Girlfriend What - A Doctor Who Regeneration Parody
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This story tells you about a couple, a teenager named Liam and his redheaded girlfriend named Chloe who can't stop regenerating herself after sex.
ftf incest magic milf roleplay transformation age progression age regression mind change breast expansion gilf race change unaware transformation weight gain
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A female who acquired ability to shapeshift. To get closer to her crush she becoming his girlfriend and made in love with him.
When she thought everything is wrong she leaves him. However in her way she ended up in the wrong crowd that she's not supposed to get involved with.
I stood in front of the mirror, examining every detail. The curve of her lips, the way her dark brown hair fell just past her shoulders, the faint freckles dotting her nose. Lena. His girlfriend. The woman whose life I was about to borrow for a night.
My skin tingled as I focused, my muscles shifting beneath the surface, bones adjusting with an almost imperceptible crackle. The transformation was always strange—like slipping into a second skin that wasn’t mine. But I’d done this before. Too many times, if I was being honest.
I exhaled, smoothing my hands—no, her hands—down the soft fabric of her favorite jeans and the loose, cream-colored sweater I’d pulled from her closet earlier. A pang of guilt twisted in my gut, but I pushed it down. This was for him. Only for him.
---
The knock on his door made my breath hitch. Three sharp raps, just like Lena always did. I could hear his footsteps inside, the muffled curse of surprise when he saw me through the peephole.
The door swung open, and there he was—Dylan. His dark hair was slightly messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it, and his gray T-shirt was wrinkled in that effortlessly perfect way only he could pull off. His eyes widened.
"Lena?" he said, blinking. "I thought you left for your trip?"
I bit her lip the way she always did when she was nervous. "I canceled it," I said, my voice an exact replica of hers—soft, melodic. "I… I just missed you too much."
Dylan stared at me, confusion flickering across his face before dissolving into warmth. He stepped aside. "You’re insane," he murmured, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "You were supposed to be gone for a week."
I stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind me. The apartment smelled like him—warm, a little musky, with the faintest hint of coffee. Familiar. Safe.
"I changed my mind," I said, brushing past him, my fingers trailing over his arm. "Don’t you want me here?"
His breath caught, and I felt a thrill run through me. This was the game. I knew how Lena touched him, how she spoke to him, how she loved him. And tonight, I’d be better than her.
Dylan’s hands settled on my waist as he turned me toward him, his gaze searching my face. "Of course I want you here," he murmured. "But you never cancel plans. Especially not for me."
I let out a quiet laugh—hers, not mine. "Maybe I’m trying to be different," I said, tilting my head. My fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, letting my touch linger just a little longer than necessary.
He exhaled, the resistance in his shoulders melting under my touch. "You’re gonna make it really hard to focus on the game tonight,” he teased.
"Good," I whispered, leaning in.
Our lips met, and I forced myself to lose in the rhythm of her. The way she kissed—gentle at first, then hungrier. Dylan responded instantly, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
I hated this. Every second of it. The press of his mouth, the warmth of his hands sliding up my back, the insistence of his body against mine. But he loved it. And that was all that mattered.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, he grinned. "Damn. If this is what happens when you cancel trips, I might have to start sabotaging your suitcase."
I laughed—the sound perfectly hers, perfectly convincing—and let him lead me toward the couch, where I knew the night would only grow more intimate.
And as much as it twisted something inside me, I’d keep pretending. Because seeing him happy, seeing him hers, was all I ever wanted—even if it meant I’d never really be the one he loved.
....
The sun was setting as I sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by layers of clothing heaped in disarray—her wardrobe, meticulously recreated down to the last stitch. I had spent months watching her, memorizing the way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she laughed—soft and breathy, as if she were constantly on the verge of a secret.
It wasn’t just her face I had to mimic. It was her soul.
A knock at the door startled me.
Shifting back to myself had always felt like shedding a second skin—my body reforming into my natural curves, my dark curls springing free. I yanked open the door to find my neighbor, Mrs. Langley, standing there with a suspicious squint.
"Heather, you alright in there? Hearin’ all sorts of rustlin’."
I forced a smile. "Just reorganizing, mom. You know how it is."
She hummed, unconvinced, but shuffled off with a grumble.
Heather. That was the name I had given myself when I moved here. Safe. Unassuming. Not the girl who could become anyone else.
I smoothed my hands down my sides, swallowed hard, and closed my eyes. The shift came easier now, like shrugging into a familiar coat. My skin tingled, warming as muscle and bone reordered beneath it. My fingers lengthened, my hips softened, my nose reshaped into the delicate upturn of myself again.
When I opened my eyes again, I become myself again stared back at me from the mirror.
Heather had always been strategic with her ability. She never used it frivolously—only when an opportunity was too tempting to ignore. But this wasn’t just any opportunity. This was Dylan. The man who had consumed her thoughts for years, with his easy laughter and the way his dark eyes crinkled when he smiled. For so long, she had watched from afar, aching for something she could never truly have—until now.
Lena, his girlfriend, was away on a two-week business trip, leaving Dylan alone in their shared apartment. Heather had waited until nightfall, lingering outside until she saw the lights flick off in the bedroom window. Then, with a deep breath, she shifted.
It started at the base of her spine, a slow unspooling warmth that traveled through her limbs, her skin prickling as it stretched and reshaped itself into Lena’s softer curves. Her cheekbones lifted, her hips rounded, her fingers thinned—every detail mattered. She even adjusted her gait, matching Lena’s light, precise steps as she crossed the street.
The key under the flowerpot was still there, just as Lena had mentioned to a friend weeks ago. Heather’s heart hammered against her ribs as she turned it in the lock.
The apartment was quiet, lit only by the blue glow of the television. Dylan was sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, his bare chest rising and falling in slow rhythm.
And that's how it started...
....
The next few hours were a blur of tangled limbs, whispered words, and the kind of intimacy Heather had only ever dreamed of. She hated the way her stomach twisted with guilt, hated the way her own pleasure was tangled up in the lie—but god, the way he touched her. The way he whispered Lena’s name against her skin.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and she fell asleep curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
When Heather woke, sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the tangled sheets. She shifted slightly—and froze.
Her own hands.
She bolted upright, panic searing through her veins. No, no, no— She had shifted back in her sleep. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, her own familiar frame unmistakable.
Dylan stirred beside her, still deep in sleep, one arm slung lazily over the empty space where Lena should have been.
Heather scrambled out of bed, her pulse hammering. If he woke up now—if he saw her—
She clenched her fists, focusing, and felt the shift ripple over her again. The relief was instant as Lena’s features returned, but the terror lingered. She couldn’t stay.
Moving fast, she gathered her scattered clothes, dressed in silence, and scribbled a note in Lena’s looping handwriting:
"Had to leave early—miss you already. Call you tonight."
She placed it on the pillow beside Dylan’s head, stealing one last glance at him before slipping out the door.
....
A diner a few blocks away provided temporary refuge. Heather slid into a corner booth, her hands trembling around a steaming mug of coffee. The reality of what she’d done settled heavy in her chest.
This wasn’t like her other little games—posing as a stranger for an hour, mimicking a co-worker to avoid confrontation. This was Dylan. And she had crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.
But even as guilt gnawed at her, another thought slithered in:
Dylan had wanted her.
Or at least, he had wanted the version of her she had given him. She took a slow sip of coffee, her reflection staring back at her in warped distortion against the diner window.
What happens when Lena comes home?
And worse.
What happens if Dylan wants her to stay?
The diner’s bell jingled as Heather pushed through the door, the cold evening air biting at her skin. She pulled her jacket tighter, her thoughts still tangled with the weight of what she had done with Dylan. The coffee had done little to calm her nerves.
She turned down a dimly lit side street, the glow of streetlights flickering against the damp pavement. That’s when she saw them—a group of men, moving in hushed murmurs toward a narrow alley tucked between two weathered brick buildings.
Something about their demeanor set off a warning in the back of her mind. Shoulders hunched, collars pulled up, quick glances over their shoulders as if checking for pursuers.
This isn’t right.
Heather hesitated at the mouth of the alley, her pulse quickening. She should walk away. She should call the cops and let them handle it.
But curiosity was always her downfall.
She slipped into the shadows, pressing close to the wall as she followed them deeper into the alley, her footsteps silent against the cracked concrete. They stopped in front of a rusted metal door half-hidden under peeling graffiti. Above it, a dull red sign flickered:
MALES ONLY.
A muscle in Heather’s jaw twitched. Of course.
The men rapped a quick pattern on the door—three knocks, a pause, then two more. It creaked open, spilling a sliver of neon light onto the ground before swallowing them whole.
The door thudded shut behind them. Locked.
Heather exhaled sharply, weighing her options.
If this was some kind of underground smuggling ring, she should report it. But what if it was just some stupid exclusive party? A gathering for rich, obnoxious dudes who liked to pretend they were part of some secret society?
Her lips curled. Either way, she was getting in.
She ducked behind a dumpster, pulling in a slow breath. Shift or stay?
Shift.
She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar hum beneath her skin as bones realigned, muscles thickened, shoulders broadened. When she blinked, her reflection in a nearby puddle showed Dylan’s sharp jawline, his tousled dark hair—his face.
Good enough.
Approaching the door, she lifted her hand and mimicked the knock—three, pause, two.
A slot scraped open at eye level, revealing a pair of narrowed, shadowed eyes.
“Password?” the voice grunted.
Heather’s stomach plummeted. Shit.
She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Forcing Dylan’s easy confidence, she smirked. “C’mon, man. I just stepped out for a smoke. You really gonna make me say it again?”
Silence. Then—
The door swung open.
The bass hit her first—deep, throbbing, rattling up through the floorboards. Dim red lights pulsed in time with the music, casting long shadows over the crowded room. Men packed the space, some in sleek suits, others in leather jackets, all of them holding glasses of liquor that gleamed like liquid amber.
But it wasn’t just a party.
Against the far wall stood a row of cages—and inside them, women.
Heather’s breath stopped.
The air inside the basement was thick with sweat and the cloying scent of whiskey and arousal. Heather—still wearing Dylan’s form—stood frozen, her stomach churning as she took in the surreal horror unfolding around her.
Possession Club. It said on the screen.
There are women in cages weren’t just captives.
They were hosts.
The man on the stage, slick-haired and grinning like a carnival barker, gestured toward the cages with a flourish. "Another successful week for our members! Fifty-four possessions total—twenty sexual engagements, thirty-two solo performances, and even two lovely ladies who grew very familiar with each other!" The men around Heather erupted in laughter and cheers, raising their glasses.
Then the speaker’s eyes flicked to a woman crouched at the edge of the stage, her green bikini damp between her thighs as her fingers worked furiously at her own pussy. She didn’t seem to care that everyone was staring—her moans were loud, shameless, her hips bucking as she came right there in front of them.
"Ah, Sarah," the man on stage chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "Still can’t control herself, I see."
Pulling her fingers free with a slick pop, the woman—Sarah—giggled, bouncing her breasts as she blew him a kiss. "Sorry~" she panted, not sounding sorry at all. "You know how pent-up I get when I’m not being used."
It was like watching a pornographic nightmare.
Heather’s skin crawled.
Suddenly, a mechanical groan filled the room as the speaker pulled a lever on the wall. The brick facade behind him split open, revealing a long hallway lined with glass rooms—each containing a different woman. Some writhed on beds, touching themselves. Others knelt obediently, waiting.
"Bookings are now open!" the man announced, waving a stack of plastic keycards. "Members with prior reservations, you know the drill. Newcomers—get your cards at the desk and pick your poison!"
The crowd surged forward, men jostling each other as they lined up to claim their "slots." Heather stumbled back, bumping into someone.
"Easy there, pal," a beefy guy in a leather vest drawled, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "First time? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Before Heather could respond, a commotion near the hallway entrance caught her attention. A wiry man in glasses downed a small pill, grinning as two burly men dragged a struggling woman toward him.
"P-Please, no! I don’t—I don’t want this!" the woman sobbed, kicking wildly. Heather’s fists clenched.
Then it happened.
The man in glasses shuddered—his form flickering like a TV with bad reception—before his entire body seemed to dissolve into mist. The smoky tendrils coiled through the air before plunging straight into the screaming woman’s mouth.
Her body convulsed.
Shaking. Twitching. Legs kicking as her back arched violently—
—and then, stillness.
Her eyes snapped open.
Glowing.
Slowly, a lazy, entirely male smirk spread across her lips. She—he—lifted a hand and groped her breast, squeezing hard with a chuckle. "Damn, this body is tight."
The crowd roared in approval. Heather was going to be sick. She turned and shoved her way toward the exit, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
They’re not just imprisoning women.
They’re stealing them.
And now, disguised as Dylan, she was trapped in a room full of monsters—with no idea how to get out.
The crowd pressed in around Heather like a living, breathing wall—hot, suffocating, reeking of alcohol and sweat. She shoved through, her shoulder knocking against a man’s chest, her elbow jostling another’s drink. Apologies died in her throat. She needed to get out.
But fate had other plans.
Her foot caught on something—a loose floorboard, someone’s outstretched leg—and she lurched forward, crashing straight into the man who had been on stage.
He steadied her with a grip like iron, his slick grin never faltering. Up close, his eyes were dark, calculating, the kind of gaze that peeled back layers without permission.
"Well, well," he purred, tilting his head. "Don’t recognize you. You new?"
Heather’s pulse hammered in her throat. She forced Dylan’s voice—low.. "Nah, just… been a while."
The man laughed, fingers tightening on her shoulder in a mock-friendly squeeze. "Bullshit. You’ve got that deer-in-headlights look all the newbies get." He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Relax. You’re among friends here."
Friends.
The word curdled in her gut as her gaze flicked past him—to the glass rooms where women lay sprawled, their bodies puppeteered by unseen invaders.
The man—the ringleader—stepped back, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to the club, brother. This is a sacred space. A place where men like us don’t just take pleasure…" His grin turned feral. "We become it."
He clapped her on the back like they were old pals. Heather’s skin crawled.
"Rules are simple," he continued, steering her toward the bar despite her stiff resistance. "What happens here stays here. If some nosy bitch catches wind and tries to run to the cops?" He chuckled, pouring a glass of amber liquor and sliding it toward her. "We reward her. Give her the ride of her life—permanently."
The threat hung in the air, thick as the bass vibrating through the floor.
Heather swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the glass. She needed to leave. Now.
"I, uh—I actually gotta bounce," she muttered, setting the drink down untouched. "Forgot I got shit to do—"
The ringleader’s hand clamped down on her wrist. "Nonsense." His smile never wavered, but his eyes turned glacial. "You just got here. And I insist you try before you go."
From his pocket, he produced a small vial—inside, tiny pills shimmered like crushed pearls.
Heather’s blood turned to ice.
Possession pills.
"Go on," he urged, shaking one into her palm. "First one’s free."
The pill sat there, innocuous, deadly. Around her, the club pulsed with grotesque energy—men laughing, women moaning, bodies moving in ways that weren’t theirs.
She was outnumbered.
Outmatched.
And if she didn’t play along—she’d never make it out alive.
Heather’s fingers trembled around the pill, her mind racing for an escape. The dim, flickering lights of the private room made everything feel surreal—like she was trapped in some grotesque nightmare. The girl on the bed continued to writhe, her legs spread obscenely wide as she gazed at them with heavy-lidded eyes.
The ringleader smirked at Heather’s hesitation. "First-timer jitters. I get it." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the girl. "Meet your instructor. Well, not really—the guy inside her is."
Heather’s jaw clenched. The way he spoke about it so casually, as if this were some kind of twisted mentorship program, made her skin crawl.
The girl on the bed giggled—inhumanly deep, wrong. Then, in a voice that didn’t match her delicate frame, she spoke. "Sup, newbie."
A shudder raced down Heather’s spine.
The ringleader smirked. "This fucker’s got the highest possession count in the club. Every girl in his school, every teacher, his best friend’s mom—name it, he’s been inside." He clapped Heather hard on the back. "He’s gonna show you the ropes."
With that, he turned and left, the lock clicking ominously behind him.
The moment the door sealed, the girl on the bed convulsed, her back arching as a thick, smokey mist forced itself out of her mouth. The specter lingered in the air for a second before condensing back into human form—a lanky, smirking guy in his early twenties, wearing a cocky grin that made Heather’s fists itch.
The girl collapsed onto the bed, gasping, her eyes wide and dazed. "W-Where…?" She clutched the sheets, disoriented.
He ignored her, stepping toward Heather—Dylan’s form—with an assessing gaze. "Alright, Dylan. Let’s get you started."
Heather forced Dylan’s voice, trying to steady it. "How… does this even work?"
The possessor smirked, plucking the pill from her palm and holding it up between two fingers. "Pop one of these, and boom—you’re a ghost. You can slip into any chick you want. No resistance, no fighting back. Just pure control." His grin widened. "But here’s the catch."
He tossed the pill back into her hand. "One pill lasts 24 hours. If you don’t take another before time runs out? Congrats—you’re stuck forever. No refunds."
A cold sweat broke out on the back of Heather’s neck.
The girl on the bed whimpered, trying to scoot back. "P-Please… just let me go…"
The possessor didn’t even glance at her. "Lesson one: Don’t get attached. They’re just shells. Our shells."
His fingers flicked out, snatching the pill back from Heather. Before she could react, he shoved it into the girl’s mouth, clamping his hand over her lips until she choked it down.
Then, like smoke through a crack, his body dissolved, swirling violently before surging back into her.
The girl’s body jerked, her pupils dilating unnaturally as his voice slithered out of her lips.
"Now," he purred, running a hand up her thigh, "let’s practice."
Horror coiled in Heather’s gut.
She had to get out.
Before she became the lesson.
"I'm not doing this," Heather growled, her voice trembling as she took a step back.
The girl's face—possessed by that leering bastard—twisted in confusion. "What the hell do you mean, no?" The throaty, masculine chuckle that slithered out of her delicate lips sent a wave of revulsion through Heather. "Dude, that's why you're here, ain't it?"
Heather's fists clenched at her sides, Dylan's borrowed body tense with barely restrained panic. "I changed my mind. I'm out."
She spun toward the locked door, desperation burning in her veins. The metallic click of the latch mocked her—no way out without a key. Her lungs tightened. Think, think, think—
A hand seized her wrist, yanking her backward. "Oh, hell no. You ain't goin' anywhere."
Heather twisted, wrenching free. "Get off—"
Her feet caught on the edge of the bed’s tangled sheets.
Time slowed.
She flailed, but gravity won.
Her temple slammed into the dresser’s sharp corner—a white-hot crack of pain—and then—
—everything unraveled.
A sickening warmth pooled beneath her skin, muscles writhing as bones snapped back into place. Curves reemerged. Height dissolved. Dylan’s broad shoulders melted into her own slender frame, his clothes suddenly baggy, drowning her.
The world swayed as she slumped to her knees, blinking through the haze.
She was herself again.
The girl on the bed—no, the man inside her—gaped. "What the—?"
Heather’s stomach plummeted.
No.
She reached up, fingers grazing the familiar shape of her own face—soft cheeks, full lips, her hair. Dylan’s borrowed form was gone.
The possessed girl’s expression morphed from shock to greedy fascination. A slow, vile grin split her face. "Well, well. A shapeshifter." He let out a low whistle. "Now that’s a rarity."
Heather scrambled back, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Stay away from me."
The girl—no, the thing wearing her—laughed, crawling off the bed in a way too predatory to be human. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you just became the main attraction."
The door rattled—the sound of a key turning.
Heather’s blood turned to ice.
The lock clicked.
The pounding on the door was relentless.
"Yo, everything alright in there? Sounded like a damn fight!"
Inside the dimly lit room, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and something metallic—fear, desperation, the charged energy of a predator circling its prey.
