet with her juice, body slick with her sweat, his mind blown. Kent lay still when it subsided—limp with satisfaction yet buzzing with energy.
A lazy smile spread across his face—her face as he let the warmth settle in. He was sated but hungry for so much more; dizzy from exertion yet clear-headed for once about what kind of summer awaited him now: One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
mtf
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Inspired by a comic.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
mind control
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Hasti isn't from Nashville, so she's been running into issues finding men that like anything other than blue eyes and blonde hair. As a beautiful Indian girl that grew up in Chicago, she never had issues finding men that were into her, however she's dealing with a bit of an identity crisis. She recently discovered the ability to leave her body and pull other's soul's out of theirs so she can become anyone...including the perfect woman for the city of Nashville.
Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.
But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.
She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.
Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—
The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.
Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.
The frat boy blinked. “You good?”
Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”
His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.
All part of the plan.
Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.
"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.
She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."
Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."
As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.
The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.
By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."
Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.
But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.
She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."
He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—
Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.
Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.
Damn, that was fun.
Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.
As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.
-
The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.
A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.
"You zoning out again?"
Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."
Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."
"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"
Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.
Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"
Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"
"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."
Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."
Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."
-
The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.
Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.
"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"
Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."
Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.
"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"
Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."
Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."
The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.
Until she saw her.
Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.
A familiar itch prickled under her skin.
No. Not tonight.
She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"
"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"
Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.
It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—
"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"
Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."
Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."
Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."
But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.
Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.
She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."
Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."
Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.
Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.
"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."
Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”
Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”
Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.
Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”
Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”
Layla grinned. “Deal.”
Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”
The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”
She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”
“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”
She already knew.
“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.
His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”
“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”
She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.
“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.
Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”
Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”
“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.
The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”
“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.
Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.
The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.
There they were.
Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.
Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.
"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."
Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.
"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.
"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"
Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."
Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."
Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."
Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.
Not in her own skin, anyway.
The thought hit like lightning.
"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."
She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.
She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.
Or.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes.
And let her spirit slip free.....
The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.
Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.
With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.
A sharp tug.
The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"
Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.
Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.
When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."
Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."
And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.
Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.
Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.
She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.
“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.
Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”
And then she kneed him square in the crotch.
Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.
“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”
She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.
The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.
Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.
"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"
Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."
Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."
Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."
Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**
Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.
"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.
And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.
But damn, it sure was fun.
And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.
Some victories were sweeter in silence.
Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.
But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.
She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.
Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—
The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.
Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.
The frat boy blinked. “You good?”
Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”
His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.
All part of the plan.
Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.
"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.
She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."
Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."
As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.
The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.
By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."
Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.
But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.
She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."
He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—
Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.
Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.
Damn, that was fun.
Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.
As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.
-
The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.
A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.
"You zoning out again?"
Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."
Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."
"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"
Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.
Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"
Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"
"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."
Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."
Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."
-
The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.
Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.
"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"
Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."
Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.
"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"
Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."
Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."
The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.
Until she saw her.
Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.
A familiar itch prickled under her skin.
No. Not tonight.
She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"
"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"
Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.
It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—
"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"
Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."
Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."
Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."
But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.
Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.
She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."
Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."
Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.
Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.
"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."
Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”
Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”
Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.
Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”
Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”
Layla grinned. “Deal.”
Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”
The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”
She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”
“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”
She already knew.
“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.
His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”
“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”
She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.
“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.
Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”
Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”
“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.
The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”
“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.
Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.
The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.
There they were.
Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.
Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.
"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."
Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.
"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.
"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"
Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."
Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."
Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."
Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.
Not in her own skin, anyway.
The thought hit like lightning.
"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."
She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.
She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.
Or.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes.
And let her spirit slip free.....
The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.
Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.
With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.
A sharp tug.
The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"
Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.
Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.
When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."
Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."
And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.
Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.
Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.
She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.
“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.
Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”
And then she kneed him square in the crotch.
Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.
“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”
She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.
The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.
Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.
"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"
Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."
Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."
Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."
Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**
Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.
"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.
And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.
But damn, it sure was fun.
And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.
Some victories were sweeter in silence.
ftf
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This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
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When Logan is invited by his friend Ryan to participate in a experiment, the last thing he is expecting is for his mind to be copied into the body of a brain slug.
However, instead of trying to fix things when she discovers this, Ryan sets her sights on fulfilling her all longheld ambitions with Logan's newfound abilities.
Logan is initially keen with just going along things as he possesses more bodies and pushes the extent of his capabilities. However, when a desire to be more than just her golden goose begins to stir within him, he soon finds himself starting to make plans to fulfill his own longheld desires...
However, instead of trying to fix things when she discovers this, Ryan sets her sights on fulfilling her all longheld ambitions with Logan's newfound abilities.
Logan is initially keen with just going along things as he possesses more bodies and pushes the extent of his capabilities. However, when a desire to be more than just her golden goose begins to stir within him, he soon finds himself starting to make plans to fulfill his own longheld desires...
mtf possession lesbian identity theft transformation Male to Female mind alteration Unrequited Love
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Eb18
· 03 Feb 2026
Ryan invites Logan to participate in experiment with some unexpected results.
A story written by my good friend Eagle_Bacon
Please check out some of their art and other work on Chyoa, Deviantart, X, or Patreon
Story concept by MonsterInNeed
Please check out their work on Chyoa under MonsterInNeed and Patreon or Smashwords under Dominic H. Hugh
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Kyle is a guy that is looking to live a straight life after getting out of jail recently, have been caught up in a life of crime early on in life.
However, when an old friend contacts him to steal a priceless artifact together, Kyle decides to turn back to his old ways.
Things quickly go wrong during the score, which results in him unexpectedly swapping bodies with the city's number 1 superheroine. He knows the right thing to do would be to figure out a way to swap them back, but that idea becomes increasingly difficult when he finds out just the kind of life and pleasure her body truly has to offer him.
Kyle learned early that luck was a finite resource, and whatever share he'd been allotted had been spent before he turned sixteen. He grew up in a neighborhood where police sirens were background noise and everyone knew which streets to avoid after dark - dangerous and belonging to someone. Trouble wasn't something you sought out there. It found you, it waited, and if you didn't learn fast enough, it took what it wanted.
Kyle hadn't learned fast enough. By the time he was seventeen, he'd been arrested twice - one for running lookout, once for possession he swore wasn't his. The judge hadn't cared. The system rarely did. He'd done his time in juvenile detention, learned how to keep his head down, how to read people, how to pick locks with nothing but patience and a bent piece of metal. Skills that weren't exactly résumé-friendly. Now, at twenty-eight, he stood behind a coffee counter that smelled perpetually burnt no matter how often he cleaned it and wearing a stained apron with a name tag that felt like a lie. 'Kyle.'
The bell above the café door chimed, and another customer stepped up, already frowning.
"Large oat milk latte. Extra hot. and make sure it's not bitter this time."
Kyle forced a smile.
"Sure thing."
Behind him, one of his coworkers leaned against the prep counter scrolling through their phone. His supervisor - who showed up late every shift and still somehow found the time to criticize - hovered nearby, arms crossed.
"Try not to mess it up," she muttered. "We've had complaints."
Kyle bit back the response that came to mind, he always did - Rent didn't care about pride.
When the café slowed down - mid-afternoon lull and the sunlight slanted through the windows - Kyle leaned against the counter and let his thoughts drift upward. Literally. A massive digital billboard across the street flickered with life, displaying the familiar image: Elasti-Woman, mid-leap, limbs extended impossibly as she saved a collapsing monorail car. The city's favorite heroine. Strong, confident, sexy and smiling like she belonged exactly where she stood.
Kyle watched, transfixed. She was tall, 6ft with shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes, a model-like face, and a curvaceous, athletic build that Kyle absolutely adored. Every time he thought of her, he caught himself in daydreams. She made it look effortless. Being admired, being needed. Being someone.
He imagined it sometimes - what it would feel like to be that. To matter. To have people look at you with awe instead of suspicion. To have power instead of apologies. And, he also fantasized about her. He wasn't blind, or dead. The thought of someone like Elasti-Woman even glancing his way - let along sharing a night with him - was ridiculous. He knew that. He wasn't delusional but that still didn't stop his chest from tightening every time she smiled. Reality snapped back when his supervisor cleared her throat sharply.
"Kyle. Table three's been waiting."
He nodded, moved, served, and apologized for things that weren't his fault.
That night, as he trudged back to his apartment, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it, almost.
"Yeah?" he said into the device, keys jingling around his finger.
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice, rougher than he remembered, but unmistakable.
"Damn, man. You still answer like you're expecting trouble."
Kyle stopped fiddling with his keys, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Evan?"
"Still alive," The man replied, laughing. "Mostly. Heard you got out clean."
"Clean enough," Kyle said cautiously. "How'd you get this number?"
He didn't know Evan too well. But they did get into trouble with each other a few times.
"Mutual acquaintance. Relax. I'm not calling to drag you into anything."
Somehow, Kyle didn't believe that and snorted in response.
"That's new."
They talked, caught up as much as they could, shared stories that carefully avoided their worst years. Evan had bounced around - inside, outside, always skirting the edge. Eventually, Kyle sighed and realized - he wanted something.
"Alright," he said. "You didn't call me just to reminisce. I know that, but that's as much as I do know."
Evan hesitated, a little too long.
"There's a job," he explained. "Easy one. Museum slash pawn shop. I'm working security nights. They just got this artifact - private collection. Worth millions if you know the right people."
Kyle's stomach sank. "No," he said immediately. "Besides, what type of museum also runs a pawn shop? That doesn't make sense."
"Heard the guy's shady. Runs it for tax evasion or some shit," Evan dismissed his concerns and then continued. "Just one night. In and out. I'll give you the layout, the security codes. You're better with locks than me."
It was true. Kyle was better.
He knew how to read the tension in a tumbler, to feel the give of a pin. It was almost instinct.
"You know how I live," Evan pressed, "A few days. Just this."
"No," Kyle repeated. "I'm done. I like my freedom."
Evan pushed and joked, promised it was clean. That there would be no heat and no alarms.
"Come on. Besides, what dead end job do you have that can actually support you?" Evan's question struck a nerve. "I've seen you. You're good. You're wasting your talent."
Kyle could almost see the artifact. He could imagine it sitting in a velvet-lined box, protected by glass. For a few hours of risk, it'd be enough to move out of his apartment, maybe go somewhere new and actually start fresh. To pay for a night with someone like her - no. He shut that down immediately.
"I... I can't, Evan. I'm sorry." The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and disappointed. Kyle pictured Evan's face - jaw tight, eyes already turning inward, and recalculating.
"Alright," Evan said at last. "your call." The line then went dead.
Kyle stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment, the city humming around him like static. When he finally unlocked his apartment and stepped inside, the door shut with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
The place smelled faintly of cheap detergent and he stared at the crumbling wallpaper stained yellow with old cigarette smoke. He learned the back of his head against the door and sighed. Freedom, Evan had said. What freedom was this?
Kyle huffed a quiet, humorless laugh and crossed the apartment. This wasn't freedom, this was a holding cell. A cage built out of rent, reputation, and the kind of mistakes that never quite stopped following you. That night passed, then another.
The next few days were uneventful in the most exhausting way possible - early mornings, bitter coffee, aching feet, incompetent bosses and coworkers. The call faded, dulled by routine. Kyle told himself that was it. That Evan had taken the no and moved on.
Nearly a week later, his phone buzzed while he was sitting alone in his apartment, half-watching a muted news segment about another villain sighting downtown. Evan again. Kyle frowned at the name, thumb hovering over the screen.
For a minute, he considered ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail and letting the past stay where it belonged. But curiosity got the better of him and he swiped it open where an image filled the display.
An exquisite silver chain dripped with the light of a thousand tiny rose-cut gems, their soft blush catching the light with every subtle movement. Suspended from this delicate chain is a magnificent centerpiece: a single, flawlessly faceted pink diamond, cut so deeply that its heart seems to pulse with a captured sunset and refused to let go. It didn't look fake, it looked important.
"This is it," Evan's message followed. "They think it's worthless. Owner's a drunk. Barely remembers it's there. You know this is your way out. This is something that can support you."
Kyle stared at the photo longer than he meant to - Until the edges blurred and the necklace dissolved into color and light, and something else took its place in his mind - a familiar figured stretched across the skyline, confident and untouchable. Elasti-Woman, smiling like the city belonged to her. Kyle locked his phone and set it face-down on the table.
Later that night, the temperature dropped, the chill creeping in through the thin walls. He went to his closet to grab a hoodie - nothing dramatic, something he did a thousand times before. He pulled one free and something heavier shifted on the shelf above.
A pair of gloves slid into view, worn, thin and familiar. He hadn't touched them in years. Kyle picked them up slowly, turning them over in his hands. The leather was cracked and softened by years of use. They fit perfectly still when he slipped them on - muscle memory kicking in before he could stop it. He should have thrown them out, years ago. He knew that. Told himself that he kept them because they were useful. Because you never knew when you might need them for something harmless. A stuck lock, a broken latch, pulling weeds... 'Just in case'. He took them off and set them back on the shelf, heart beating faster than it should have, then shut the closet door. He remembered the days of picking locks with them helping keep a steady hand.
The days rolled on - Coffee, complaints, the same tired routine. Kyle almost convinced himself the call had been a lapse - an old ghost rattling chains that didn't exist anymore. At least that was what it appeared as, Evan didn't push at first. Just checked in. Casual messages. An old joke he shared with Kyle and one other in the past. Then, every few days, another reminder slipped in. A comment about rising prices. A nudge about people he knew who'd 'made it out.' About how unfair it was that some people got powers and others got scraps. Once, late at night while Kyle laid in bed, another photo appeared - the necklace again and closer this time. The pink diamond caught the light differently, deeper, warmer. For a second, Kyle swore it looked like it was glowing.
He turned his phone face-down on his chest and went to bed, staring at the ceiling until morning. And then frustration did the rest - the café, the bills, the way his supervisor talked to him like he was disposable. The way customers smiled politely until they stepped away and the way the city celebrated its heroes and forgot everyone else existed. By the time he finally picked up his phone, his hands were steady. He typed one word.
"When?"
Two days later, Kyle and Evan found themselves standing before the building Evan had described. It was a strange place: half museum, half pawn shop. The sign above the entrance, written in faded gold lettering, read: The Reliquary & Loan.
The front windows displayed a jumble of antique weapons and dusty paintings, while just beyond them, in a more curated space, sat a collection of pristine artifacts under bright spotlights. The place felt... liminal. Not quite legitimate, not quite criminal. At night, the building seemed to loom taller than he remembered when they did the daytime walk-by Evan had insisted was 'all the recon they'd need.'
The outside itself was marble façade with reinforced glass for the antiques. It seemed too clean or well-lit for something that supposedly blended museum curation with pawnshop discretion. Private collection acquisitions always meant money, and money meant security. Kyle adjusted the thin gloves on his hands and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Tell me again," he murmured, "Why the service entrance doesn't have a guard?"
Evan, crouched beside a side door and working far too confidently on a tablet that looked older than Kyle's phone shrugged.
"Because they cut costs. Owner's cheap."
Kyle didn't like that answer. He liked them to be specific - Names, timetables.
Still, the door opened cleanly under his picks, the lock giving way with a familiar, almost comforting click. For a moment, muscle memory carried him - same old dance, same steady hands.
The rush crept in anyway, uninvited. Inside, the air smelled like polish from one of those machines, freshly scrubbed of all the dirt, and the air was almost stuffy - like it was still. The floor plan Evan had given him flashed in Kyle's mind as they moved - but almost immediately, it didn't match.
Display cases sat where corridors were supposed to be. A security camera tracked lazily across a hall that should have been blind. Kyle, thankfully, stopped short and grabbed Evan's sleeve. "That camera wasn't on your map. I thought you said you fucking worked here before?!" he whispered sharply.
Evan, for the first time, looked nervous.
"They... must have updated. It's fine. It's on a loop. I saw the log myself." The excuse was thin. Too thin. But they were already inside. Backing out now felt like a bigger risk than pushing forward. Kyle hated that about himself - how easily sunk costs turned into forward momentum.
The deeper they went, the quieter Evan got. And Kyle led. He always did. But he knew how to read spaces - how sound carried, where footsteps echoed too long, how security sensors felt even when you couldn't see them.
He spotted slightly raised plates just before stepping on them, freezing, and then carefully stepping over. Evan didn't even notice until Kyle grabbed him again.
"Watch where you step," Kyle whispered. "Or this ends with both of us in cuffs."
Despite Kyle's skill, it was his partners that always let him down and it infuriated him.
"Relax," Evan muttered. "You're the pro, right?"
That only served to irk him more, none of this shit was supposed to be here. It was supposed to be easy.
The vault room sat lower than expected, tucked behind a reinforced exhibit wall disguised as a historical installation. This was the real test. Kyle knelt before the keypad, his fingers hovering over the numbers. Evan had given him the code. A sequence that supposedly cycled weekly.
"You're sure about this?" Kyle asked, his heart starting to thrum a heavy, anxious rhythm against his ribs.
"I'm sure," Evan said, though he wouldn't meet Kyle's gaze.
Kyle entered the code. The keypad beeped. ACCESS DENIED
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Kyle's chest. "You're an idiot," he seethed. "You gave me the wrong code."
"No, no, I... maybe I typed it wrong?" Evan stammered, fumbling with his tablet again.
"There's a master override. I just need to... Here, I got a new code. Let me enter it."
Evan moved closer, his fingers dancing across the panel, but again; ACCESS DENIED
This time the panel beeped, - just once - a warning. Kyle closed his eyes for half a second, unable to believe this.
"Move."
He knelt, rolling his eyes while pulling tools from his kit. The panel resisted him immediately - newer model, nested failsafes, the kind designed to punish impatience. Sweat prickled along his spine as he worked, fingers moving with slow, careful, practiced precision. Time stretched, every second felt loud and long. When the lock finally disengaged, Kyle nearly laughed in relief.
Inside, the safe stood under that cold white light.
It was already open - probably from the laziness of said owner, thinking that no one would even find the vault. And there it was, resting on a simple black velvet pad. The necklace. The chain was impossibly fine, the rose-cut gems glowing with a soft, internal warmth. The pink diamond at its center was huge. And it was beautiful, it shone like it wanted to be noticed.
Evan gasped, moving towards it.
"See? I told you."
But Kyle didn't move. He stood there, staring. This was it. The whole reason for this risky, half-assed plan. But something was wrong. The hairs on his arms were standing up. A low hum emanated from the necklace, almost imperceptible at the edges of his hearing. He took a step closer.
The closer he got, the more aware he became of it - it wasn't a sound, or a pull exactly, but a pressure - as if he was being hugged. His fingers hovered before touching it.
"Don't just stand there," Evan whispered. "Grab it!"
Kyle wrapped his hand around the chain. It was warm, like holding those hand-warming satchels in the dead of winter while snow drifted all around you. A shiver ran through him, sharp and inexplicable, and for a split second he thought he heard something - not words but a suggestion of a voice, distant and close at the same time. He wasn't sure if the necklace had some other attribute to it. But it certainly felt like it. Then all that focus drained away as soon as Evan swore loudly.
Kyle spun just in time to see Evan's foot catch on a cable that should not have been there. The alarm detonated, exploding outward with sound. Not just a single sound but layers - sirens, lights, automated voice warnings cascading through the building. Kyle's heart slammed into overdrive, the memories of being caught by police, time and time again flashing through his mind. "I told you to watch-!"
"I didn't see it!"
"Because you don't look!" He whispered pointedly.
Kyle swiped the necklace, the gems feeling warm in his palm as they began to run.
He took point again, cutting left where the shortest path should've been - but the corridor ended in a security gate slamming down inches from his face.
"Plan B!" Evan yelled.
"There was no fucking Plan B!"
Kyle's shoes skid as they doubled back, ducking through exhibits as emergency shutters began sealing rooms behind them, Kyle's lungs burned, grip tight around the pendant like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Halfway to the exit, Evan grabbed his arm.
"Give it to me," he shouted over the alarms. "I know a buyer-"
Kyle yanked free, spinning on him. "No. You don't touch it."
"What?! That wasn't the deal!"
"The deal didn't include you set off every alarm in the building!"
Evan's face hardened. "You think you can just take it?"
Kyle didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew the answer. If anyone could find a buyer, it was Kyle.
They started at each other for a moment too long - sirens screaming, lights flashing red - and in that moment they knew that they had to split up.
"Split up," Kyle ordered, "Now."
Evan hesitated, then cursed and bolted in the opposite direction. Outside, the streets were swarming with police but Kyle managed to slip past them and turned the corner at a dead run, nearly slamming straight into her. Elasti-Woman dropped from above and touched down lightly in front of him, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. She straightened with confidence, already between him and the street beyond. The glow of emergency lights reflected faintly off the red-and-silver of her suit.
"End of the line," She said, voice calm and practiced, unlike the police who would have been screaming at him to get down.
Kyle skidded to a halt, hands coming up automatically. His heart pounded so hard it made his vision pulse.
"You've got the wrong guy."
She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced.
"Funny. I hear that a lot."
Then she moved first. Her arm snapped forward, stretching impossibly, and Kyle barely managed to duck under it. He stumbled, boots slipping on loose gravel and the alley suddenly felt too narrow - like the walls were closing in. He bolted sideways as her leg elongated in a sweeping kick that cracked against brick where his head had been a second earlier. Kyle thought his best chance would be to get close, so he charged her. Her arm came out and he grabbed at her sleeve, trying to throw her off balance but she caught his wrist. For a moment they were tangled, both straining, both adjusting to the other's movement. Then the pendant slipped free from his jacket, it swung between them and they both instinctively - stupidly - reached for it. Kyle's fingers closed around the chain at the same moment hers did and then the world spun and bent.
Then Darkness swallowed him. When he came to, the first thing he registered was pain. A deep, echoing throb behind his eyes, like his skull had been rung like a bell. He groaned and tried to roll onto his side - and nearly overbalanced.
Something was wrong. His weight didn't sit where it should. His body felt... redistributed. His chest rose and fell more noticeably with each breath, warm pressure pulling differently against gravity.
A curtain of dark, brown hair brushed his jaw and neck, tickling skin that felt oversensitive, almost electric - a tingle of pleasure running through his spine. He blinked, vision swimming, and looked down as his breath caught.
The suit stretched over a shape that definitely had not been his moments ago. Breasts - unmistakable, solid, rising and falling with his labored breathing. Despite the tight suit, they jiggled almost unperceptively. His gloved hands looked narrower, wrists slimmer when he lifted them into view. A soft groan sounded beside him. Kyle turned his head - and froze.
His own body lay a few feet away, sprawled awkwardly against the alley wall. The ski mask tilted as his eyes fluttered open.
"What - what did you do?!"
His voice sounded scared and panic surged immediately, drowning out everything else. Sirens wailed closer and he reacted.
His arm snapped forward - and didn't stop. It stretched, the sensation bizarre and nauseating, like his bone had turned to rubber. His fist connected solidly with his own jaw and his old body crumpled. Kyle stared at his extended arm, then pulled it back. The limb snapped back into place as if it had never been three times his length. Police boots thundered closer and there was little time to process. Kyle played the part and acted as if he were Elasti-Woman. He wasn't sure how exactly he could mimic her movements or mannerisms but it seemed he played the part perfectly.
When the police finally cleared out and the street fell quiet, the silence hit him harder than the sirens had. He had pocketed the pendant and knew that his old body would only have a short stint in jail and that the police wouldn't believe that they've swapped bodies. She'd sound insane to them. His skin was alight as his suit hugged him in places his old clohes never had, stretching smoothly with the movement. A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it - sharp, incredulous, almost hysterical.