The girl’s body—possessed by the grinning bastard who now knew Heather’s secret—rolled her eyes and called back, voice slick with amusement.
"Relax, man, just having too much fun in here!"
The lie dripped with the confidence of someone used to getting his way. The muffled chuckle from the other side of the door confirmed they bought it. Footsteps receded, leaving Heather alone with the monster standing between her and escape.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She was trapped.
Worse—she’d given herself away.
The man inside the girl cocked his head, eyes glinting in the dim light as he raked his gaze over Heather’s trembling form.
"You know," he mused, stepping closer, "I’ve seen some crazy shit in this club, but a shapeshifter? That’s a first." He grinned. "And damn if you don’t have a fine body to go with it."
Heather’s back hit the wall. Cold brick bit into her skin through own too-big shirt. She had no weapons. No backup.
And he knew exactly what she was.
The possessed girl stretched, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off a cramp. "Alright, here’s how this is gonna go." She—he—ticked the points off on delicate fingers:
1. "You don’t scream."
2. "You don’t fight."
3. "And maybe, just maybe, I don’t tell the guys outside you’re a walking, talking party trick they can all take for a spin."
He stepped closer, close enough that Heather could see the unnatural gleam in the girl’s eyes—too sharp, too male for the soft features they were trapped in.
"What do you say, shapeshifter girl? Deal?"
Heather spat in his face.
The girl’s head snapped back—but then the laugh came, low and dark. A slow swipe of her thumb wiped the saliva away, and when those eyes locked onto Heather again, they were hungry.
"Should’ve taken the deal."
Then— A gasp. A shudder.
The girl’s body convulsed, back arching violently as a thick, black mist spewed from her lips. It coiled in the air like smoke, twisting, seething— And then it lunged for Heather.
Cold.
That was her first thought.
It felt like drowning in ice water, like freezing fingers clawing down her throat, filling her lungs, her veins, her bones. Heather gagged, her body buckling under the invasion. Her vision swam—blurred—
And then came the pressure.
Pushing. Squeezing.
Something inside her screamed as the man’s presence forced its way in, tendrils of his will latching onto her nerves, her muscles, her thoughts— Heather’s fists clenched, nails biting into her palms.
*Get. Out.*
Her lips moved, words trembling. "You... can’t... have me." A scoff echoed in her skull—his voice, smug and condescending.
"Oh sweetheart, I already do."
And then— *Pain.*
Her right hand moved on its own, jerking up to claw at her own throat. Heather choked. Stop it—STOP IT— Her traitorous fingers tightened. Dark spots danced in her vision. Laughter, thick and cruel, vibrated through her bones.
"Fight all you want." A phantom tongue licked her lips from the inside. "But this body’s mine now."
Heather collapsed to her knees, gasping. It was like being locked in a glass box inside her own head—able to see, to feel, but powerless to stop what came next. Her hands lifted—not hers, his—and skimmed up her sides, groping, squeezing, testing.
"Damn, you weren’t kidding about this body." He cupped her breasts through the fabric, thumbs rolling her nipples until they pebbled tight. A groan rattled through her throat—his pleasure, not hers.
Tears burned her eyes as her own fingers hooked into the collar of Dylan’s shirt and yanked. Buttons popped, clattering to the floor. Cool air kissed her exposed skin.
"Yeah... that’s better."
Hands—her hands—palmed her bare tits, kneading with rough appreciation. "Fuck, these are perfect." His laughter slithered under her skin. "Bet you’ve made guys lose their minds with these, huh?"
Heather squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
Then—
Her fingers trailed lower. Over her stomach.
Down, down—
She thrashed internally, screaming, pleading, but it was no use. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. And when her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her panties, when they found the slick heat between her legs—
It was his voice that moaned.
It was his will that made her cum.
That was the first sound—ragged, satisfied breaths filling the silence of the room. Heather’s body slumped against the wall, spent, trembling. The man inside her stretched lazily, arching her back with a groan.
"Damn, that was good."
Heather lay sprawled on the cold basement floor, her body slick with sweat and trembling from the forced release he had wrung from her. Every breath felt like fire in her lungs, every heartbeat an exhausted throb of humiliation.
The bastard inside her wasn’t done.
Her hands—his hands—groped her breasts again, squeezing with possessive delight as he laughed in her mind.
"Fuck, I could get used to this."
Her fingers pinched her nipples hard enough to make her gasp—his pitiless amusement twisting her pleasure into pain. Then they trailed down her stomach again, past her navel, slipping between her thighs.
No wait—
She fought, straining against the cage of her own body, but it was no use. The first brush of fingertips against her clit was a sickening betrayal. Her own flesh pulsed in response, still sensitive from the last assault.
"You really don’t wanna enjoy this, huh?" His voice was a sneer in her skull as he circled that swollen bud, slow and taunting. "Too bad."
Heather clenched her teeth, but a helpless whimper escaped as he sped up, his touch ruthless, degrading.
"Go on, fight it," he mocked. "Bet you’ll still cum like a slut anyway." Tears burned her eyes—but her body, traitorous and weak, arched off the ground as he drove her toward another brutal orgasm.
Her back bowed.
Then—
Release.
A guttural moan tore from her lips—his victory, not hers—as her hips jerked wildly. Slick warmth gushed around his fingers, soaking her thighs, the floor beneath her. Satisfaction oozed through their shared mind like syrup.
"Damn. You’re dripping."
Her hands—his hands—lifted, fingers glistening with her own shame before he licked them clean with her tongue. "Not bad."
Before she could even recover, Heather felt her body stand—his will puppeteering her limbs like a marionette. A deep, rolling laugh bubbled up from her throat as his control forced her into motion.
Hips swaying. Ass twerking.
"Look at you," he crooned, making her slap her own rear with a sharp crack. "Made for this shit."
Humiliation burned through her like acid. She could feel it—the way he relished every second of her degradation, the way he made her body perform like some cheap stripper for his amusement.
Her stomach churned. She wanted to scream.
Then—
A pause.
"Here’s the deal," he mused, halting her gyrating hips and turning her toward the cracked mirror across the room. Heather saw herself—flushed, panting, pupils blown wide in arousal she hadn’t asked for. And then she saw her lips curl into a smirk that wasn’t hers.
"You let me ride this body for a while," he purred, running her hands up her naked sides. "Really enjoy it. And hey—maybe I’ll even make it good for you."
Her fingers tweaked her nipples again, sharp enough to make her gasp.
"Or,"—her head tilted, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper—"I could record a little video of us. Let the whole club see what a desperate little shifter looks like when she cums."
Heather’s blood turned to ice. The footage would spread. She’d never escape it. Her lips moved before she could stop them.
"Fuck. You."
A laugh—dark, amused.
"Oh, sweetheart. I plan to."
Her body moved on its own, grabbing a discarded phone from the dresser.
Camera on.
Recording.
"Say hi to the fellas, Heather."
....
The dim, flickering light of the basement room painted Heather’s sweat-slicked skin in shifting shadows. She lay sprawled on the stained mattress, her body trembling in the aftermath of another brutal climax—one of many forced upon her in what felt like an eternity of humiliation.
The phone propped nearby ticked over to four hours of recording.
Four hours.
Four hours of him using her hands, her mouth, her very soul to wring pleasure from her unwilling body.
Her thighs glistened—slick with arousal he had demanded, trembling from exhaustion.
She wanted to scream. To sob. To kill him. But her body wasn’t hers anymore.
His voice slithered through her mind, dark with amusement. "You were made for this, weren’t you?" Her lips—his to control—twisted into a mocking smirk.
Her fingers—his to command—dragged through the mess between her legs, painting her stomach with glistening streaks.
"Look at you," he purred, forcing her to tilt her hips toward the camera. "Dripping like a fucking fountain."
Heather’s breath hitched.
She hated this.
Hated him.
Hated the way her body betrayed her.
But no matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t stop. Her fingers circled her clit again, slow, taunting.
She braced herself.
"P-Please..." she gasped—the first word she'd managed in hours.
"Please what?" His laughter was a razor against her mind. "Tell me, Heather. Beg for it." She shut her eyes, breath ragged.
"Stop."
A pause.
Then—
A roar of laughter.
"Oh, I wish you could see yourself right now," he crooned. "So pathetic. So weak."
Her thumb pressed down—hard—and her back arched as another wave of forced pleasure tore through her.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "F-Fuck you..." she choked out. His grin was a razor in her skull.
"Already am."
Then, to her horror, she felt the familiar pull at her bones—the telltale tingle of shifting.
Skin rippled. Muscles tensed. Her own horrified gasp morphed mid-breath into— Someone else’s voice.
"Recognize her?"
The words spilled from lips that weren’t hers—soft, feminine, strange. He forced her body to crawl to the mirror. The reflection wasn’t Heather. It was a girl with platinum blonde hair, pouty lips, a body built for sin. She didn't know her. But he did.
"Jessica," he mused, making her hands skim down her new curves. "Cheer captain. Total bitch. Fucked her brains out the moment I got her alone."
Heather’s stomach turned.
A whimper—Jessica’s whimper—trembled from her throat. Then— Another shift. Hips widened. Breasts swelled.
"Sarah," he purred, running his fingers over thick thighs, a voluptuous frame. "Teacher’s pet. She cried when I took her. Best orgasm of her life."
Shift. A petite redhead.
Shift. A tanned beauty with a dancer’s grace.
His collection.
His trophies.
And now, his to make Heather wear like some sick costume.
Each shift was accompanied by forced touch—his cruel exploration of his conquests, using her body to relive his sick victories.
She wanted to vomit.
Then—suddenly—she was herself again.
Naked.
Exposed.
Trembling.
In her hands was something new—a vibrator, thick and humming with wicked intensity.
"Time for the main event," he murmured. The tip pressed against her wet, quivering pussy. She sucked in a sharp breath— Then screamed as he turned it on full power. The vibrations tore through her, ruthless and unrelenting, her hips jerking uncontrollably against the assault.
"Oh fuck—FUCK!"
Her own cry disgusted her. She hated how good it felt. Hated how her body clenched, greedy and desperate, around nothing. Hated him for making her like it.
"The more you fight, the longer this lasts," he reminded her sweetly. "Just relax, Heather. Enjoy yourself."
She bit her lip until it bled. But her body obeyed him. Spasmed for him. Came for him.
And when the wave crashed over her, when her vision whited out and her scream echoed off the walls— The camera caught it all.
As she lay there, broken and gasping, the final realization settled over her like a shroud.
This place wasn’t just a club. It was a hunting ground. And women like her?
Prey.
The man inside her leaned forward—her lips brushing her own ear in a lover’s whisper.
"Tomorrow night, the boys will love this footage."
The door clicked open.
A familiar voice cut through the haze. "Damn. Looks like you’ve been busy." The ringleader stood in the doorway, eyes gleaming with dark approval.
Heather’s stomach dropped. She was out of time. And there was no escape.
.....
The heavy door clicked shut behind the club’s ringleader, leaving Heather and her possessor alone in the cavernous basement. The air was thick with the musk of sweat and sin, the red lights casting long, leering shadows against the walls.
Heather’s body moved without her consent.
Hips swayed.
Her naked form glistened under the dim glow as the monster inside her forced her into a slow, deliberate shimmy. The sensation of her own body betraying her—fluid and responsive to every cruel command—made her want to scream. She did scream.
"Get OUT of me!" Her voice cracked, strained from hours of forced moans and sobs. The possessor only laughed—a dark, amused sound that rattled through her bones.
"And ruin the fun?" Her own hands slid up her waist, cupping her breasts possessively. "Nah. We’re just getting started." He made her slap her own ass—hard—the sharp crack echoing through the empty club.
"Fuck you!" Heather hissed.
"Oh, sweetheart." Her fingers pinched her nipple, twisting just to hear her gasp. "I fuckinh you right now.."
With a cruel mental tug, he forced her toward the main stage—the same one where they’d displayed caged women like livestock. Her legs moved without hesitation. Then—
She twerked. Hard. Shameless.
Her ass bounced in a way she’d never done in her life—cheeks clapping, her body bending forward until her hands braced against the stage.
"STOP IT!" she roared in her mind.
"Or what?" His voice dripped with condescension as he made her roll her hips, slow and obscene. "You’ll cry more?"
Heather burned with fury. The worst part? She could feel his arousal through the possession—the way her hips gyrating turned him on, his pleasure bleeding into her nerves.
"You sick bastard," she choked out.
"Aw, don’t be like that."
Her fingers trailed down over her stomach.
Then, without warning—
He speared two fingers inside her.
Her back arched violently as he curled them deep, hitting her G-spot with precision. A strangled cry ripped from her throat. "See? Your body loves me," he purred.
"I—I don’t—!"
Words failed as he pumped ruthlessly, his laughter merging with her panting gasps.
She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. But her body didn’t care. White-hot pleasure coiled tight in her gut—Then snapped.
Her vision whited out as she came hard, her thighs clamping around her own wrist as wave after wave wracked her system.
When she came back to herself—still trembling, still violated—his voice slithered through her mind like oil.
"Y’know, I was gonna make you shift again," he mused, forcing her to collapse onto the stage, spent and sweating. "But damn, your real body? Chef’s kiss."
Her stomach twisted.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Rot in hell."
A chuckle.
Then—her hand groped her breast again.
"Not before I enjoy myself."
Her fingers trailed lower, dragging through the mess he’d made of her, circling her clit with lazy, taunting strokes.
She shuddered, biting back a moan. "Why… are you… still doing this?" she gasped.
"Because I can."
He pinched her clit—hard—and she wailed. "And because," he continued, voice thick with dark promise, "once the boys see how good you are at taking orders?"
His fingers plunged back inside her, forcing another staggered cry. "They’re gonna want you all the time."
A pause.
Then—
"And you’ll have no choice but to obey." Heather’s blood ran cold. She opened her mouth— But before she could speak, his control slammed into her like a freight train.
Her back bowed. Her nails scraped the stage. And as another orgasm tore through her— She realized with horrifying clarity:
There was no escape.
....
The red digital clock on the nightstand blinked 4:37 AM as Heather's body twitched through yet another unwanted climax, her thighs glistening under the flickering basement lights. Fourteen hours. Fourteen goddamn hours trapped inside her own flesh while he puppeteered her movements, forced moans from her lips, and wrung orgasm after orgasm from her exhausted form.
"P-please..." Heather whispered through trembling lips, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Just... stop..."
Inside her mind, the possessor chuckled darkly. "Stop? Babygirl, we're just warming up."
Her traitorous hands—his hands now—slid down her sweat-slicked stomach with familiar intent. Heather squeezed her eyes shut, trying to disconnect, to retreat into some corner of her mind where this wasn't happening. But the moment his fingers brushed her oversensitive clit, her spine arched off the mattress with a ragged gasp.
"You—fucking monster—" she choked out, her nails digging into the sheets as electric pleasure-pain lanced through her.
"Ooh, say that again," he purred, circling her swollen nub with merciless precision. "Nothing hotter than hearing you curse while your body begs for it."
Her clit throbbed under his relentless attention, every nerve ending screaming with overstimulation. Heather's breath came in shallow pants as his fingers dipped lower, tracing her soaked entrance before pushing two digits inside without warning.
"Nngh! G-God—!" Her hips jerked helplessly, her inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.
"Look at you," he crooned, pistoning his fingers ruthlessly against that spongy spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. "Dripping like a goddamn faucet. Bet you can't even remember how many times you've come for me, can you?"
Tears spilled down Heather's cheeks as her body betrayed her yet again, her thighs trembling on the edge of another crushing orgasm. "I... I hate you—"
"Uh-huh," he mocked, curling his fingers just so. "Tell me how much you hate me when you scream."
The coil in her stomach snapped.
Heather's back bowed off the bed as the climax ripped through her, a broken wail tearing from her throat as her vision whited out. Her hips stuttered against his hand, her inner walls spasming around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure-pain crashed over her.
When she finally came down, shuddering and gasping, his laughter echoed through her skull.
"Twenty-seven," he announced smugly, withdrawing his glistening fingers and holding them up to her blurry vision. "That's how many times I've made this pretty little pussy cum tonight. Think we can hit thirty before sunrise?"
Heather turned her face into the pillow, her entire body aching, every muscle limp with exhaustion. She wanted to rage. To fight. But fourteen hours of relentless violation had hollowed her out, leaving only a numb shell behind.
Heather collapsed against the sheets, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You're... you're sick..."
"And you're delicious," he countered, making her trail a finger through the mess between her thighs before bringing it to her lips. "Taste that? That's what defeat feels like, sweetheart."
Her stomach churned as her tongue licked her own juices away at his command.
"Now..." Her hands slid down her body once more. "Let's see if we can't make you scream one last time before the boys get here."
Heather thrashed weakly as his will overpowered hers yet again. "N-no more... I can't—"
"Oh you can," he whispered, spreading her legs wide. "And you will."
As his fingers found her clit again, as pleasure built like a tidal wave against her will, Heather did the only thing she had left.
She closed her eyes.
And prayed for death.
And cums in her own hands.
...
When she thought everything is wrong she leaves him. However in her way she ended up in the wrong crowd that she's not supposed to get involved with.
I stood in front of the mirror, examining every detail. The curve of her lips, the way her dark brown hair fell just past her shoulders, the faint freckles dotting her nose. Lena. His girlfriend. The woman whose life I was about to borrow for a night.
My skin tingled as I focused, my muscles shifting beneath the surface, bones adjusting with an almost imperceptible crackle. The transformation was always strange—like slipping into a second skin that wasn’t mine. But I’d done this before. Too many times, if I was being honest.
I exhaled, smoothing my hands—no, her hands—down the soft fabric of her favorite jeans and the loose, cream-colored sweater I’d pulled from her closet earlier. A pang of guilt twisted in my gut, but I pushed it down. This was for him. Only for him.
---
The knock on his door made my breath hitch. Three sharp raps, just like Lena always did. I could hear his footsteps inside, the muffled curse of surprise when he saw me through the peephole.
The door swung open, and there he was—Dylan. His dark hair was slightly messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it, and his gray T-shirt was wrinkled in that effortlessly perfect way only he could pull off. His eyes widened.
"Lena?" he said, blinking. "I thought you left for your trip?"
I bit her lip the way she always did when she was nervous. "I canceled it," I said, my voice an exact replica of hers—soft, melodic. "I… I just missed you too much."
Dylan stared at me, confusion flickering across his face before dissolving into warmth. He stepped aside. "You’re insane," he murmured, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "You were supposed to be gone for a week."
I stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind me. The apartment smelled like him—warm, a little musky, with the faintest hint of coffee. Familiar. Safe.
"I changed my mind," I said, brushing past him, my fingers trailing over his arm. "Don’t you want me here?"
His breath caught, and I felt a thrill run through me. This was the game. I knew how Lena touched him, how she spoke to him, how she loved him. And tonight, I’d be better than her.
Dylan’s hands settled on my waist as he turned me toward him, his gaze searching my face. "Of course I want you here," he murmured. "But you never cancel plans. Especially not for me."
I let out a quiet laugh—hers, not mine. "Maybe I’m trying to be different," I said, tilting my head. My fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, letting my touch linger just a little longer than necessary.
He exhaled, the resistance in his shoulders melting under my touch. "You’re gonna make it really hard to focus on the game tonight,” he teased.
"Good," I whispered, leaning in.
Our lips met, and I forced myself to lose in the rhythm of her. The way she kissed—gentle at first, then hungrier. Dylan responded instantly, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
I hated this. Every second of it. The press of his mouth, the warmth of his hands sliding up my back, the insistence of his body against mine. But he loved it. And that was all that mattered.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, he grinned. "Damn. If this is what happens when you cancel trips, I might have to start sabotaging your suitcase."
I laughed—the sound perfectly hers, perfectly convincing—and let him lead me toward the couch, where I knew the night would only grow more intimate.
And as much as it twisted something inside me, I’d keep pretending. Because seeing him happy, seeing him hers, was all I ever wanted—even if it meant I’d never really be the one he loved.
....
The sun was setting as I sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by layers of clothing heaped in disarray—her wardrobe, meticulously recreated down to the last stitch. I had spent months watching her, memorizing the way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she laughed—soft and breathy, as if she were constantly on the verge of a secret.
It wasn’t just her face I had to mimic. It was her soul.
A knock at the door startled me.
Shifting back to myself had always felt like shedding a second skin—my body reforming into my natural curves, my dark curls springing free. I yanked open the door to find my neighbor, Mrs. Langley, standing there with a suspicious squint.
"Heather, you alright in there? Hearin’ all sorts of rustlin’."
I forced a smile. "Just reorganizing, mom. You know how it is."
She hummed, unconvinced, but shuffled off with a grumble.
Heather. That was the name I had given myself when I moved here. Safe. Unassuming. Not the girl who could become anyone else.
I smoothed my hands down my sides, swallowed hard, and closed my eyes. The shift came easier now, like shrugging into a familiar coat. My skin tingled, warming as muscle and bone reordered beneath it. My fingers lengthened, my hips softened, my nose reshaped into the delicate upturn of myself again.
When I opened my eyes again, I become myself again stared back at me from the mirror.
Heather had always been strategic with her ability. She never used it frivolously—only when an opportunity was too tempting to ignore. But this wasn’t just any opportunity. This was Dylan. The man who had consumed her thoughts for years, with his easy laughter and the way his dark eyes crinkled when he smiled. For so long, she had watched from afar, aching for something she could never truly have—until now.
Lena, his girlfriend, was away on a two-week business trip, leaving Dylan alone in their shared apartment. Heather had waited until nightfall, lingering outside until she saw the lights flick off in the bedroom window. Then, with a deep breath, she shifted.
It started at the base of her spine, a slow unspooling warmth that traveled through her limbs, her skin prickling as it stretched and reshaped itself into Lena’s softer curves. Her cheekbones lifted, her hips rounded, her fingers thinned—every detail mattered. She even adjusted her gait, matching Lena’s light, precise steps as she crossed the street.
The key under the flowerpot was still there, just as Lena had mentioned to a friend weeks ago. Heather’s heart hammered against her ribs as she turned it in the lock.
The apartment was quiet, lit only by the blue glow of the television. Dylan was sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, his bare chest rising and falling in slow rhythm.
And that's how it started...
....
The next few hours were a blur of tangled limbs, whispered words, and the kind of intimacy Heather had only ever dreamed of. She hated the way her stomach twisted with guilt, hated the way her own pleasure was tangled up in the lie—but god, the way he touched her. The way he whispered Lena’s name against her skin.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and she fell asleep curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
When Heather woke, sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the tangled sheets. She shifted slightly—and froze.
Her own hands.
She bolted upright, panic searing through her veins. No, no, no— She had shifted back in her sleep. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, her own familiar frame unmistakable.
Dylan stirred beside her, still deep in sleep, one arm slung lazily over the empty space where Lena should have been.
Heather scrambled out of bed, her pulse hammering. If he woke up now—if he saw her—
She clenched her fists, focusing, and felt the shift ripple over her again. The relief was instant as Lena’s features returned, but the terror lingered. She couldn’t stay.
Moving fast, she gathered her scattered clothes, dressed in silence, and scribbled a note in Lena’s looping handwriting:
"Had to leave early—miss you already. Call you tonight."
She placed it on the pillow beside Dylan’s head, stealing one last glance at him before slipping out the door.
....
A diner a few blocks away provided temporary refuge. Heather slid into a corner booth, her hands trembling around a steaming mug of coffee. The reality of what she’d done settled heavy in her chest.
This wasn’t like her other little games—posing as a stranger for an hour, mimicking a co-worker to avoid confrontation. This was Dylan. And she had crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.
But even as guilt gnawed at her, another thought slithered in:
Dylan had wanted her.
Or at least, he had wanted the version of her she had given him. She took a slow sip of coffee, her reflection staring back at her in warped distortion against the diner window.
What happens when Lena comes home?
And worse.
What happens if Dylan wants her to stay?
The diner’s bell jingled as Heather pushed through the door, the cold evening air biting at her skin. She pulled her jacket tighter, her thoughts still tangled with the weight of what she had done with Dylan. The coffee had done little to calm her nerves.
She turned down a dimly lit side street, the glow of streetlights flickering against the damp pavement. That’s when she saw them—a group of men, moving in hushed murmurs toward a narrow alley tucked between two weathered brick buildings.
Something about their demeanor set off a warning in the back of her mind. Shoulders hunched, collars pulled up, quick glances over their shoulders as if checking for pursuers.
This isn’t right.
Heather hesitated at the mouth of the alley, her pulse quickening. She should walk away. She should call the cops and let them handle it.
But curiosity was always her downfall.
She slipped into the shadows, pressing close to the wall as she followed them deeper into the alley, her footsteps silent against the cracked concrete. They stopped in front of a rusted metal door half-hidden under peeling graffiti. Above it, a dull red sign flickered:
MALES ONLY.
A muscle in Heather’s jaw twitched. Of course.
The men rapped a quick pattern on the door—three knocks, a pause, then two more. It creaked open, spilling a sliver of neon light onto the ground before swallowing them whole.
The door thudded shut behind them. Locked.
Heather exhaled sharply, weighing her options.
If this was some kind of underground smuggling ring, she should report it. But what if it was just some stupid exclusive party? A gathering for rich, obnoxious dudes who liked to pretend they were part of some secret society?
Her lips curled. Either way, she was getting in.
She ducked behind a dumpster, pulling in a slow breath. Shift or stay?
Shift.
She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar hum beneath her skin as bones realigned, muscles thickened, shoulders broadened. When she blinked, her reflection in a nearby puddle showed Dylan’s sharp jawline, his tousled dark hair—his face.
Good enough.
Approaching the door, she lifted her hand and mimicked the knock—three, pause, two.
A slot scraped open at eye level, revealing a pair of narrowed, shadowed eyes.
“Password?” the voice grunted.
Heather’s stomach plummeted. Shit.
She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Forcing Dylan’s easy confidence, she smirked. “C’mon, man. I just stepped out for a smoke. You really gonna make me say it again?”
Silence. Then—
The door swung open.
The bass hit her first—deep, throbbing, rattling up through the floorboards. Dim red lights pulsed in time with the music, casting long shadows over the crowded room. Men packed the space, some in sleek suits, others in leather jackets, all of them holding glasses of liquor that gleamed like liquid amber.
But it wasn’t just a party.
Against the far wall stood a row of cages—and inside them, women.
Heather’s breath stopped.
The air inside the basement was thick with sweat and the cloying scent of whiskey and arousal. Heather—still wearing Dylan’s form—stood frozen, her stomach churning as she took in the surreal horror unfolding around her.
Possession Club. It said on the screen.
There are women in cages weren’t just captives.
They were hosts.
The man on the stage, slick-haired and grinning like a carnival barker, gestured toward the cages with a flourish. "Another successful week for our members! Fifty-four possessions total—twenty sexual engagements, thirty-two solo performances, and even two lovely ladies who grew very familiar with each other!" The men around Heather erupted in laughter and cheers, raising their glasses.
Then the speaker’s eyes flicked to a woman crouched at the edge of the stage, her green bikini damp between her thighs as her fingers worked furiously at her own pussy. She didn’t seem to care that everyone was staring—her moans were loud, shameless, her hips bucking as she came right there in front of them.
"Ah, Sarah," the man on stage chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "Still can’t control herself, I see."
Pulling her fingers free with a slick pop, the woman—Sarah—giggled, bouncing her breasts as she blew him a kiss. "Sorry~" she panted, not sounding sorry at all. "You know how pent-up I get when I’m not being used."
It was like watching a pornographic nightmare.
Heather’s skin crawled.
Suddenly, a mechanical groan filled the room as the speaker pulled a lever on the wall. The brick facade behind him split open, revealing a long hallway lined with glass rooms—each containing a different woman. Some writhed on beds, touching themselves. Others knelt obediently, waiting.
"Bookings are now open!" the man announced, waving a stack of plastic keycards. "Members with prior reservations, you know the drill. Newcomers—get your cards at the desk and pick your poison!"
The crowd surged forward, men jostling each other as they lined up to claim their "slots." Heather stumbled back, bumping into someone.
"Easy there, pal," a beefy guy in a leather vest drawled, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "First time? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Before Heather could respond, a commotion near the hallway entrance caught her attention. A wiry man in glasses downed a small pill, grinning as two burly men dragged a struggling woman toward him.
"P-Please, no! I don’t—I don’t want this!" the woman sobbed, kicking wildly. Heather’s fists clenched.
Then it happened.
The man in glasses shuddered—his form flickering like a TV with bad reception—before his entire body seemed to dissolve into mist. The smoky tendrils coiled through the air before plunging straight into the screaming woman’s mouth.
Her body convulsed.
Shaking. Twitching. Legs kicking as her back arched violently—
—and then, stillness.
Her eyes snapped open.
Glowing.
Slowly, a lazy, entirely male smirk spread across her lips. She—he—lifted a hand and groped her breast, squeezing hard with a chuckle. "Damn, this body is tight."
The crowd roared in approval. Heather was going to be sick. She turned and shoved her way toward the exit, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
They’re not just imprisoning women.
They’re stealing them.
And now, disguised as Dylan, she was trapped in a room full of monsters—with no idea how to get out.
The crowd pressed in around Heather like a living, breathing wall—hot, suffocating, reeking of alcohol and sweat. She shoved through, her shoulder knocking against a man’s chest, her elbow jostling another’s drink. Apologies died in her throat. She needed to get out.
But fate had other plans.
Her foot caught on something—a loose floorboard, someone’s outstretched leg—and she lurched forward, crashing straight into the man who had been on stage.
He steadied her with a grip like iron, his slick grin never faltering. Up close, his eyes were dark, calculating, the kind of gaze that peeled back layers without permission.
"Well, well," he purred, tilting his head. "Don’t recognize you. You new?"
Heather’s pulse hammered in her throat. She forced Dylan’s voice—low.. "Nah, just… been a while."
The man laughed, fingers tightening on her shoulder in a mock-friendly squeeze. "Bullshit. You’ve got that deer-in-headlights look all the newbies get." He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Relax. You’re among friends here."
Friends.
The word curdled in her gut as her gaze flicked past him—to the glass rooms where women lay sprawled, their bodies puppeteered by unseen invaders.
The man—the ringleader—stepped back, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to the club, brother. This is a sacred space. A place where men like us don’t just take pleasure…" His grin turned feral. "We become it."
He clapped her on the back like they were old pals. Heather’s skin crawled.
"Rules are simple," he continued, steering her toward the bar despite her stiff resistance. "What happens here stays here. If some nosy bitch catches wind and tries to run to the cops?" He chuckled, pouring a glass of amber liquor and sliding it toward her. "We reward her. Give her the ride of her life—permanently."
The threat hung in the air, thick as the bass vibrating through the floor.
Heather swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the glass. She needed to leave. Now.
"I, uh—I actually gotta bounce," she muttered, setting the drink down untouched. "Forgot I got shit to do—"
The ringleader’s hand clamped down on her wrist. "Nonsense." His smile never wavered, but his eyes turned glacial. "You just got here. And I insist you try before you go."
From his pocket, he produced a small vial—inside, tiny pills shimmered like crushed pearls.
Heather’s blood turned to ice.
Possession pills.
"Go on," he urged, shaking one into her palm. "First one’s free."
The pill sat there, innocuous, deadly. Around her, the club pulsed with grotesque energy—men laughing, women moaning, bodies moving in ways that weren’t theirs.
She was outnumbered.
Outmatched.
And if she didn’t play along—she’d never make it out alive.
Heather’s fingers trembled around the pill, her mind racing for an escape. The dim, flickering lights of the private room made everything feel surreal—like she was trapped in some grotesque nightmare. The girl on the bed continued to writhe, her legs spread obscenely wide as she gazed at them with heavy-lidded eyes.
The ringleader smirked at Heather’s hesitation. "First-timer jitters. I get it." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the girl. "Meet your instructor. Well, not really—the guy inside her is."
Heather’s jaw clenched. The way he spoke about it so casually, as if this were some kind of twisted mentorship program, made her skin crawl.
The girl on the bed giggled—inhumanly deep, wrong. Then, in a voice that didn’t match her delicate frame, she spoke. "Sup, newbie."
A shudder raced down Heather’s spine.
The ringleader smirked. "This fucker’s got the highest possession count in the club. Every girl in his school, every teacher, his best friend’s mom—name it, he’s been inside." He clapped Heather hard on the back. "He’s gonna show you the ropes."
With that, he turned and left, the lock clicking ominously behind him.
The moment the door sealed, the girl on the bed convulsed, her back arching as a thick, smokey mist forced itself out of her mouth. The specter lingered in the air for a second before condensing back into human form—a lanky, smirking guy in his early twenties, wearing a cocky grin that made Heather’s fists itch.
The girl collapsed onto the bed, gasping, her eyes wide and dazed. "W-Where…?" She clutched the sheets, disoriented.
He ignored her, stepping toward Heather—Dylan’s form—with an assessing gaze. "Alright, Dylan. Let’s get you started."
Heather forced Dylan’s voice, trying to steady it. "How… does this even work?"
The possessor smirked, plucking the pill from her palm and holding it up between two fingers. "Pop one of these, and boom—you’re a ghost. You can slip into any chick you want. No resistance, no fighting back. Just pure control." His grin widened. "But here’s the catch."
He tossed the pill back into her hand. "One pill lasts 24 hours. If you don’t take another before time runs out? Congrats—you’re stuck forever. No refunds."
A cold sweat broke out on the back of Heather’s neck.
The girl on the bed whimpered, trying to scoot back. "P-Please… just let me go…"
The possessor didn’t even glance at her. "Lesson one: Don’t get attached. They’re just shells. Our shells."
His fingers flicked out, snatching the pill back from Heather. Before she could react, he shoved it into the girl’s mouth, clamping his hand over her lips until she choked it down.
Then, like smoke through a crack, his body dissolved, swirling violently before surging back into her.
The girl’s body jerked, her pupils dilating unnaturally as his voice slithered out of her lips.
"Now," he purred, running a hand up her thigh, "let’s practice."
Horror coiled in Heather’s gut.
She had to get out.
Before she became the lesson.
"I'm not doing this," Heather growled, her voice trembling as she took a step back.
The girl's face—possessed by that leering bastard—twisted in confusion. "What the hell do you mean, no?" The throaty, masculine chuckle that slithered out of her delicate lips sent a wave of revulsion through Heather. "Dude, that's why you're here, ain't it?"
Heather's fists clenched at her sides, Dylan's borrowed body tense with barely restrained panic. "I changed my mind. I'm out."
She spun toward the locked door, desperation burning in her veins. The metallic click of the latch mocked her—no way out without a key. Her lungs tightened. Think, think, think—
A hand seized her wrist, yanking her backward. "Oh, hell no. You ain't goin' anywhere."
Heather twisted, wrenching free. "Get off—"
Her feet caught on the edge of the bed’s tangled sheets.
Time slowed.
She flailed, but gravity won.
Her temple slammed into the dresser’s sharp corner—a white-hot crack of pain—and then—
—everything unraveled.
A sickening warmth pooled beneath her skin, muscles writhing as bones snapped back into place. Curves reemerged. Height dissolved. Dylan’s broad shoulders melted into her own slender frame, his clothes suddenly baggy, drowning her.
The world swayed as she slumped to her knees, blinking through the haze.
She was herself again.
The girl on the bed—no, the man inside her—gaped. "What the—?"
Heather’s stomach plummeted.
No.
She reached up, fingers grazing the familiar shape of her own face—soft cheeks, full lips, her hair. Dylan’s borrowed form was gone.
The possessed girl’s expression morphed from shock to greedy fascination. A slow, vile grin split her face. "Well, well. A shapeshifter." He let out a low whistle. "Now that’s a rarity."
Heather scrambled back, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Stay away from me."
The girl—no, the thing wearing her—laughed, crawling off the bed in a way too predatory to be human. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you just became the main attraction."
The door rattled—the sound of a key turning.
Heather’s blood turned to ice.
The lock clicked.
The pounding on the door was relentless.
"Yo, everything alright in there? Sounded like a damn fight!"
Inside the dimly lit room, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and something metallic—fear, desperation, the charged energy of a predator circling its prey.
The girl’s body—possessed by the grinning bastard who now knew Heather’s secret—rolled her eyes and called back, voice slick with amusement.
"Relax, man, just having too much fun in here!"
The lie dripped with the confidence of someone used to getting his way. The muffled chuckle from the other side of the door confirmed they bought it. Footsteps receded, leaving Heather alone with the monster standing between her and escape.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She was trapped.
Worse—she’d given herself away.
The man inside the girl cocked his head, eyes glinting in the dim light as he raked his gaze over Heather’s trembling form.
"You know," he mused, stepping closer, "I’ve seen some crazy shit in this club, but a shapeshifter? That’s a first." He grinned. "And damn if you don’t have a fine body to go with it."
Heather’s back hit the wall. Cold brick bit into her skin through own too-big shirt. She had no weapons. No backup.
And he knew exactly what she was.
The possessed girl stretched, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off a cramp. "Alright, here’s how this is gonna go." She—he—ticked the points off on delicate fingers:
1. "You don’t scream."
2. "You don’t fight."
3. "And maybe, just maybe, I don’t tell the guys outside you’re a walking, talking party trick they can all take for a spin."
He stepped closer, close enough that Heather could see the unnatural gleam in the girl’s eyes—too sharp, too male for the soft features they were trapped in.
"What do you say, shapeshifter girl? Deal?"
Heather spat in his face.
The girl’s head snapped back—but then the laugh came, low and dark. A slow swipe of her thumb wiped the saliva away, and when those eyes locked onto Heather again, they were hungry.
"Should’ve taken the deal."
Then— A gasp. A shudder.
The girl’s body convulsed, back arching violently as a thick, black mist spewed from her lips. It coiled in the air like smoke, twisting, seething— And then it lunged for Heather.
Cold.
That was her first thought.
It felt like drowning in ice water, like freezing fingers clawing down her throat, filling her lungs, her veins, her bones. Heather gagged, her body buckling under the invasion. Her vision swam—blurred—
And then came the pressure.
Pushing. Squeezing.
Something inside her screamed as the man’s presence forced its way in, tendrils of his will latching onto her nerves, her muscles, her thoughts— Heather’s fists clenched, nails biting into her palms.
*Get. Out.*
Her lips moved, words trembling. "You... can’t... have me." A scoff echoed in her skull—his voice, smug and condescending.
"Oh sweetheart, I already do."
And then— *Pain.*
Her right hand moved on its own, jerking up to claw at her own throat. Heather choked. Stop it—STOP IT— Her traitorous fingers tightened. Dark spots danced in her vision. Laughter, thick and cruel, vibrated through her bones.
"Fight all you want." A phantom tongue licked her lips from the inside. "But this body’s mine now."
Heather collapsed to her knees, gasping. It was like being locked in a glass box inside her own head—able to see, to feel, but powerless to stop what came next. Her hands lifted—not hers, his—and skimmed up her sides, groping, squeezing, testing.
"Damn, you weren’t kidding about this body." He cupped her breasts through the fabric, thumbs rolling her nipples until they pebbled tight. A groan rattled through her throat—his pleasure, not hers.