"This is insane," he muttered, the voice startling him all over again.
When he brushed his knuckles against his neck, he felt the slide of loose hair, the faint scent of something clean and expensive. He loved it. He looked down again, the tight suit around his breasts poked out and it made him curious. His hands slid up his side before cupping the full breasts. He stood there, blushing to himself as he pinched the hard nubs between his index and thumb. Another jolt of electricity ran down his spine and he gasped slightly.
"Oh... I see," he said to himself.
This power was not only for fighting criminals. This was a power for himself. He had an idea, a risky one, but one that he had to do before he could think about a way to reverse the body swap. He had to see himself.
“I’ll fix it after this,” he told himself, though the words rang hollow even as he said them.
The thought of giving this back - of stepping out of this skin and returning to his old, invisible life - made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He pushed the feeling away, then something caught his eye. A motorcycle - hers. He approached it cautiously, heels clicking against the pavement. He expected no reaction but the moment he swung a leg over, the bike seemed to recognize him. Then he sat, feeling the plush skin of his ass press against the seat.
"Shit..." He muttered.
When the engine roared to life, the vibration traveled up through his legs and spine, through his crotch. The pleasure made him buckle over the handles. The GPS flared to life, a single destination already marked. Home. Kyle hesitated, hands tightening on the grips, then leaned forward and eased into the street, still feeling awkward - yet excited - in the stride of the world's most celebrated heroine.
The bike led him to the last place he expected. A luxurious mansion out in the countryside, set up-top a large hillside. At first, he was just going to park into the drive-way until the motorcycle lights lit up what looked like a normal cliff. A portion of the rock face shimmered, then slid silently away to reveal a dark opening. He guided the motorcycle inside, the rock closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud. The garage was vast. Cars, training equipment, and racks upon racks of weaponry he didn't have names for. In the center, a single white circle glowed on the floor. He dismounted, the bike's engine dying behind him as he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and the world dissolved into white light.
"Welcome home, Carmen." A robotic, almost AI-like voice echoed.
His eyes widened at the revelation, Carmen... Starr? His eyes darted down his body, his lips parted. It made sense after some thought. She was rich, prominent. She would have all the means to do something like this. But that also made his fist tighten, nails biting into his feminine hands.
Some people get all the luck... When they opened again, he was standing in her home. It wasn't what he expected. The entire back wall of the main room was a single pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking view of the city below, lights glittering like a fallen constellation. The rest was clean, minimalist, almost sterile - white walls, polished marble floors, furniture that looked more like art than something you'd actually sit on. It was a space for looking, not for living. It was beautiful, but it felt like a show home. He walked through it, footsteps echoing, feeling like an intruder in a museum dedicated to a person he was currently wearing. He wanted to find a mirror and he found one in the bedroom - a full-length slab of polished glass. When he had stepped out from the open living space and set foot into the bedroom, his heels sunk into the fine and soft carpet, giving him pause just for a moment. They no longer made a sound as he approached the large bed and mirror which shimmered with light next to the bathroom door. He honestly kind of liked the sound of heels against stone.
Elasti-Woman stared back at him from the mirror. Her face - his face - was flushed, a stray strand of brown hair clinging to her cheek. Those brilliant blue eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and something else he couldn't name yet, were fixed on him. He felt hot - both sweaty and aroused. He knew he had to see more. He licked his lips, tasting something slightly strawberry across those beautifully plump lips. He took a few steps in front of the mirror, watching the curves of his body. He raised both hands and pushed his chest out, he felt a little embarrassed but at the same time... he felt sexy. It felt worth it. A strange, tingling sensation began to grow in his core. It felt... different, compared to anything he's felt before. It felt warmer, hotter, and more... explosive.
He turned away from the mirror and || twirled to give a quick view of his new body from all angles, his head and body still buzzing with a strange new energy. The desire to see more - to feel more - was overwhelming. He had to take off the suit. His fingers fumbled at the hidden seam of her suit, the release catch resisting him for a moment before it gave way with a soft hiss. The material peeled away from his skin, clinging for a second before loosening its grip. The cool air of the room hit his bare shoulders, a stark, shocking contrast to the tight, warm embrace of the suit. He shivered, a reaction to the temperature and the sudden, jarring vulnerability. He slid the red and silver material down over his hips, letting it pool around them. The reflection was breathtaking. She was muscular, but not bulky. Athletic. The muscles in her arms and stomach were defined without being grotesque, her skin smooth and flawless. Her breasts were perfect. High and firm, topped with nipples that were currently hard. His skin shimmered with sweat, the scent was sweet and slightly tangy. "I'm... so sexy..." He muttered, "But... Carmen doesn't normally look like this. This body is much more full. The hair is longer than normal too."
As he looked down his body, he noticed that the suit was so tight that one could easily see a camel-toe and he snickered to himself. That was part of the reason why he felt so hot. He felt a bit more emboldened as he watched his sweaty skin in the mirror. Then he raised his arm and smelled underneath. He nearly gasped at how much it turned him on. He smelled incredible. He found himself craving more of this scent, more of this body, more of this feeling. He felt like he couldn't control himself. He didn't want to be some sort of gross pervert but... the temptation was too strong. His reflection watched as he raised a hand, the fingers slender and graceful. He hesitated, then slowly brought the hand to his breast, letting the pad of his thumb brush against the hard nipple. A soft gasp escaped his lips.
The pleasure was sharp, immediate, and so much more intense than he'd ever anticipated. He did it again, this time pinching the bud lightly, rolling it between his fingers. The jolt that shot through him was electric. He watched, transfixed, as the nipple hardened even more, a deep rose color against the pale skin of his breast. The other breast felt neglected, so he brought his other hand up to it, mirroring the motions. Soon, both breasts were being kneaded and teased, the twin points of pleasure sending waves of warmth down his body, coalescing in the pit of his stomach. He could feel a wetness growing between his legs, a slick heat that was both alien and utterly intoxicating.
He had to get out of this suit and pulled one of his legs free while balancing on the other, a black thong poked out, soaking wet and dripping with so much pussy-juice that it slid down his thighs. Kyle pulled at the elastic suit surrounding his hips,. He needed to see more. He needed to see everything that the masterpiece in the mirror had to offer. He kicked the soaked fabric away, leaving it lying on the carpetted floor like a discarded secret. Now, laid bare except for the heels, he fully examined her body and posture - how she stood up straight and tall despite large breasts, how her skin was a creamy and attractive shade, how her legs were smooth and long. Her thighs gapped but not too much, just to tease her camel-toe in her one-piece suit.
He lifted his breasts, seeing the sweat built up underneath. The cold air felt amazing against his skin, but he wanted to see some of his backside too. He turned, subconsciously further than any normal person could. The curve of his ass was amazing and he bounced up and down, laughing softly as the skin jiggled. His eyes traced down the black of the thong that slid between his butt-cheeks. He was getting too excited, and his breath hitched. Without much of a thought, his hand came up, out, and then smacked the jiggling flesh.
He made a sound half-way between a moan and a yelp, which surprised even himself. He liked the sting of the reddening skin though and that only made him more aroused.
He then slid a finger down across his stomach. It tickled in a way - but also elicited tingling sensations and a hitch of his breath as his fingers glided to the thong's fabric. The warmth emanated from it as he slowly pulled it down. His reflection was a study in contrasts: a powerful, athletic body flushed with arousal, a face that was both his and not his, contorted in a mask of pleasure and disbelief. He took a step back, then another - watching his reflection in the mirror until eventually, he landed on the bed. The silken sheets were cool and a very different contrast against the heat of his plush ass. He loved the way that it felt like he was sitting on a cushy yet firm pillow everytime he sat down, having experienced it once from the motorcycle. He spread his legs, giving himself an unobstructed view of his new sex. It was beautiful, a perfect pink flower glistening with moisture. He watched as he slowly reached down, the journey of his hand feeling like it took an eternity. He parted the delicate folds with his fingers, the sensation sending another shiver through him. He was so wet, so ready. He found the small, sensitive bud of his clit, and when he touched it, he saw stars.
Slowly, he inserted one finger, then two. He took a deep breath, his fingers pumping in and out faster and faster. As he got more comfortable he added a third, then fourth. Soon he was loose and comfortable. His left hand reached up, squeezing his full breast as his knuckles slipped past his entrance. His vision filled with hot static as he gasped, the sound from his mouth was like an Angel's gasp. He tried a different angle, lifting his long leg up, while the other slid across the sheets then pumped his hand a bit faster, squeezing against his knuckles. Then it happened; a sudden, intense pressure bloomed in his core. It was like a dam breaking, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over him, pulling him under.
He cried out, a high, keening sound that was half-sob, half-shout of triumph. His body convulsed, the muscles in his legs and stomach clenching as he rode out the orgasm, his fingers still buried deep inside him.
When the waves finally subsided, he was left panting, his body slick with sweat and other, more intimate fluids. He leaned against the cool silk sheets of the bed, the smooth surface a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation. He looked at himself, at the woman in the mirror. She looked thoroughly fucked, her hair a mess, her face flushed, her legs trembling. And she looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.
A slow smile spread across his face. He looked down at the discarded suit, then at the reflection of the incredible woman he'd become. He picked up the thong, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating, a potent mix of his new arousal and something uniquely Carmen.
But he wasn't done, he hadn't even begun to use her powers. His arms stretched, coiling like snakes around his breasts, the pressure made his back arch.
"Mmmphf..."
Then they went further, moving down, around his sides and started to play with his pussy from behind. Then he stretched his neck, lowering his head to his perked and swollen nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He moaned against his own skin, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through him. He could taste the salt of his sweat, the subtle sweetness of his skin. He was a closed loop of sensation, a self-contained universe of pleasure. He spent the next hour like this, exploring every inch of his new form with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He stretched and contorted, testing the limits of this incredible body, mapping every erogenous zone, cataloging every gasp and shiver. He discovered that if he stretched his torso just right, the tension in his core would build to an almost unbearable peak, and a single, well-placed touch would send him over the edge into another shuddering orgasm.
The finalé began when he pulled his rounded hips and firm buttocks up to his face. His pussy, quivering and dripping with copious amounts of fluid, sat in front of his own face. The scent was sweet, musky, and entirely too enticing. His tongue darted out and a full-body shudder crawled up his spine and straight to his brain. The sensation was unlike any other, even through all the orgasms. He could feel the slick folds on his tongue, the hard nub of his clit against the tip. He could taste himself, and it was divine. He ate himself out with a fervor he hadn't known he possessed, his tongue lapping and probing, his nose buried in the folds of his own sex.
He sucked in the lips of his labia, hot breath running over his hole and clit. His legs shook and tightened around his head, acting like a pillow.
He felt like he was melting, his mind going blank with pleasure. His body was a symphony of sensation, and he was the conductor, the orchestra, and the audience all at once. His cock would never have been able to compare, he thought to himself as he ate himself out. When the final, most intense orgasm of the night finally ripped through him, it was a white-hot nova of sensation that left him boneless and panting on the floor, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. He lay there for a long time, just breathing, the cool air of the room caressing his sensitized skin. He felt... complete. Whole in a way he never had in his own skin. He'd spent his entire life feeling like an outsider, a ghost in his own life. But here, in this body, he felt like he finally belonged.
Eventually, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting in the most delicious way. He caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering behind him. The woman in the glass looked wild, untamed. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, her eyes were dark with a satisfaction that was almost predatory. He smiled, a slow, lazy grin that was all Kyle and all Carmen at the same time. This is not how he had imagined this night to go, lest of all a night in Elasti-Woman's bed. He laid there and finally decided. He couldn't go back to his own body. Not only did this body feel so much better but it had everything he ever desired. And now the world would know this new Elasti-Woman.
However, when an old friend contacts him to steal a priceless artifact together, Kyle decides to turn back to his old ways.
Things quickly go wrong during the score, which results in him unexpectedly swapping bodies with the city's number 1 superheroine. He knows the right thing to do would be to figure out a way to swap them back, but that idea becomes increasingly difficult when he finds out just the kind of life and pleasure her body truly has to offer him.
Kyle learned early that luck was a finite resource, and whatever share he'd been allotted had been spent before he turned sixteen. He grew up in a neighborhood where police sirens were background noise and everyone knew which streets to avoid after dark - dangerous and belonging to someone. Trouble wasn't something you sought out there. It found you, it waited, and if you didn't learn fast enough, it took what it wanted.
Kyle hadn't learned fast enough. By the time he was seventeen, he'd been arrested twice - one for running lookout, once for possession he swore wasn't his. The judge hadn't cared. The system rarely did. He'd done his time in juvenile detention, learned how to keep his head down, how to read people, how to pick locks with nothing but patience and a bent piece of metal. Skills that weren't exactly résumé-friendly. Now, at twenty-eight, he stood behind a coffee counter that smelled perpetually burnt no matter how often he cleaned it and wearing a stained apron with a name tag that felt like a lie. 'Kyle.'
The bell above the café door chimed, and another customer stepped up, already frowning.
"Large oat milk latte. Extra hot. and make sure it's not bitter this time."
Kyle forced a smile.
"Sure thing."
Behind him, one of his coworkers leaned against the prep counter scrolling through their phone. His supervisor - who showed up late every shift and still somehow found the time to criticize - hovered nearby, arms crossed.
"Try not to mess it up," she muttered. "We've had complaints."
Kyle bit back the response that came to mind, he always did - Rent didn't care about pride.
When the café slowed down - mid-afternoon lull and the sunlight slanted through the windows - Kyle leaned against the counter and let his thoughts drift upward. Literally. A massive digital billboard across the street flickered with life, displaying the familiar image: Elasti-Woman, mid-leap, limbs extended impossibly as she saved a collapsing monorail car. The city's favorite heroine. Strong, confident, sexy and smiling like she belonged exactly where she stood.
Kyle watched, transfixed. She was tall, 6ft with shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes, a model-like face, and a curvaceous, athletic build that Kyle absolutely adored. Every time he thought of her, he caught himself in daydreams. She made it look effortless. Being admired, being needed. Being someone.
He imagined it sometimes - what it would feel like to be that. To matter. To have people look at you with awe instead of suspicion. To have power instead of apologies. And, he also fantasized about her. He wasn't blind, or dead. The thought of someone like Elasti-Woman even glancing his way - let along sharing a night with him - was ridiculous. He knew that. He wasn't delusional but that still didn't stop his chest from tightening every time she smiled. Reality snapped back when his supervisor cleared her throat sharply.
"Kyle. Table three's been waiting."
He nodded, moved, served, and apologized for things that weren't his fault.
That night, as he trudged back to his apartment, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it, almost.
"Yeah?" he said into the device, keys jingling around his finger.
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice, rougher than he remembered, but unmistakable.
"Damn, man. You still answer like you're expecting trouble."
Kyle stopped fiddling with his keys, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Evan?"
"Still alive," The man replied, laughing. "Mostly. Heard you got out clean."
"Clean enough," Kyle said cautiously. "How'd you get this number?"
He didn't know Evan too well. But they did get into trouble with each other a few times.
"Mutual acquaintance. Relax. I'm not calling to drag you into anything."
Somehow, Kyle didn't believe that and snorted in response.
"That's new."
They talked, caught up as much as they could, shared stories that carefully avoided their worst years. Evan had bounced around - inside, outside, always skirting the edge. Eventually, Kyle sighed and realized - he wanted something.
"Alright," he said. "You didn't call me just to reminisce. I know that, but that's as much as I do know."
Evan hesitated, a little too long.
"There's a job," he explained. "Easy one. Museum slash pawn shop. I'm working security nights. They just got this artifact - private collection. Worth millions if you know the right people."
Kyle's stomach sank. "No," he said immediately. "Besides, what type of museum also runs a pawn shop? That doesn't make sense."
"Heard the guy's shady. Runs it for tax evasion or some shit," Evan dismissed his concerns and then continued. "Just one night. In and out. I'll give you the layout, the security codes. You're better with locks than me."
It was true. Kyle was better.
He knew how to read the tension in a tumbler, to feel the give of a pin. It was almost instinct.
"You know how I live," Evan pressed, "A few days. Just this."
"No," Kyle repeated. "I'm done. I like my freedom."
Evan pushed and joked, promised it was clean. That there would be no heat and no alarms.
"Come on. Besides, what dead end job do you have that can actually support you?" Evan's question struck a nerve. "I've seen you. You're good. You're wasting your talent."
Kyle could almost see the artifact. He could imagine it sitting in a velvet-lined box, protected by glass. For a few hours of risk, it'd be enough to move out of his apartment, maybe go somewhere new and actually start fresh. To pay for a night with someone like her - no. He shut that down immediately.
"I... I can't, Evan. I'm sorry." The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and disappointed. Kyle pictured Evan's face - jaw tight, eyes already turning inward, and recalculating.
"Alright," Evan said at last. "your call." The line then went dead.
Kyle stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment, the city humming around him like static. When he finally unlocked his apartment and stepped inside, the door shut with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
The place smelled faintly of cheap detergent and he stared at the crumbling wallpaper stained yellow with old cigarette smoke. He learned the back of his head against the door and sighed. Freedom, Evan had said. What freedom was this?
Kyle huffed a quiet, humorless laugh and crossed the apartment. This wasn't freedom, this was a holding cell. A cage built out of rent, reputation, and the kind of mistakes that never quite stopped following you. That night passed, then another.
The next few days were uneventful in the most exhausting way possible - early mornings, bitter coffee, aching feet, incompetent bosses and coworkers. The call faded, dulled by routine. Kyle told himself that was it. That Evan had taken the no and moved on.
Nearly a week later, his phone buzzed while he was sitting alone in his apartment, half-watching a muted news segment about another villain sighting downtown. Evan again. Kyle frowned at the name, thumb hovering over the screen.
For a minute, he considered ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail and letting the past stay where it belonged. But curiosity got the better of him and he swiped it open where an image filled the display.
An exquisite silver chain dripped with the light of a thousand tiny rose-cut gems, their soft blush catching the light with every subtle movement. Suspended from this delicate chain is a magnificent centerpiece: a single, flawlessly faceted pink diamond, cut so deeply that its heart seems to pulse with a captured sunset and refused to let go. It didn't look fake, it looked important.
"This is it," Evan's message followed. "They think it's worthless. Owner's a drunk. Barely remembers it's there. You know this is your way out. This is something that can support you."
Kyle stared at the photo longer than he meant to - Until the edges blurred and the necklace dissolved into color and light, and something else took its place in his mind - a familiar figured stretched across the skyline, confident and untouchable. Elasti-Woman, smiling like the city belonged to her. Kyle locked his phone and set it face-down on the table.
Later that night, the temperature dropped, the chill creeping in through the thin walls. He went to his closet to grab a hoodie - nothing dramatic, something he did a thousand times before. He pulled one free and something heavier shifted on the shelf above.
A pair of gloves slid into view, worn, thin and familiar. He hadn't touched them in years. Kyle picked them up slowly, turning them over in his hands. The leather was cracked and softened by years of use. They fit perfectly still when he slipped them on - muscle memory kicking in before he could stop it. He should have thrown them out, years ago. He knew that. Told himself that he kept them because they were useful. Because you never knew when you might need them for something harmless. A stuck lock, a broken latch, pulling weeds... 'Just in case'. He took them off and set them back on the shelf, heart beating faster than it should have, then shut the closet door. He remembered the days of picking locks with them helping keep a steady hand.
The days rolled on - Coffee, complaints, the same tired routine. Kyle almost convinced himself the call had been a lapse - an old ghost rattling chains that didn't exist anymore. At least that was what it appeared as, Evan didn't push at first. Just checked in. Casual messages. An old joke he shared with Kyle and one other in the past. Then, every few days, another reminder slipped in. A comment about rising prices. A nudge about people he knew who'd 'made it out.' About how unfair it was that some people got powers and others got scraps. Once, late at night while Kyle laid in bed, another photo appeared - the necklace again and closer this time. The pink diamond caught the light differently, deeper, warmer. For a second, Kyle swore it looked like it was glowing.
He turned his phone face-down on his chest and went to bed, staring at the ceiling until morning. And then frustration did the rest - the café, the bills, the way his supervisor talked to him like he was disposable. The way customers smiled politely until they stepped away and the way the city celebrated its heroes and forgot everyone else existed. By the time he finally picked up his phone, his hands were steady. He typed one word.
"When?"
Two days later, Kyle and Evan found themselves standing before the building Evan had described. It was a strange place: half museum, half pawn shop. The sign above the entrance, written in faded gold lettering, read: The Reliquary & Loan.
The front windows displayed a jumble of antique weapons and dusty paintings, while just beyond them, in a more curated space, sat a collection of pristine artifacts under bright spotlights. The place felt... liminal. Not quite legitimate, not quite criminal. At night, the building seemed to loom taller than he remembered when they did the daytime walk-by Evan had insisted was 'all the recon they'd need.'
The outside itself was marble façade with reinforced glass for the antiques. It seemed too clean or well-lit for something that supposedly blended museum curation with pawnshop discretion. Private collection acquisitions always meant money, and money meant security. Kyle adjusted the thin gloves on his hands and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Tell me again," he murmured, "Why the service entrance doesn't have a guard?"
Evan, crouched beside a side door and working far too confidently on a tablet that looked older than Kyle's phone shrugged.
"Because they cut costs. Owner's cheap."
Kyle didn't like that answer. He liked them to be specific - Names, timetables.
Still, the door opened cleanly under his picks, the lock giving way with a familiar, almost comforting click. For a moment, muscle memory carried him - same old dance, same steady hands.
The rush crept in anyway, uninvited. Inside, the air smelled like polish from one of those machines, freshly scrubbed of all the dirt, and the air was almost stuffy - like it was still. The floor plan Evan had given him flashed in Kyle's mind as they moved - but almost immediately, it didn't match.
Display cases sat where corridors were supposed to be. A security camera tracked lazily across a hall that should have been blind. Kyle, thankfully, stopped short and grabbed Evan's sleeve. "That camera wasn't on your map. I thought you said you fucking worked here before?!" he whispered sharply.
Evan, for the first time, looked nervous.
"They... must have updated. It's fine. It's on a loop. I saw the log myself." The excuse was thin. Too thin. But they were already inside. Backing out now felt like a bigger risk than pushing forward. Kyle hated that about himself - how easily sunk costs turned into forward momentum.
The deeper they went, the quieter Evan got. And Kyle led. He always did. But he knew how to read spaces - how sound carried, where footsteps echoed too long, how security sensors felt even when you couldn't see them.
He spotted slightly raised plates just before stepping on them, freezing, and then carefully stepping over. Evan didn't even notice until Kyle grabbed him again.
"Watch where you step," Kyle whispered. "Or this ends with both of us in cuffs."
Despite Kyle's skill, it was his partners that always let him down and it infuriated him.
"Relax," Evan muttered. "You're the pro, right?"
That only served to irk him more, none of this shit was supposed to be here. It was supposed to be easy.
The vault room sat lower than expected, tucked behind a reinforced exhibit wall disguised as a historical installation. This was the real test. Kyle knelt before the keypad, his fingers hovering over the numbers. Evan had given him the code. A sequence that supposedly cycled weekly.
"You're sure about this?" Kyle asked, his heart starting to thrum a heavy, anxious rhythm against his ribs.
"I'm sure," Evan said, though he wouldn't meet Kyle's gaze.
Kyle entered the code. The keypad beeped. ACCESS DENIED
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Kyle's chest. "You're an idiot," he seethed. "You gave me the wrong code."
"No, no, I... maybe I typed it wrong?" Evan stammered, fumbling with his tablet again.
"There's a master override. I just need to... Here, I got a new code. Let me enter it."
Evan moved closer, his fingers dancing across the panel, but again; ACCESS DENIED
This time the panel beeped, - just once - a warning. Kyle closed his eyes for half a second, unable to believe this.
"Move."
He knelt, rolling his eyes while pulling tools from his kit. The panel resisted him immediately - newer model, nested failsafes, the kind designed to punish impatience. Sweat prickled along his spine as he worked, fingers moving with slow, careful, practiced precision. Time stretched, every second felt loud and long. When the lock finally disengaged, Kyle nearly laughed in relief.
Inside, the safe stood under that cold white light.
It was already open - probably from the laziness of said owner, thinking that no one would even find the vault. And there it was, resting on a simple black velvet pad. The necklace. The chain was impossibly fine, the rose-cut gems glowing with a soft, internal warmth. The pink diamond at its center was huge. And it was beautiful, it shone like it wanted to be noticed.
Evan gasped, moving towards it.
"See? I told you."
But Kyle didn't move. He stood there, staring. This was it. The whole reason for this risky, half-assed plan. But something was wrong. The hairs on his arms were standing up. A low hum emanated from the necklace, almost imperceptible at the edges of his hearing. He took a step closer.
The closer he got, the more aware he became of it - it wasn't a sound, or a pull exactly, but a pressure - as if he was being hugged. His fingers hovered before touching it.
"Don't just stand there," Evan whispered. "Grab it!"
Kyle wrapped his hand around the chain. It was warm, like holding those hand-warming satchels in the dead of winter while snow drifted all around you. A shiver ran through him, sharp and inexplicable, and for a split second he thought he heard something - not words but a suggestion of a voice, distant and close at the same time. He wasn't sure if the necklace had some other attribute to it. But it certainly felt like it. Then all that focus drained away as soon as Evan swore loudly.
Kyle spun just in time to see Evan's foot catch on a cable that should not have been there. The alarm detonated, exploding outward with sound. Not just a single sound but layers - sirens, lights, automated voice warnings cascading through the building. Kyle's heart slammed into overdrive, the memories of being caught by police, time and time again flashing through his mind. "I told you to watch-!"
"I didn't see it!"
"Because you don't look!" He whispered pointedly.
Kyle swiped the necklace, the gems feeling warm in his palm as they began to run.
He took point again, cutting left where the shortest path should've been - but the corridor ended in a security gate slamming down inches from his face.
"Plan B!" Evan yelled.
"There was no fucking Plan B!"
Kyle's shoes skid as they doubled back, ducking through exhibits as emergency shutters began sealing rooms behind them, Kyle's lungs burned, grip tight around the pendant like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Halfway to the exit, Evan grabbed his arm.
"Give it to me," he shouted over the alarms. "I know a buyer-"
Kyle yanked free, spinning on him. "No. You don't touch it."
"What?! That wasn't the deal!"
"The deal didn't include you set off every alarm in the building!"
Evan's face hardened. "You think you can just take it?"
Kyle didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew the answer. If anyone could find a buyer, it was Kyle.
They started at each other for a moment too long - sirens screaming, lights flashing red - and in that moment they knew that they had to split up.
"Split up," Kyle ordered, "Now."
Evan hesitated, then cursed and bolted in the opposite direction. Outside, the streets were swarming with police but Kyle managed to slip past them and turned the corner at a dead run, nearly slamming straight into her. Elasti-Woman dropped from above and touched down lightly in front of him, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. She straightened with confidence, already between him and the street beyond. The glow of emergency lights reflected faintly off the red-and-silver of her suit.
"End of the line," She said, voice calm and practiced, unlike the police who would have been screaming at him to get down.
Kyle skidded to a halt, hands coming up automatically. His heart pounded so hard it made his vision pulse.
"You've got the wrong guy."
She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced.
"Funny. I hear that a lot."
Then she moved first. Her arm snapped forward, stretching impossibly, and Kyle barely managed to duck under it. He stumbled, boots slipping on loose gravel and the alley suddenly felt too narrow - like the walls were closing in. He bolted sideways as her leg elongated in a sweeping kick that cracked against brick where his head had been a second earlier. Kyle thought his best chance would be to get close, so he charged her. Her arm came out and he grabbed at her sleeve, trying to throw her off balance but she caught his wrist. For a moment they were tangled, both straining, both adjusting to the other's movement. Then the pendant slipped free from his jacket, it swung between them and they both instinctively - stupidly - reached for it. Kyle's fingers closed around the chain at the same moment hers did and then the world spun and bent.
Then Darkness swallowed him. When he came to, the first thing he registered was pain. A deep, echoing throb behind his eyes, like his skull had been rung like a bell. He groaned and tried to roll onto his side - and nearly overbalanced.
Something was wrong. His weight didn't sit where it should. His body felt... redistributed. His chest rose and fell more noticeably with each breath, warm pressure pulling differently against gravity.
A curtain of dark, brown hair brushed his jaw and neck, tickling skin that felt oversensitive, almost electric - a tingle of pleasure running through his spine. He blinked, vision swimming, and looked down as his breath caught.
The suit stretched over a shape that definitely had not been his moments ago. Breasts - unmistakable, solid, rising and falling with his labored breathing. Despite the tight suit, they jiggled almost unperceptively. His gloved hands looked narrower, wrists slimmer when he lifted them into view. A soft groan sounded beside him. Kyle turned his head - and froze.
His own body lay a few feet away, sprawled awkwardly against the alley wall. The ski mask tilted as his eyes fluttered open.
"What - what did you do?!"
His voice sounded scared and panic surged immediately, drowning out everything else. Sirens wailed closer and he reacted.
His arm snapped forward - and didn't stop. It stretched, the sensation bizarre and nauseating, like his bone had turned to rubber. His fist connected solidly with his own jaw and his old body crumpled. Kyle stared at his extended arm, then pulled it back. The limb snapped back into place as if it had never been three times his length. Police boots thundered closer and there was little time to process. Kyle played the part and acted as if he were Elasti-Woman. He wasn't sure how exactly he could mimic her movements or mannerisms but it seemed he played the part perfectly.
When the police finally cleared out and the street fell quiet, the silence hit him harder than the sirens had. He had pocketed the pendant and knew that his old body would only have a short stint in jail and that the police wouldn't believe that they've swapped bodies. She'd sound insane to them. His skin was alight as his suit hugged him in places his old clohes never had, stretching smoothly with the movement. A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it - sharp, incredulous, almost hysterical.
"This is insane," he muttered, the voice startling him all over again.
When he brushed his knuckles against his neck, he felt the slide of loose hair, the faint scent of something clean and expensive. He loved it. He looked down again, the tight suit around his breasts poked out and it made him curious. His hands slid up his side before cupping the full breasts. He stood there, blushing to himself as he pinched the hard nubs between his index and thumb. Another jolt of electricity ran down his spine and he gasped slightly.
"Oh... I see," he said to himself.
This power was not only for fighting criminals. This was a power for himself. He had an idea, a risky one, but one that he had to do before he could think about a way to reverse the body swap. He had to see himself.
“I’ll fix it after this,” he told himself, though the words rang hollow even as he said them.
The thought of giving this back - of stepping out of this skin and returning to his old, invisible life - made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He pushed the feeling away, then something caught his eye. A motorcycle - hers. He approached it cautiously, heels clicking against the pavement. He expected no reaction but the moment he swung a leg over, the bike seemed to recognize him. Then he sat, feeling the plush skin of his ass press against the seat.
"Shit..." He muttered.
When the engine roared to life, the vibration traveled up through his legs and spine, through his crotch. The pleasure made him buckle over the handles. The GPS flared to life, a single destination already marked. Home. Kyle hesitated, hands tightening on the grips, then leaned forward and eased into the street, still feeling awkward - yet excited - in the stride of the world's most celebrated heroine.
The bike led him to the last place he expected. A luxurious mansion out in the countryside, set up-top a large hillside. At first, he was just going to park into the drive-way until the motorcycle lights lit up what looked like a normal cliff. A portion of the rock face shimmered, then slid silently away to reveal a dark opening. He guided the motorcycle inside, the rock closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud. The garage was vast. Cars, training equipment, and racks upon racks of weaponry he didn't have names for. In the center, a single white circle glowed on the floor. He dismounted, the bike's engine dying behind him as he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and the world dissolved into white light.
"Welcome home, Carmen." A robotic, almost AI-like voice echoed.
His eyes widened at the revelation, Carmen... Starr? His eyes darted down his body, his lips parted. It made sense after some thought. She was rich, prominent. She would have all the means to do something like this. But that also made his fist tighten, nails biting into his feminine hands.
Some people get all the luck... When they opened again, he was standing in her home. It wasn't what he expected. The entire back wall of the main room was a single pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking view of the city below, lights glittering like a fallen constellation. The rest was clean, minimalist, almost sterile - white walls, polished marble floors, furniture that looked more like art than something you'd actually sit on. It was a space for looking, not for living. It was beautiful, but it felt like a show home. He walked through it, footsteps echoing, feeling like an intruder in a museum dedicated to a person he was currently wearing. He wanted to find a mirror and he found one in the bedroom - a full-length slab of polished glass. When he had stepped out from the open living space and set foot into the bedroom, his heels sunk into the fine and soft carpet, giving him pause just for a moment. They no longer made a sound as he approached the large bed and mirror which shimmered with light next to the bathroom door. He honestly kind of liked the sound of heels against stone.
Elasti-Woman stared back at him from the mirror. Her face - his face - was flushed, a stray strand of brown hair clinging to her cheek. Those brilliant blue eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and something else he couldn't name yet, were fixed on him. He felt hot - both sweaty and aroused. He knew he had to see more. He licked his lips, tasting something slightly strawberry across those beautifully plump lips. He took a few steps in front of the mirror, watching the curves of his body. He raised both hands and pushed his chest out, he felt a little embarrassed but at the same time... he felt sexy. It felt worth it. A strange, tingling sensation began to grow in his core. It felt... different, compared to anything he's felt before. It felt warmer, hotter, and more... explosive.
He turned away from the mirror and || twirled to give a quick view of his new body from all angles, his head and body still buzzing with a strange new energy. The desire to see more - to feel more - was overwhelming. He had to take off the suit. His fingers fumbled at the hidden seam of her suit, the release catch resisting him for a moment before it gave way with a soft hiss. The material peeled away from his skin, clinging for a second before loosening its grip. The cool air of the room hit his bare shoulders, a stark, shocking contrast to the tight, warm embrace of the suit. He shivered, a reaction to the temperature and the sudden, jarring vulnerability. He slid the red and silver material down over his hips, letting it pool around them. The reflection was breathtaking. She was muscular, but not bulky. Athletic. The muscles in her arms and stomach were defined without being grotesque, her skin smooth and flawless. Her breasts were perfect. High and firm, topped with nipples that were currently hard. His skin shimmered with sweat, the scent was sweet and slightly tangy. "I'm... so sexy..." He muttered, "But... Carmen doesn't normally look like this. This body is much more full. The hair is longer than normal too."
As he looked down his body, he noticed that the suit was so tight that one could easily see a camel-toe and he snickered to himself. That was part of the reason why he felt so hot. He felt a bit more emboldened as he watched his sweaty skin in the mirror. Then he raised his arm and smelled underneath. He nearly gasped at how much it turned him on. He smelled incredible. He found himself craving more of this scent, more of this body, more of this feeling. He felt like he couldn't control himself. He didn't want to be some sort of gross pervert but... the temptation was too strong. His reflection watched as he raised a hand, the fingers slender and graceful. He hesitated, then slowly brought the hand to his breast, letting the pad of his thumb brush against the hard nipple. A soft gasp escaped his lips.
The pleasure was sharp, immediate, and so much more intense than he'd ever anticipated. He did it again, this time pinching the bud lightly, rolling it between his fingers. The jolt that shot through him was electric. He watched, transfixed, as the nipple hardened even more, a deep rose color against the pale skin of his breast. The other breast felt neglected, so he brought his other hand up to it, mirroring the motions. Soon, both breasts were being kneaded and teased, the twin points of pleasure sending waves of warmth down his body, coalescing in the pit of his stomach. He could feel a wetness growing between his legs, a slick heat that was both alien and utterly intoxicating.
He had to get out of this suit and pulled one of his legs free while balancing on the other, a black thong poked out, soaking wet and dripping with so much pussy-juice that it slid down his thighs. Kyle pulled at the elastic suit surrounding his hips,. He needed to see more. He needed to see everything that the masterpiece in the mirror had to offer. He kicked the soaked fabric away, leaving it lying on the carpetted floor like a discarded secret. Now, laid bare except for the heels, he fully examined her body and posture - how she stood up straight and tall despite large breasts, how her skin was a creamy and attractive shade, how her legs were smooth and long. Her thighs gapped but not too much, just to tease her camel-toe in her one-piece suit.
He lifted his breasts, seeing the sweat built up underneath. The cold air felt amazing against his skin, but he wanted to see some of his backside too. He turned, subconsciously further than any normal person could. The curve of his ass was amazing and he bounced up and down, laughing softly as the skin jiggled. His eyes traced down the black of the thong that slid between his butt-cheeks. He was getting too excited, and his breath hitched. Without much of a thought, his hand came up, out, and then smacked the jiggling flesh.
He made a sound half-way between a moan and a yelp, which surprised even himself. He liked the sting of the reddening skin though and that only made him more aroused.
He then slid a finger down across his stomach. It tickled in a way - but also elicited tingling sensations and a hitch of his breath as his fingers glided to the thong's fabric. The warmth emanated from it as he slowly pulled it down. His reflection was a study in contrasts: a powerful, athletic body flushed with arousal, a face that was both his and not his, contorted in a mask of pleasure and disbelief. He took a step back, then another - watching his reflection in the mirror until eventually, he landed on the bed. The silken sheets were cool and a very different contrast against the heat of his plush ass. He loved the way that it felt like he was sitting on a cushy yet firm pillow everytime he sat down, having experienced it once from the motorcycle. He spread his legs, giving himself an unobstructed view of his new sex. It was beautiful, a perfect pink flower glistening with moisture. He watched as he slowly reached down, the journey of his hand feeling like it took an eternity. He parted the delicate folds with his fingers, the sensation sending another shiver through him. He was so wet, so ready. He found the small, sensitive bud of his clit, and when he touched it, he saw stars.
Slowly, he inserted one finger, then two. He took a deep breath, his fingers pumping in and out faster and faster. As he got more comfortable he added a third, then fourth. Soon he was loose and comfortable. His left hand reached up, squeezing his full breast as his knuckles slipped past his entrance. His vision filled with hot static as he gasped, the sound from his mouth was like an Angel's gasp. He tried a different angle, lifting his long leg up, while the other slid across the sheets then pumped his hand a bit faster, squeezing against his knuckles. Then it happened; a sudden, intense pressure bloomed in his core. It was like a dam breaking, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over him, pulling him under.
He cried out, a high, keening sound that was half-sob, half-shout of triumph. His body convulsed, the muscles in his legs and stomach clenching as he rode out the orgasm, his fingers still buried deep inside him.
When the waves finally subsided, he was left panting, his body slick with sweat and other, more intimate fluids. He leaned against the cool silk sheets of the bed, the smooth surface a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation. He looked at himself, at the woman in the mirror. She looked thoroughly fucked, her hair a mess, her face flushed, her legs trembling. And she looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.
A slow smile spread across his face. He looked down at the discarded suit, then at the reflection of the incredible woman he'd become. He picked up the thong, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating, a potent mix of his new arousal and something uniquely Carmen.
But he wasn't done, he hadn't even begun to use her powers. His arms stretched, coiling like snakes around his breasts, the pressure made his back arch.
"Mmmphf..."
Then they went further, moving down, around his sides and started to play with his pussy from behind. Then he stretched his neck, lowering his head to his perked and swollen nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He moaned against his own skin, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through him. He could taste the salt of his sweat, the subtle sweetness of his skin. He was a closed loop of sensation, a self-contained universe of pleasure. He spent the next hour like this, exploring every inch of his new form with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He stretched and contorted, testing the limits of this incredible body, mapping every erogenous zone, cataloging every gasp and shiver. He discovered that if he stretched his torso just right, the tension in his core would build to an almost unbearable peak, and a single, well-placed touch would send him over the edge into another shuddering orgasm.
The finalé began when he pulled his rounded hips and firm buttocks up to his face. His pussy, quivering and dripping with copious amounts of fluid, sat in front of his own face. The scent was sweet, musky, and entirely too enticing. His tongue darted out and a full-body shudder crawled up his spine and straight to his brain. The sensation was unlike any other, even through all the orgasms. He could feel the slick folds on his tongue, the hard nub of his clit against the tip. He could taste himself, and it was divine. He ate himself out with a fervor he hadn't known he possessed, his tongue lapping and probing, his nose buried in the folds of his own sex.
He sucked in the lips of his labia, hot breath running over his hole and clit. His legs shook and tightened around his head, acting like a pillow.
He felt like he was melting, his mind going blank with pleasure. His body was a symphony of sensation, and he was the conductor, the orchestra, and the audience all at once. His cock would never have been able to compare, he thought to himself as he ate himself out. When the final, most intense orgasm of the night finally ripped through him, it was a white-hot nova of sensation that left him boneless and panting on the floor, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. He lay there for a long time, just breathing, the cool air of the room caressing his sensitized skin. He felt... complete. Whole in a way he never had in his own skin. He'd spent his entire life feeling like an outsider, a ghost in his own life. But here, in this body, he felt like he finally belonged.
Eventually, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting in the most delicious way. He caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering behind him. The woman in the glass looked wild, untamed. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, her eyes were dark with a satisfaction that was almost predatory. He smiled, a slow, lazy grin that was all Kyle and all Carmen at the same time. This is not how he had imagined this night to go, lest of all a night in Elasti-Woman's bed. He laid there and finally decided. He couldn't go back to his own body. Not only did this body feel so much better but it had everything he ever desired. And now the world would know this new Elasti-Woman.
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When Philip and Jack are given the challenge of going on a panty raid through the sorority next door to secure their place as pledges at Delta Epsilon, Philip's heart sinks.
With the sorority girls having already taken well known countermeasures to deal with any would be panty thieves, he thinks the chances of completing the challenge are near zero.
However, when his best friend Jack claims to have a plan involving a little magic and burrowing the bodies of his crush Vanessa and her roommate Katy, he knows he is in for a long night ahead when things don't exactly end up going to plan...
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The floor of Delta Epsilon’s house was sticky.
Beer, cheap cologne, and stale pizza had seeped into the carpet like a second skin, and Philip had the honor of scrubbing it clean while half a dozen brothers lounged on couches watching basketball highlights.
“Missed a spot,” one of them called, deliberately tilting a red Solo cup so that the last of his drink bled out onto the carpet inches from Philip’s sponge.
Philip clenched his jaw. He’d been degraded all semester, fetching fast food at three in the morning, running errands that skirted the edge of being criminal, serving as human furniture during drinking games. He told himself it would be worth it. Delta Epsilon’s parties were legendary, the kind of place girls lined up to get into. More importantly, alumni connections meant a shot at internships that led to real careers. You suffered now, you cashed in later.
Jack, naturally, thrived. He was perched on the arm of a sofa, balancing a tray of wings for two seniors, grinning like the humiliation was a party of its own.
“How’s that knee grease holding up, Phil?” he teased, eyebrows bouncing. Philip muttered something under his breath, pressing the sponge hard enough to leave his knuckles white. He’d thought pledging with his best friend would make things easier. Instead, Jack’s bottomless energy only made Philip feel like the boring one, always one step away from quitting.
The pledge master, Trent, finally called them over once the brothers had eaten their fill.
“You’ve made it further than many,” he said, addressing both Philip and Jack while tapping the ash off his cigar. “Scrubbing toilets, babysitting drunk brothers, taking whatever punishment we throw at you, you did it all without complaint. But Delta doesn’t hand out membership for free. There’s one last hurdle.”
Jack’s eyes lit up, while Philip felt his stomach knot. Trent leaned forward. “You’ve got until Saturday morning to bring us proof that you’re worthy of being Delta Epsilons. And by proof, I mean the underwear of one of the Theta sisters across the street.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Someone whistled. Another shouted, “Better hope they’re lace!”
Philip’s face burned hot. He’d expected something brutal. A dangerous stunt, or maybe even a tattoo or branding, not…this. Not something that felt like the set-up to a police record for being a creep.
Jack, of course, grinned like he’d just been handed a golden ticket. “Piece of cake,” he said.
“Piece of felony,” Philip muttered.
Trent ignored the comment. “You get caught, that’s your problem. Theta girls are sick of pranks. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you sneaking around. Fail, and you’ll have to re-pledge next semester, if we even let you back in. Succeed, and you’ll be full brothers by sunrise.”
He flicked his cigar ash into an empty beer can, and the matter was closed. Philip and Jack were dismissed like servants, slipping out into the cool night air. The frat house behind them thumped with bass as the next round of drinking games began.
Across the street, the Theta house glowed with warm yellow light, its windows alive with the silhouettes of girls laughing, moving and living in a world that felt forbidden.
Philip shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “This is insane. They want us to break into a sorority house. Forget expulsion, that’s actual jail time if we’re caught and reported.”
Jack slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Come on, man. It’s tradition. Everybody who ever wore Delta letters has done something crazy like this. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Philip shrugged him off. “You mean you’ll figure it out. And drag me with you.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Exactly. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” That phrase, I’ve got a plan, was the single most dangerous thing Jack could say. Philip knew better, but as he stared up at the Theta house, he couldn’t shake the truth. They’d come too far to back out now.
Philip assumed Jack’s “plan” would be something stupid but doable. Like sneaking into the Theta laundry room, bribing a janitor, or maybe finessing a stolen bra from lost-and-found.
What he didn’t expect, as their deadline creeped ever closer, was Jack pulling a battered paperback out of his backpack like he’d just smuggled the Necronomicon out of the library and declaring their troubles were about to be a thing of the past.
“What is that?” Philip asked, eyeing the faded title embossed with moons and symbols.
“Wiccan Rites and Rituals of the Body,” Jack said with a grin so wide it could split his face. “This baby is going to get us in.”
Philip stared. “That’s not a plan you idiot. That’s…props from a bad horror movie.”
“Correction,” Jack said, flipping through pages until he landed on one marked with a sticky note. “It’s a possession spell. All we need is something personal from the Thetas. Hair is perfect. One strand, and we’re golden.”
Philip blinked. “Hair. You want us to pluck a strand off someone’s head, mix it into some potion, and what? Astral-project into their underwear drawer?”
Jack leaned forward, whispering even though there was nobody else around. “Exactly. But into them, not their underwear drawer.”
For a moment, Philip couldn’t even find words. His friend was dead serious. His blue eyes glittered with the manic light of a man who believed in his own insanity. Philip pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack, you need help.”
“Correction again. We need help, and this is it. Think about it. We don’t sneak around, we don’t break and enter, we just become them. Walk right in the front door. Grab what we need and walk back out again. Easy as pie.”
Philip wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell Jack this was why pledges got expelled, why college urban legends started with two idiots reading a so-called spell book. But something about Jack’s certainty unsettled him.