Tears burned her eyes as her own fingers hooked into the collar of Dylan’s shirt and yanked. Buttons popped, clattering to the floor. Cool air kissed her exposed skin.
"Yeah... that’s better."
Hands—her hands—palmed her bare tits, kneading with rough appreciation. "Fuck, these are perfect." His laughter slithered under her skin. "Bet you’ve made guys lose their minds with these, huh?"
Heather squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
Then—
Her fingers trailed lower. Over her stomach.
Down, down—
She thrashed internally, screaming, pleading, but it was no use. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. And when her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her panties, when they found the slick heat between her legs—
It was his voice that moaned.
It was his will that made her cum.
That was the first sound—ragged, satisfied breaths filling the silence of the room. Heather’s body slumped against the wall, spent, trembling. The man inside her stretched lazily, arching her back with a groan.
"Damn, that was good."
Heather lay sprawled on the cold basement floor, her body slick with sweat and trembling from the forced release he had wrung from her. Every breath felt like fire in her lungs, every heartbeat an exhausted throb of humiliation.
The bastard inside her wasn’t done.
Her hands—his hands—groped her breasts again, squeezing with possessive delight as he laughed in her mind.
"Fuck, I could get used to this."
Her fingers pinched her nipples hard enough to make her gasp—his pitiless amusement twisting her pleasure into pain. Then they trailed down her stomach again, past her navel, slipping between her thighs.
No wait—
She fought, straining against the cage of her own body, but it was no use. The first brush of fingertips against her clit was a sickening betrayal. Her own flesh pulsed in response, still sensitive from the last assault.
"You really don’t wanna enjoy this, huh?" His voice was a sneer in her skull as he circled that swollen bud, slow and taunting. "Too bad."
Heather clenched her teeth, but a helpless whimper escaped as he sped up, his touch ruthless, degrading.
"Go on, fight it," he mocked. "Bet you’ll still cum like a slut anyway." Tears burned her eyes—but her body, traitorous and weak, arched off the ground as he drove her toward another brutal orgasm.
Her back bowed.
Then—
Release.
A guttural moan tore from her lips—his victory, not hers—as her hips jerked wildly. Slick warmth gushed around his fingers, soaking her thighs, the floor beneath her. Satisfaction oozed through their shared mind like syrup.
"Damn. You’re dripping."
Her hands—his hands—lifted, fingers glistening with her own shame before he licked them clean with her tongue. "Not bad."
Before she could even recover, Heather felt her body stand—his will puppeteering her limbs like a marionette. A deep, rolling laugh bubbled up from her throat as his control forced her into motion.
Hips swaying. Ass twerking.
"Look at you," he crooned, making her slap her own rear with a sharp crack. "Made for this shit."
Humiliation burned through her like acid. She could feel it—the way he relished every second of her degradation, the way he made her body perform like some cheap stripper for his amusement.
Her stomach churned. She wanted to scream.
Then—
A pause.
"Here’s the deal," he mused, halting her gyrating hips and turning her toward the cracked mirror across the room. Heather saw herself—flushed, panting, pupils blown wide in arousal she hadn’t asked for. And then she saw her lips curl into a smirk that wasn’t hers.
"You let me ride this body for a while," he purred, running her hands up her naked sides. "Really enjoy it. And hey—maybe I’ll even make it good for you."
Her fingers tweaked her nipples again, sharp enough to make her gasp.
"Or,"—her head tilted, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper—"I could record a little video of us. Let the whole club see what a desperate little shifter looks like when she cums."
Heather’s blood turned to ice. The footage would spread. She’d never escape it. Her lips moved before she could stop them.
"Fuck. You."
A laugh—dark, amused.
"Oh, sweetheart. I plan to."
Her body moved on its own, grabbing a discarded phone from the dresser.
Camera on.
Recording.
"Say hi to the fellas, Heather."
....
The dim, flickering light of the basement room painted Heather’s sweat-slicked skin in shifting shadows. She lay sprawled on the stained mattress, her body trembling in the aftermath of another brutal climax—one of many forced upon her in what felt like an eternity of humiliation.
The phone propped nearby ticked over to four hours of recording.
Four hours.
Four hours of him using her hands, her mouth, her very soul to wring pleasure from her unwilling body.
Her thighs glistened—slick with arousal he had demanded, trembling from exhaustion.
She wanted to scream. To sob. To kill him. But her body wasn’t hers anymore.
His voice slithered through her mind, dark with amusement. "You were made for this, weren’t you?" Her lips—his to control—twisted into a mocking smirk.
Her fingers—his to command—dragged through the mess between her legs, painting her stomach with glistening streaks.
"Look at you," he purred, forcing her to tilt her hips toward the camera. "Dripping like a fucking fountain."
Heather’s breath hitched.
She hated this.
Hated him.
Hated the way her body betrayed her.
But no matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t stop. Her fingers circled her clit again, slow, taunting.
She braced herself.
"P-Please..." she gasped—the first word she'd managed in hours.
"Please what?" His laughter was a razor against her mind. "Tell me, Heather. Beg for it." She shut her eyes, breath ragged.
"Stop."
A pause.
Then—
A roar of laughter.
"Oh, I wish you could see yourself right now," he crooned. "So pathetic. So weak."
Her thumb pressed down—hard—and her back arched as another wave of forced pleasure tore through her.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "F-Fuck you..." she choked out. His grin was a razor in her skull.
"Already am."
Then, to her horror, she felt the familiar pull at her bones—the telltale tingle of shifting.
Skin rippled. Muscles tensed. Her own horrified gasp morphed mid-breath into— Someone else’s voice.
"Recognize her?"
The words spilled from lips that weren’t hers—soft, feminine, strange. He forced her body to crawl to the mirror. The reflection wasn’t Heather. It was a girl with platinum blonde hair, pouty lips, a body built for sin. She didn't know her. But he did.
"Jessica," he mused, making her hands skim down her new curves. "Cheer captain. Total bitch. Fucked her brains out the moment I got her alone."
Heather’s stomach turned.
A whimper—Jessica’s whimper—trembled from her throat. Then— Another shift. Hips widened. Breasts swelled.
"Sarah," he purred, running his fingers over thick thighs, a voluptuous frame. "Teacher’s pet. She cried when I took her. Best orgasm of her life."
Shift. A petite redhead.
Shift. A tanned beauty with a dancer’s grace.
His collection.
His trophies.
And now, his to make Heather wear like some sick costume.
Each shift was accompanied by forced touch—his cruel exploration of his conquests, using her body to relive his sick victories.
She wanted to vomit.
Then—suddenly—she was herself again.
Naked.
Exposed.
Trembling.
In her hands was something new—a vibrator, thick and humming with wicked intensity.
"Time for the main event," he murmured. The tip pressed against her wet, quivering pussy. She sucked in a sharp breath— Then screamed as he turned it on full power. The vibrations tore through her, ruthless and unrelenting, her hips jerking uncontrollably against the assault.
"Oh fuck—FUCK!"
Her own cry disgusted her. She hated how good it felt. Hated how her body clenched, greedy and desperate, around nothing. Hated him for making her like it.
"The more you fight, the longer this lasts," he reminded her sweetly. "Just relax, Heather. Enjoy yourself."
She bit her lip until it bled. But her body obeyed him. Spasmed for him. Came for him.
And when the wave crashed over her, when her vision whited out and her scream echoed off the walls— The camera caught it all.
As she lay there, broken and gasping, the final realization settled over her like a shroud.
This place wasn’t just a club. It was a hunting ground. And women like her?
Prey.
The man inside her leaned forward—her lips brushing her own ear in a lover’s whisper.
"Tomorrow night, the boys will love this footage."
The door clicked open.
A familiar voice cut through the haze. "Damn. Looks like you’ve been busy." The ringleader stood in the doorway, eyes gleaming with dark approval.
Heather’s stomach dropped. She was out of time. And there was no escape.
.....
The heavy door clicked shut behind the club’s ringleader, leaving Heather and her possessor alone in the cavernous basement. The air was thick with the musk of sweat and sin, the red lights casting long, leering shadows against the walls.
Heather’s body moved without her consent.
Hips swayed.
Her naked form glistened under the dim glow as the monster inside her forced her into a slow, deliberate shimmy. The sensation of her own body betraying her—fluid and responsive to every cruel command—made her want to scream. She did scream.
"Get OUT of me!" Her voice cracked, strained from hours of forced moans and sobs. The possessor only laughed—a dark, amused sound that rattled through her bones.
"And ruin the fun?" Her own hands slid up her waist, cupping her breasts possessively. "Nah. We’re just getting started." He made her slap her own ass—hard—the sharp crack echoing through the empty club.
"Fuck you!" Heather hissed.
"Oh, sweetheart." Her fingers pinched her nipple, twisting just to hear her gasp. "I fuckinh you right now.."
With a cruel mental tug, he forced her toward the main stage—the same one where they’d displayed caged women like livestock. Her legs moved without hesitation. Then—
She twerked. Hard. Shameless.
Her ass bounced in a way she’d never done in her life—cheeks clapping, her body bending forward until her hands braced against the stage.
"STOP IT!" she roared in her mind.
"Or what?" His voice dripped with condescension as he made her roll her hips, slow and obscene. "You’ll cry more?"
Heather burned with fury. The worst part? She could feel his arousal through the possession—the way her hips gyrating turned him on, his pleasure bleeding into her nerves.
"You sick bastard," she choked out.
"Aw, don’t be like that."
Her fingers trailed down over her stomach.
Then, without warning—
He speared two fingers inside her.
Her back arched violently as he curled them deep, hitting her G-spot with precision. A strangled cry ripped from her throat. "See? Your body loves me," he purred.
"I—I don’t—!"
Words failed as he pumped ruthlessly, his laughter merging with her panting gasps.
She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. But her body didn’t care. White-hot pleasure coiled tight in her gut—Then snapped.
Her vision whited out as she came hard, her thighs clamping around her own wrist as wave after wave wracked her system.
When she came back to herself—still trembling, still violated—his voice slithered through her mind like oil.
"Y’know, I was gonna make you shift again," he mused, forcing her to collapse onto the stage, spent and sweating. "But damn, your real body? Chef’s kiss."
Her stomach twisted.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Rot in hell."
A chuckle.
Then—her hand groped her breast again.
"Not before I enjoy myself."
Her fingers trailed lower, dragging through the mess he’d made of her, circling her clit with lazy, taunting strokes.
She shuddered, biting back a moan. "Why… are you… still doing this?" she gasped.
"Because I can."
He pinched her clit—hard—and she wailed. "And because," he continued, voice thick with dark promise, "once the boys see how good you are at taking orders?"
His fingers plunged back inside her, forcing another staggered cry. "They’re gonna want you all the time."
A pause.
Then—
"And you’ll have no choice but to obey." Heather’s blood ran cold. She opened her mouth— But before she could speak, his control slammed into her like a freight train.
Her back bowed. Her nails scraped the stage. And as another orgasm tore through her— She realized with horrifying clarity:
There was no escape.
....
The red digital clock on the nightstand blinked 4:37 AM as Heather's body twitched through yet another unwanted climax, her thighs glistening under the flickering basement lights. Fourteen hours. Fourteen goddamn hours trapped inside her own flesh while he puppeteered her movements, forced moans from her lips, and wrung orgasm after orgasm from her exhausted form.
"P-please..." Heather whispered through trembling lips, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Just... stop..."
Inside her mind, the possessor chuckled darkly. "Stop? Babygirl, we're just warming up."
Her traitorous hands—his hands now—slid down her sweat-slicked stomach with familiar intent. Heather squeezed her eyes shut, trying to disconnect, to retreat into some corner of her mind where this wasn't happening. But the moment his fingers brushed her oversensitive clit, her spine arched off the mattress with a ragged gasp.
"You—fucking monster—" she choked out, her nails digging into the sheets as electric pleasure-pain lanced through her.
"Ooh, say that again," he purred, circling her swollen nub with merciless precision. "Nothing hotter than hearing you curse while your body begs for it."
Her clit throbbed under his relentless attention, every nerve ending screaming with overstimulation. Heather's breath came in shallow pants as his fingers dipped lower, tracing her soaked entrance before pushing two digits inside without warning.
"Nngh! G-God—!" Her hips jerked helplessly, her inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.
"Look at you," he crooned, pistoning his fingers ruthlessly against that spongy spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. "Dripping like a goddamn faucet. Bet you can't even remember how many times you've come for me, can you?"
Tears spilled down Heather's cheeks as her body betrayed her yet again, her thighs trembling on the edge of another crushing orgasm. "I... I hate you—"
"Uh-huh," he mocked, curling his fingers just so. "Tell me how much you hate me when you scream."
The coil in her stomach snapped.
Heather's back bowed off the bed as the climax ripped through her, a broken wail tearing from her throat as her vision whited out. Her hips stuttered against his hand, her inner walls spasming around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure-pain crashed over her.
When she finally came down, shuddering and gasping, his laughter echoed through her skull.
"Twenty-seven," he announced smugly, withdrawing his glistening fingers and holding them up to her blurry vision. "That's how many times I've made this pretty little pussy cum tonight. Think we can hit thirty before sunrise?"
Heather turned her face into the pillow, her entire body aching, every muscle limp with exhaustion. She wanted to rage. To fight. But fourteen hours of relentless violation had hollowed her out, leaving only a numb shell behind.
Heather collapsed against the sheets, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You're... you're sick..."
"And you're delicious," he countered, making her trail a finger through the mess between her thighs before bringing it to her lips. "Taste that? That's what defeat feels like, sweetheart."
Her stomach churned as her tongue licked her own juices away at his command.
"Now..." Her hands slid down her body once more. "Let's see if we can't make you scream one last time before the boys get here."
Heather thrashed weakly as his will overpowered hers yet again. "N-no more... I can't—"
"Oh you can," he whispered, spreading her legs wide. "And you will."
As his fingers found her clit again, as pleasure built like a tidal wave against her will, Heather did the only thing she had left.
She closed her eyes.
And prayed for death.
And cums in her own hands.
...
Plot
Your body was stolen by a super busty Goth Girl. You now have to live her life. You find out you switched because her family was cursed to give their bodies to a stranger of the opposite sex on their 21st birthday. Emily just chose you at random.
Characters
Emily Lunawood: The goth girl who stole your body. She is wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt with a black lace thong under it, a revealing top with a black lace bra under it and black high heels when she steals your body. She has black hair with red dyed tips, it goes to her waist.
You: An average looking man, you have brown hair and blue eyes. Your slightly muscular.
One moment, I was pressing my palm to the mirror, mesmerized by the way my reflection moved without me. The next—reality twisted, inverted. A dizzying lurch, and I was staring out from the glass at my own horrified face.
Oh God.
My body—Emily’s body now—was already backing away, her—my—lips curling into a smirk that felt alien on my features. "Enjoy the new life," she said in my voice, rolling my shoulders like she was testing them out. "Trust me, you’ll need it."
"Switch us back!" I snapped, but the words came out in her higher, smoother tone—hers now. My hands—slender, unfamiliar—clenched at my sides.
She just smirked, my smirk, and reached for the jacket I’d draped over the chair. "Check the purse, sweetheart. You’ll definitely want to." Then, with a wink that made my stomach twist, she was gone, the door slamming behind her before I could even think to chase her—me.
Nausea rolled through me as I grabbed the leather handbag by the dresser. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking as I pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. Emily Lunawood. 21. 309 Cedar Lane.
The drive was a nightmare of panicked swerves and clumsy turns; the car, an automatic, felt foreign without my stick shift to grip. Her—my—apartment was all soft grays and jasmine in the air, pristine except for the open notebook on the kitchen counter.
A single note sat beside it, written in fluid, looping script.
Sorry to whoever is now me, it read, my family was cursed years ago. On the 21st birthday, we are forced to seek out someone of the opposite sex and give them our bodies. You will be given my memories the first night you sleep. Signed Emily Lunawood.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Of course. I thumbed open the notebook—passwords, addresses, even a meticulously planned gym schedule—before collapsing onto the couch, my (her) head in my (her) hands.
The bed was too plush, the sheets too silky, but exhaustion won out. I fell into the dark, and when dreams came, they weren’t mine.
They were hers—childhood summers, first heartbreaks, whispered family warnings that the curse had no loopholes, no way back. And worst of all? The unshakable knowledge that no one in the Lunawood bloodline had ever escaped it.
The first thing I registered as consciousness crawled back was the delicious ache between my thighs and the whisper of stockings against freshly shaved skin. My fingers—her fingers—traced the outline of fishnets stretched taut over smooth legs, the crisscross pattern pressing kisses into flesh that wasn’t mine. A gasp caught in my throat as I realized the skirt riding up was obscenely short, the lace of my thong riding high enough to tease at the curve of my—her—ass. The top barely contained the swell of cleavage spilling over a black lace bra, the fabric sheer enough to outline hardened nipples.
I shifted—God, even the movement felt different—and nearly toppled off the bed when the spiked heels caught in the sheets. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a punch to the gut: smudged eyeliner, swollen lips bitten red, black hair cascading over bare shoulders with crimson streaks blazing through it like warning flares.
And the worst part? The thrill zipping down my spine at how good it all felt.
I got up and went to a mirror.
The mirror showed me—her—in full, and I barely recognized the predatory amusement in my new eyes. My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, every unfamiliar contour both alien and intoxicating. The lace of my bra dug into soft flesh when I inhaled sharply, my nails biting crescents into my palms—just to feel something real.
A slow, involuntary roll of my hips sent a jolt through me—her body knew exactly what it wanted. The fishnets rasped against my thighs as I spread my legs slightly, just enough to feel the damp heat pooling where the thong cut in.
Jesus.
I watched in horrified fascination as my reflection’s tongue swiped over painted lips, my own breath coming faster as I fought the urge to slide a hand lower. This wasn’t me—
But the thought shattered when I arched my back experimentally, and the bra’s clasp strained against the motion. A whimper escaped me—high, breathy, embarrassingly feminine—as my nipple peaked tighter against the lace, the sensation so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
The purse Emily left gaped open on the bed, a glint of metal catching my eye. I reached for it with shaking fingers and pulled out a slim silver vibrator, still slick with—
Oh God, she’d been using this right before swapping us.
The realization burned through me hotter than shame. My reflection’s pupils blew wide as my thumb brushed the damp button, the device humming to life with a predatory purr. The sound alone dragged a moan from my throat—her throat.
I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop.
The vibrator pressed against my inner thigh, the vibrations rippling up through the fishnets like a live wire. Every rational thought short-circuited when I dragged it higher, the lace of my panties already soaked through.
The mirror showed it all—the way my hips jerked when the buzzing found my clit, the obscene glide of the toy through slick folds as I fucked myself with it in frantic, shallow thrusts.
"Fuck—fuck—" My voice was a broken thing, her voice, her pleasure, even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t right.
But God, it felt like heaven.
The orgasm hit like a train, my back slamming against the vanity as my legs gave out. Pleasure pulsed through me in dizzying waves, my reflection’s mouth slack with ecstasy, mascara streaking down flushed cheeks.
I slid to the floor, trembling, the vibrator still buzzing weakly against my thigh.
What the hell was I becoming?
The question pulsed through me like a second heartbeat as I stared at my reflection lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. The need to feel more, to explore this stolen flesh, burned hotter than reason.
The top was the first to go. I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, letting the silky material pool around my waist before sliding it the rest of the way down.
With shaking hands, I reached up and tugged at the straps of the lace bra, seeing in the process a 42F tag. The fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, setting my full breasts free. They bounced slightly with the motion, nipples hardening immediately in the cool air. A shiver ran through me as my fingers brushed against one, the contact sending a jolt straight to my still-throbbing core.