“How do you even plan to get the hair?” Philip asked, deciding to humor him.
Jack smirked. “You’re partnered with Vanessa in chem lab. I’m with her roommate, Katy. Both of them happen to belong to the Theta Sorority. Boom. Easy.”
Philip’s stomach lurched. Vanessa, the Vanessa, the girl he’d spent the better part of a semester trying not to stare at. She was sharp, funny, gorgeous, and so out of his league it hurt. The idea of stealing a strand of her hair wasn’t just impossible, it was mortifying.
“Jack, if I even look at her hair the wrong way she’ll know. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be branded as the campus creep for the rest of my life.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Relax. I’ll take care of mine. You just…fumble your way through like usual. She likes you, right? I’m sure she’s called you sweet before. She won’t even notice.”
Lab that afternoon was a fluorescent blur of glassware and nerves. Bunsen burners hissed, and the sharp scent of acetone hung in the air. Vanessa tied her glossy black hair into a messy bun as she leaned over the counter, the soft hum she made under her breath cutting through the low chatter of other pairs.
Philip adjusted the clamp on their stand and tried to steady his hands, pretending to check the thermometer while sneaking a glance at her profile. The long lashes, the soft curve of her cheek when she smiled. He’d barely worked up the nerve to say something to her, when the door swung open and Ryan Hale strolled in.
Ryan wasn’t a student in their class, he was a teaching assistant who was busy with his Masters. The kind of nerd who looked more like he belonged in a movie poster than a chemistry lab. The Henry Cavill of the campus. Tall, effortlessly confident, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing forearms that probably did not belong to someone who spent his evenings doing titration reports.
“Need a hand, Vanessa?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth enough to make the words sound like an inside joke.
Vanessa’s whole face lit up. “Ryan! You’re still hanging around the underclassmen? I thought you were too cool for basic chem.”
“Guess I missed the fun crowd.” He winked, stepping close enough that Philip caught the faint smell of his cologne. Something woodsy and smug. Philip’s stomach twisted. He busied himself pretending to check their notes, but every word between Vanessa and Ryan pulled his focus like a hook through his ribs.
“Still showing off that perfect technique, huh?” Ryan teased, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Could use someone like you to calibrate my disastrous love life.”
Vanessa laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I told you last time, you need better lab partners, not better lines.”
“Maybe I just need one who actually likes me,” he said, voice dipping into something low and knowing. “You still wearing that purple dress that makes everyone else forget the experiment?”
She grinned, shaking her head. “Keep talking, and you’ll set the sprinklers off again.”
Ryan chuckled, backing away with a little salute. “Worth it.”
Philip’s jaw locked so tight it hurt. He shifted his beaker just to make noise. “Vanessa, uh, the solution’s ready,” he muttered.
She turned back, still smiling, a faint pink on her cheeks. “Right, sorry, I got distracted.” The way she said it made Philip want to vanish into the nearest fume hood.
Ryan gave him a nod that felt more like dismissal. “Good work, man. Don’t let her boss you around too much.”
Philip forced a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When Ryan finally moved on to check another table, the tension in Philip’s shoulders eased only slightly. Vanessa was still smiling to herself, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “He’s such a dork,” she said fondly.
“Yeah,” Philip replied, voice flat. “A real geek.”
She glanced at him, oblivious. “You okay? You look kind of pale.”
“Fine,” he lied. His pulse thundered. He hated how obvious it felt. The jealousy, the ridiculous possessiveness over a girl who barely saw him as more than a partner for lab reports.
Meanwhile, across the room, Jack was all charm. Katy, tall, athletic, focused on the work at hand with cool intensity, rolled her eyes at his constant jokes, but she didn’t seem to actively hate him. Jack’s hands moved casually, as if the experiment was background noise to whatever ridiculous story he was spinning.
Philip’s heart pounded. He couldn’t do it. Not to Vanessa. The thought of deliberately stealing a piece of her felt worse than any frat punishment. But then her bun slipped, and a single strand drifted onto the lab bench.
Philip froze and stared at it like it was radioactive. One perfect strand, right there. All he had to do was pick it up without her noticing. His hand twitched. Sweat beaded at his hairline. Vanessa reached for the pipette, and he panicked. He grabbed the strand too quickly, shoving it into his pocket like a thief.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “You good?” she asked.
Philip’s laugh came out strangled. “Yeah. Totally. Fine. Just, science, you know?”
She gave him a strange look, then turned back to the experiment. Across the room, Jack caught his eye and subtly flashed a triumphant thumbs-up. He mouthed, Got it. Philip wanted to throw up.
After class, they met outside, ducking into a quiet corner near the library. Jack pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket and wiggled it proudly. Katy’s strand of hair gleaming inside. Philip shoved his hands deep into his hoodie, where Vanessa’s strand burned against his palm like contraband.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “If she’d caught me, I’d have been ruined.”
Jack was practically buzzing. “But she didn’t. We’ve got everything. Today, we drink the potion. Tomorrow, we’re legends.”
Philip stared at him, feeling his chest tighten. It wasn’t the frat house that scared him anymore. It was Jack’s unwavering certainty, the gleam in his eye like he’d already crossed a line Philip couldn’t even see.
Back in their room, Jack had cleared his desk, pushing aside textbooks and laundry to make space for the battered paperback and a mess of supplies that looked like they’d been stolen from a Spirit Halloween clearance bin. Mason jars, candles, a bag of salt and something that Philip really, really hoped was red food coloring.
Philip sat on the bed, arms crossed, trying not to look at the plastic bag in his pocket. Inside was Vanessa’s hair, a single dark strand that felt heavier than lead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re going to set off the fire alarm, and we’ll get kicked out before we even fail the pledge.”
Jack was hunched over the desk, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he measured powder into a chipped coffee mug.
“Correction. You’re going to stop being so negative, because we’re going to waltz into Theta’s house like we own it and take our time finding the perfect proof. Something small, sexy and lacy. Then we hand it to Trent and we’re done. Easiest initiation ever and we’re lifelong members of the Delta Epsilon brotherhood.”
Philip shook his head. “You actually believe all the crap coming out of your mouth, don’t you?”
“Yes. Because I know this is going to work.” Jack’s grin was feral. He held up his mug, fizzing with something dark and faintly purple. “And very soon, you’re going to have to swallow all your pessimistic, dismissive words and admit that I’m the GOAT.” Without waiting for a response, he dropped Katy’s wavy strand of hair into the concoction.
Philip looked at his own brew, waiting for him on the desk. It reeked faintly of vinegar and something metallic. “This looks like cough syrup that went bad.”
Jack grabbed the paperback, muttering words under his breath. Latin? Gibberish? Philip couldn’t tell. The candlelight threw shadows across Jack’s face, making him look more unhinged than usual.
“Jack,” Philip said slowly, “You get that if this doesn’t work, we may be drinking poison?”
“Trust me,” Jack said, gesturing meaningfully at Philip’s mug. Those two words had been the prelude to every disaster Philip had lived through with him. The broken window in high school. The near arrest in freshman year. And now this.
Philip sighed, pulled Vanessa’s hair from his pocket, and dropped it into the liquid. It curled and fizzed, dissolving into the mixture like it had never been.
“Bottoms up,” Jack said cheerfully, chugging the contents in one long pull.
Philip raised his mug. The liquid shimmered oddly, like heat ripples above asphalt. He pinched his nose and tossed it back. It burned. Like swallowing melted pennies chased with bleach. His stomach roiled instantly, bile rising up.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked, slamming the cup down. “That’s not magic, that’s battery acid.”
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, coughing hard, but his grin didn’t falter. “Wait for it.”
Philip blinked and the dorm room folded in on itself. Candlelight bent sideways and the next breath tasted like coffee and paper. He was not in their room anymore. He was sitting at a table under tall windows, late afternoon light spilling amber over open textbooks and half empty cups.
The scent was library quiet and caffeine. Hair slid across his cheek. Definitely not his. It was long and silky. His hands were smaller, nails pink, wrists delicate. The weight on his chest tugged when he breathed. He was looking through Vanessa’s eyes.
Across from him, Katy sat in a chair with a pen in her hand and her mouth parted in a quiet, startled sound that belonged to Jack. “Holy shit,” Jack whispered in Katy’s voice.
Philip’s pulse spiked. “How the hell did I get here?” he asked under his breath, before the realization hit him fully. Jack’s crazy plan worked. He glanced down, eyes bugging at the soft cleavage he encountered. He was on the verge of completely freaking out. “Keep it together,” he muttered to himself. The sound of Vanessa's voice only sent him spiraling further into chaos.
Jack’s grin curled slow and wicked as he looked down at himself and then around them. He started to pull the top of Katy’s tank forward so he could peek at her breasts, before Philip shot him a look that could choke a man at twenty paces.
“Don’t,” Philip hissed. “Katy would never do something like that in public!”
Jack laughed, high and breathy in Katy’s voice. “You’re telling me you’re not even curious? Come on, man. We’re in. This is unreal. Don’t you want to know what it feels like to them when we touch them?”
Philip swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. He gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from spiraling into sensory overload.
“This…this isn’t possible,” he whispered. But the evidence pressed in from every side. The scent of citrus shampoo in his hair, the tug of bra straps against his shoulders, the fullness in his chest when he inhaled. The emptiness where his cock should be.
Philip’s eyes darted anxiously around the library cafe. “We need to get out of here before someone notices something off,” Philip said. “People pick up on the smallest wrong note.” He was terrified that someone would realize the girls were possessed.
He spent way too much time staring at Vanessa, but that didn’t mean he could copy her actions. If anyone watched them closely, they’d know immediately that there were impostors inhabiting Vanessa and Katy.
“We should go back to their room and fool around,” Jack suggested immediately, hands on Katy’s breasts, squeezing idly.
“Jesus, Jack, stop that! They’re in public. We’re in public…”
This was such a mind-fuck. Clearly they were literally possessing Vanessa and Katy’s bodies. Where was Vanessa's consciousness now? Asleep? Aware? He didn’t feel like someone was watching him, so hopefully she had no idea what he was doing. And where were his and Jack’s bodies? Still in their dorm room? Fuck. If he’d known there was any chance of this working, he’d never have gone through with it.
“Come on bestie, let’s go home,” Jack cooed at him. “I’m just dying to get out of these pesky clothes.”
Jack clearly had zero second thoughts about any of this. Then again, Jack had never had a second thought in his life. He rarely had first ones. Philip decided that only made him a bigger idiot for always following his friend’s crazy plans.
Philip took a deep breath, gathered Vanessa’s things and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder before getting up on shaky legs. The plan was to reach Theta house without interacting with anyone who knew the girls.
Vanessa was outgoing and popular, so he kept his eyes trained on the ground to avoid any accidental socializing.
He was doing his best to focus on the mission, but every move betrayed him. Vanessa’s curves shifted differently from his own. Her hips swayed without permission when he walked. The tug of the denim skirt around her thighs was tighter than he was used to, the waistband sitting higher, the soft curtain of hair continuously falling into his eyes. And he kept fighting the urge to run his fingertips over her lustrous, satiny skin.
Philip thanked his lucky stars that it was late afternoon sliding toward evening and most of the Theta girls were either at dinner, in class, or busy with the mixer prep.
The second piece of good luck was the fact that the first year members of the sorority had the downstairs bedrooms and Katy and Vanessa had their names picked out in glittery wooden letters on their door. Which saved him and Jack from being caught wandering aimlessly into someone else’s room and rifling through their underwear.
“Come on,” he hissed at Jack, nearly having heart failure when he heard Vanessa’s sweet, bubbly voice, before remembering it came from his own mouth.
As soon as they entered the room, Philip froze like a deer in headlights.
The room smelled like them. A heady mix of perfume, make-up and detergent. Several photos of Vanessa and Katy were pinned to the notice board. Keys with a little Theta charm lay on a desk. Lip gloss on each bedside table. A folded flyer about the upcoming mixer. Every object made him feel like an intruder in a life that wasn’t his.
Then he looked up and saw his reflection thrown back at him from the floor length mirror fastened to the opposite wall. Vanessa stared back. Her round face framed by shiny black hair, lips glossed in pale pink, eyes wide with Philip’s panic.
“This isn’t possible,” he murmured hoarsely.
Jack crossed the room with Katy’s energetic stride, hair swinging over her shoulder. He leaned down, far too close, eyes alight with mischief.
“Possible or not, it’s happening. And we’ve got hours before it wears off. Wanna play?” Philip’s pulse thundered. He was in Vanessa’s body. Jack was in Katy’s. He had no idea what their real bodies were doing or where, only that they were not here. For the first time since pledging Delta, he realized he was more terrified of his best friend than of any frat brother.
Jack was practically bouncing around like a kid in a candy store, repeatedly mentioning how awesome it is to have tits.
“This is insane,” Philip muttered, running a hand through Vanessa’s long hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, brushing the back of his neck, constantly in his peripheral vision. Every little tickle made him twitch. “I feel like I’m drowning in shampoo.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah. It’s fucking awesome. Look at this.” He shook his head, letting Katy’s long, dark hair fall over her shoulders, framing her face, then bit her lower lip between her teeth and winked at Philip seductively. “Tell me this doesn’t look hot.”
Philip turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of the curve of Katy’s collarbone, the tan line along her shoulder where a sports bra must’ve once sat. He gritted his teeth.
“We’re only here to grab underwear and then we get out. That’s it.” Jack made a distracted sound, which didn’t entirely sound like agreement.
He was testing everything. Squeezing Katy’s biceps and delighting in the subtle muscle definition, stretching out one long leg and flexing her calf muscles, even bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet as if testing how springy she was.
Philip was still focused on the reflection in the mirror. He stepped closer, and the image followed, familiar and foreign all at once. He raised a hand. She raised a hand. Jack appeared beside him, sliding Katy’s body into view. She was taller, leaner, her shoulders broader than Vanessa’s.
Katy was studious and fairly quiet normally, but Jack’s grin warped her into something hungry. A femme fatale in search of her next prey.
“Dude, look at us,” Jack whispered. “We actually pulled it off. We’re fucking hot!”
Philip swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. “We shouldn’t be looking. This is… it’s too much.”
“Too much fun,” Jack corrected. He pressed closer to the mirror, tilting Katy’s head, pursing her lips, sticking out her tongue just to see how it looked. He laughed in delight. “God, the way this mouth moves, it’s unreal.”
Philip tried to drag his eyes away, but curiosity betrayed him. His gaze dipped, catching sight of Vanessa’s chest in the reflection. The neckline of her shirt clung close, clearly showing the outline of her nipples. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned away sharply. He was not going to lift her top and take a peek.
“You’re staring,” Jack teased, slipping behind him and resting Katy’s hands on Vanessa’s hips.
Katy’s reflection loomed over Vanessa’s smaller frame in the mirror. “What’s it like, having the body of your crush? Bet you’ve fantasized about having unfettered access to her before. Touching every inch of her. Running your palms over her perky tits. Cupping her pussy.”
Philip’s face went hot. “Shut up.”
Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping, Katy’s lips brushing dangerously near Philip’s ear. “She’s soft, isn’t she? Curvy. Everything you imagined. And she’s right here. Aching to know what your hands would feel like sliding all over her.”
Philip’s breath caught. He could feel the warmth of Jack’s presence, the whisper of Katy’s hair brushing his cheek. He tried to step away, but Vanessa’s body didn’t obey with the same steadiness as his own.
His hip bumped the desk, throwing him off balance. Jack’s hand shot out, steadying him. Grabbing his hips instead of his arm. Philip stiffened. The pressure of Katy’s palm against Vanessa’s midriff was startling. A hot reminder that this wasn’t a joke anymore.
“Jack,” Philip said, voice low with warning. But Jack only grinned, tightening his grip slightly, fingertips sliding along the hem of Vanessa’s shirt, tickling the strip of skin underneath.
“Relax. We’ve got time before the potion wears off. Why waste it panicking when we could explore?”
Philip shoved his hand away, heart hammering too fast. “We came here for one reason. Don’t fuck this up with your usual bullshit.”
Jack backed off in mock surrender, leaning against the wall and raising Katy’s hands. “Fine, fine. You want to pass up a once in a lifetime opportunity by being a pussy, instead of playing with one, go ahead.”
Philip ignored him and pulled open one of the dresser drawers, coming face to face with the mother lode.
A mass of lace and cotton, bright colors and neutrals, G-strings and briefs and bras, all folded neatly in little piles. He fumbled, pulling out a pair at random, trying not to notice the little bow stitched along the waistband, or theorize about which of the girls it belonged to.
“Got it,” he muttered, stuffing it into his pocket.
“We should leave and go and stash this somewhere so we can retrieve it when we’re us again.”
“Plenty of time for that. Are you seriously passing up the opportunity to find out what turns your crush on?”
Philip’s chest heaved, the bra beneath his shirt pinching tighter with the movement. Every tiny sensation was amplified in this shape. He had no idea girls had such sensitive bodies. If Vanessa's neck and shoulders were this responsive to stimuli, what about the more… delicate areas?
Jack leaned against the wall, watching his friend closely. Katy’s arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up in a way that made Philip avert his eyes.
“You really think you can ignore this?” Jack asked softly. “Ignore her?”
Philip didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, even as he tried to ignore it, every nerve in Vanessa’s body was alive with a tingling feeling he couldn’t shut off.
He told himself he wouldn’t look at the mirror again. That he had the underwear and all that was left to do was wait for the potion to burn off. But every time he moved, Vanessa’s body reminded him he wasn’t himself. The way her thighs brushed together when he shifted his stance. The heat trapped in the curve between her breasts. The way her nipples tightened when she saw the way Katy stared at her. The sudden, sharp contraction of pleasure between her legs.
Each detail was louder than thought. And Jack wouldn’t fucking give him space to breathe.
“You’re wound too tight,” Jack murmured, stepping closer again. Katy’s taller body loomed behind him, all lean lines and toned strength. He set Katy’s hands on Vanessa's shoulders from behind, massaging with deliberate slowness.
“Loosen up.”
Philip froze. The sensation was alien. Slender fingers pressing into the slope of Vanessa’s shoulders, kneading muscle softer than his own. His back arched without meaning to, chest pushing forward. He could feel the heat in his panties and almost smell the pheromones in the air.
“Jack-”
“Shh.”
Katy’s breath ghosted over his ear, warm and taunting. “Allow her to feel it. Her body isn’t fighting me. She likes this.”
Philip hated the way heat rippled through him at the words. The way Vanessa’s nipples pebbled instantly, turning aching and hard beneath her bra when Jack’s thumbs kept sensually running across her muscles.
He tried to step away, but Jack’s grip on her waist drew her back. Katy’s chest pressed flush against Vanessa’s back. Firm breasts molding against soft skin. Philip gasped, a small, betraying sound.
“That’s it,” Jack whispered, lips brushing the shell of Vanessa's ear. “You feel that, don’t you? How different it is?”
Philip bit his lip hard. But it didn’t stop his body from reacting. His chest ached with sensitivity, every brush of fabric against his nipples sparking hot shivers. His hips shifted against Jack’s hold, searching without meaning to. His ass pressing back, almost expecting to feel an erect cock there, relaxing when all he encountered was softness.
Jack slid one hand lower, over Vanessa’s flat stomach, fingertips grazing the waist of her denim skirt. Philip’s pulse spiked. He could feel the shape of her body in ways he’d only imagined.
“God, you’re actually shaking,” Jack teased. He pressed his palm harder, dragging upward until he cupped one of Vanessa’s breasts through her shirt. His hand molded perfectly to the curve, fingers sinking in slightly before closing over the nipples and pinching.
Philip jolted like he’d been shocked. The pressure sent heat exploding through him. So much sharper than he ever imagined. A moan slipped out, broken and needy, before he could stop it. Jack laughed low, his voice a husky echo in Katy’s mouth.
“I knew it. You’re loving this.”
Philip shook his head, but his body betrayed him. Vanessa’s breasts were soft in his own hands when Jack pulled them into place, squeezing and kneading.
The ache in his chest spread downward, a molten restlessness that coiled between his legs, where there was no longer any familiar weight. Only a slick, sensitive heat that made his thighs tense. Jack leaned closer, kissing the side of Vanessa's neck.
Katy’s lips left tingling sparks against her skin. He gasped again, tilting his head back without meaning to, giving Jack room to explore.
“You always wanted to know what she felt like, didn’t you?” Jack murmured between kisses. “Now you do. Every inch. Every little twitch. If you ever get the chance, you could make her cum in minutes.”
Philip squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to want this. But Vanessa’s body was singing beneath his skin, her curves hypersensitive to every touch, every squeeze. When Jack dragged his hand lower, cupping the swell of her ass through denim, Philip’s knees went weak. He stumbled, and they tumbled together onto the nearest bed. Vanessa’s smaller frame pinned beneath Katy’s.
Jack landed on top, grinning down, hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces. “Just lie back and enjoy it,” he said, voice husky. “I’ll do all the work and you can take notes in your head.”
Katy’s hips pressed down, grinding just enough for Philip to feel the press of her pussy against Vanessa's. The pleasure nearly made him see stars. What would it feel like if Katy actually touched her clit? Dragged her tongue over it? Sucked it between those soft lips?
Philip whimpered, his hands trapped between them, pressed against the curves of Katy’s sides. He could feel the warmth of skin through fabric. Every nerve screamed with arousal. Jack leaned down, lips hovering over his.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
Philip’s heart thundered. His lips parted, and he didn’t know if he was going to say I don’t or kiss Katy. His pulse roared in his ears. He could feel the weight of Vanessa’s chest rising and falling too fast, her heartbeat thundering in her ribs like a trapped animal.
Jack hovered over him, Katy’s taller frame caging him against the mattress, their borrowed hair spilling together in a curtain that smelled faintly of fruit.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” Philip rasped, but his voice cracked, betraying the tremor of arousal under the words.
Jack smirked. “I’m not joking.” He lowered Katy’s body until their breasts touched, brushing Katy’s peaked nipples against Vanessa’s rock hard ones. The friction alone made Philip gasp, heat shooting through him. It wasn’t like pressing chest-to-chest with another guy.
The give, the shape, the electric sting of nipples touching, every detail was overwhelming. He had no idea breasts were so receptive to the slightest touch. Vanessa's wasn’t even uncovered and they made him squirm.
“God,” he groaned before he could stop himself. Jack’s grin widened in satisfaction.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Every touch goes both ways. You squeeze her,” He pressed Katy’s hand down onto one of Vanessa’s breasts, forcing Philip to feel it fully, “And you are her.”
Philip arched into the contact despite himself. His hands moved up without any conscious thought. The weight of her breast in his palm, the nipple reacting instantly under his touch, each tiny spark flooded through him in a way his male body never reacted to anything but pressure on his cock.
He kneaded once, twice, and heat surged low in his stomach, between his thighs, turning his panties damp. His back bowed off the mattress, mouth falling open in a helpless sound.
Jack kissed him then. Katy’s mouth grazing Vanessa's jaw, the corner of her mouth, teasing as it moved around.
Every brush of her sweet lips left a wet, burning mark. Philip turned away, breathless, but Jack followed, biting gently at Vanessa’s neck until Philip gasped.
His thighs clenched hard. Something slick and molten was spreading there, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He could feel the absence, the soft, tender heat where his cock would usually be straining.
The pressure of denim against it only sharpened the ache. He needed Jack to touch Vanessa's pussy. He needed pressure. Jack ground down lightly and Philip bucked up helplessly, his own hands gripping Katy’s hips tight, chasing the friction he’d die without.
“Stop,” he panted, but the word broke halfway, turning into a moan. Jack chuckled low.
“Your body doesn’t want me to stop.” He kissed Vanessa again. Her lips plump, glossy, trembling beneath Katy’s teasing press. Philip’s breath hitched and his tongue flicked nervously against the edge of his teeth.
Every nerve screamed to close the distance, to taste what it felt like to kiss as a girl, to be kissed as a girl. Jack deepened the grind of their hips. Philip’s breath hitched sharply, a helpless whimper leaving his throat.
Heat surged through his belly, down his thighs, the ache between his legs swelling into a throbbing need. He arched against Katy, nails digging into her waist. There’s no way he was going to be able to say no. Jack had to make him cum.
Jack pulled back slightly, asking with twinkling eyes, “Shall we see how good Katy is at eating pussy?”
Philip knew what his answer should be, but his entire body was throbbing, yes yes yes.
Their mouths hovered a fraction apart, breaths mingling. The world narrowed to that single point of contact waiting to happen. Philip’s lips parted, ready, needy.
“Vanessa? Katy?” The voice cut through the fog like a blade, followed by the rap of knuckles on the door.
Philip’s eyes flew wide. Jack froze above him, both of them panting hard. “Vanessa, Katy!” another girl called from the hall. “We need you for the final discussions for tonight’s mixer!”
Silence. Only their ragged breaths, the hot press of bodies still locked together. Jack swore under his breath, rolling off Vanessa reluctantly.
“Just when things were about to get really good.”
Philip scrambled upright, Vanessa’s hair tangling in his face, chest heaving, nipples still hard and aching. He shoved shaky hands through the strands, trying to compose himself, though the slick heat between his thighs throbbed in open defiance.
He knew they should have kept their heads. If they let curiosity drag them off course they would blow the whole point of the night. The spell would end when it wanted and they had no idea when that would be.
Another knock. “Come on, you two! Hurry up! Megan saw you get in earlier, I know you’re in there.”
Jack smirked, tugging Katy’s tank top straight as if they hadn’t just been seconds from fucking each other into oblivion.
“Guess there’s more fun ahead. Don’t think you’re off the hook though, I’m still going to eat that pussy later and I fully expect to get repaid in kind.”
Philip sat frozen, heart still hammering, his mind spinning so fast he worried he might throw up.
With the sorority girls having already taken well known countermeasures to deal with any would be panty thieves, he thinks the chances of completing the challenge are near zero.
However, when his best friend Jack claims to have a plan involving a little magic and burrowing the bodies of his crush Vanessa and her roommate Katy, he knows he is in for a long night ahead when things don't exactly end up going to plan...
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The floor of Delta Epsilon’s house was sticky.
Beer, cheap cologne, and stale pizza had seeped into the carpet like a second skin, and Philip had the honor of scrubbing it clean while half a dozen brothers lounged on couches watching basketball highlights.
“Missed a spot,” one of them called, deliberately tilting a red Solo cup so that the last of his drink bled out onto the carpet inches from Philip’s sponge.
Philip clenched his jaw. He’d been degraded all semester, fetching fast food at three in the morning, running errands that skirted the edge of being criminal, serving as human furniture during drinking games. He told himself it would be worth it. Delta Epsilon’s parties were legendary, the kind of place girls lined up to get into. More importantly, alumni connections meant a shot at internships that led to real careers. You suffered now, you cashed in later.
Jack, naturally, thrived. He was perched on the arm of a sofa, balancing a tray of wings for two seniors, grinning like the humiliation was a party of its own.
“How’s that knee grease holding up, Phil?” he teased, eyebrows bouncing. Philip muttered something under his breath, pressing the sponge hard enough to leave his knuckles white. He’d thought pledging with his best friend would make things easier. Instead, Jack’s bottomless energy only made Philip feel like the boring one, always one step away from quitting.
The pledge master, Trent, finally called them over once the brothers had eaten their fill.
“You’ve made it further than many,” he said, addressing both Philip and Jack while tapping the ash off his cigar. “Scrubbing toilets, babysitting drunk brothers, taking whatever punishment we throw at you, you did it all without complaint. But Delta doesn’t hand out membership for free. There’s one last hurdle.”
Jack’s eyes lit up, while Philip felt his stomach knot. Trent leaned forward. “You’ve got until Saturday morning to bring us proof that you’re worthy of being Delta Epsilons. And by proof, I mean the underwear of one of the Theta sisters across the street.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Someone whistled. Another shouted, “Better hope they’re lace!”
Philip’s face burned hot. He’d expected something brutal. A dangerous stunt, or maybe even a tattoo or branding, not…this. Not something that felt like the set-up to a police record for being a creep.
Jack, of course, grinned like he’d just been handed a golden ticket. “Piece of cake,” he said.
“Piece of felony,” Philip muttered.
Trent ignored the comment. “You get caught, that’s your problem. Theta girls are sick of pranks. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you sneaking around. Fail, and you’ll have to re-pledge next semester, if we even let you back in. Succeed, and you’ll be full brothers by sunrise.”
He flicked his cigar ash into an empty beer can, and the matter was closed. Philip and Jack were dismissed like servants, slipping out into the cool night air. The frat house behind them thumped with bass as the next round of drinking games began.
Across the street, the Theta house glowed with warm yellow light, its windows alive with the silhouettes of girls laughing, moving and living in a world that felt forbidden.
Philip shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “This is insane. They want us to break into a sorority house. Forget expulsion, that’s actual jail time if we’re caught and reported.”
Jack slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Come on, man. It’s tradition. Everybody who ever wore Delta letters has done something crazy like this. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Philip shrugged him off. “You mean you’ll figure it out. And drag me with you.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Exactly. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” That phrase, I’ve got a plan, was the single most dangerous thing Jack could say. Philip knew better, but as he stared up at the Theta house, he couldn’t shake the truth. They’d come too far to back out now.
Philip assumed Jack’s “plan” would be something stupid but doable. Like sneaking into the Theta laundry room, bribing a janitor, or maybe finessing a stolen bra from lost-and-found.
What he didn’t expect, as their deadline creeped ever closer, was Jack pulling a battered paperback out of his backpack like he’d just smuggled the Necronomicon out of the library and declaring their troubles were about to be a thing of the past.
“What is that?” Philip asked, eyeing the faded title embossed with moons and symbols.
“Wiccan Rites and Rituals of the Body,” Jack said with a grin so wide it could split his face. “This baby is going to get us in.”
Philip stared. “That’s not a plan you idiot. That’s…props from a bad horror movie.”
“Correction,” Jack said, flipping through pages until he landed on one marked with a sticky note. “It’s a possession spell. All we need is something personal from the Thetas. Hair is perfect. One strand, and we’re golden.”
Philip blinked. “Hair. You want us to pluck a strand off someone’s head, mix it into some potion, and what? Astral-project into their underwear drawer?”
Jack leaned forward, whispering even though there was nobody else around. “Exactly. But into them, not their underwear drawer.”
For a moment, Philip couldn’t even find words. His friend was dead serious. His blue eyes glittered with the manic light of a man who believed in his own insanity. Philip pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack, you need help.”
“Correction again. We need help, and this is it. Think about it. We don’t sneak around, we don’t break and enter, we just become them. Walk right in the front door. Grab what we need and walk back out again. Easy as pie.”
Philip wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell Jack this was why pledges got expelled, why college urban legends started with two idiots reading a so-called spell book. But something about Jack’s certainty unsettled him.
“How do you even plan to get the hair?” Philip asked, deciding to humor him.
Jack smirked. “You’re partnered with Vanessa in chem lab. I’m with her roommate, Katy. Both of them happen to belong to the Theta Sorority. Boom. Easy.”
Philip’s stomach lurched. Vanessa, the Vanessa, the girl he’d spent the better part of a semester trying not to stare at. She was sharp, funny, gorgeous, and so out of his league it hurt. The idea of stealing a strand of her hair wasn’t just impossible, it was mortifying.
“Jack, if I even look at her hair the wrong way she’ll know. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be branded as the campus creep for the rest of my life.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Relax. I’ll take care of mine. You just…fumble your way through like usual. She likes you, right? I’m sure she’s called you sweet before. She won’t even notice.”
Lab that afternoon was a fluorescent blur of glassware and nerves. Bunsen burners hissed, and the sharp scent of acetone hung in the air. Vanessa tied her glossy black hair into a messy bun as she leaned over the counter, the soft hum she made under her breath cutting through the low chatter of other pairs.
Philip adjusted the clamp on their stand and tried to steady his hands, pretending to check the thermometer while sneaking a glance at her profile. The long lashes, the soft curve of her cheek when she smiled. He’d barely worked up the nerve to say something to her, when the door swung open and Ryan Hale strolled in.
Ryan wasn’t a student in their class, he was a teaching assistant who was busy with his Masters. The kind of nerd who looked more like he belonged in a movie poster than a chemistry lab. The Henry Cavill of the campus. Tall, effortlessly confident, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing forearms that probably did not belong to someone who spent his evenings doing titration reports.
“Need a hand, Vanessa?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth enough to make the words sound like an inside joke.
Vanessa’s whole face lit up. “Ryan! You’re still hanging around the underclassmen? I thought you were too cool for basic chem.”
“Guess I missed the fun crowd.” He winked, stepping close enough that Philip caught the faint smell of his cologne. Something woodsy and smug. Philip’s stomach twisted. He busied himself pretending to check their notes, but every word between Vanessa and Ryan pulled his focus like a hook through his ribs.
“Still showing off that perfect technique, huh?” Ryan teased, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Could use someone like you to calibrate my disastrous love life.”
Vanessa laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I told you last time, you need better lab partners, not better lines.”
“Maybe I just need one who actually likes me,” he said, voice dipping into something low and knowing. “You still wearing that purple dress that makes everyone else forget the experiment?”
She grinned, shaking her head. “Keep talking, and you’ll set the sprinklers off again.”
Ryan chuckled, backing away with a little salute. “Worth it.”
Philip’s jaw locked so tight it hurt. He shifted his beaker just to make noise. “Vanessa, uh, the solution’s ready,” he muttered.
She turned back, still smiling, a faint pink on her cheeks. “Right, sorry, I got distracted.” The way she said it made Philip want to vanish into the nearest fume hood.
Ryan gave him a nod that felt more like dismissal. “Good work, man. Don’t let her boss you around too much.”
Philip forced a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When Ryan finally moved on to check another table, the tension in Philip’s shoulders eased only slightly. Vanessa was still smiling to herself, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “He’s such a dork,” she said fondly.
“Yeah,” Philip replied, voice flat. “A real geek.”
She glanced at him, oblivious. “You okay? You look kind of pale.”
“Fine,” he lied. His pulse thundered. He hated how obvious it felt. The jealousy, the ridiculous possessiveness over a girl who barely saw him as more than a partner for lab reports.
Meanwhile, across the room, Jack was all charm. Katy, tall, athletic, focused on the work at hand with cool intensity, rolled her eyes at his constant jokes, but she didn’t seem to actively hate him. Jack’s hands moved casually, as if the experiment was background noise to whatever ridiculous story he was spinning.
Philip’s heart pounded. He couldn’t do it. Not to Vanessa. The thought of deliberately stealing a piece of her felt worse than any frat punishment. But then her bun slipped, and a single strand drifted onto the lab bench.
Philip froze and stared at it like it was radioactive. One perfect strand, right there. All he had to do was pick it up without her noticing. His hand twitched. Sweat beaded at his hairline. Vanessa reached for the pipette, and he panicked. He grabbed the strand too quickly, shoving it into his pocket like a thief.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “You good?” she asked.
Philip’s laugh came out strangled. “Yeah. Totally. Fine. Just, science, you know?”
She gave him a strange look, then turned back to the experiment. Across the room, Jack caught his eye and subtly flashed a triumphant thumbs-up. He mouthed, Got it. Philip wanted to throw up.
After class, they met outside, ducking into a quiet corner near the library. Jack pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket and wiggled it proudly. Katy’s strand of hair gleaming inside. Philip shoved his hands deep into his hoodie, where Vanessa’s strand burned against his palm like contraband.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “If she’d caught me, I’d have been ruined.”
Jack was practically buzzing. “But she didn’t. We’ve got everything. Today, we drink the potion. Tomorrow, we’re legends.”
Philip stared at him, feeling his chest tighten. It wasn’t the frat house that scared him anymore. It was Jack’s unwavering certainty, the gleam in his eye like he’d already crossed a line Philip couldn’t even see.
Back in their room, Jack had cleared his desk, pushing aside textbooks and laundry to make space for the battered paperback and a mess of supplies that looked like they’d been stolen from a Spirit Halloween clearance bin. Mason jars, candles, a bag of salt and something that Philip really, really hoped was red food coloring.
Philip sat on the bed, arms crossed, trying not to look at the plastic bag in his pocket. Inside was Vanessa’s hair, a single dark strand that felt heavier than lead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re going to set off the fire alarm, and we’ll get kicked out before we even fail the pledge.”
Jack was hunched over the desk, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he measured powder into a chipped coffee mug.
“Correction. You’re going to stop being so negative, because we’re going to waltz into Theta’s house like we own it and take our time finding the perfect proof. Something small, sexy and lacy. Then we hand it to Trent and we’re done. Easiest initiation ever and we’re lifelong members of the Delta Epsilon brotherhood.”
Philip shook his head. “You actually believe all the crap coming out of your mouth, don’t you?”
“Yes. Because I know this is going to work.” Jack’s grin was feral. He held up his mug, fizzing with something dark and faintly purple. “And very soon, you’re going to have to swallow all your pessimistic, dismissive words and admit that I’m the GOAT.” Without waiting for a response, he dropped Katy’s wavy strand of hair into the concoction.
Philip looked at his own brew, waiting for him on the desk. It reeked faintly of vinegar and something metallic. “This looks like cough syrup that went bad.”
Jack grabbed the paperback, muttering words under his breath. Latin? Gibberish? Philip couldn’t tell. The candlelight threw shadows across Jack’s face, making him look more unhinged than usual.
“Jack,” Philip said slowly, “You get that if this doesn’t work, we may be drinking poison?”
“Trust me,” Jack said, gesturing meaningfully at Philip’s mug. Those two words had been the prelude to every disaster Philip had lived through with him. The broken window in high school. The near arrest in freshman year. And now this.
Philip sighed, pulled Vanessa’s hair from his pocket, and dropped it into the liquid. It curled and fizzed, dissolving into the mixture like it had never been.
“Bottoms up,” Jack said cheerfully, chugging the contents in one long pull.
Philip raised his mug. The liquid shimmered oddly, like heat ripples above asphalt. He pinched his nose and tossed it back. It burned. Like swallowing melted pennies chased with bleach. His stomach roiled instantly, bile rising up.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked, slamming the cup down. “That’s not magic, that’s battery acid.”
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, coughing hard, but his grin didn’t falter. “Wait for it.”
Philip blinked and the dorm room folded in on itself. Candlelight bent sideways and the next breath tasted like coffee and paper. He was not in their room anymore. He was sitting at a table under tall windows, late afternoon light spilling amber over open textbooks and half empty cups.
The scent was library quiet and caffeine. Hair slid across his cheek. Definitely not his. It was long and silky. His hands were smaller, nails pink, wrists delicate. The weight on his chest tugged when he breathed. He was looking through Vanessa’s eyes.
Across from him, Katy sat in a chair with a pen in her hand and her mouth parted in a quiet, startled sound that belonged to Jack. “Holy shit,” Jack whispered in Katy’s voice.
Philip’s pulse spiked. “How the hell did I get here?” he asked under his breath, before the realization hit him fully. Jack’s crazy plan worked. He glanced down, eyes bugging at the soft cleavage he encountered. He was on the verge of completely freaking out. “Keep it together,” he muttered to himself. The sound of Vanessa's voice only sent him spiraling further into chaos.
Jack’s grin curled slow and wicked as he looked down at himself and then around them. He started to pull the top of Katy’s tank forward so he could peek at her breasts, before Philip shot him a look that could choke a man at twenty paces.
“Don’t,” Philip hissed. “Katy would never do something like that in public!”
Jack laughed, high and breathy in Katy’s voice. “You’re telling me you’re not even curious? Come on, man. We’re in. This is unreal. Don’t you want to know what it feels like to them when we touch them?”
Philip swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. He gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from spiraling into sensory overload.
“This…this isn’t possible,” he whispered. But the evidence pressed in from every side. The scent of citrus shampoo in his hair, the tug of bra straps against his shoulders, the fullness in his chest when he inhaled. The emptiness where his cock should be.
Philip’s eyes darted anxiously around the library cafe. “We need to get out of here before someone notices something off,” Philip said. “People pick up on the smallest wrong note.” He was terrified that someone would realize the girls were possessed.
He spent way too much time staring at Vanessa, but that didn’t mean he could copy her actions. If anyone watched them closely, they’d know immediately that there were impostors inhabiting Vanessa and Katy.
“We should go back to their room and fool around,” Jack suggested immediately, hands on Katy’s breasts, squeezing idly.
“Jesus, Jack, stop that! They’re in public. We’re in public…”
This was such a mind-fuck. Clearly they were literally possessing Vanessa and Katy’s bodies. Where was Vanessa's consciousness now? Asleep? Aware? He didn’t feel like someone was watching him, so hopefully she had no idea what he was doing. And where were his and Jack’s bodies? Still in their dorm room? Fuck. If he’d known there was any chance of this working, he’d never have gone through with it.
“Come on bestie, let’s go home,” Jack cooed at him. “I’m just dying to get out of these pesky clothes.”
Jack clearly had zero second thoughts about any of this. Then again, Jack had never had a second thought in his life. He rarely had first ones. Philip decided that only made him a bigger idiot for always following his friend’s crazy plans.
Philip took a deep breath, gathered Vanessa’s things and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder before getting up on shaky legs. The plan was to reach Theta house without interacting with anyone who knew the girls.
Vanessa was outgoing and popular, so he kept his eyes trained on the ground to avoid any accidental socializing.
He was doing his best to focus on the mission, but every move betrayed him. Vanessa’s curves shifted differently from his own. Her hips swayed without permission when he walked. The tug of the denim skirt around her thighs was tighter than he was used to, the waistband sitting higher, the soft curtain of hair continuously falling into his eyes. And he kept fighting the urge to run his fingertips over her lustrous, satiny skin.
Philip thanked his lucky stars that it was late afternoon sliding toward evening and most of the Theta girls were either at dinner, in class, or busy with the mixer prep.
The second piece of good luck was the fact that the first year members of the sorority had the downstairs bedrooms and Katy and Vanessa had their names picked out in glittery wooden letters on their door. Which saved him and Jack from being caught wandering aimlessly into someone else’s room and rifling through their underwear.
“Come on,” he hissed at Jack, nearly having heart failure when he heard Vanessa’s sweet, bubbly voice, before remembering it came from his own mouth.
As soon as they entered the room, Philip froze like a deer in headlights.
The room smelled like them. A heady mix of perfume, make-up and detergent. Several photos of Vanessa and Katy were pinned to the notice board. Keys with a little Theta charm lay on a desk. Lip gloss on each bedside table. A folded flyer about the upcoming mixer. Every object made him feel like an intruder in a life that wasn’t his.
Then he looked up and saw his reflection thrown back at him from the floor length mirror fastened to the opposite wall. Vanessa stared back. Her round face framed by shiny black hair, lips glossed in pale pink, eyes wide with Philip’s panic.
“This isn’t possible,” he murmured hoarsely.
Jack crossed the room with Katy’s energetic stride, hair swinging over her shoulder. He leaned down, far too close, eyes alight with mischief.
“Possible or not, it’s happening. And we’ve got hours before it wears off. Wanna play?” Philip’s pulse thundered. He was in Vanessa’s body. Jack was in Katy’s. He had no idea what their real bodies were doing or where, only that they were not here. For the first time since pledging Delta, he realized he was more terrified of his best friend than of any frat brother.
Jack was practically bouncing around like a kid in a candy store, repeatedly mentioning how awesome it is to have tits.
“This is insane,” Philip muttered, running a hand through Vanessa’s long hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, brushing the back of his neck, constantly in his peripheral vision. Every little tickle made him twitch. “I feel like I’m drowning in shampoo.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah. It’s fucking awesome. Look at this.” He shook his head, letting Katy’s long, dark hair fall over her shoulders, framing her face, then bit her lower lip between her teeth and winked at Philip seductively. “Tell me this doesn’t look hot.”
Philip turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of the curve of Katy’s collarbone, the tan line along her shoulder where a sports bra must’ve once sat. He gritted his teeth.
“We’re only here to grab underwear and then we get out. That’s it.” Jack made a distracted sound, which didn’t entirely sound like agreement.
He was testing everything. Squeezing Katy’s biceps and delighting in the subtle muscle definition, stretching out one long leg and flexing her calf muscles, even bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet as if testing how springy she was.
Philip was still focused on the reflection in the mirror. He stepped closer, and the image followed, familiar and foreign all at once. He raised a hand. She raised a hand. Jack appeared beside him, sliding Katy’s body into view. She was taller, leaner, her shoulders broader than Vanessa’s.
Katy was studious and fairly quiet normally, but Jack’s grin warped her into something hungry. A femme fatale in search of her next prey.
“Dude, look at us,” Jack whispered. “We actually pulled it off. We’re fucking hot!”
Philip swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. “We shouldn’t be looking. This is… it’s too much.”
“Too much fun,” Jack corrected. He pressed closer to the mirror, tilting Katy’s head, pursing her lips, sticking out her tongue just to see how it looked. He laughed in delight. “God, the way this mouth moves, it’s unreal.”
Philip tried to drag his eyes away, but curiosity betrayed him. His gaze dipped, catching sight of Vanessa’s chest in the reflection. The neckline of her shirt clung close, clearly showing the outline of her nipples. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned away sharply. He was not going to lift her top and take a peek.
“You’re staring,” Jack teased, slipping behind him and resting Katy’s hands on Vanessa’s hips.
Katy’s reflection loomed over Vanessa’s smaller frame in the mirror. “What’s it like, having the body of your crush? Bet you’ve fantasized about having unfettered access to her before. Touching every inch of her. Running your palms over her perky tits. Cupping her pussy.”
Philip’s face went hot. “Shut up.”
Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping, Katy’s lips brushing dangerously near Philip’s ear. “She’s soft, isn’t she? Curvy. Everything you imagined. And she’s right here. Aching to know what your hands would feel like sliding all over her.”
Philip’s breath caught. He could feel the warmth of Jack’s presence, the whisper of Katy’s hair brushing his cheek. He tried to step away, but Vanessa’s body didn’t obey with the same steadiness as his own.
His hip bumped the desk, throwing him off balance. Jack’s hand shot out, steadying him. Grabbing his hips instead of his arm. Philip stiffened. The pressure of Katy’s palm against Vanessa’s midriff was startling. A hot reminder that this wasn’t a joke anymore.
“Jack,” Philip said, voice low with warning. But Jack only grinned, tightening his grip slightly, fingertips sliding along the hem of Vanessa’s shirt, tickling the strip of skin underneath.
“Relax. We’ve got time before the potion wears off. Why waste it panicking when we could explore?”
Philip shoved his hand away, heart hammering too fast. “We came here for one reason. Don’t fuck this up with your usual bullshit.”