The fishnets came next. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, rolling them down with slow, deliberate movements. The material clung stubbornly, the crisscross pattern stretching then snapping back against my hips with each inch exposed. Smooth skin emerged beneath, freshly waxed and still tingling from earlier.
The thong was soaked through, the damp lace clinging obscenely when I finally shimmied out of it. My fingers trailed along the inside of my thighs before pausing at the apex - so smooth, so incredibly different. The scent of my own arousal filled the air as I tentatively spread my legs wider, watching in the mirror as the evidence of my pleasure glistened under soft light.
I ran trembling hands over my new body - from the dip of my waist up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling peaked nipples that responded eagerly to every touch. A breathy moan escaped my lips as one hand slid lower, fingertips brushing through damp curls before sinking into slick heat.
This isn't me.
This feels so good.
The contradictions warred in my mind even as my body arched into my own touch, hips rocking against my fingers with increasing urgency. The mirror showed it all - showed her - lost in pleasure, mouth open in silent ecstasy as fingers worked furiously between spread thighs.
When the wave crashed over me this time, I barely recognized my own scream.
The shower did nothing to wash away the surreal thrill of my stolen skin—every inch of Emily’s body still buzzed unnervingly under my touch. Steam fogged the mirror as I toweled off, deliberately running my (her) hands down the unfamiliar slope of narrow waist and curved hips. The face staring back—sharp cheekbones, violet eyes heavy with something darkly knowing—still sent a jolt through me.
I knotted the silk robe too tight, ignoring how it barely covered her thighs. Luckily thanks to her memories, I knew she didn't have any close relationships. I also knew that she would find me again soon, since the curse had a second component. The swapped individuals would fall in love and help continue the family line.
Emily—me now—had left more than just her lipsticks and half-used perfume. The sleek black phone buzzed beneath my fingers, unlocked by my—her—face. I swallowed hard. Time to take inventory of my new life.
Bank Account
The app opened instantly. I blinked.
$84,756.22
I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Savings account? Another $312K. I tapped through transaction history—monthly deposits from something called Lunawood Holdings for $15K, along with smaller payments labeled consulting fees. What the hell kind of consulting did she do?
Social Media
The first tab I tapped was Instagram—her Instagram. My stomach clenched as the app loaded, revealing a digital shrine to seduction. The blue checkmark was inevitable. The bio burned into my retinas: 💋 Your Next Bad Decision 💋, all smirking lips and dangerous promise.
The feed was a slow, deliberate burn—no accidents here. Every shot was a masterclass in teasing control. Silk sheets tangled around one bare thigh, the shadow-dipped dip of her spine as she arched over a hotel balcony, a crimson-lacquered nail dragging down a champagne flute. No laughter, no adrenaline—just heat, simmering in every flick of her wrist, every half-lidded glance at the camera like she could already feel hands on her skin. The captions were sparse, deliberate: "Late nights only", "Tell me how badly you want it", "Good boys don't get to touch."
Every post wasn’t just a demand to look—it was a dare to want.
Twitter was a constant stream of punchy one-liners and suggestive stunt reels. TikTok was a minefield of temptation—short, scorching loops of Emily arching against silk bedsheets, biting her lower lip in teasing slow-motion, her fingers tracing idle circles over the lace hem of lingerie before cutting to black. No laughter, no wasted movement—just a half-second of exposed thigh, the barest glimpse of teeth grazing skin, all set to a pulse-heavy soundtrack that left you craving another replay. Every clip was a dare wrapped in five seconds of sin.
OnlyFans
The icon made my fingers hesitate. Of course she had one. I tapped it—password already saved—and nearly choked.
$27K last month. $42K the month before. A catalog of paywalled galleries—Mistress in Marble, Bondage & Breakfast, each one featuring me now, in poses so sinful my pulse stuttered. There I was, sprawled across black satin sheets, fingers tangled in my own hair as I arched toward the camera, lips parted just enough to tease. Another series showed me kneeling in thigh-high stockings, the garter straps biting into creamy skin while I stared down the lens with heavy-lidded authority.
Subscriptions
Then came the subscriptions. Of course she had every premium streaming service—Netflix, HBO, the works—but the real fun started scrolling down. Paid access to high-end porn sites, all sleek branding and "exclusive content." A membership to Velvet Orbit, some kind of luxury erotic streaming platform with thumbnails featuring tangled limbs under silk sheets and promises of "real couples, real desires."
I was closing out of the accounts when I heard it—three sharp raps against the bedroom wall, followed by two slower ones. A pattern. Deliberate.
My breath caught. That wasn’t the front door.
Emily’s memories surfaced like fragments of a dream—pressed against this same wall, her fingers finding the nearly invisible seam in the wallpaper, pushing just so—
A hidden door clicked open.
I froze as the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for shoulders. And there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that matched the one I’d worn earlier, stood me.
My old body looked different now. The way he held himself was all Emily; the cocky tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his thigh. His shirt hung open, revealing the chest I used to know every scar and freckle of.
“Miss me already?” His voice was mine, but the cadence, the purr—hers.
“You—” My throat tightened. I hadn’t realized how much taller I used to be until I had to look up at myself.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger—my finger—and stepped inside, the hidden door whispering shut behind him. “Rule one of the curse: no take-backs.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering where the robe gaped at my chest. “Though I do like what I see.”
A flush burned up my neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He prowled closer, close enough that I caught my old cologne on his skin. “I was hoping you’d find the toys first.” His grin widened as my cheeks heated. “Oh, you did.”
I backed up until the vanity dug into my spine. “Why are you here?”
His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, close enough for his borrowed lips to brush my ear. "Because you will be my bride and help continue the line as per the second half of the curse."
A few years later
The pain was unbearable—a searing, primal fire tearing through me with every contraction. My nails dug into the hospital bed sheets, sweat gluing Emily’s—no, mine now—long black hair to my face.
"You’re doing amazing," he murmured, squeezing my hand. Even now, with my old face lined with worry, the way he tilted his head was pure Emily—that same confident smirk tempered by something softer. The silver band on his finger glinted under the harsh hospital lights, matching the one nestled securely against my own ring finger.
"Shut up," I gasped, arching off the bed as another wave hit. "This is your fault.*"
He just chuckled, brushing damp strands back from my forehead. "Our family now, sweetheart." His thumb traced my knuckles. "And trust me, when you hold her, you won’t regret a damn thing."
The nurse between my legs looked up, grinning. "One more push, Mom. She’s right there."
I barely had time to scream before the pressure shattered into sudden, dizzying relief. A fragile, furious wail filled the room, and then—
Her.
Tiny. Perfect. Swaddled in a pink blanket and placed carefully against my chest, her little face scrunched up in outrage. Dark lashes fluttered against petal-soft cheeks, her miniature fingers curling reflexively around mine.
"Congratulations," the nurse murmured. "She’s beautiful."
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of her was terrifying, intoxicating—mine.
"She has your nose," he whispered, bending to press a kiss to my temple. His—my old—calloused finger traced the baby’s shock of dark hair. "But your mother’s eyes." His voice cracked. "God, look at her."
The baby blinked up at us, her tiny mouth working silently before she settled with a sigh. The monitors beeped steadily, the world narrowing to this moment—this impossible, inevitable moment.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, euphoric, and met my husband’s gaze.
"Worth it?" he teased, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I clutched our daughter tighter—the next in the Lunawood line—and laughed through the tears.
Your body was stolen by a super busty Goth Girl. You now have to live her life. You find out you switched because her family was cursed to give their bodies to a stranger of the opposite sex on their 21st birthday. Emily just chose you at random.
Characters
Emily Lunawood: The goth girl who stole your body. She is wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt with a black lace thong under it, a revealing top with a black lace bra under it and black high heels when she steals your body. She has black hair with red dyed tips, it goes to her waist.
You: An average looking man, you have brown hair and blue eyes. Your slightly muscular.
One moment, I was pressing my palm to the mirror, mesmerized by the way my reflection moved without me. The next—reality twisted, inverted. A dizzying lurch, and I was staring out from the glass at my own horrified face.
Oh God.
My body—Emily’s body now—was already backing away, her—my—lips curling into a smirk that felt alien on my features. "Enjoy the new life," she said in my voice, rolling my shoulders like she was testing them out. "Trust me, you’ll need it."
"Switch us back!" I snapped, but the words came out in her higher, smoother tone—hers now. My hands—slender, unfamiliar—clenched at my sides.
She just smirked, my smirk, and reached for the jacket I’d draped over the chair. "Check the purse, sweetheart. You’ll definitely want to." Then, with a wink that made my stomach twist, she was gone, the door slamming behind her before I could even think to chase her—me.
Nausea rolled through me as I grabbed the leather handbag by the dresser. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking as I pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. Emily Lunawood. 21. 309 Cedar Lane.
The drive was a nightmare of panicked swerves and clumsy turns; the car, an automatic, felt foreign without my stick shift to grip. Her—my—apartment was all soft grays and jasmine in the air, pristine except for the open notebook on the kitchen counter.
A single note sat beside it, written in fluid, looping script.
Sorry to whoever is now me, it read, my family was cursed years ago. On the 21st birthday, we are forced to seek out someone of the opposite sex and give them our bodies. You will be given my memories the first night you sleep. Signed Emily Lunawood.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Of course. I thumbed open the notebook—passwords, addresses, even a meticulously planned gym schedule—before collapsing onto the couch, my (her) head in my (her) hands.
The bed was too plush, the sheets too silky, but exhaustion won out. I fell into the dark, and when dreams came, they weren’t mine.
They were hers—childhood summers, first heartbreaks, whispered family warnings that the curse had no loopholes, no way back. And worst of all? The unshakable knowledge that no one in the Lunawood bloodline had ever escaped it.
The first thing I registered as consciousness crawled back was the delicious ache between my thighs and the whisper of stockings against freshly shaved skin. My fingers—her fingers—traced the outline of fishnets stretched taut over smooth legs, the crisscross pattern pressing kisses into flesh that wasn’t mine. A gasp caught in my throat as I realized the skirt riding up was obscenely short, the lace of my thong riding high enough to tease at the curve of my—her—ass. The top barely contained the swell of cleavage spilling over a black lace bra, the fabric sheer enough to outline hardened nipples.
I shifted—God, even the movement felt different—and nearly toppled off the bed when the spiked heels caught in the sheets. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a punch to the gut: smudged eyeliner, swollen lips bitten red, black hair cascading over bare shoulders with crimson streaks blazing through it like warning flares.
And the worst part? The thrill zipping down my spine at how good it all felt.
I got up and went to a mirror.
The mirror showed me—her—in full, and I barely recognized the predatory amusement in my new eyes. My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, every unfamiliar contour both alien and intoxicating. The lace of my bra dug into soft flesh when I inhaled sharply, my nails biting crescents into my palms—just to feel something real.
A slow, involuntary roll of my hips sent a jolt through me—her body knew exactly what it wanted. The fishnets rasped against my thighs as I spread my legs slightly, just enough to feel the damp heat pooling where the thong cut in.
Jesus.
I watched in horrified fascination as my reflection’s tongue swiped over painted lips, my own breath coming faster as I fought the urge to slide a hand lower. This wasn’t me—
But the thought shattered when I arched my back experimentally, and the bra’s clasp strained against the motion. A whimper escaped me—high, breathy, embarrassingly feminine—as my nipple peaked tighter against the lace, the sensation so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
The purse Emily left gaped open on the bed, a glint of metal catching my eye. I reached for it with shaking fingers and pulled out a slim silver vibrator, still slick with—
Oh God, she’d been using this right before swapping us.
The realization burned through me hotter than shame. My reflection’s pupils blew wide as my thumb brushed the damp button, the device humming to life with a predatory purr. The sound alone dragged a moan from my throat—her throat.
I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop.
The vibrator pressed against my inner thigh, the vibrations rippling up through the fishnets like a live wire. Every rational thought short-circuited when I dragged it higher, the lace of my panties already soaked through.
The mirror showed it all—the way my hips jerked when the buzzing found my clit, the obscene glide of the toy through slick folds as I fucked myself with it in frantic, shallow thrusts.
"Fuck—fuck—" My voice was a broken thing, her voice, her pleasure, even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t right.
But God, it felt like heaven.
The orgasm hit like a train, my back slamming against the vanity as my legs gave out. Pleasure pulsed through me in dizzying waves, my reflection’s mouth slack with ecstasy, mascara streaking down flushed cheeks.
I slid to the floor, trembling, the vibrator still buzzing weakly against my thigh.
What the hell was I becoming?
The question pulsed through me like a second heartbeat as I stared at my reflection lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. The need to feel more, to explore this stolen flesh, burned hotter than reason.
The top was the first to go. I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, letting the silky material pool around my waist before sliding it the rest of the way down.
With shaking hands, I reached up and tugged at the straps of the lace bra, seeing in the process a 42F tag. The fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, setting my full breasts free. They bounced slightly with the motion, nipples hardening immediately in the cool air. A shiver ran through me as my fingers brushed against one, the contact sending a jolt straight to my still-throbbing core.
The fishnets came next. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, rolling them down with slow, deliberate movements. The material clung stubbornly, the crisscross pattern stretching then snapping back against my hips with each inch exposed. Smooth skin emerged beneath, freshly waxed and still tingling from earlier.
The thong was soaked through, the damp lace clinging obscenely when I finally shimmied out of it. My fingers trailed along the inside of my thighs before pausing at the apex - so smooth, so incredibly different. The scent of my own arousal filled the air as I tentatively spread my legs wider, watching in the mirror as the evidence of my pleasure glistened under soft light.
I ran trembling hands over my new body - from the dip of my waist up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling peaked nipples that responded eagerly to every touch. A breathy moan escaped my lips as one hand slid lower, fingertips brushing through damp curls before sinking into slick heat.
This isn't me.
This feels so good.
The contradictions warred in my mind even as my body arched into my own touch, hips rocking against my fingers with increasing urgency. The mirror showed it all - showed her - lost in pleasure, mouth open in silent ecstasy as fingers worked furiously between spread thighs.
When the wave crashed over me this time, I barely recognized my own scream.
The shower did nothing to wash away the surreal thrill of my stolen skin—every inch of Emily’s body still buzzed unnervingly under my touch. Steam fogged the mirror as I toweled off, deliberately running my (her) hands down the unfamiliar slope of narrow waist and curved hips. The face staring back—sharp cheekbones, violet eyes heavy with something darkly knowing—still sent a jolt through me.
I knotted the silk robe too tight, ignoring how it barely covered her thighs. Luckily thanks to her memories, I knew she didn't have any close relationships. I also knew that she would find me again soon, since the curse had a second component. The swapped individuals would fall in love and help continue the family line.
Emily—me now—had left more than just her lipsticks and half-used perfume. The sleek black phone buzzed beneath my fingers, unlocked by my—her—face. I swallowed hard. Time to take inventory of my new life.
Bank Account
The app opened instantly. I blinked.
$84,756.22
I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Savings account? Another $312K. I tapped through transaction history—monthly deposits from something called Lunawood Holdings for $15K, along with smaller payments labeled consulting fees. What the hell kind of consulting did she do?
Social Media
The first tab I tapped was Instagram—her Instagram. My stomach clenched as the app loaded, revealing a digital shrine to seduction. The blue checkmark was inevitable. The bio burned into my retinas: 💋 Your Next Bad Decision 💋, all smirking lips and dangerous promise.
The feed was a slow, deliberate burn—no accidents here. Every shot was a masterclass in teasing control. Silk sheets tangled around one bare thigh, the shadow-dipped dip of her spine as she arched over a hotel balcony, a crimson-lacquered nail dragging down a champagne flute. No laughter, no adrenaline—just heat, simmering in every flick of her wrist, every half-lidded glance at the camera like she could already feel hands on her skin. The captions were sparse, deliberate: "Late nights only", "Tell me how badly you want it", "Good boys don't get to touch."
Every post wasn’t just a demand to look—it was a dare to want.
Twitter was a constant stream of punchy one-liners and suggestive stunt reels. TikTok was a minefield of temptation—short, scorching loops of Emily arching against silk bedsheets, biting her lower lip in teasing slow-motion, her fingers tracing idle circles over the lace hem of lingerie before cutting to black. No laughter, no wasted movement—just a half-second of exposed thigh, the barest glimpse of teeth grazing skin, all set to a pulse-heavy soundtrack that left you craving another replay. Every clip was a dare wrapped in five seconds of sin.
OnlyFans
The icon made my fingers hesitate. Of course she had one. I tapped it—password already saved—and nearly choked.
$27K last month. $42K the month before. A catalog of paywalled galleries—Mistress in Marble, Bondage & Breakfast, each one featuring me now, in poses so sinful my pulse stuttered. There I was, sprawled across black satin sheets, fingers tangled in my own hair as I arched toward the camera, lips parted just enough to tease. Another series showed me kneeling in thigh-high stockings, the garter straps biting into creamy skin while I stared down the lens with heavy-lidded authority.
Subscriptions
Then came the subscriptions. Of course she had every premium streaming service—Netflix, HBO, the works—but the real fun started scrolling down. Paid access to high-end porn sites, all sleek branding and "exclusive content." A membership to Velvet Orbit, some kind of luxury erotic streaming platform with thumbnails featuring tangled limbs under silk sheets and promises of "real couples, real desires."
I was closing out of the accounts when I heard it—three sharp raps against the bedroom wall, followed by two slower ones. A pattern. Deliberate.
My breath caught. That wasn’t the front door.
Emily’s memories surfaced like fragments of a dream—pressed against this same wall, her fingers finding the nearly invisible seam in the wallpaper, pushing just so—
A hidden door clicked open.
I froze as the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for shoulders. And there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that matched the one I’d worn earlier, stood me.
My old body looked different now. The way he held himself was all Emily; the cocky tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his thigh. His shirt hung open, revealing the chest I used to know every scar and freckle of.
“Miss me already?” His voice was mine, but the cadence, the purr—hers.
“You—” My throat tightened. I hadn’t realized how much taller I used to be until I had to look up at myself.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger—my finger—and stepped inside, the hidden door whispering shut behind him. “Rule one of the curse: no take-backs.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering where the robe gaped at my chest. “Though I do like what I see.”
A flush burned up my neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He prowled closer, close enough that I caught my old cologne on his skin. “I was hoping you’d find the toys first.” His grin widened as my cheeks heated. “Oh, you did.”
I backed up until the vanity dug into my spine. “Why are you here?”
His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, close enough for his borrowed lips to brush my ear. "Because you will be my bride and help continue the line as per the second half of the curse."
A few years later
The pain was unbearable—a searing, primal fire tearing through me with every contraction. My nails dug into the hospital bed sheets, sweat gluing Emily’s—no, mine now—long black hair to my face.
"You’re doing amazing," he murmured, squeezing my hand. Even now, with my old face lined with worry, the way he tilted his head was pure Emily—that same confident smirk tempered by something softer. The silver band on his finger glinted under the harsh hospital lights, matching the one nestled securely against my own ring finger.
"Shut up," I gasped, arching off the bed as another wave hit. "This is your fault.*"
He just chuckled, brushing damp strands back from my forehead. "Our family now, sweetheart." His thumb traced my knuckles. "And trust me, when you hold her, you won’t regret a damn thing."
The nurse between my legs looked up, grinning. "One more push, Mom. She’s right there."
I barely had time to scream before the pressure shattered into sudden, dizzying relief. A fragile, furious wail filled the room, and then—
Her.
Tiny. Perfect. Swaddled in a pink blanket and placed carefully against my chest, her little face scrunched up in outrage. Dark lashes fluttered against petal-soft cheeks, her miniature fingers curling reflexively around mine.
"Congratulations," the nurse murmured. "She’s beautiful."
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of her was terrifying, intoxicating—mine.