Jack backed off in mock surrender, leaning against the wall and raising Katy’s hands. “Fine, fine. You want to pass up a once in a lifetime opportunity by being a pussy, instead of playing with one, go ahead.”
Philip ignored him and pulled open one of the dresser drawers, coming face to face with the mother lode.
A mass of lace and cotton, bright colors and neutrals, G-strings and briefs and bras, all folded neatly in little piles. He fumbled, pulling out a pair at random, trying not to notice the little bow stitched along the waistband, or theorize about which of the girls it belonged to.
“Got it,” he muttered, stuffing it into his pocket.
“We should leave and go and stash this somewhere so we can retrieve it when we’re us again.”
“Plenty of time for that. Are you seriously passing up the opportunity to find out what turns your crush on?”
Philip’s chest heaved, the bra beneath his shirt pinching tighter with the movement. Every tiny sensation was amplified in this shape. He had no idea girls had such sensitive bodies. If Vanessa's neck and shoulders were this responsive to stimuli, what about the more… delicate areas?
Jack leaned against the wall, watching his friend closely. Katy’s arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up in a way that made Philip avert his eyes.
“You really think you can ignore this?” Jack asked softly. “Ignore her?”
Philip didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, even as he tried to ignore it, every nerve in Vanessa’s body was alive with a tingling feeling he couldn’t shut off.
He told himself he wouldn’t look at the mirror again. That he had the underwear and all that was left to do was wait for the potion to burn off. But every time he moved, Vanessa’s body reminded him he wasn’t himself. The way her thighs brushed together when he shifted his stance. The heat trapped in the curve between her breasts. The way her nipples tightened when she saw the way Katy stared at her. The sudden, sharp contraction of pleasure between her legs.
Each detail was louder than thought. And Jack wouldn’t fucking give him space to breathe.
“You’re wound too tight,” Jack murmured, stepping closer again. Katy’s taller body loomed behind him, all lean lines and toned strength. He set Katy’s hands on Vanessa's shoulders from behind, massaging with deliberate slowness.
“Loosen up.”
Philip froze. The sensation was alien. Slender fingers pressing into the slope of Vanessa’s shoulders, kneading muscle softer than his own. His back arched without meaning to, chest pushing forward. He could feel the heat in his panties and almost smell the pheromones in the air.
“Jack-”
“Shh.”
Katy’s breath ghosted over his ear, warm and taunting. “Allow her to feel it. Her body isn’t fighting me. She likes this.”
Philip hated the way heat rippled through him at the words. The way Vanessa’s nipples pebbled instantly, turning aching and hard beneath her bra when Jack’s thumbs kept sensually running across her muscles.
He tried to step away, but Jack’s grip on her waist drew her back. Katy’s chest pressed flush against Vanessa’s back. Firm breasts molding against soft skin. Philip gasped, a small, betraying sound.
“That’s it,” Jack whispered, lips brushing the shell of Vanessa's ear. “You feel that, don’t you? How different it is?”
Philip bit his lip hard. But it didn’t stop his body from reacting. His chest ached with sensitivity, every brush of fabric against his nipples sparking hot shivers. His hips shifted against Jack’s hold, searching without meaning to. His ass pressing back, almost expecting to feel an erect cock there, relaxing when all he encountered was softness.
Jack slid one hand lower, over Vanessa’s flat stomach, fingertips grazing the waist of her denim skirt. Philip’s pulse spiked. He could feel the shape of her body in ways he’d only imagined.
“God, you’re actually shaking,” Jack teased. He pressed his palm harder, dragging upward until he cupped one of Vanessa’s breasts through her shirt. His hand molded perfectly to the curve, fingers sinking in slightly before closing over the nipples and pinching.
Philip jolted like he’d been shocked. The pressure sent heat exploding through him. So much sharper than he ever imagined. A moan slipped out, broken and needy, before he could stop it. Jack laughed low, his voice a husky echo in Katy’s mouth.
“I knew it. You’re loving this.”
Philip shook his head, but his body betrayed him. Vanessa’s breasts were soft in his own hands when Jack pulled them into place, squeezing and kneading.
The ache in his chest spread downward, a molten restlessness that coiled between his legs, where there was no longer any familiar weight. Only a slick, sensitive heat that made his thighs tense. Jack leaned closer, kissing the side of Vanessa's neck.
Katy’s lips left tingling sparks against her skin. He gasped again, tilting his head back without meaning to, giving Jack room to explore.
“You always wanted to know what she felt like, didn’t you?” Jack murmured between kisses. “Now you do. Every inch. Every little twitch. If you ever get the chance, you could make her cum in minutes.”
Philip squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to want this. But Vanessa’s body was singing beneath his skin, her curves hypersensitive to every touch, every squeeze. When Jack dragged his hand lower, cupping the swell of her ass through denim, Philip’s knees went weak. He stumbled, and they tumbled together onto the nearest bed. Vanessa’s smaller frame pinned beneath Katy’s.
Jack landed on top, grinning down, hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces. “Just lie back and enjoy it,” he said, voice husky. “I’ll do all the work and you can take notes in your head.”
Katy’s hips pressed down, grinding just enough for Philip to feel the press of her pussy against Vanessa's. The pleasure nearly made him see stars. What would it feel like if Katy actually touched her clit? Dragged her tongue over it? Sucked it between those soft lips?
Philip whimpered, his hands trapped between them, pressed against the curves of Katy’s sides. He could feel the warmth of skin through fabric. Every nerve screamed with arousal. Jack leaned down, lips hovering over his.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
Philip’s heart thundered. His lips parted, and he didn’t know if he was going to say I don’t or kiss Katy. His pulse roared in his ears. He could feel the weight of Vanessa’s chest rising and falling too fast, her heartbeat thundering in her ribs like a trapped animal.
Jack hovered over him, Katy’s taller frame caging him against the mattress, their borrowed hair spilling together in a curtain that smelled faintly of fruit.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” Philip rasped, but his voice cracked, betraying the tremor of arousal under the words.
Jack smirked. “I’m not joking.” He lowered Katy’s body until their breasts touched, brushing Katy’s peaked nipples against Vanessa’s rock hard ones. The friction alone made Philip gasp, heat shooting through him. It wasn’t like pressing chest-to-chest with another guy.
The give, the shape, the electric sting of nipples touching, every detail was overwhelming. He had no idea breasts were so receptive to the slightest touch. Vanessa's wasn’t even uncovered and they made him squirm.
“God,” he groaned before he could stop himself. Jack’s grin widened in satisfaction.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Every touch goes both ways. You squeeze her,” He pressed Katy’s hand down onto one of Vanessa’s breasts, forcing Philip to feel it fully, “And you are her.”
Philip arched into the contact despite himself. His hands moved up without any conscious thought. The weight of her breast in his palm, the nipple reacting instantly under his touch, each tiny spark flooded through him in a way his male body never reacted to anything but pressure on his cock.
He kneaded once, twice, and heat surged low in his stomach, between his thighs, turning his panties damp. His back bowed off the mattress, mouth falling open in a helpless sound.
Jack kissed him then. Katy’s mouth grazing Vanessa's jaw, the corner of her mouth, teasing as it moved around.
Every brush of her sweet lips left a wet, burning mark. Philip turned away, breathless, but Jack followed, biting gently at Vanessa’s neck until Philip gasped.
His thighs clenched hard. Something slick and molten was spreading there, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He could feel the absence, the soft, tender heat where his cock would usually be straining.
The pressure of denim against it only sharpened the ache. He needed Jack to touch Vanessa's pussy. He needed pressure. Jack ground down lightly and Philip bucked up helplessly, his own hands gripping Katy’s hips tight, chasing the friction he’d die without.
“Stop,” he panted, but the word broke halfway, turning into a moan. Jack chuckled low.
“Your body doesn’t want me to stop.” He kissed Vanessa again. Her lips plump, glossy, trembling beneath Katy’s teasing press. Philip’s breath hitched and his tongue flicked nervously against the edge of his teeth.
Every nerve screamed to close the distance, to taste what it felt like to kiss as a girl, to be kissed as a girl. Jack deepened the grind of their hips. Philip’s breath hitched sharply, a helpless whimper leaving his throat.
Heat surged through his belly, down his thighs, the ache between his legs swelling into a throbbing need. He arched against Katy, nails digging into her waist. There’s no way he was going to be able to say no. Jack had to make him cum.
Jack pulled back slightly, asking with twinkling eyes, “Shall we see how good Katy is at eating pussy?”
Philip knew what his answer should be, but his entire body was throbbing, yes yes yes.
Their mouths hovered a fraction apart, breaths mingling. The world narrowed to that single point of contact waiting to happen. Philip’s lips parted, ready, needy.
“Vanessa? Katy?” The voice cut through the fog like a blade, followed by the rap of knuckles on the door.
Philip’s eyes flew wide. Jack froze above him, both of them panting hard. “Vanessa, Katy!” another girl called from the hall. “We need you for the final discussions for tonight’s mixer!”
Silence. Only their ragged breaths, the hot press of bodies still locked together. Jack swore under his breath, rolling off Vanessa reluctantly.
“Just when things were about to get really good.”
Philip scrambled upright, Vanessa’s hair tangling in his face, chest heaving, nipples still hard and aching. He shoved shaky hands through the strands, trying to compose himself, though the slick heat between his thighs throbbed in open defiance.
He knew they should have kept their heads. If they let curiosity drag them off course they would blow the whole point of the night. The spell would end when it wanted and they had no idea when that would be.
Another knock. “Come on, you two! Hurry up! Megan saw you get in earlier, I know you’re in there.”
Jack smirked, tugging Katy’s tank top straight as if they hadn’t just been seconds from fucking each other into oblivion.
“Guess there’s more fun ahead. Don’t think you’re off the hook though, I’m still going to eat that pussy later and I fully expect to get repaid in kind.”
Philip sat frozen, heart still hammering, his mind spinning so fast he worried he might throw up.
mtf
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Kent is young guy that has to spend the summer paying off his debt after accidentally damaging his bitch of a neighbour Julie’s car while playing a game with his friend Marcus. Kent resigns himself to working as Julie’s glorified servant, that is until he finds an odd looking idol that allows him to possess her body. Now with a summer of freedom ahead and Julie’s hot body to do with as he pleases, Kent is looking forward to making up for lost time and having some fun.
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The push mower's dull rattle droned in Kent’s ears, blades whirring through the grass. His body strained beneath the midday sun, and through damp lashes, he caught the blur of a cherry-red convertible roaring down the road—top down, laughter trailing like exhaust.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, wiping away another hand of sweat.
The mower sputtered as he yanked it over a thick patch near Julie’s hydrangeas. He imagined Marcus at the wheel, music cranked, their friends crowded in the back seat, already sunburned and salty from the ocean. They wouldn’t miss him today; they probably hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t around these days.
The sun seared, hammering against his back, arms, the nape of his neck where his hair stuck and tangled. Kent tried not to groan, but it was getting harder not to resent the injustice of it all. He trudged along, kicking dust into the air, each pass of the mower a reminder of how thoroughly he'd been screwed.
Two weeks ago, he’d been carefree, tossing a ball back and forth with Marcus in his front yard. It had all gone wrong so fast: Marcus’ wild throw, laughing at Kent’s half-hearted protest, goading him to catch it. Kent squinted against the sky; his hand fumbled the air. The dull clang was the sound of his afternoon crashing against Julie’s car, leaving a perfect circle of incrimination in the glossy finish.
They'd both stared—Marcus with lips curled around the brink of a "whoops," and Kent with his gut unraveling through his shirt.
Marcus caught his eye and smiled like he’d planned the whole thing. "No one saw. Chill, man!" Kent opened his mouth, closed it, hoped it wasn’t as big a deal as he feared.
It was.
The door slammed with the sharp report of impending disaster, and there was Julie in full fury, an avenging angel with a tan. "Which one of you incompetent brats—" She halted, eyes narrowing at the guilty-looking crease on her convertible’s door. Her voice fell, low and venomous. "—thinks this is funny?"
Kent swallowed. He hated the dryness in his mouth, the stickiness on his palms. He hated the dent in the car, hated Marcus's grin, and hated even more how it slid away into something else. Something innocent, friendly. "Hey, Ms. Bentley. We were just leaving a note."
She crossed the lawn with the gait of someone used to having her way, every step as dangerous as an exclamation mark. "Try again, boys."
"We were—"
"He threw it," Kent interrupted. "It got away from him. We’ll get it fixed."
"Kent..." Marcus raised his eyebrows, a betrayed chorus of one.
"You’re damn right you’ll get it fixed." Julie’s attention speared Kent and held. He could feel Marcus shifting, inching toward the door. "And you’ll work off every cent. Both of you."
The pause stretched longer than the afternoon sun. "I guess I can help," Marcus finally said, with the agonized reluctance of a guy donating a kidney. "If I don’t work weekends, and if Mom doesn’t ground me again—"
"Save it," Kent muttered, already caught, already sentenced. He’d seen this play out before. "I’ll take care of it."
Marcus’s hand clamped on his shoulder with all the sincerity of a condolence card bought half-price. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
"I know you will," Kent had replied, staring past Julie's gloating smile to where Marcus, framed by sunlight and betrayal, had slouched away.
Back in the present, the sun hadn’t moved. Kent kicked the mower into a new row, ignoring how his arms shook from the effort, ignoring how his thoughts spun through pointless what-ifs. He ducked his head, let the work and heat crush him down until he was too small to bother with.
The next pass went easier. Resignation did that—took the sting out of unfairness like Novocain. Kent mowed numbly, lines and rows blurring into one another until the grass lay behind him.
Two more weeks of this? A lifetime? Might as well. Julie was a woman who knew how to wield silence as well as threats. Not for the first time, Kent wondered why Marcus ever threw the damn ball.
He finished, choked the mower dead, wiped sweat from his eyes. His skin felt crispy and tight. All he needed was a dive, no a dip—of his toe into the pool. That would fix it all.
"Is this a joke to you?" Julie's voice, another thing that refused to wilt in the heat.
Kent was shaken back to the present, and caught in the scent of chlorine and coconut oil threading through the afternoon air. He was standing on the edge of the water as Julie stretched relaxingly, every move as intentional as the flick of her gaze.
Her bikini clung like sweat, and Kent's eyes traced its path against his will.
"This isn't acceptable," she said. "Again."
He wanted to disappear into the chlorinated depths, but she was already lounging back, already dismissing him from her thoughts as she dangled new chores between them like a cat with an injured mouse.
"A kid your age shouldn’t have such a hard time keeping up." Julie's eyes glinted like a promise he wasn't going to get. Kent swallowed a retort, tasted salt on his upper lip instead. She knew the effect she had, both in giving orders and ignoring them. "My daughter could do better."
"I doubt that." The words slipped out with a touch more venom than he'd meant.
Kent turned away, wanting to muffle the clink of ice against her glass with his own hands around her throat. Or maybe his own hands around his own throat. He couldn’t decide.
"I don't need attitude. I need that lawn mowed right."
It was a subtle dance of dominance. One she performed like a pro, even reclining. Julie's skin shone like polished bronze under the sun. The same sun had Kent looking like a washed-up sweat rag by comparison. A rag that hadn't worked off his debt, yet.
Julie glanced back at the pool, effectively tossing him from her thoughts, while he stood dumbly in the tangle of lust, obligation, and a boy’s last ounce of pride.
"You want me to go over it again?" His voice cracked—broke around the words.
Her chin tilted up, uninterested. "If it’s not perfect, you’ll keep doing it until it is. Start with the hedges. I expect more from you."
Kent shuffled away, back toward the toolshed.
Home. Kent made his way home that night, in a huff. The familiar house sat quiet and useless, just like his last three paychecks.
Mom greeted him as he trudged through the kitchen door, hand resting on his shoulder—too gentle to be real sympathy. Dad folded a corner of the paper down, equally gentle. "Get it all finished up?"
Kent slumped into the chair across from them, felt himself sink. "Not quite. She keeps adding stuff—"
Mom shook her head. "She wouldn’t do that if you did it right the first time, honey."
"I did do it right! She’s just—" Beautiful, unreasonable, half-naked, impossible. The words tangled up in each other, fell into a frustrated heap at his feet. "—Julie. I’ll never get it done."
Dad was halfway through a reply when Kent cut in. "Can you at least admit this is bullshit?"
"Language, Kent." Mom’s voice held the same note Julie’s did. "You know why you have to finish. We’ve been over this. A hundred times."
"A thousand," Kent grumbled, feeling very young and very old at once.
"A hundred," Dad agreed, unfolding another section of newspaper.
It wasn’t what Kent wanted, but it was more than he'd get from Julie. "She says it’ll take weeks."
"Not if you stick with it," Mom said.
That sounded suspiciously like something he told himself when he woke up to do it all over again.
"I’m not being unreasonable. Marcus should—"
Dad’s look cut him off. "Marcus should listen to his mother and be more like you. Get your things done instead of complaining. It’ll build character, son."
Kent braced against the edges of their insistence, the too-smooth conviction he felt slipping past him like oil on water. He needed it rougher, sharper, like sandpaper. Instead, they filed him down to nothing, left him to carry the pieces.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Character."
Kent walked through the inferno to Julie’s again the next morning. The sprinklers had done more to cool the yard than he ever would.
She let him in, and Kent found himself in the toolshed again. He was being dramatic, he knew it, but he saw himself doomed to middle age before he left this hellscape.
That’s why you did it, Marcus. To build character. That’s what Kent wanted to believe.
He hoisted a gas can, hated the way it felt so familiar. "Get it all finished up?" he muttered, mocking more than himself.
At the edge of the yard, Marcus’s words snagged his thoughts. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
Kent cringed inwardly, the flashback was as unwelcome as Marcus’s easy grin. He wasn’t getting anything out of this. The mower whirred to life again, drowning out the last bit of sanity Kent had.
Task 2: Move an ungodly amount of boxes.
Julie watched from the side of the pool again, an ice cube balanced between her lips, as Kent hauled a heavy box across the patio. His steps were an awkward choreography of anger and heat exhaustion. She stretched a leg, attention already back on her phone. "I’m not running a charity, Kent. I expect all of those moved by the end of the day."
His body screamed for rest, but he plowed forward. If she wanted to break him, it would take more than a few shopping sprees and heat waves to do it.
"Commitment, Kent. I need to see you’re committed to paying what you owe," Julie said. She reached lazily for a magazine. Kent nearly buckled under the weight. The sprinklers sputtered on, mocking him. His arms throbbed, and the boxes felt heavier with every step.
Kent glared back at the pool. "Is this all of them?"
Julie sipped her drink, feigning deep consideration. "We'll see, won’t we?"
The heat was a solid thing. He dragged himself back for the next load, ignored the stubborn itch of humiliation as he passed her sun chair. Julie's skin was already bronzed, glowing against the red of her bikini like Christmas in July. She wasn't even watching. Her complete lack of attention chafed worse than his sticky shirt. Maybe this wasn’t better than the lawn.
Kent shook his head and moved another box.
Julie seemed perfectly at ease, flipping the pages without even glancing at him. In turn, each glance he stole fueled the resentment he was supposed to be working off. No, it grew. Larger than him, larger than life.
Kent sighed. Three trips later and Kent's shoulders felt like they were shredding. Julie's calm was like ice in his throat, grating.
She made a bored gesture in his direction.
"I’m going, I’m going," he muttered, head lowered. Prisoner.
"I almost believe you, dear."
Kent rubbed his shoulder, wished he could ignore it as easily as she ignored him. He wanted to break something, maybe her resolve. Maybe his own.
Halfway through the stack, the boxes became heavier. How? Kent’s eyes bulged as her struggled to keep a box in his arms, needing to use his legs to stabilise it.
"Careful," she called without looking up, her foot dangling in the pool. The water, like the entire house, was a universe away. His jaw tightened like the strings of a cheap violin. His actions were almost noble if nobility felt like dirt, grit, and sarcasm. Maybe he wouldn’t get what he wanted—freedom, the beach, even Julie’s attention—but he could work until nothing mattered.
Task 3: Clean the attic.
Kent sneezed.
The attic smelled like dead things, old things, dust and age and memories. Light filtered through a single window, and dust motes mocked him as they danced around. He waved a hand in front of his face, spitting out dirt and frustration in equal measure.
Julie’s voice floated up the stairs, a siren call to hell. "Get it all done, Kent."
He choked on a reply and another sneeze. This was the worst. His arms screamed for relief, but he grabbed a broom instead. Webs clung to every part of the room, and Kent wondered if a spider bit him what kind of superpowers he’d get. Maybe he’d turn into a kid who had some actual free time.
Kent swept the floor with the same dedication that had gotten him here in the first place. He imagined Marcus at the beach, surrounded by friends and bikinis that weren’t his boss’s. The broom handle dug into his blistered palms, and he pushed harder, until the pile of dust and dirt became a small mountain of failure.
He coughed, doubled over. This was pointless. He rubbed his face with a dirty shirt sleeve, smeared the mess across his cheek. A week ago he might have cared.
The broom thudded against the wall. He leaned against it, feeling the sting of dust and sweat in his eyes. It was a lost cause. The whole thing.
Something caught his eye. A figure, cloaked under a dusty wool blanket. He reached for it, more curious than he should have been, and pulled the fabric away.
A doll? An idol?
Kent almost laughed at the absurdity. An old-fashioned thing, with yellowing lace and painted eyes that stared past him like Julie did. He wiped his hands on his shirt, reached for it, fingers closing around the figure. Maybe it—
One touch, and it was the last contact he had, the last time he felt a thing.
One step, and he felt himself shift and separate, pulling apart like a zipper splitting seams that held his mind and body tight. There was a ripping sensation, a fraying sensation, and then a lightness so complete Kent thought he might disappear entirely.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed in his mind.
Kent looked down at his hands, saw them glowing a pale blue that didn’t hide what was behind them. See-through? Transparent? He was floating-feather light, above the attic floor. Above the mess he’d made of it, above his own body, which was slumped where he’d left it.
His first thought was to panic. His second thought was that he already had. He drifted forward, then back. What just happened?
Was he dead?
No, that wasn’t right. Dead people didn’t get mad, and Kent was mad as hell. He was anything but dead.
He was alive, more alive than he ever felt. Alive, free of the heat and the drudgery and the persistent ache of muscle and bone. Alive, free, and…shimmering?
Kent felt the spark of something he hadn’t felt in weeks. Possibility.
His spirit stretched into the attic's corners, testing his new reach, dancing through the crowded loft. He shot past his old body, tempted to wave. He'd give it up again without a second thought. Let Julie wonder what magic swapped out her slave, wonder what left her so completely she couldn’t yell at it.
Kent skipped through the abandoned boxes, gliding over ancient bags, years of forgotten excess. One flick of his ghostly finger set the attic in motion, objects swaying like they finally believed in ghosts.
They had to believe. Kent wasn't even trying, not yet. He might have spent the entire day haunting her past, finding new things to set loose.
He stuck his head through the attic wall, through the attic floor, and stared at the room below. It was upside down, or maybe he was? Not that it mattered when he could fly—when he could phase. He could phase through walls. Kent laughed at the brilliance of it, the sheer giddiness of going where no one wanted him. He stretched his spirit like a growing boy, like a growing thought, and shot down into Julie’s world.
He peeked out through the window, head first of course. Then his shoulders followed, then his legs. Next thing, Kent was soaring over the manicured lawn that he manicured. He stopped short of her lawn chair, hovering in the blistering summer heat. He felt none of it. Nice!