"She has your nose," he whispered, bending to press a kiss to my temple. His—my old—calloused finger traced the baby’s shock of dark hair. "But your mother’s eyes." His voice cracked. "God, look at her."
The baby blinked up at us, her tiny mouth working silently before she settled with a sigh. The monitors beeped steadily, the world narrowing to this moment—this impossible, inevitable moment.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, euphoric, and met my husband’s gaze.
"Worth it?" he teased, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I clutched our daughter tighter—the next in the Lunawood line—and laughed through the tears.
This strange erotic story tells you about a teenage boy named Nicky and his lovely big-tittied girlfriend named Gena, who gets transformed by her boyfriend's amulet from the old magic shop that turns her into an ideal mom and has sex with. Not only that, he will continue to change her any moms or MILFs he wants to fuck.
My name is Nicolas O'Donnell, but most people call me Nick or Nicky for short. I'm just some average handsome high school teenager who finished the boring semester and enjoys the summer with my lovely girlfriend, Gena. Gena and I have been friends since childhood, and we've been dating for almost 6 years now. Gena is a cute, pretty, smart, outgoing, and sexy girl in school. Not only that, we've been hooking up with each other ever since our parents were around, we even found a spot where no one disturbed us, and we were enjoying our time together like playing games, studying each other, and having sex. Our relationship had been great, but lately… something wasn’t right. Not our relationship, we're still together.
Ever since I found that weird amulet at the old shop called "Spell R Us", I couldn’t stop thinking about it, as I was curious and decided to buy it myself. The owner is an old man who sold it to me, had winked and whispered, “Ya know, kid. I never thought that one day, someone would buy this. This amulet will give ya whatever ya want, kid.” As the old man replied, honestly, I didn’t believe in magic—until now.
When my mom and dad are on their honeymoon, I get to invite my girlfriend to come over to spend our time together. For a while, Gena stretched across my bed in nothing but an old band tee and panties, her blonde hair splayed over my pillow. Her body was already incredible—those big E-cup tits spilled out the sides of her shirt, her waist curving just enough to drive me wild. But as I clutched the amulet in my pocket, staring at her while pretending to scroll on my phone like I was texting my friends. I remember what the old shopkeeper said to me, and I was about to try it out, so I imagined my girlfriend, Gena, being someone. Someone… older, old enough at my parents' age. Someone with T-cup tits that defied gravity, hips that swelled into a perfect hourglass, a voice like honey and motherly warmth.
“Babe, why you starin’ at me like that?” Gena giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Is there something wrong?"
“Oh no, it's nothing, Gena. I'm just admiring you and... um... enjoy the view,” I lied, my fingers continued squeezing the amulet tighter as I tried to focus on my s. “Here goes nothing, c'mon, change for me,” I thought, unsure if it was even real.
Then, she twitched.
A weird little shiver ran through Gena’s body. She frowned, rubbing her forehead. “Ugh,... what's happening to me?... why... do... I feel kinda… dizzy...”
I held my breath as I realized the moment of transformation had begun.
Her fingers drifted down, grazing her own breasts absentmindedly, and—holy shit—were they… swelling? Just slightly, but I could see them pushing against her thin shirt. The curve of her waist seemed to soften, her hips widening ever so slightly beneath the sheets.
“Nicky, ba... baby,” she murmured, her voice already deeper, huskier. “I don’t… I don’t feel like myself.”
I swallowed hard, my cock already pressing against my jeans. “It’s okay, Gena,” I whispered, crawling onto the bed beside her. “You’re just gonna be fine.”
Gena’s eyes fluttered—and changed. Her once-playful gaze turned softer, warmer, filled with an easy maturity. A crease formed between her brows, then smoothed out. Her lips—full and painted a soft pink before—turned a deeper shade, her mouth parting slightly as a strange, dazed recognition flickered across her face.
“Nicky… sweetheart?” she murmured, voice thick with sudden affection.
My heart pounded with excitement. It was working.
I reached out, letting my fingers brush her side—and gasped. Her skin was softer now, silkier, with the faintest touch of age smoothing over her. Her tits had risen higher, fuller, heavier, straining against the fabric of her shirt.
“Oh... my... god,...” I whispered, unable to stop.
She blinked slowly, then smiled—a warm, maternal smile—before her hand drifted up to cup my cheek. “Baby, you look tense,” she cooed. “Did you have a hard day?”
I shuddered. She thought, acted, and sounded like she was my mom all of a sudden.
But her transformation wasn’t done yet. The amulet was burning in my pocket now, pulsing with energy as her body shifted. Her E-Cup tits swelled impossibly larger, her shirt seams groaning before finally snapping, buttons pinging across the room as those massive T-cup mommy milkers spilled free.
“Oh my!” she gasped—her voice now deep, velvety—and looked down at herself. Her fingers traced over her new curves, her huge areolas darkening, her nipples stiffening. “Ohhh… I forgot how big I was.”
Her stomach had softened into a perfect little pooch, leading down to thickened thighs that could smother a man. Her face had aged—just enough—to show laugh lines, motherhood written in every new crease. Her blonde hair had darkened slightly, now streaked with a few silvery strands, swept into a loose, messy updo of a dirty blonde.
And most of all—she looks entirely different from what she was, and believed she was my mom.
Geraldine.
My new mommy, whom I always dream about.
Her eyes flicked down, spotting my raging hard-on, and she tutted—like this wasn’t the first time she’d caught me like this. “Nicky, really?” she sighed, shaking her head. “You know you shouldn’t be getting all worked up like this.”
I couldn’t take it. My hands shot up, groping her monstrously huge tits—so much bigger than before, so perfect—and she gasped, her cheeks flushing.
“Nicky! My, what are you doing to your mom, sweetie?” Gena,... or rather, Geraldine scolded, but she didn’t pull away. She's surprised when my hands reach out and cupping her massive tits. I knew—this was so much better than Gena. But I still love my girlfriend. Right now, I just want to enjoy my time with my "mom".
Gena gasped, her body felt sensitive to my touch. "Nicky... sweetie... you... you can't do that. I'm your mom."
I smiled, my thumbs brushing over her hard nipples. "I know, mom. I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself."
Geraldine moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as my hands explored her body. I leaned down, my mouth capturing one of her nipples as he sucked it into my mouth. Geraldine cried out, her hands grasping my head as she held mine to her.
My hand slid down her body, slipping between her legs. I could feel her heat, her wetness, even through her panties. I hooked my fingers into the waistband, pulling them down and off her legs.
I sat up, straddling her hips as I looked down at her naked curvaceous hourglass body. My cock was hard, throbbing with need as I quickly shed my own clothes.
Gena looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mix of lust and confusion. "Nicky... baby... w... we can't do this. I'm your mom. And... what if your d... dad gets home and sees us like this.."
I smiled, my hands sliding up her thighs as I spread her legs wide. "I don't care, mom. And you know, even if you're my mom, I still love you."
With that, I slid my cock into her, her warm, wet pussy enveloping him completely. We both moaned, our bodies moving together in a dance as old as time.
Geraldine's massive breasts bounced with each thrust, her nipples hard and begging to be sucked. I leaned down, capturing one in my mouth as i continued to fuck her, my cock sliding in and out of her at a relentless pace.
Gena moaned, her head thrashing from side to side as she cried out, "Nicky... baby... we... have to stop... what if... someone... would..."
The more she moaned, the more horny I got, and I wasn't listening. I was too far gone, as my body was overcome with lust and desire. I fucked her harder, my cock pounding into her as I continued suck at her massive tits.
Geraldine's protests turned to moans of pleasure, her body shaking with each thrust. But she still tried to resist, her hands pushing at my chest as she begged me to stop.
I looked up at her, my eyes filled with determination. I captured her mouth in a searing kiss, my tongue sliding between her lips as I silenced her protests.
Gena-Geraldine moaned into my mouth, her body melting against mine as she gave in to her desires. When I finally pulled away, she looked up at me, her eyes filled with lust and need.
"You know what, baby," she murmured. "I think mommy love it, now fuck your momma like a slut."
I grinned, my cock throbbing with triumph. I sat back, grabbing her wide hips as I slammed into her, my cock pounding into her at a relentless pace.
Gena-Geraldine cried out, her massive breasts bouncing with each thrust as she moaned, "Yes, baby. Yes! Fuck your momma. Fuck me. Fuck me like a lover."
Our lovemaking was intense, our bodies slick with sweat as we moved together. When we finally cum, it was explosive, our bodies shaking with the intensity of our orgasms.
I collapsed on top of my ideal mom, Geraldine, my cock still buried deep inside her. She wrapped her arms around me, her hands stroking my back as she cooed softly to me.
"That's my boy," she murmured and giggled.
I grinned, my cock already hardening again at her words. I looked up at her, my eyes filled with love and lust.
"I love you, mom," he said, his voice filled with sincerity.
Gena-now-Geraldine smiled, her eyes filled with love. "I love you, too, sweety."
As we lay and cuddled there, our bodies entwined, I knew that this was just the beginning of my exciting transformation adventure. Gena might no longer just my girlfriend, she becomes my ideal MILF that I dreamed about. Maybe this transformation wasn't so bad after all. Perhaps, I could change her back, and then she doesn't remember any of it, or I could keep her this way until my parents get back.
To be continued…
My name is Nicolas O'Donnell, but most people call me Nick or Nicky for short. I'm just some average handsome high school teenager who finished the boring semester and enjoys the summer with my lovely girlfriend, Gena. Gena and I have been friends since childhood, and we've been dating for almost 6 years now. Gena is a cute, pretty, smart, outgoing, and sexy girl in school. Not only that, we've been hooking up with each other ever since our parents were around, we even found a spot where no one disturbed us, and we were enjoying our time together like playing games, studying each other, and having sex. Our relationship had been great, but lately… something wasn’t right. Not our relationship, we're still together.
Ever since I found that weird amulet at the old shop called "Spell R Us", I couldn’t stop thinking about it, as I was curious and decided to buy it myself. The owner is an old man who sold it to me, had winked and whispered, “Ya know, kid. I never thought that one day, someone would buy this. This amulet will give ya whatever ya want, kid.” As the old man replied, honestly, I didn’t believe in magic—until now.
When my mom and dad are on their honeymoon, I get to invite my girlfriend to come over to spend our time together. For a while, Gena stretched across my bed in nothing but an old band tee and panties, her blonde hair splayed over my pillow. Her body was already incredible—those big E-cup tits spilled out the sides of her shirt, her waist curving just enough to drive me wild. But as I clutched the amulet in my pocket, staring at her while pretending to scroll on my phone like I was texting my friends. I remember what the old shopkeeper said to me, and I was about to try it out, so I imagined my girlfriend, Gena, being someone. Someone… older, old enough at my parents' age. Someone with T-cup tits that defied gravity, hips that swelled into a perfect hourglass, a voice like honey and motherly warmth.
“Babe, why you starin’ at me like that?” Gena giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Is there something wrong?"
“Oh no, it's nothing, Gena. I'm just admiring you and... um... enjoy the view,” I lied, my fingers continued squeezing the amulet tighter as I tried to focus on my s. “Here goes nothing, c'mon, change for me,” I thought, unsure if it was even real.
Then, she twitched.
A weird little shiver ran through Gena’s body. She frowned, rubbing her forehead. “Ugh,... what's happening to me?... why... do... I feel kinda… dizzy...”
I held my breath as I realized the moment of transformation had begun.
Her fingers drifted down, grazing her own breasts absentmindedly, and—holy shit—were they… swelling? Just slightly, but I could see them pushing against her thin shirt. The curve of her waist seemed to soften, her hips widening ever so slightly beneath the sheets.
“Nicky, ba... baby,” she murmured, her voice already deeper, huskier. “I don’t… I don’t feel like myself.”
I swallowed hard, my cock already pressing against my jeans. “It’s okay, Gena,” I whispered, crawling onto the bed beside her. “You’re just gonna be fine.”
Gena’s eyes fluttered—and changed. Her once-playful gaze turned softer, warmer, filled with an easy maturity. A crease formed between her brows, then smoothed out. Her lips—full and painted a soft pink before—turned a deeper shade, her mouth parting slightly as a strange, dazed recognition flickered across her face.
“Nicky… sweetheart?” she murmured, voice thick with sudden affection.
My heart pounded with excitement. It was working.
I reached out, letting my fingers brush her side—and gasped. Her skin was softer now, silkier, with the faintest touch of age smoothing over her. Her tits had risen higher, fuller, heavier, straining against the fabric of her shirt.
“Oh... my... god,...” I whispered, unable to stop.
She blinked slowly, then smiled—a warm, maternal smile—before her hand drifted up to cup my cheek. “Baby, you look tense,” she cooed. “Did you have a hard day?”
I shuddered. She thought, acted, and sounded like she was my mom all of a sudden.
But her transformation wasn’t done yet. The amulet was burning in my pocket now, pulsing with energy as her body shifted. Her E-Cup tits swelled impossibly larger, her shirt seams groaning before finally snapping, buttons pinging across the room as those massive T-cup mommy milkers spilled free.
“Oh my!” she gasped—her voice now deep, velvety—and looked down at herself. Her fingers traced over her new curves, her huge areolas darkening, her nipples stiffening. “Ohhh… I forgot how big I was.”
Her stomach had softened into a perfect little pooch, leading down to thickened thighs that could smother a man. Her face had aged—just enough—to show laugh lines, motherhood written in every new crease. Her blonde hair had darkened slightly, now streaked with a few silvery strands, swept into a loose, messy updo of a dirty blonde.
And most of all—she looks entirely different from what she was, and believed she was my mom.
Geraldine.
My new mommy, whom I always dream about.
Her eyes flicked down, spotting my raging hard-on, and she tutted—like this wasn’t the first time she’d caught me like this. “Nicky, really?” she sighed, shaking her head. “You know you shouldn’t be getting all worked up like this.”
I couldn’t take it. My hands shot up, groping her monstrously huge tits—so much bigger than before, so perfect—and she gasped, her cheeks flushing.
“Nicky! My, what are you doing to your mom, sweetie?” Gena,... or rather, Geraldine scolded, but she didn’t pull away. She's surprised when my hands reach out and cupping her massive tits. I knew—this was so much better than Gena. But I still love my girlfriend. Right now, I just want to enjoy my time with my "mom".
Gena gasped, her body felt sensitive to my touch. "Nicky... sweetie... you... you can't do that. I'm your mom."
I smiled, my thumbs brushing over her hard nipples. "I know, mom. I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself."
Geraldine moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as my hands explored her body. I leaned down, my mouth capturing one of her nipples as he sucked it into my mouth. Geraldine cried out, her hands grasping my head as she held mine to her.
My hand slid down her body, slipping between her legs. I could feel her heat, her wetness, even through her panties. I hooked my fingers into the waistband, pulling them down and off her legs.
I sat up, straddling her hips as I looked down at her naked curvaceous hourglass body. My cock was hard, throbbing with need as I quickly shed my own clothes.
Gena looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mix of lust and confusion. "Nicky... baby... w... we can't do this. I'm your mom. And... what if your d... dad gets home and sees us like this.."
I smiled, my hands sliding up her thighs as I spread her legs wide. "I don't care, mom. And you know, even if you're my mom, I still love you."
With that, I slid my cock into her, her warm, wet pussy enveloping him completely. We both moaned, our bodies moving together in a dance as old as time.
Geraldine's massive breasts bounced with each thrust, her nipples hard and begging to be sucked. I leaned down, capturing one in my mouth as i continued to fuck her, my cock sliding in and out of her at a relentless pace.
Gena moaned, her head thrashing from side to side as she cried out, "Nicky... baby... we... have to stop... what if... someone... would..."
The more she moaned, the more horny I got, and I wasn't listening. I was too far gone, as my body was overcome with lust and desire. I fucked her harder, my cock pounding into her as I continued suck at her massive tits.
Geraldine's protests turned to moans of pleasure, her body shaking with each thrust. But she still tried to resist, her hands pushing at my chest as she begged me to stop.
I looked up at her, my eyes filled with determination. I captured her mouth in a searing kiss, my tongue sliding between her lips as I silenced her protests.
Gena-Geraldine moaned into my mouth, her body melting against mine as she gave in to her desires. When I finally pulled away, she looked up at me, her eyes filled with lust and need.
"You know what, baby," she murmured. "I think mommy love it, now fuck your momma like a slut."
I grinned, my cock throbbing with triumph. I sat back, grabbing her wide hips as I slammed into her, my cock pounding into her at a relentless pace.
Gena-Geraldine cried out, her massive breasts bouncing with each thrust as she moaned, "Yes, baby. Yes! Fuck your momma. Fuck me. Fuck me like a lover."
Our lovemaking was intense, our bodies slick with sweat as we moved together. When we finally cum, it was explosive, our bodies shaking with the intensity of our orgasms.
I collapsed on top of my ideal mom, Geraldine, my cock still buried deep inside her. She wrapped her arms around me, her hands stroking my back as she cooed softly to me.
"That's my boy," she murmured and giggled.
I grinned, my cock already hardening again at her words. I looked up at her, my eyes filled with love and lust.
"I love you, mom," he said, his voice filled with sincerity.
Gena-now-Geraldine smiled, her eyes filled with love. "I love you, too, sweety."
As we lay and cuddled there, our bodies entwined, I knew that this was just the beginning of my exciting transformation adventure. Gena might no longer just my girlfriend, she becomes my ideal MILF that I dreamed about. Maybe this transformation wasn't so bad after all. Perhaps, I could change her back, and then she doesn't remember any of it, or I could keep her this way until my parents get back.
To be continued…
Then one day my wish came true.
"The first time it happened was when I shapechanged into a friend by
accident," I admitted, reluctantly.
"How did that happen?" asked Jo. She was starting to relax a little,
her head canted slightly so that her wavy red hair draped languidly
into her face. She'd taken her goggles off since the fight, revealing
eyes that were large, gray-tinted and beautiful. They were familiar.
I'd once looked through those eyes and I remembered the crystal clarity
of their vision. "Was it some kind of big, colorful manifestation?" she
insisted.
"No, nothing like that." I stopped to clear my throat before going on.
"Only I knew anything had happened. I was hanging with my pal and just
patted them on the shoulder, all friendly. Then there was this 'zap'
feeling as I touched them, like a small electric shock. Suddenly I
could feel their shape in my head. It was like I held the blueprints
for their body in my mind. It made me feel weird. I didn't actually
shapechange properly until later. Not 'til I got home."
There was a lot I'd left out of this description. The friend had been
Bill, my bud at school. He's a smart, funny guy. Good grades. Good
enough at sports and the social round to be at the centre of several
circles. He hung with the nerd crowd and played in our World of
Warcraft clan. He was our natural leader and the organizer of many
online raids and stunts.
That time I'd felt the zap, the experience had left me feeling so
queasy and sick that I crawled home, leaving Bill at the arcade where
we'd been hanging. I stumbled into my bed complaining of a stomachache
and asked Mom to stop fussing and leave me alone. I dozed off and when
I woke up I was in Bill's body--or at least a copy of it--looking
through his eyes and breathing his air.
"Who was this friend of yours?" Jo asked, trying to gently lever her
way past my defenses. I licked my dry lips and tried to fend her off.
"Can we leave my friends out of it, Jo?" I briefly felt assertive and
defensive of my privacy. "They have nothing to do with this. I
discovered I could touch people and get an impression of their form
from the physical contact. Once it was in my head I could change into
that imprinted form and back again."
Jo wisely let it drop. "Did you use the power much once you'd mastered
it?"
"Uh, yeah. I experimented."
Yes, I experimented. A lot.
Of course, there was Bill's body at first. I wasn't really sure how I
had come to change, and after the initial panic it was a while before I
realized that my mind seemed to hold imprints of my old and new bodies.
I could focus on the ghostly shape there and swap between his body and
mine as easy as moving from one train of thought to another. It didn't
take more than five or six seconds to transform and it was painless. My
entire body would bubble with a weird energy, then it would flow and
gel into the new shape and become solid again.
I soon discovered the power's first limitation. It didn't work on
clothes, leaving me wearing whatever I had on before the change. That
would be a source of occasional embarrassment in the times to come.
As Bill it was disconcerting to have his bulk, his muscle, his senses,
and even his man-parts. Yeah, that felt icky at first. But once I felt
comfortable shifting back and forth between forms I test-drove his
body. I was impressed by how different a climax felt; it seemed to go
on longer than in my own physique.
All this, of course, was in secret, in the warm privacy of my bedroom
or the shower; anywhere my parents couldn't see me. There was no way I
was going to tell Mom or Pop about this and I was never going to admit
amything to Bill.
I spent a week trying to figure out the power, trying to master it. I
wondered if it was a one-off so I tried imprinting other friends from
school. All it took was some handshakes and backslaps and I soon also
had the imprints of three other friends. Having four phantom shapes
floating at the back of my consciousness was distracting and made it
hard to concentrate. I was glad when, after a few days, they began to
fade away.
However, while I held their imprints each change catapulted me into an
exhilarating new world of sensation. Each body had its own signature
characteristics, slightly different from my own. John's vision had an
acuity that profoundly changed the way I looked at the universe. The
colors I saw through his eyes seemed so much more vibrant. Tanc was
blessed with sharp hearing and I could make out sounds and voices more
easily from the tumble of background noise, while Raul possessed a
sense of smell so fine that I could make out olfactory notes I never
knew existed.
There were other unexpected differences. Muscles stretched and twanged
in unfamiliar ways. John's body seemed more flexible than the others
while in Raul's form my hands felt pudgy and clumsy. Tanc's legs seemed
so long compared to my own that I kept stumbling as I walked. Shifts in
height or reach could be a minefield, as they changed my perception of
distances and space. Even mundane alterations could be striking. In
each body I had a different heartbeat, an alien breathing rhythm, the
altered tang of saliva in my mouth and the feel of a new set of teeth
against my tongue.
Practicing the changes I found I could control the imprinting so that
it didn't happen on every physical contact. The transformations were
coming easy now and the overwhelming rush of the impressions didn't
make me feel sick like the first time.
I felt I was ready to try the biggest change yet. I wanted to become a
girl.
This was something I didn't want to mention to Jo. This was all about
sex, okay? Pure gratification. I was this lanky geek, a horny teen
who'd never dated yet was forced to swim in the hormone-charged
environment of high school. I felt I was missing what other guys at
school seemed to be getting, and that was pussy.
But now I could change my physical form to whomever I was able to touch
and imprint. Who needed to date a woman if you could become one? This
fever dream began to exterminate all rational thought. I started to
fantasize about transforming into a hot chick and checking myself out.
As soon as the idea of changing into a girl began to careen across my
imagination, I began to form a plan. I wanted to become someone foxy-
looking, of course. By a shaky process of logic I concluded that I
should imprint a person I'd never met and who didn't know me. So I set
my trap at the Mall.
If this sounds like stalkerish behavior, well, I plead that this was a
victimless crime. I wasn't going to attack anyone, just touch them for
a moment, imprint their physical pattern and then I'd be gone. However,
I didn't want any awkward questions, so to disguise myself I changed
into John's tall, rangy body. His was the closest shape to mine, I
wasn't too clumsy in it and I could wear the same clothes in both
forms. I biked down to the Mall and hung about the marble air-
conditioned concourse, watching people walk by and rating the women on
a one to ten scale.
It took a while to find the right subject. Most of the women were too
old or too young, too fat or thin. There were lumpen women, saggy
women, girls with lived-in faces. There were some who looked great at a
distance and as they walked closer did not look so hot. And there were
some who were pretty, but not pretty enough. I had this great power and
arrogantly felt I could afford to pick and choose.
Eventually I saw what I wanted: she was definitely a nine out of ten, a
lovely brunette with lustrous, shoulder-length hair. The woman was a
twenty-something, with an oval face and dazzling eyes that were kissed
with a dash of green. She had a small, straight nose and a generous
mouth with inviting lips. Her figure was slim-waisted and wide-hipped,
with what looked like shapely legs beneath her pants, and she wore a
stretch top that barely contained her generous breasts. I watched them
move as she did, bobbing in sympathy with her walk. The woman's well-
tanned arms were bare, which was ideal for me to make contact, and she
was alone, window shopping outside the chic clothes stores with a bag
swinging from her shoulder. Heart in my mouth I approached her from the
side.
"Hi Julie!" I said to her, all enthusiasm and bonhomie. I had no idea
who Julie was; it was the first name that came to mind. I lightly
touched the woman's arm, just long enough to feel the zap and rush of
the imprint. Startled, her head snapped to look at me, hair whirling
and mouth open. I was momentarily transfixed; she looked really
beautiful. But before she could say anything I immediately launched
into an apology. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I said, backing out of her
personal space. "From a distance I thought you were my friend. My bad,
I'm real sorry."
"No, uh, it's okay," she said and gave an embarrassed laugh. Her voice
was light and friendly. She hadn't felt the imprint process. None of
them ever do, though I saw her hand absently brush the skin where I'd
touched her.
"Look, I'd better go!" I said, thumbing toward the exit. "I gotta find
my friend Julie. Again, I'm sorry about the mistake!" Heart-in-mouth I
dashed outside to the lonely concrete post where I'd shackled my
mountain bike. I took a moment to morph back into my own shape and then
pedaled back home as fast as my legs could take me.
I almost never made it. My limbs were shaking from the adrenalin rush
of what I'd just done. And then there was the imprint of the woman's
body, which was beginning to fill my senses.
It's hard to articulate how an imprint feels. It's like a new sense, a
spectral memory of a body shape on the edge of my consciousness. On
that bike ride I could feel the outline of this woman's physical form
and it was making me horny. My dick was so hard I could barely pedal.
This was different from the guy forms I'd impressed. Almost as if it
could touch them my mind could make out the fleshy physicality of
breasts, the curve of a waist and an unfamiliar space between my
thighs. It's a wonder I didn't orgasm in my shorts.
Back in the house, I ran thumpety-thump upstairs and locked myself in
the antiseptic privacy of the bathroom. I stripped in a hurry, clumsily
hurling off shoes, shirt and pants until they were strewn across the
floor. Then my hands, on autopilot, pushed down my shorts and began to
stroke and jerk my dick, which was hard, hot and sleek. I felt an urge
to ejaculate before I transformed. But the weight of the strange,
feminine imprint on my psyche was too great. My mind kept flicking to
the ghostly sensations of tits, ass and clit. The feeling of male
orgasm began to build, but I couldn't stop the deep desire to change
from overwhelming me. Just as I was about to come I began to morph and
my penis shrunk back out of my hands. I was suddenly robbed of my
ability to orgasm, leaving a momentary ache where my balls had been. In
seconds, I was all woman, standing naked save for the shorts pooling
around my ankles. In the bathroom mirror I could see a bloom of sweat
across my heaving chest while the hand that had held my dick now
grasped at empty air in front of my pussy.
Not for the first time I was to discover that there's a disjoint
between looking at a pretty girl and actually occupying her body. This
is especially true when your only experience of hot women comes from
airbrushed photos on the internet. There's a rude reality you have to
face up to. This close I could see the myriad tiny flaws of a real
woman's form. I had fine hairs on my arms, enlarged pores on my skin,
tiny wrinkles near my eyes and a barely perceptible bend in my nose,
along with a dozen other irritating defects. Already my long, dark hair
was wandering into my face to itch and scratch at my nose and my hands
rose up to flick it away with long-nailed fingers.
Suddenly I was aware of padding in places that were unfamiliar. My ass
and thighs felt unusually plump, as if the world around my tuchas began
a long way away. Then there was the mass of flesh tugging at my chest
muscles. I had breasts that were big, but without a bra to hold them
they just sagged back against my body and looked uneven, one larger
than the other.
My cans were nothing like the firm mountains I'd imagined they'd be.
They shivered like jello and yielded to the slightest touch. A tracery
of veins tracked across a skin that blazed with pale bikini triangles.
My hands mashed my boobs then lifted them, feeling their heft and
fleshy weight. Something carnal stirred in my chest and crotch as
fingernails brushed the hardening blobs of my redcurrant nipples and
their large surrounds. It was different from a hard-on. This arousal
was more like a heavy heat that made my skin more sensitive, that made
me conscious of the secret new spaces inside of me.
Suddenly the flaws didn't matter any more and my hands were all over my
body. It was almost like I didn't have enough fingers to stroke, touch
and pinch at all the parts of my new physique. Playing with my breasts
was sensational, feeling a horny thrill prickle back from behind the
teats and make its way to my cootchie, which became tremendously wet. I
hadn't anticipated how rapidly this warmth and moistness in my loins
would build. My face flushed and I felt as if I was starting to glow.
As the excitement increased I caressed my flat belly, with its firm
abs, and cupped the swell of my ass. It was a lovely peach-skinned
behind, soft and satisfyingly round.
And then, after exploring the slick sensitivity of my inner thighs,
which staggered me and almost made me fall on the floor, I began to
quest at the soft folds of skin around my vagina. I was about to slip
one nailed finger gingerly in to the hot wetness when a voice from
downstairs rose up and drenched me like a cold shower. It was Mom
calling me down for lunch. I cursed a streak in a soft soprano and then
stood there, staring angrily around the spotless expanse of the
bathroom. The spell was broken and the exquisite sexual heat of my
girl-body was cooling. Reluctantly, I focused for long enough to shift
back to my own shape, feeling its bony angles develop and my balls
drop. I felt a deep resentment at having to give up the exotic
experience of being a woman and return to my original form. I wiped
myself where girl-juices had dripped a slick, solitary trail down the
inside of one thigh, then got dressed and went downstairs to a
miserable meal.
From that day on I would have to hunt for private moments to explore my
feminine form. Often this was at night when I was safe in bed and the
house was suspended in sleep. In the stillness, with the warm urban
nightlight filtering through the blinds, I'd transform beneath the
sheets. My skinny awkwardness would subside and swell into supple
curves, reshaping the bedclothes. My head would suddenly be pillowed by
a mass of soft hair.
I'd lay there for a while, absorbing the new rhythms, the breathing and
heartbeat, of this limber body. I'd taste my sweet saliva and explore
my perfect, regular teeth with my tongue. Then slowly, in an act of
seduction, I'd start to play with myself in the dark. Slim hands would
flutter across my breasts as they puddled on my chest. Fingers would
delicately pluck at my sweet teats, teasing them rigid and making my
body writhe in response before my hand slid down across my belly and a
ragged thatch of pubic hair to reach the entrance to my vulva. There,
sliding into the folds of flesh, I was able to explore the hot
moistness, hunt out my clitoris and press it to make my back arch. Then
I'd enjoy the sensation of my fingers inside of me. I liked to withdraw
a wet digit and taste myself; lapping with my tongue at the hot musk of
my sex.
The first time I climaxed it was difficult to keep the noise down and I
lay in bed, gasping, feeling buzzy and blissed out. It was nothing like
the urgent surge of my male orgasms. This was more like a tide, a rise
and fall of sensation and emotion. Exhausted, I dozed off, still
encased in a female body. I was fortunate not to be discovered before I
woke and could change back.
I kept this pattern of exploration up for almost two weeks, excited by
my female shape and entranced by its otherness. I'd lock myself in my
room all evening, enjoying the experience of being a woman. I felt more
relaxed in this form, and was becoming increasingly comfortable with
it. As the sensation of breasts and vagina became familiar, I started
to appreciate the rest of what I thought of as my 'Julie body'. I loved
the line formed by my slim waist and broad hips, and the way my center
of gravity seemed to shift downwards. I admired the shapliness of my
legs and how even the back of my knees seemed to be an erogenous zone.
I would spend some evenings playing World of Warcraft in my Julie
shape, typing chat messages to friends. They couldn't see me, of
course. They didn't realize that I was now a hottie, sitting at a
screen clad only in a bathrobe, a stray boob just poking out from
behind the towelling. That gave me a secret thrill for as long as it
lasted, but I'd always have to change back whenever we raided, as our
guild used voice chat to communicate. I contemplated creating a new
game account, a new identity in which I could be a woman all the time,
and I wondered how differently my friends would respond to a girl's
voice.
Now I could turn into a sexy girl at will, I became obsessed with
clothing and tried to see how much of my wardrobe would fit a figure
that was shorter, but curved in new places. I pulled on a T-shirt that
squashed my chest flat, then fondled my boobs through the taut fabric.
That was so arousing that I tried my swimming briefs on. They stretched
pleasingly over the plumpness of my ass but bunched into unsightly
folds at the crotch. At least there was plenty of space there to reach
a hand inside and rub my vajayjay.
My boy clothes were all the wrong cut and didn't feel comfortable or
sexy enough. I wondered what it felt like to try on some women's
clothing. One Saturday afternoon, while my parents were visiting a
distant uncle, I stayed home and nervously snuck into the sacred space
of my mother's wardrobe. Mom was in her late thirties and, my friends
reckoned, had kept her looks. Amongst the racks of clothes I found
something that I thought I could squeeze my girl form into.
I took it down from its hanger, a simple knee-length dress with a
conservative floral pattern. I stripped nude, unzipped the back and
stepped into it, feeling a thrill as I pulled it up. The dress slid up
my legs, but then got stuck at my ass. I had to spend a few minutes
working my curves into it, inch by inch. By the time I'd managed, with
some effort, to zip it (mostly) up the back, everything felt
constricted and fit to burst. I could barely move for fear of something
ripping.
I found Mom's shoes in the wardrobe and was disappointed to find, after
forcing my feet into a pair of pumps, that they pinched badly. I stood
in front of the mirror, wrapped too tight to move, my bust squashed to
overflowing while wobbling precariously on Mom's heels. I was not
comfortable, and yet the whole experience of dressing as a woman made
the experience more thrilling, more sexy. I was turned on by the sight
of myself in a dress. When I clutched my breasts through the fabric my
body responded with strong arousal, straining at the confining apparel.
There was no way I could diddle myself like this, so I levered off the
dressâ€"an operation as difficult as getting it onâ€"and looked for what
else I could try. Mom's underwear drawer netted a pair of silky panties
that stretched satisfyingly over my smooth behind. I was disappointed
to find that her bras were far too small for my capacious chest, but in
another drawer I found a striped bikini top that could just about be
made to fit, though it barely cupped my boobs
So in this mismatched outfit of bikini bra, panties and two-inch pumps,
I flopped onto my parents' bed and began to touch myself. I was now
expert in arousing my girl-body. I swiftly felt the wetness come and
then rammed my hand down the sheer front of Mom's underwear to start
the gentle stirring and flicking that would bring me to climax.
This shape was addictive. But there was something else, besides the
erotic sensation of girl flesh, that brought me back to this body. I
was now an attractive woman. I felt desirable. Who would reject someone
who looked at hot as me? People would at last pay me the attention I
never received as a guy.
I climaxed and lay panting, legs akimbo on the bed. The bikini bra was
askew on my chest, the panties were pushed down across my thighs and
those too-tight high heels dug into the bedcover. I must have looked a
mess. As I lay in the afterglow I contemplated going out dressed as a
woman, but I hadn't the guts and I had nothing that fitted.
Days passed and I soon discovered a new limitation of my powers. So
long as the imprint remained fresh, the change was easy. When I
transformed each night I retained a pristine memory of the body shape.
It would even retain changes from the night before, such as the time I
tried shaving my pubic hair, creating a stubbly patch and a couple of
small razor nicks that reappeared each time I changed.
However, if I didn't change into a form regularly, its imprint would
degrade. School and chores and late nights hanging with my friends
online in World of Warcraft finally got the better of me. Exhausted, I
began to go straight to sleep without changing as soon as I hit the
hay. So when, after skipping a couple of nights, I tried to shapeshift
again I realized that my memory of 'Julie' had partially faded.
I focussed on the imprint and felt the usual tingle of morphing, but
the result petered out into an incomplete change. It felt all wrong.
When I stripped and looked in the mirror I appeared to be half man and
half woman. I checked my face and it was partly feminized with Julie's
and nose and the mass of her soft hair framing my features. Though my
hips had widened and my ass had swelled into its familiar proportions,
my waist was still thick and below the abdomen my genitals remained
male, though shriveled and weeny. My narrow chest sported a pair of
tiny, pointed mounds like those of a pubescent girl.
I tried to play with this androgynous physique, but it didn't function
properly. My adolescent, unfilled breasts ached slightly, as if in
growing pains, and rubbing them only made them sore. It took an age to
bring my tiny dick and balls to climax. It was really difficult to jerk
myself when my penis was so small. At the moment I came barely anything
came out and the pleasure it gave was miniscule and unsatisfying.
The realization that I'd lost the woman's imprint was like a
bereavement. I had become accustomed to that body's comfort and poise
and cursed myself for letting it disappear. I'd never find that woman
again and so I sulked for a day, wondering what to do. Then I resolved
to search for some new bodies to replace hers. I picked out the most
attractive girls in my classes and found ways to imprint them without
getting too touchy-feely. I could now handle three imprints without
much distraction. It wasn't long before I had a new parade of imprinted
shapes. I could feel their exotic forms at the edges of my
consciousness.
With three girl bodies stored safely away my nights became a carnival
of solo sex, enjoyed between the sheets of my bed. The experience of
wearing the new bodies was mind-blowing.
The first shape I tried on was that of a girl named Tani. She was an
ash blonde with a nondescript, almost homely face, but her incredible
curves meant she was much in demand with the boys. It took a gentle
touch of her hand in class to capture her form. Back at home when I
changed bodies that first time I had the brief sensation of feeling
inflated, like a Michelin man. As I adjusted to the shift of fleshy
ballast my sense of balance was thrown. Then I looked in the mirror to
check myself out. Tani possessed a fabulous hourglass with a broad
carriage and heavy breasts sagging down her ribcage, aureoles like
bruised circles.
It didn't take long to put Tani's nimble fingers to work, exploring and
circumnavigating my new frame. Tani was not fat, but her voluptuousness
was such that transitioning from my lean male body to hers was like
being zippered into a padded suit. I began to play with my tits, which
hung like ripe eggplants from my chest, but found they were less
sensitive than in my last girl body. The doughy masses seemed to get in
the way when I moved and were hot and a little uncomfortable. However,
as my hands slid down below the slight swell of my/Tani's belly, I
discovered her vulva. Even before I could enter myself, I felt
something dilate and in moments I was in flood. Tani's clit was a
beautiful instrument to play with; a sleek knot of nerve-endings that
slipped beneath my fingers. Its responses were so acute that in my
nocturnal explorations I had to be careful not to moan as I stroked and
worked it towards a climax. My middle finger sucked and popped as I
thrust it in and out of Tani's, no MY wet vagina. I worked it hard
with rapid little motions, tension brewing until I crested the wave and
came. In Tani's body orgasms were vast and emotional, washing over me
in great beach-breakers, leaving me quietly sobbing, unable to staunch
the tears.
Over the days that followed I kept coming back to Tani's pillowy form.
Her pussy became mine each night and it had me entranced. I began to
use bananas, whisked from the fruit bowl, as improvised dildos,
slipping them between my lips then pushing them gently and deeper
inside until the sensation was so great I could barely breathe. Jerking
the fruit back and forwards in my vagina I seemed to discover new
spots. These broadcast dizzying thrills that made my limbs jerk and my
hips squirm. Here was a luxurious body that screamed for sex. It was a
peak I needed to come down from.