The chair, the yard, the entire universe looked different when it wasn't pushing him around. A magazine perched on the small table next to her. She relaxed, as fully and completely as if he'd never existed.
Kent watched, waiting to see if she'd notice the power shift. Notice him. It was all he could do not to burst with thrill of possibilities.
But nothing happened. No matter how long he stared at her, she barely felt his eyes on her.
Then he nudged it, pushing at the magazine with a single finger. It slipped from the table, fluttering down onto the grass.
She glanced at it, not even removing her sunglasses. "Wind’s picking up," she mumbled, and leaned back into her own self-absorption.
"Okay," he thought to himself. "If you want to play, let’s play."
Kent pulled at the towel that draped her sun chair. It slipped to the ground with a thud. This time, Julie's eyes popped open. She stared around the yard like she'd just seen him flung from the roof, like her furniture flung itself from the roof.
Her eyes were slits, suspicious, curious, but not afraid. "Ha ha," Kent heard her say. Fine.
He tugged next at the sunscreen, nudging it off her lap, and watching it roll into the water. Julie sat up. Her brow furrowed, and after a long second she slowly slid the sunglasses down her nose. Kent almost laughed. She was so used to getting her way, she couldn't comprehend the universe acting out.
“It’s not funny,” she shouted at cosmic injustice, and at Kent. “Who’s there?”
Kent hovered above her, a cheeky grin spread across his face. The rules had changed—she was playing the game now, and he was the game master. Kent shoved at the drink in her hand, watched as it splashed cold ice, and lemonade on her sun-warmed skin. Julie yelped, surprised. An ice cube melted between her fingers, over her navel, all along the exact same path Kent’s thoughts wanted to travel.
This time, she stood.
However, it was the wrong move.
Kent yanked at the string on her bikini, wild and reckless. The top slipped loose, and before he could whoop with victory, the world stopped.
It happened again.
The same shifting, the same separation. Julie’s spirit rose out of her body like steam from a kettle. She stared down at herself, and then right through him. Kent froze. Her spirit paused, hovered.
Then Kent did what he did best.
He panicked.
How to fix this? How to fix this? How to not get caught?
Kent grabbed at Julie’s astral form, desperate to reverse what he’d done. Instead, it became even worse. When he came to his sense again, his astral form was anew—only it wasn’t. He was inside Julie’s spirit, possessing her essence.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed again. This time, out loud.
Kent looked down at himself, but all he saw was Julie’s astral body. Her real one took that very moment to slump sideways, falling on the lawn chair with all the grace of a corpse.
A beautiful, half-naked, very vulnerable corpse.
Kent—Julie—stood in shock, mind racing through the possibilities. He could leave her like this. She’d never know. But then another thought crashed over him, stronger than the first: If he didn’t get caught, he’d never get the chance again.
He dove for Julie’s body, not feeling the grass beneath his feet or the sun on his bare shoulders, feeling only the thrill of new freedom around him. It was a game, and he was winning. Kent entered her body through her astral form, through the space where she had left herself open to him.
He settled in.
Kent sat up, eyes going wide when he moved Julie’s body with his own will. The bikini top hung loose, her skin tingled from the lemonade, and he felt everything. Was everything. He was inside her, but more than that—he was her.
Kent—Julie—drew a breath and another, chest rising and falling in thrilling confirmation of what he’d done. This was crazy.
He looked down at himself, taking in the naked curve of Julie’s breasts, feeling the rich sensation of being in her skin—the weight of her breast sat on her chest, the sway of her streaky blonde hair tickling her back, the air on her damp stomach. He had never felt so much, so intensely, and it was all his.
He moved his hand, watched her manicured fingers respond, marveled at how it felt to have nails like these. The sensations were overwhelming, a tidal wave of newness crashing through him, and he was at the center of it all.
Kent rose from the lounge chair, feeling Julie’s legs unfurl beneath him. Her legs. His legs. He took a step and stumbled slightly—her body was so different from his own—but he laughed, a melodic sound that he’s only ever heard from an outsider’s perspective. Now, it was all around him.
He—Julie—stretched, arching her back, reveling in the supple bend of her spine. He swayed from side to side, his eyes drawn to her breasts as they moved with him, to the way her stomach stretched and flattened under her skin. He was gleeful, reckless, and ready to explore.
Kent hopped in place, feeling the heaviness of having breasts that large, of having them jiggle and shift with Julie’s every motion. He hugged her arms around herself, squeezing tight, feeling the way her soft skin gave under her own touch.
“My God,” he said under his breath. He reached up and cupped Julie’s breasts, felt the fullness of them in his new hands. This was better than he could have imagined. “The things I could do…”
A wicked grin spread across his face, a thought forming in his mind that he couldn’t let go of even if he tried. The lemonade was drying on his—her—skin, a sticky sweetness that called out to him. He trailed a finger across Julie’s stomach, felt the tacky residue there. He brought the finger to his mouth, tasted it, and shivered at the sensation. Her body was alive with feeling, with want—Kent’s wants.
“What a silly little blonde I am,” he said, mocking Julie with her own voice. “To spill lemonade all over my tits.”
Kent laughed, delighted with how it felt to be Julie, with how it felt to be free. He let her arms fall to her sides, let them hang loose as he enjoyed the sensation of heaviness on her chest, of the tightness in her bikini top still tied around his waist, and then with no warning at all, he tore it off.
He threw the top in an exaggerated motion that reminded him of Julie, letting it flop somewhere on the grass. With a satisfied sigh, he lay back down on the lounge chair, eager to savor it all. The sun was hot, and it warmed her skin, heating up the stickiness that covered him.
“Kent!” he called, dragging out the syllables of his own name. “The attic better be spotless. Ah, ah,” he tutted in Julie’s voice, as if he were really talking to himself. “I don’t need attitude. I need the attic clean, and I need it now!”
He laughed again, louder this time, and watched the way Julie’s breasts shook with it. He cupped them again, feeling the weight of them, the heat of them under his hands. He kneaded them, felt her nipples harden under his palms. “Yes please.”
The way she responded was electric, was addictive. He circled her nipples with her fingers, feeling the give and pull of her flesh under his touch. He pinched them, tugged at them, and gasped as the sensation rippled through her entire body.
Kent—Julie—arched off the lounge chair, relishing in the newfound closeness of her own skin against itself. Her body, his body now, was a treasure trove of feeling. Guilt was one of them, but Kent discarded it the moment he felt the heat of Julie’s skin.
His new skin.
Kent let his fingers wander, hesitating nowhere, exploring each inch of Julie’s body with an urgency that was all his own. His hands moved from her breasts to her stomach, reveling in the tautness of it, the smoothness. This was incredible. Nothing like his own body, nothing like the weak and overworked thing he’d left behind to gather dust.
The lemonade was a slick trail that led him further down, but Kent wanted to savour every part of Julie’s body.
He grabbed the abandoned cup and found two melting ice cubes in it. Without thinking, he placed one against the pulse point of her neck and felt the cold travel through him, felt it race along her veins in a shiver that made him gasp. He ran it down to her breasts, tracing the hard ice along the soft skin, watching as it left a shiny trail in its wake.
He groaned with pleasure as heat met chill, as her body—his body—reacted to every small sensation.
Kent teased the ice around Julie’s nipples, feeling it melt fast against her warmth, feeling the slickness of water and lemonade mix on her skin. This was too good. Too intense. He pressed harder, drawing circles until nothing but a wet pool remained. Then he took the second ice cube and slid it down her stomach, felt it slip over Julie’s navel, felt it dip lower. He shivered with raw want, with a hunger that was all his own.
Her body was so needy.
Kent couldn’t get enough of her breasts, wanted to hold them, squeeze them, lose himself in the swell and the softness. He ran his hands over her glistening skin, slick and sweet. He rolled Julie’s nipples between her fingers again, felt a tight heat coil at her center, felt the pleasure spread. He was giddy, greedy, and relentless.
Another pinch, another nipple. Kent felt harden beneath his touch—her touch—their touch. He groaned at the intensity of it, the foreignness of it. His fingers were relentless, trailing over Julie’s breasts, thumbs teasing every part of her perky pink nipples. They were like something he'd never felt, like she'd never let him feel. Moans pulled from somewhere within, or perhaps somewhere very far beyond him, mingled with the summer air.
His arousal grew, a heaviness that pulled in his stomach, one that wasn’t accompanied by the swelling of a cock—no. This was all heat and wetness. He could feel the warmth of it spreading, the want of it filling him, and he was unstoppable now, a force with no fear.
He couldn’t resist. Kent settled back against the lounge chair, really made himself comfortable, and let Julie’s fingers trail along her sides. His fingers hooked Julie’s bikini bottom strings, tugging it up higher, so high the fabric pulled tight through her legs, through pussy lips. Her wetness was slick against the bikini bottom, and he moaned, feeling the pressure, the friction of it.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, looking down at how the fabric tucked snug against Julie’s body, feeling the way her pussy responded to the tightness. It had him biting Julie’s lips, moaning softly.
Kent let the strings snap back, rolled his hips against the chair, felt every bit of Julie’s body respond with a raw hunger that was all his own. Then, he loosened one side, then the other, freeing the bikini bottom from her hips and sliding it slowly down. He watched it peel off with a slow stickiness, felt every inch of the cool air as it hit her bare skin, hit her exposed pussy. It left her bare and open to the world. Open to him.
Kent loved every second of it—he wanted more.
He let his hands roam, feeling the soft curve of Julie’s thighs, feeling their warmth, their strength, the way they flexed and tensed as he touched her.
The lemonade was everywhere now, a sweet slickness that begged for more attention. He slid his hands between her legs, feeling them part beneath his touch, feeling the wetness there—a different kind of wetness, one that made him ache, one that made his gasp.
Julie’s pussy.
It was soft, wet. So much wetter than any part of him used to be.
His fingers traced over the smooth skin of Julie’s waxed mound, and Kent knew he was lost to it. He spread her lips with Julie’s fingers, found wetness there, and the heat. It was incredible.
His fingers were sure of themselves, even if the feelings they caused were not. He couldn’t handle it as curiosity fuelled every actions—Kent traced the outer vaginal folds of Julie’s pussy, toying with the heat that roared inside him, that wanted him to dip his fingers in, to move faster, to make Julie come. He rubbed her clit in circles he could feel all the way through himself, all the way up to his nipples, all the way back down. He was breathing hard now, fast and shallow as a dog in heat.
His mind couldn’t handle it, but her body could. His body could. Kent’s fingers massaged her clit in slow, maddening circles, building the intensity of it, building the pressure. He could feel her start to float away from herself, from everything, and Kent whimpered as he felt it too.
He pushed two fingers inside her, felt the wetness close around them. It was tight and hot and nothing like what he’d imagined, but better, better than he’d imagined. He moved his fingers in and out, feeling the slickness grow, feeling her body respond to it. His thumb circled her clit, his other hand squeezing her breast—the sounds, they were music to his ears.
Kent pushed her fingers deep again, fucking into her with growing urgency. He was past the point of caring, past the point of restraint. He pumped her pussy, felt her tighten around the fingers, felt her breath catch in her throat as she started to let go, to really let go.
It was intoxicating, with each squelch, each stroke, a musk scent filled the air—a scent that Julie’s and his. He was so wet, so turned on, Kent was losing his mind. He gathered slickness on his fingertips, savoring it as he brought fingers to his mouth. Her lips parted; her tongue tasted it—tasted herself—and Kent shivered at the sensation, at how different it was from anything he'd known.
Kent moaned, Julie’s voice responded, and it was heaven. His fingers moved faster, more desperate. He was so close, so close to everything.
“Fuuuck,” Kent said, felt the pleasure build and coil. His other hand kneaded her breasts while he licked and sucked at his fingers, alternating between the two until both were coated in sweat and juice and the taste of summer freedom.
It was almost more than he could handle.
He pressed fingers against himself again, dipping deeper this time. Dipping farther into her—inside himself—felt the slick heat of her pussy wrap around him, pull him in. His breath came faster now. His hands moved with a mind of their own, slick against her skin, wet against his thighs.
Julie’s breathing was erratic, and Kent stretched out, arm falling behind his head, mouth parting on every moan, every whine. He turned his head, nose brushing against Julie’s armpit; she’d never let anyone near there before—not even herself.
He groaned again.
Kent-as-Julie buried her face in the hollow crook where arm met shoulder; her shoulder; their shoulder; felt another wave of dizziness at how hot and alive she smelled; tasted another drop of sweat as it ran down his cheek; hers; theirs.
He took a deep inhale, sniffing himself—herself—into a frenzy. She smelled of expensive perfume and a raw muskiness that came form sitting under the summer sun—she smelled of sex. It was new, and it was familiar, and it made him bite down on the skin there as his fingers moved faster, as he felt the pressure build and build.
Kent wanted to consume her.
His tongue darted out as his fingers kept moving, faster still, guided by instinct or greed or maybe just teenage hormones run amok. Julie’s skin tasted salty-sweet; her sweat tasted like freedom.
The world narrowed to the space between Julie’s legs, and Kent gave up entirely on restraint. He moved faster now, thrusting with an urgency that left him panting for breath.
Every touch sent shockwaves through him. It was a new kind of heat—a heat so intense it bordered on pain then circled back again. The sun bore down on him, too, like a spotlight as he squirmed and writhed beneath its attention.
It was happening.
He was going to come.
Kent rocked against the chair, against her fingers, against himself. He was so close.
His back arched off the chair as waves crashed over him: tidal waves, rogue waves; hard enough to knock sense loose from his head; hard enough that it didn’t matter when Julie's voice bubbled up inside, “Oh God oh God oh Godddddd…!”
He panted, fingers wet with her juice, body slick with her sweat, his mind blown. Kent lay still when it subsided—limp with satisfaction yet buzzing with energy.
A lazy smile spread across his face—her face as he let the warmth settle in. He was sated but hungry for so much more; dizzy from exertion yet clear-headed for once about what kind of summer awaited him now: One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
Note: This is a commissioned work that has not been personally written by me. I have been granted permission to distribute and share the story by the original author.
The push mower's dull rattle droned in Kent’s ears, blades whirring through the grass. His body strained beneath the midday sun, and through damp lashes, he caught the blur of a cherry-red convertible roaring down the road—top down, laughter trailing like exhaust.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, wiping away another hand of sweat.
The mower sputtered as he yanked it over a thick patch near Julie’s hydrangeas. He imagined Marcus at the wheel, music cranked, their friends crowded in the back seat, already sunburned and salty from the ocean. They wouldn’t miss him today; they probably hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t around these days.
The sun seared, hammering against his back, arms, the nape of his neck where his hair stuck and tangled. Kent tried not to groan, but it was getting harder not to resent the injustice of it all. He trudged along, kicking dust into the air, each pass of the mower a reminder of how thoroughly he'd been screwed.
Two weeks ago, he’d been carefree, tossing a ball back and forth with Marcus in his front yard. It had all gone wrong so fast: Marcus’ wild throw, laughing at Kent’s half-hearted protest, goading him to catch it. Kent squinted against the sky; his hand fumbled the air. The dull clang was the sound of his afternoon crashing against Julie’s car, leaving a perfect circle of incrimination in the glossy finish.
They'd both stared—Marcus with lips curled around the brink of a "whoops," and Kent with his gut unraveling through his shirt.
Marcus caught his eye and smiled like he’d planned the whole thing. "No one saw. Chill, man!" Kent opened his mouth, closed it, hoped it wasn’t as big a deal as he feared.
It was.
The door slammed with the sharp report of impending disaster, and there was Julie in full fury, an avenging angel with a tan. "Which one of you incompetent brats—" She halted, eyes narrowing at the guilty-looking crease on her convertible’s door. Her voice fell, low and venomous. "—thinks this is funny?"
Kent swallowed. He hated the dryness in his mouth, the stickiness on his palms. He hated the dent in the car, hated Marcus's grin, and hated even more how it slid away into something else. Something innocent, friendly. "Hey, Ms. Bentley. We were just leaving a note."
She crossed the lawn with the gait of someone used to having her way, every step as dangerous as an exclamation mark. "Try again, boys."
"We were—"
"He threw it," Kent interrupted. "It got away from him. We’ll get it fixed."
"Kent..." Marcus raised his eyebrows, a betrayed chorus of one.
"You’re damn right you’ll get it fixed." Julie’s attention speared Kent and held. He could feel Marcus shifting, inching toward the door. "And you’ll work off every cent. Both of you."
The pause stretched longer than the afternoon sun. "I guess I can help," Marcus finally said, with the agonized reluctance of a guy donating a kidney. "If I don’t work weekends, and if Mom doesn’t ground me again—"
"Save it," Kent muttered, already caught, already sentenced. He’d seen this play out before. "I’ll take care of it."
Marcus’s hand clamped on his shoulder with all the sincerity of a condolence card bought half-price. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
"I know you will," Kent had replied, staring past Julie's gloating smile to where Marcus, framed by sunlight and betrayal, had slouched away.
Back in the present, the sun hadn’t moved. Kent kicked the mower into a new row, ignoring how his arms shook from the effort, ignoring how his thoughts spun through pointless what-ifs. He ducked his head, let the work and heat crush him down until he was too small to bother with.
The next pass went easier. Resignation did that—took the sting out of unfairness like Novocain. Kent mowed numbly, lines and rows blurring into one another until the grass lay behind him.
Two more weeks of this? A lifetime? Might as well. Julie was a woman who knew how to wield silence as well as threats. Not for the first time, Kent wondered why Marcus ever threw the damn ball.
He finished, choked the mower dead, wiped sweat from his eyes. His skin felt crispy and tight. All he needed was a dive, no a dip—of his toe into the pool. That would fix it all.
"Is this a joke to you?" Julie's voice, another thing that refused to wilt in the heat.
Kent was shaken back to the present, and caught in the scent of chlorine and coconut oil threading through the afternoon air. He was standing on the edge of the water as Julie stretched relaxingly, every move as intentional as the flick of her gaze.
Her bikini clung like sweat, and Kent's eyes traced its path against his will.
"This isn't acceptable," she said. "Again."
He wanted to disappear into the chlorinated depths, but she was already lounging back, already dismissing him from her thoughts as she dangled new chores between them like a cat with an injured mouse.
"A kid your age shouldn’t have such a hard time keeping up." Julie's eyes glinted like a promise he wasn't going to get. Kent swallowed a retort, tasted salt on his upper lip instead. She knew the effect she had, both in giving orders and ignoring them. "My daughter could do better."
"I doubt that." The words slipped out with a touch more venom than he'd meant.
Kent turned away, wanting to muffle the clink of ice against her glass with his own hands around her throat. Or maybe his own hands around his own throat. He couldn’t decide.
"I don't need attitude. I need that lawn mowed right."
It was a subtle dance of dominance. One she performed like a pro, even reclining. Julie's skin shone like polished bronze under the sun. The same sun had Kent looking like a washed-up sweat rag by comparison. A rag that hadn't worked off his debt, yet.
Julie glanced back at the pool, effectively tossing him from her thoughts, while he stood dumbly in the tangle of lust, obligation, and a boy’s last ounce of pride.
"You want me to go over it again?" His voice cracked—broke around the words.
Her chin tilted up, uninterested. "If it’s not perfect, you’ll keep doing it until it is. Start with the hedges. I expect more from you."
Kent shuffled away, back toward the toolshed.
Home. Kent made his way home that night, in a huff. The familiar house sat quiet and useless, just like his last three paychecks.
Mom greeted him as he trudged through the kitchen door, hand resting on his shoulder—too gentle to be real sympathy. Dad folded a corner of the paper down, equally gentle. "Get it all finished up?"
Kent slumped into the chair across from them, felt himself sink. "Not quite. She keeps adding stuff—"
Mom shook her head. "She wouldn’t do that if you did it right the first time, honey."
"I did do it right! She’s just—" Beautiful, unreasonable, half-naked, impossible. The words tangled up in each other, fell into a frustrated heap at his feet. "—Julie. I’ll never get it done."
Dad was halfway through a reply when Kent cut in. "Can you at least admit this is bullshit?"
"Language, Kent." Mom’s voice held the same note Julie’s did. "You know why you have to finish. We’ve been over this. A hundred times."
"A thousand," Kent grumbled, feeling very young and very old at once.
"A hundred," Dad agreed, unfolding another section of newspaper.
It wasn’t what Kent wanted, but it was more than he'd get from Julie. "She says it’ll take weeks."
"Not if you stick with it," Mom said.
That sounded suspiciously like something he told himself when he woke up to do it all over again.
"I’m not being unreasonable. Marcus should—"
Dad’s look cut him off. "Marcus should listen to his mother and be more like you. Get your things done instead of complaining. It’ll build character, son."
Kent braced against the edges of their insistence, the too-smooth conviction he felt slipping past him like oil on water. He needed it rougher, sharper, like sandpaper. Instead, they filed him down to nothing, left him to carry the pieces.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Character."
Kent walked through the inferno to Julie’s again the next morning. The sprinklers had done more to cool the yard than he ever would.
She let him in, and Kent found himself in the toolshed again. He was being dramatic, he knew it, but he saw himself doomed to middle age before he left this hellscape.
That’s why you did it, Marcus. To build character. That’s what Kent wanted to believe.
He hoisted a gas can, hated the way it felt so familiar. "Get it all finished up?" he muttered, mocking more than himself.
At the edge of the yard, Marcus’s words snagged his thoughts. "Thanks, bro. I’ll owe you."
Kent cringed inwardly, the flashback was as unwelcome as Marcus’s easy grin. He wasn’t getting anything out of this. The mower whirred to life again, drowning out the last bit of sanity Kent had.
Task 2: Move an ungodly amount of boxes.
Julie watched from the side of the pool again, an ice cube balanced between her lips, as Kent hauled a heavy box across the patio. His steps were an awkward choreography of anger and heat exhaustion. She stretched a leg, attention already back on her phone. "I’m not running a charity, Kent. I expect all of those moved by the end of the day."
His body screamed for rest, but he plowed forward. If she wanted to break him, it would take more than a few shopping sprees and heat waves to do it.
"Commitment, Kent. I need to see you’re committed to paying what you owe," Julie said. She reached lazily for a magazine. Kent nearly buckled under the weight. The sprinklers sputtered on, mocking him. His arms throbbed, and the boxes felt heavier with every step.
Kent glared back at the pool. "Is this all of them?"
Julie sipped her drink, feigning deep consideration. "We'll see, won’t we?"
The heat was a solid thing. He dragged himself back for the next load, ignored the stubborn itch of humiliation as he passed her sun chair. Julie's skin was already bronzed, glowing against the red of her bikini like Christmas in July. She wasn't even watching. Her complete lack of attention chafed worse than his sticky shirt. Maybe this wasn’t better than the lawn.
Kent shook his head and moved another box.
Julie seemed perfectly at ease, flipping the pages without even glancing at him. In turn, each glance he stole fueled the resentment he was supposed to be working off. No, it grew. Larger than him, larger than life.
Kent sighed. Three trips later and Kent's shoulders felt like they were shredding. Julie's calm was like ice in his throat, grating.
She made a bored gesture in his direction.
"I’m going, I’m going," he muttered, head lowered. Prisoner.
"I almost believe you, dear."
Kent rubbed his shoulder, wished he could ignore it as easily as she ignored him. He wanted to break something, maybe her resolve. Maybe his own.
Halfway through the stack, the boxes became heavier. How? Kent’s eyes bulged as her struggled to keep a box in his arms, needing to use his legs to stabilise it.
"Careful," she called without looking up, her foot dangling in the pool. The water, like the entire house, was a universe away. His jaw tightened like the strings of a cheap violin. His actions were almost noble if nobility felt like dirt, grit, and sarcasm. Maybe he wouldn’t get what he wanted—freedom, the beach, even Julie’s attention—but he could work until nothing mattered.
Task 3: Clean the attic.
Kent sneezed.
The attic smelled like dead things, old things, dust and age and memories. Light filtered through a single window, and dust motes mocked him as they danced around. He waved a hand in front of his face, spitting out dirt and frustration in equal measure.
Julie’s voice floated up the stairs, a siren call to hell. "Get it all done, Kent."
He choked on a reply and another sneeze. This was the worst. His arms screamed for relief, but he grabbed a broom instead. Webs clung to every part of the room, and Kent wondered if a spider bit him what kind of superpowers he’d get. Maybe he’d turn into a kid who had some actual free time.
Kent swept the floor with the same dedication that had gotten him here in the first place. He imagined Marcus at the beach, surrounded by friends and bikinis that weren’t his boss’s. The broom handle dug into his blistered palms, and he pushed harder, until the pile of dust and dirt became a small mountain of failure.
He coughed, doubled over. This was pointless. He rubbed his face with a dirty shirt sleeve, smeared the mess across his cheek. A week ago he might have cared.
The broom thudded against the wall. He leaned against it, feeling the sting of dust and sweat in his eyes. It was a lost cause. The whole thing.
Something caught his eye. A figure, cloaked under a dusty wool blanket. He reached for it, more curious than he should have been, and pulled the fabric away.
A doll? An idol?
Kent almost laughed at the absurdity. An old-fashioned thing, with yellowing lace and painted eyes that stared past him like Julie did. He wiped his hands on his shirt, reached for it, fingers closing around the figure. Maybe it—
One touch, and it was the last contact he had, the last time he felt a thing.
One step, and he felt himself shift and separate, pulling apart like a zipper splitting seams that held his mind and body tight. There was a ripping sensation, a fraying sensation, and then a lightness so complete Kent thought he might disappear entirely.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed in his mind.
Kent looked down at his hands, saw them glowing a pale blue that didn’t hide what was behind them. See-through? Transparent? He was floating-feather light, above the attic floor. Above the mess he’d made of it, above his own body, which was slumped where he’d left it.
His first thought was to panic. His second thought was that he already had. He drifted forward, then back. What just happened?
Was he dead?
No, that wasn’t right. Dead people didn’t get mad, and Kent was mad as hell. He was anything but dead.
He was alive, more alive than he ever felt. Alive, free of the heat and the drudgery and the persistent ache of muscle and bone. Alive, free, and…shimmering?
Kent felt the spark of something he hadn’t felt in weeks. Possibility.
His spirit stretched into the attic's corners, testing his new reach, dancing through the crowded loft. He shot past his old body, tempted to wave. He'd give it up again without a second thought. Let Julie wonder what magic swapped out her slave, wonder what left her so completely she couldn’t yell at it.
Kent skipped through the abandoned boxes, gliding over ancient bags, years of forgotten excess. One flick of his ghostly finger set the attic in motion, objects swaying like they finally believed in ghosts.
They had to believe. Kent wasn't even trying, not yet. He might have spent the entire day haunting her past, finding new things to set loose.
He stuck his head through the attic wall, through the attic floor, and stared at the room below. It was upside down, or maybe he was? Not that it mattered when he could fly—when he could phase. He could phase through walls. Kent laughed at the brilliance of it, the sheer giddiness of going where no one wanted him. He stretched his spirit like a growing boy, like a growing thought, and shot down into Julie’s world.
He peeked out through the window, head first of course. Then his shoulders followed, then his legs. Next thing, Kent was soaring over the manicured lawn that he manicured. He stopped short of her lawn chair, hovering in the blistering summer heat. He felt none of it. Nice!
The chair, the yard, the entire universe looked different when it wasn't pushing him around. A magazine perched on the small table next to her. She relaxed, as fully and completely as if he'd never existed.
Kent watched, waiting to see if she'd notice the power shift. Notice him. It was all he could do not to burst with thrill of possibilities.
But nothing happened. No matter how long he stared at her, she barely felt his eyes on her.
Then he nudged it, pushing at the magazine with a single finger. It slipped from the table, fluttering down onto the grass.
She glanced at it, not even removing her sunglasses. "Wind’s picking up," she mumbled, and leaned back into her own self-absorption.
"Okay," he thought to himself. "If you want to play, let’s play."
Kent pulled at the towel that draped her sun chair. It slipped to the ground with a thud. This time, Julie's eyes popped open. She stared around the yard like she'd just seen him flung from the roof, like her furniture flung itself from the roof.
Her eyes were slits, suspicious, curious, but not afraid. "Ha ha," Kent heard her say. Fine.
He tugged next at the sunscreen, nudging it off her lap, and watching it roll into the water. Julie sat up. Her brow furrowed, and after a long second she slowly slid the sunglasses down her nose. Kent almost laughed. She was so used to getting her way, she couldn't comprehend the universe acting out.
“It’s not funny,” she shouted at cosmic injustice, and at Kent. “Who’s there?”
Kent hovered above her, a cheeky grin spread across his face. The rules had changed—she was playing the game now, and he was the game master. Kent shoved at the drink in her hand, watched as it splashed cold ice, and lemonade on her sun-warmed skin. Julie yelped, surprised. An ice cube melted between her fingers, over her navel, all along the exact same path Kent’s thoughts wanted to travel.
This time, she stood.
However, it was the wrong move.
Kent yanked at the string on her bikini, wild and reckless. The top slipped loose, and before he could whoop with victory, the world stopped.
It happened again.
The same shifting, the same separation. Julie’s spirit rose out of her body like steam from a kettle. She stared down at herself, and then right through him. Kent froze. Her spirit paused, hovered.
Then Kent did what he did best.
He panicked.
How to fix this? How to fix this? How to not get caught?
Kent grabbed at Julie’s astral form, desperate to reverse what he’d done. Instead, it became even worse. When he came to his sense again, his astral form was anew—only it wasn’t. He was inside Julie’s spirit, possessing her essence.
“What the hell is this?!” he screamed again. This time, out loud.
Kent looked down at himself, but all he saw was Julie’s astral body. Her real one took that very moment to slump sideways, falling on the lawn chair with all the grace of a corpse.
A beautiful, half-naked, very vulnerable corpse.
Kent—Julie—stood in shock, mind racing through the possibilities. He could leave her like this. She’d never know. But then another thought crashed over him, stronger than the first: If he didn’t get caught, he’d never get the chance again.
He dove for Julie’s body, not feeling the grass beneath his feet or the sun on his bare shoulders, feeling only the thrill of new freedom around him. It was a game, and he was winning. Kent entered her body through her astral form, through the space where she had left herself open to him.
He settled in.
Kent sat up, eyes going wide when he moved Julie’s body with his own will. The bikini top hung loose, her skin tingled from the lemonade, and he felt everything. Was everything. He was inside her, but more than that—he was her.
Kent—Julie—drew a breath and another, chest rising and falling in thrilling confirmation of what he’d done. This was crazy.
He looked down at himself, taking in the naked curve of Julie’s breasts, feeling the rich sensation of being in her skin—the weight of her breast sat on her chest, the sway of her streaky blonde hair tickling her back, the air on her damp stomach. He had never felt so much, so intensely, and it was all his.
He moved his hand, watched her manicured fingers respond, marveled at how it felt to have nails like these. The sensations were overwhelming, a tidal wave of newness crashing through him, and he was at the center of it all.
Kent rose from the lounge chair, feeling Julie’s legs unfurl beneath him. Her legs. His legs. He took a step and stumbled slightly—her body was so different from his own—but he laughed, a melodic sound that he’s only ever heard from an outsider’s perspective. Now, it was all around him.
He—Julie—stretched, arching her back, reveling in the supple bend of her spine. He swayed from side to side, his eyes drawn to her breasts as they moved with him, to the way her stomach stretched and flattened under her skin. He was gleeful, reckless, and ready to explore.
Kent hopped in place, feeling the heaviness of having breasts that large, of having them jiggle and shift with Julie’s every motion. He hugged her arms around herself, squeezing tight, feeling the way her soft skin gave under her own touch.
“My God,” he said under his breath. He reached up and cupped Julie’s breasts, felt the fullness of them in his new hands. This was better than he could have imagined. “The things I could do…”
A wicked grin spread across his face, a thought forming in his mind that he couldn’t let go of even if he tried. The lemonade was drying on his—her—skin, a sticky sweetness that called out to him. He trailed a finger across Julie’s stomach, felt the tacky residue there. He brought the finger to his mouth, tasted it, and shivered at the sensation. Her body was alive with feeling, with want—Kent’s wants.
“What a silly little blonde I am,” he said, mocking Julie with her own voice. “To spill lemonade all over my tits.”
Kent laughed, delighted with how it felt to be Julie, with how it felt to be free. He let her arms fall to her sides, let them hang loose as he enjoyed the sensation of heaviness on her chest, of the tightness in her bikini top still tied around his waist, and then with no warning at all, he tore it off.
He threw the top in an exaggerated motion that reminded him of Julie, letting it flop somewhere on the grass. With a satisfied sigh, he lay back down on the lounge chair, eager to savor it all. The sun was hot, and it warmed her skin, heating up the stickiness that covered him.
“Kent!” he called, dragging out the syllables of his own name. “The attic better be spotless. Ah, ah,” he tutted in Julie’s voice, as if he were really talking to himself. “I don’t need attitude. I need the attic clean, and I need it now!”
He laughed again, louder this time, and watched the way Julie’s breasts shook with it. He cupped them again, feeling the weight of them, the heat of them under his hands. He kneaded them, felt her nipples harden under his palms. “Yes please.”
The way she responded was electric, was addictive. He circled her nipples with her fingers, feeling the give and pull of her flesh under his touch. He pinched them, tugged at them, and gasped as the sensation rippled through her entire body.
Kent—Julie—arched off the lounge chair, relishing in the newfound closeness of her own skin against itself. Her body, his body now, was a treasure trove of feeling. Guilt was one of them, but Kent discarded it the moment he felt the heat of Julie’s skin.
His new skin.
Kent let his fingers wander, hesitating nowhere, exploring each inch of Julie’s body with an urgency that was all his own. His hands moved from her breasts to her stomach, reveling in the tautness of it, the smoothness. This was incredible. Nothing like his own body, nothing like the weak and overworked thing he’d left behind to gather dust.
The lemonade was a slick trail that led him further down, but Kent wanted to savour every part of Julie’s body.
He grabbed the abandoned cup and found two melting ice cubes in it. Without thinking, he placed one against the pulse point of her neck and felt the cold travel through him, felt it race along her veins in a shiver that made him gasp. He ran it down to her breasts, tracing the hard ice along the soft skin, watching as it left a shiny trail in its wake.
He groaned with pleasure as heat met chill, as her body—his body—reacted to every small sensation.
Kent teased the ice around Julie’s nipples, feeling it melt fast against her warmth, feeling the slickness of water and lemonade mix on her skin. This was too good. Too intense. He pressed harder, drawing circles until nothing but a wet pool remained. Then he took the second ice cube and slid it down her stomach, felt it slip over Julie’s navel, felt it dip lower. He shivered with raw want, with a hunger that was all his own.
Her body was so needy.
Kent couldn’t get enough of her breasts, wanted to hold them, squeeze them, lose himself in the swell and the softness. He ran his hands over her glistening skin, slick and sweet. He rolled Julie’s nipples between her fingers again, felt a tight heat coil at her center, felt the pleasure spread. He was giddy, greedy, and relentless.
Another pinch, another nipple. Kent felt harden beneath his touch—her touch—their touch. He groaned at the intensity of it, the foreignness of it. His fingers were relentless, trailing over Julie’s breasts, thumbs teasing every part of her perky pink nipples. They were like something he'd never felt, like she'd never let him feel. Moans pulled from somewhere within, or perhaps somewhere very far beyond him, mingled with the summer air.
His arousal grew, a heaviness that pulled in his stomach, one that wasn’t accompanied by the swelling of a cock—no. This was all heat and wetness. He could feel the warmth of it spreading, the want of it filling him, and he was unstoppable now, a force with no fear.
He couldn’t resist. Kent settled back against the lounge chair, really made himself comfortable, and let Julie’s fingers trail along her sides. His fingers hooked Julie’s bikini bottom strings, tugging it up higher, so high the fabric pulled tight through her legs, through pussy lips. Her wetness was slick against the bikini bottom, and he moaned, feeling the pressure, the friction of it.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, looking down at how the fabric tucked snug against Julie’s body, feeling the way her pussy responded to the tightness. It had him biting Julie’s lips, moaning softly.
Kent let the strings snap back, rolled his hips against the chair, felt every bit of Julie’s body respond with a raw hunger that was all his own. Then, he loosened one side, then the other, freeing the bikini bottom from her hips and sliding it slowly down. He watched it peel off with a slow stickiness, felt every inch of the cool air as it hit her bare skin, hit her exposed pussy. It left her bare and open to the world. Open to him.
Kent loved every second of it—he wanted more.
He let his hands roam, feeling the soft curve of Julie’s thighs, feeling their warmth, their strength, the way they flexed and tensed as he touched her.
The lemonade was everywhere now, a sweet slickness that begged for more attention. He slid his hands between her legs, feeling them part beneath his touch, feeling the wetness there—a different kind of wetness, one that made him ache, one that made his gasp.
Julie’s pussy.
It was soft, wet. So much wetter than any part of him used to be.
His fingers traced over the smooth skin of Julie’s waxed mound, and Kent knew he was lost to it. He spread her lips with Julie’s fingers, found wetness there, and the heat. It was incredible.
His fingers were sure of themselves, even if the feelings they caused were not. He couldn’t handle it as curiosity fuelled every actions—Kent traced the outer vaginal folds of Julie’s pussy, toying with the heat that roared inside him, that wanted him to dip his fingers in, to move faster, to make Julie come. He rubbed her clit in circles he could feel all the way through himself, all the way up to his nipples, all the way back down. He was breathing hard now, fast and shallow as a dog in heat.
His mind couldn’t handle it, but her body could. His body could. Kent’s fingers massaged her clit in slow, maddening circles, building the intensity of it, building the pressure. He could feel her start to float away from herself, from everything, and Kent whimpered as he felt it too.
He pushed two fingers inside her, felt the wetness close around them. It was tight and hot and nothing like what he’d imagined, but better, better than he’d imagined. He moved his fingers in and out, feeling the slickness grow, feeling her body respond to it. His thumb circled her clit, his other hand squeezing her breast—the sounds, they were music to his ears.
Kent pushed her fingers deep again, fucking into her with growing urgency. He was past the point of caring, past the point of restraint. He pumped her pussy, felt her tighten around the fingers, felt her breath catch in her throat as she started to let go, to really let go.
It was intoxicating, with each squelch, each stroke, a musk scent filled the air—a scent that Julie’s and his. He was so wet, so turned on, Kent was losing his mind. He gathered slickness on his fingertips, savoring it as he brought fingers to his mouth. Her lips parted; her tongue tasted it—tasted herself—and Kent shivered at the sensation, at how different it was from anything he'd known.
Kent moaned, Julie’s voice responded, and it was heaven. His fingers moved faster, more desperate. He was so close, so close to everything.
“Fuuuck,” Kent said, felt the pleasure build and coil. His other hand kneaded her breasts while he licked and sucked at his fingers, alternating between the two until both were coated in sweat and juice and the taste of summer freedom.
It was almost more than he could handle.
He pressed fingers against himself again, dipping deeper this time. Dipping farther into her—inside himself—felt the slick heat of her pussy wrap around him, pull him in. His breath came faster now. His hands moved with a mind of their own, slick against her skin, wet against his thighs.
Julie’s breathing was erratic, and Kent stretched out, arm falling behind his head, mouth parting on every moan, every whine. He turned his head, nose brushing against Julie’s armpit; she’d never let anyone near there before—not even herself.
He groaned again.
Kent-as-Julie buried her face in the hollow crook where arm met shoulder; her shoulder; their shoulder; felt another wave of dizziness at how hot and alive she smelled; tasted another drop of sweat as it ran down his cheek; hers; theirs.
He took a deep inhale, sniffing himself—herself—into a frenzy. She smelled of expensive perfume and a raw muskiness that came form sitting under the summer sun—she smelled of sex. It was new, and it was familiar, and it made him bite down on the skin there as his fingers moved faster, as he felt the pressure build and build.
Kent wanted to consume her.
His tongue darted out as his fingers kept moving, faster still, guided by instinct or greed or maybe just teenage hormones run amok. Julie’s skin tasted salty-sweet; her sweat tasted like freedom.
The world narrowed to the space between Julie’s legs, and Kent gave up entirely on restraint. He moved faster now, thrusting with an urgency that left him panting for breath.
Every touch sent shockwaves through him. It was a new kind of heat—a heat so intense it bordered on pain then circled back again. The sun bore down on him, too, like a spotlight as he squirmed and writhed beneath its attention.
It was happening.
He was going to come.
Kent rocked against the chair, against her fingers, against himself. He was so close.
His back arched off the chair as waves crashed over him: tidal waves, rogue waves; hard enough to knock sense loose from his head; hard enough that it didn’t matter when Julie's voice bubbled up inside, “Oh God oh God oh Godddddd…!”
He panted, fingers wet with her juice, body slick with her sweat, his mind blown. Kent lay still when it subsided—limp with satisfaction yet buzzing with energy.
A lazy smile spread across his face—her face as he let the warmth settle in. He was sated but hungry for so much more; dizzy from exertion yet clear-headed for once about what kind of summer awaited him now: One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
One where Marcus didn’t owe him shit anymore.
mtf
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Inspired by a comic.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
mind control
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Hasti isn't from Nashville, so she's been running into issues finding men that like anything other than blue eyes and blonde hair. As a beautiful Indian girl that grew up in Chicago, she never had issues finding men that were into her, however she's dealing with a bit of an identity crisis. She recently discovered the ability to leave her body and pull other's soul's out of theirs so she can become anyone...including the perfect woman for the city of Nashville.
Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.
But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.
She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.
Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—
The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.
Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.
The frat boy blinked. “You good?”
Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”
His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.
All part of the plan.
Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.
"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.
She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."
Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."
As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.
The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.
By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."
Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.
But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.
She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."
He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—
Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.
Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.
Damn, that was fun.
Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.
As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.
-
The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.
A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.
"You zoning out again?"
Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."
Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."
"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"
Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.
Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"
Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"
"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."
Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."
Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."
-
The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.
Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.
"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"
Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."
Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.
"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"
Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."
Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."
The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.
Until she saw her.
Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.
A familiar itch prickled under her skin.
No. Not tonight.
She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"
"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"
Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.
It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—
"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"
Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."
Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."
Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."
But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.
Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.
She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."
Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."
Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.
Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.
"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."
Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”
Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”
Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.
Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”
Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”
Layla grinned. “Deal.”
Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”
The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”
She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”
“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”
She already knew.
“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.
His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”
“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”
She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.
“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.
Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”
Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”
“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.
The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”
“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.
Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.
The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.
There they were.
Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.
Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.
"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."
Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.
"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.
"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"
Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."
Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."
Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."
Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.
Not in her own skin, anyway.
The thought hit like lightning.
"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."
She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.
She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.
Or.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes.
And let her spirit slip free.....
The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.
Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.
With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.
A sharp tug.
The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"
Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.
Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.
When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."
Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."
And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.
Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.
Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.
She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.
“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.
Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”
And then she kneed him square in the crotch.
Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.
“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”
She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.
The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.
Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.
"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"
Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."
Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."
Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."
Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**
Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.
"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.
And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.
But damn, it sure was fun.
And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.
Some victories were sweeter in silence.
Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.
But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.
She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.
Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—
The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.
Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.
The frat boy blinked. “You good?”
Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”
His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.
All part of the plan.
Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.
"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.
She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."
Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."
As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.
The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.
By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."
Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.
But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.
She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."
He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—
Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.
Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.
Damn, that was fun.
Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.
As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.
-
The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.
A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.
"You zoning out again?"
Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."
Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."
"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"
Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.
Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"
Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"
"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."
Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."
Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."
-
The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.
Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.
"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"
Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."
Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.
"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"
Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."
Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."
The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.
Until she saw her.
Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.
A familiar itch prickled under her skin.
No. Not tonight.
She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"
"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"
Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.
It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—
"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"
Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."
Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."
Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."
But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.
Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.
She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."
Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."
Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.
Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.
"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."
Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”
Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”
Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.
Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”
Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”
Layla grinned. “Deal.”
Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”
The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”
She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”
“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”
She already knew.
“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.
His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”
“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”
She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.
“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.
Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”
Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”
“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.
The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”
“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.
Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.
The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.
There they were.
Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.
Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.
"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."
Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.
"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.
"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"
Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."
Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."
Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."
Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.
Not in her own skin, anyway.
The thought hit like lightning.
"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."
She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.
She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.
Or.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes.
And let her spirit slip free.....
The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.
Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.
With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.
A sharp tug.
The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"
Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.
Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.
When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."
Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."
And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.
Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.
Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.
She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.
“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.
Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”
And then she kneed him square in the crotch.
Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.
“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”
She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.
The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.
Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.
"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"
Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."
Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."
Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."
Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**
Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.
"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.
And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.
But damn, it sure was fun.
And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.
Some victories were sweeter in silence.
ftf
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This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
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Chapter by
Eb18 · 08 Feb 2026 -
Ryan helps Logan begin testing the extent of his new abilities.
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Unexpected Results
The repeated harsh grating beeping of a digital alarm clock blared. Ryan’s eyelids slowly opened, taking in the diffused morning light from the thin blinds. She rolled onto her side and reached over to turn the alarm off, grabbing her phone and rolling back to check for any messages or emails. One single message from a coworker trying to comfort her about what had happened yesterday. Yesterday with Logan…
Oh yeah, Ryan didn’t have to work today on account of all that. She realized that she could’ve disabled the clock’s alarm last night and slept in. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to stay in bed… for a long time. Logan…
Ryan’s mind returned to yesterday, replaying everything since the moment she first saw him. Was there anything off about him at the time? Even something subtle? A tiny sign, a symptom? Her mind ran through everything, arriving at the experiment. Did she do anything wrong? Connect something incorrectly or… just… anything at all?
Ryan felt like she was searching for a needle in a haystack, without any proof of the needle’s existence. Her mind went back to the worst moments. The memories of finding Logan, her naive self thinking that he merely nodded off...
Ryan pulled the covers over her head. She wanted to be covered. She wanted to be insulated from it all. Why did this happen? Was this some sort of divine punishment? Like the story of Icarus? No, Logan wasn’t the one who flew too close to the sun, it was her. So why was Logan the one bearing her sins?
While Ryan wanted to stay in bed for the whole day, her stomach grumbled, clearly not on the same page. Ryan tried to ignore the hunger, but she knew that it would only get worse if she didn’t eat. She emerged from the covers, finally sitting up in bed. Usually, her roommate would wake up to Ryan’s alarm and make a quick breakfast for the both of them before heading out. Instead, Ryan saw her roommate sitting in her bed on the other side of the room, staring at her own hands.
The way she was moving was… strange. She looked somewhat confused and disoriented. Sort of like a baby deer or something.
“Casey? You okay?”
Casey did a little jolt and looked at Ryan.
“Oh! Uh, I’m totally fine.”
She blinked …
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