By contrast with Tani, Shelley was a slender, apple-cheeked girl with
the beautiful, elastic body of a ballerina. In class I had fallen for
her smiling eyes and toothsome grin, framed by a bob of dark hair. It
took a momentary touch when handing her a book to steal her imprint.
When I morphed into Shelley's frisky form I discovered she had the most
amazing boobs. They were small, high and barely needed any support.
They came with delightful cherry nipples that, when aroused, broadcast
intense pleasure. Immediately after changing I would rub my body
against my bed so that my tiny teats would begin to buzz.
It was the closest thing I'd yet tried to my male shape: an energetic
body with a boyish figure that was tight, taut and toned. Shelley had
shaved her pussy and it was lovely to slip my finger into her snug,
moist vagina and tenderly quest for pleasure. It was as Shelley that I
discovered how different women's bodies could be from each other. Her
clitoris was a fleshy bean that needed careful caressing. Orgasms were
less overwhelming than in Tani's form. Rather, they were like sharp
peaks of erotic sensation coursing from tip to toe and winding back up
between my legs. But unlike Tani, where each climax would leave me
spent and emotionally wrecked, as Shelley I could rouse myself to
consecutive orgasms, and often did.
I developed a new masturbation technique in Shelley's body. I would
bring myself close to climax and then change back to my boy form.
Suddenly my dick would rear up, aroused and coated in Shelley's girl
juices. With a few slick jerks of my hand I would orgasm, spurting
thick ropes of semen onto my stomach. Immediately I would change back
into a girl and lay there, cum pooling on my baby-soft belly, using my
fingers to rub the sour-smelling semen up onto my tiny, schoolgirl
boobs, where I'd lubricate the tips. I once even tried a taste and
found it wasn't that bad. I briefly fantasized about making Shelley's
body pregnant with my own seed, until cold reality dawned and made me
drop the idea like a lead anvil. I had no idea of what havoc pregnancy
would play with my power and I feared getting stuck in that form.
The last of the trio of imprints was that of Lita, a beautiful Asian
girl with a heart-shaped face and full, kissable lips. It was odd to
look in the mirror and, with a finger, gently trace the sharp
epicanthic fold above my dark brown eyes. Her body was well
proportioned, with elegant lines and shapely legs.
Lita's chest was a modest pair of ice cream scoops, with up-tilted
nipples. But I found her boobs thrilling to fondle and they felt
comfortable in a way that Tani's enormous knockers had not. Again, the
response to sex felt different than in my other shapes. In this lithe
body my orgasms were relaxing releases of nervous energy that made me
want to sink into drowsy torpor.
The best thing about Lita was that she was the same height and slim
shape as my mother. I waited until my folks went away again before I
stole once more into my parents' bedroom to play with Mom's clothes.
Naked, I slipped on a pair of four-inch pumps and discovered that Lita
could wear Mom's shoes. With a little practice I could walk in them
comfortably, my trim fanny figure-eighting as I strolled across the
room. Mom's bras were just the right size to pack my perky bosom into
and I soon found myself encased in an underwired lace brassiere and
matching panties. I felt so hot and sexy it was all I could do to stop
myself dancing.
Dresses, pants and blouses fitted perfectly and I spent an exciting day
dressing up. I learned to walk in a skirt, which felt so strange
compared to pants. I marveled at the sheerness of a peach color silk
teddy sliding against my skin. I admired myself in a side-tie bikini
while still wearing those shiny heels that seemed to elongate my nice
legs even further. I put on a black party frock and paraded up and down
the bedroom, feeling it swish around me. I knew I had here a wardrobe I
could go out in, even if it was for someone a little older.
With three bodies at my command this was the happy time. I was sorta
getting sex, even if it was by masturbating. I would change two or
three times every night to keep the imprint of each girl-shape fresh.
The power did wonders for my self-esteem and I found that even in my
male body I was beginning to act more confident and assertive in
company.
Then one day my wish came true.
"The first time it happened was when I shapechanged into a friend by
accident," I admitted, reluctantly.
"How did that happen?" asked Jo. She was starting to relax a little,
her head canted slightly so that her wavy red hair draped languidly
into her face. She'd taken her goggles off since the fight, revealing
eyes that were large, gray-tinted and beautiful. They were familiar.
I'd once looked through those eyes and I remembered the crystal clarity
of their vision. "Was it some kind of big, colorful manifestation?" she
insisted.
"No, nothing like that." I stopped to clear my throat before going on.
"Only I knew anything had happened. I was hanging with my pal and just
patted them on the shoulder, all friendly. Then there was this 'zap'
feeling as I touched them, like a small electric shock. Suddenly I
could feel their shape in my head. It was like I held the blueprints
for their body in my mind. It made me feel weird. I didn't actually
shapechange properly until later. Not 'til I got home."
There was a lot I'd left out of this description. The friend had been
Bill, my bud at school. He's a smart, funny guy. Good grades. Good
enough at sports and the social round to be at the centre of several
circles. He hung with the nerd crowd and played in our World of
Warcraft clan. He was our natural leader and the organizer of many
online raids and stunts.
That time I'd felt the zap, the experience had left me feeling so
queasy and sick that I crawled home, leaving Bill at the arcade where
we'd been hanging. I stumbled into my bed complaining of a stomachache
and asked Mom to stop fussing and leave me alone. I dozed off and when
I woke up I was in Bill's body--or at least a copy of it--looking
through his eyes and breathing his air.
"Who was this friend of yours?" Jo asked, trying to gently lever her
way past my defenses. I licked my dry lips and tried to fend her off.
"Can we leave my friends out of it, Jo?" I briefly felt assertive and
defensive of my privacy. "They have nothing to do with this. I
discovered I could touch people and get an impression of their form
from the physical contact. Once it was in my head I could change into
that imprinted form and back again."
Jo wisely let it drop. "Did you use the power much once you'd mastered
it?"
"Uh, yeah. I experimented."
Yes, I experimented. A lot.
Of course, there was Bill's body at first. I wasn't really sure how I
had come to change, and after the initial panic it was a while before I
realized that my mind seemed to hold imprints of my old and new bodies.
I could focus on the ghostly shape there and swap between his body and
mine as easy as moving from one train of thought to another. It didn't
take more than five or six seconds to transform and it was painless. My
entire body would bubble with a weird energy, then it would flow and
gel into the new shape and become solid again.
I soon discovered the power's first limitation. It didn't work on
clothes, leaving me wearing whatever I had on before the change. That
would be a source of occasional embarrassment in the times to come.
As Bill it was disconcerting to have his bulk, his muscle, his senses,
and even his man-parts. Yeah, that felt icky at first. But once I felt
comfortable shifting back and forth between forms I test-drove his
body. I was impressed by how different a climax felt; it seemed to go
on longer than in my own physique.
All this, of course, was in secret, in the warm privacy of my bedroom
or the shower; anywhere my parents couldn't see me. There was no way I
was going to tell Mom or Pop about this and I was never going to admit
amything to Bill.
I spent a week trying to figure out the power, trying to master it. I
wondered if it was a one-off so I tried imprinting other friends from
school. All it took was some handshakes and backslaps and I soon also
had the imprints of three other friends. Having four phantom shapes
floating at the back of my consciousness was distracting and made it
hard to concentrate. I was glad when, after a few days, they began to
fade away.
However, while I held their imprints each change catapulted me into an
exhilarating new world of sensation. Each body had its own signature
characteristics, slightly different from my own. John's vision had an
acuity that profoundly changed the way I looked at the universe. The
colors I saw through his eyes seemed so much more vibrant. Tanc was
blessed with sharp hearing and I could make out sounds and voices more
easily from the tumble of background noise, while Raul possessed a
sense of smell so fine that I could make out olfactory notes I never
knew existed.
There were other unexpected differences. Muscles stretched and twanged
in unfamiliar ways. John's body seemed more flexible than the others
while in Raul's form my hands felt pudgy and clumsy. Tanc's legs seemed
so long compared to my own that I kept stumbling as I walked. Shifts in
height or reach could be a minefield, as they changed my perception of
distances and space. Even mundane alterations could be striking. In
each body I had a different heartbeat, an alien breathing rhythm, the
altered tang of saliva in my mouth and the feel of a new set of teeth
against my tongue.
Practicing the changes I found I could control the imprinting so that
it didn't happen on every physical contact. The transformations were
coming easy now and the overwhelming rush of the impressions didn't
make me feel sick like the first time.
I felt I was ready to try the biggest change yet. I wanted to become a
girl.
This was something I didn't want to mention to Jo. This was all about
sex, okay? Pure gratification. I was this lanky geek, a horny teen
who'd never dated yet was forced to swim in the hormone-charged
environment of high school. I felt I was missing what other guys at
school seemed to be getting, and that was pussy.
But now I could change my physical form to whomever I was able to touch
and imprint. Who needed to date a woman if you could become one? This
fever dream began to exterminate all rational thought. I started to
fantasize about transforming into a hot chick and checking myself out.
As soon as the idea of changing into a girl began to careen across my
imagination, I began to form a plan. I wanted to become someone foxy-
looking, of course. By a shaky process of logic I concluded that I
should imprint a person I'd never met and who didn't know me. So I set
my trap at the Mall.
If this sounds like stalkerish behavior, well, I plead that this was a
victimless crime. I wasn't going to attack anyone, just touch them for
a moment, imprint their physical pattern and then I'd be gone. However,
I didn't want any awkward questions, so to disguise myself I changed
into John's tall, rangy body. His was the closest shape to mine, I
wasn't too clumsy in it and I could wear the same clothes in both
forms. I biked down to the Mall and hung about the marble air-
conditioned concourse, watching people walk by and rating the women on
a one to ten scale.
It took a while to find the right subject. Most of the women were too
old or too young, too fat or thin. There were lumpen women, saggy
women, girls with lived-in faces. There were some who looked great at a
distance and as they walked closer did not look so hot. And there were
some who were pretty, but not pretty enough. I had this great power and
arrogantly felt I could afford to pick and choose.
Eventually I saw what I wanted: she was definitely a nine out of ten, a
lovely brunette with lustrous, shoulder-length hair. The woman was a
twenty-something, with an oval face and dazzling eyes that were kissed
with a dash of green. She had a small, straight nose and a generous
mouth with inviting lips. Her figure was slim-waisted and wide-hipped,
with what looked like shapely legs beneath her pants, and she wore a
stretch top that barely contained her generous breasts. I watched them
move as she did, bobbing in sympathy with her walk. The woman's well-
tanned arms were bare, which was ideal for me to make contact, and she
was alone, window shopping outside the chic clothes stores with a bag
swinging from her shoulder. Heart in my mouth I approached her from the
side.
"Hi Julie!" I said to her, all enthusiasm and bonhomie. I had no idea
who Julie was; it was the first name that came to mind. I lightly
touched the woman's arm, just long enough to feel the zap and rush of
the imprint. Startled, her head snapped to look at me, hair whirling
and mouth open. I was momentarily transfixed; she looked really
beautiful. But before she could say anything I immediately launched
into an apology. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I said, backing out of her
personal space. "From a distance I thought you were my friend. My bad,
I'm real sorry."
"No, uh, it's okay," she said and gave an embarrassed laugh. Her voice
was light and friendly. She hadn't felt the imprint process. None of
them ever do, though I saw her hand absently brush the skin where I'd
touched her.
"Look, I'd better go!" I said, thumbing toward the exit. "I gotta find
my friend Julie. Again, I'm sorry about the mistake!" Heart-in-mouth I
dashed outside to the lonely concrete post where I'd shackled my
mountain bike. I took a moment to morph back into my own shape and then
pedaled back home as fast as my legs could take me.
I almost never made it. My limbs were shaking from the adrenalin rush
of what I'd just done. And then there was the imprint of the woman's
body, which was beginning to fill my senses.
It's hard to articulate how an imprint feels. It's like a new sense, a
spectral memory of a body shape on the edge of my consciousness. On
that bike ride I could feel the outline of this woman's physical form
and it was making me horny. My dick was so hard I could barely pedal.
This was different from the guy forms I'd impressed. Almost as if it
could touch them my mind could make out the fleshy physicality of
breasts, the curve of a waist and an unfamiliar space between my
thighs. It's a wonder I didn't orgasm in my shorts.
Back in the house, I ran thumpety-thump upstairs and locked myself in
the antiseptic privacy of the bathroom. I stripped in a hurry, clumsily
hurling off shoes, shirt and pants until they were strewn across the
floor. Then my hands, on autopilot, pushed down my shorts and began to
stroke and jerk my dick, which was hard, hot and sleek. I felt an urge
to ejaculate before I transformed. But the weight of the strange,
feminine imprint on my psyche was too great. My mind kept flicking to
the ghostly sensations of tits, ass and clit. The feeling of male
orgasm began to build, but I couldn't stop the deep desire to change
from overwhelming me. Just as I was about to come I began to morph and
my penis shrunk back out of my hands. I was suddenly robbed of my
ability to orgasm, leaving a momentary ache where my balls had been. In
seconds, I was all woman, standing naked save for the shorts pooling
around my ankles. In the bathroom mirror I could see a bloom of sweat
across my heaving chest while the hand that had held my dick now
grasped at empty air in front of my pussy.
Not for the first time I was to discover that there's a disjoint
between looking at a pretty girl and actually occupying her body. This
is especially true when your only experience of hot women comes from
airbrushed photos on the internet. There's a rude reality you have to
face up to. This close I could see the myriad tiny flaws of a real
woman's form. I had fine hairs on my arms, enlarged pores on my skin,
tiny wrinkles near my eyes and a barely perceptible bend in my nose,
along with a dozen other irritating defects. Already my long, dark hair
was wandering into my face to itch and scratch at my nose and my hands
rose up to flick it away with long-nailed fingers.
Suddenly I was aware of padding in places that were unfamiliar. My ass
and thighs felt unusually plump, as if the world around my tuchas began
a long way away. Then there was the mass of flesh tugging at my chest
muscles. I had breasts that were big, but without a bra to hold them
they just sagged back against my body and looked uneven, one larger
than the other.
My cans were nothing like the firm mountains I'd imagined they'd be.
They shivered like jello and yielded to the slightest touch. A tracery
of veins tracked across a skin that blazed with pale bikini triangles.
My hands mashed my boobs then lifted them, feeling their heft and
fleshy weight. Something carnal stirred in my chest and crotch as
fingernails brushed the hardening blobs of my redcurrant nipples and
their large surrounds. It was different from a hard-on. This arousal
was more like a heavy heat that made my skin more sensitive, that made
me conscious of the secret new spaces inside of me.
Suddenly the flaws didn't matter any more and my hands were all over my
body. It was almost like I didn't have enough fingers to stroke, touch
and pinch at all the parts of my new physique. Playing with my breasts
was sensational, feeling a horny thrill prickle back from behind the
teats and make its way to my cootchie, which became tremendously wet. I
hadn't anticipated how rapidly this warmth and moistness in my loins
would build. My face flushed and I felt as if I was starting to glow.
As the excitement increased I caressed my flat belly, with its firm
abs, and cupped the swell of my ass. It was a lovely peach-skinned
behind, soft and satisfyingly round.
And then, after exploring the slick sensitivity of my inner thighs,
which staggered me and almost made me fall on the floor, I began to
quest at the soft folds of skin around my vagina. I was about to slip
one nailed finger gingerly in to the hot wetness when a voice from
downstairs rose up and drenched me like a cold shower. It was Mom
calling me down for lunch. I cursed a streak in a soft soprano and then
stood there, staring angrily around the spotless expanse of the
bathroom. The spell was broken and the exquisite sexual heat of my
girl-body was cooling. Reluctantly, I focused for long enough to shift
back to my own shape, feeling its bony angles develop and my balls
drop. I felt a deep resentment at having to give up the exotic
experience of being a woman and return to my original form. I wiped
myself where girl-juices had dripped a slick, solitary trail down the
inside of one thigh, then got dressed and went downstairs to a
miserable meal.
From that day on I would have to hunt for private moments to explore my
feminine form. Often this was at night when I was safe in bed and the
house was suspended in sleep. In the stillness, with the warm urban
nightlight filtering through the blinds, I'd transform beneath the
sheets. My skinny awkwardness would subside and swell into supple
curves, reshaping the bedclothes. My head would suddenly be pillowed by
a mass of soft hair.
I'd lay there for a while, absorbing the new rhythms, the breathing and
heartbeat, of this limber body. I'd taste my sweet saliva and explore
my perfect, regular teeth with my tongue. Then slowly, in an act of
seduction, I'd start to play with myself in the dark. Slim hands would
flutter across my breasts as they puddled on my chest. Fingers would
delicately pluck at my sweet teats, teasing them rigid and making my
body writhe in response before my hand slid down across my belly and a
ragged thatch of pubic hair to reach the entrance to my vulva. There,
sliding into the folds of flesh, I was able to explore the hot
moistness, hunt out my clitoris and press it to make my back arch. Then
I'd enjoy the sensation of my fingers inside of me. I liked to withdraw
a wet digit and taste myself; lapping with my tongue at the hot musk of
my sex.
The first time I climaxed it was difficult to keep the noise down and I
lay in bed, gasping, feeling buzzy and blissed out. It was nothing like
the urgent surge of my male orgasms. This was more like a tide, a rise
and fall of sensation and emotion. Exhausted, I dozed off, still
encased in a female body. I was fortunate not to be discovered before I
woke and could change back.
I kept this pattern of exploration up for almost two weeks, excited by
my female shape and entranced by its otherness. I'd lock myself in my
room all evening, enjoying the experience of being a woman. I felt more
relaxed in this form, and was becoming increasingly comfortable with
it. As the sensation of breasts and vagina became familiar, I started
to appreciate the rest of what I thought of as my 'Julie body'. I loved
the line formed by my slim waist and broad hips, and the way my center
of gravity seemed to shift downwards. I admired the shapliness of my
legs and how even the back of my knees seemed to be an erogenous zone.
I would spend some evenings playing World of Warcraft in my Julie
shape, typing chat messages to friends. They couldn't see me, of
course. They didn't realize that I was now a hottie, sitting at a
screen clad only in a bathrobe, a stray boob just poking out from
behind the towelling. That gave me a secret thrill for as long as it
lasted, but I'd always have to change back whenever we raided, as our
guild used voice chat to communicate. I contemplated creating a new
game account, a new identity in which I could be a woman all the time,
and I wondered how differently my friends would respond to a girl's
voice.
Now I could turn into a sexy girl at will, I became obsessed with
clothing and tried to see how much of my wardrobe would fit a figure
that was shorter, but curved in new places. I pulled on a T-shirt that
squashed my chest flat, then fondled my boobs through the taut fabric.
That was so arousing that I tried my swimming briefs on. They stretched
pleasingly over the plumpness of my ass but bunched into unsightly
folds at the crotch. At least there was plenty of space there to reach
a hand inside and rub my vajayjay.
My boy clothes were all the wrong cut and didn't feel comfortable or
sexy enough. I wondered what it felt like to try on some women's
clothing. One Saturday afternoon, while my parents were visiting a
distant uncle, I stayed home and nervously snuck into the sacred space
of my mother's wardrobe. Mom was in her late thirties and, my friends
reckoned, had kept her looks. Amongst the racks of clothes I found
something that I thought I could squeeze my girl form into.
I took it down from its hanger, a simple knee-length dress with a
conservative floral pattern. I stripped nude, unzipped the back and
stepped into it, feeling a thrill as I pulled it up. The dress slid up
my legs, but then got stuck at my ass. I had to spend a few minutes
working my curves into it, inch by inch. By the time I'd managed, with
some effort, to zip it (mostly) up the back, everything felt
constricted and fit to burst. I could barely move for fear of something
ripping.
I found Mom's shoes in the wardrobe and was disappointed to find, after
forcing my feet into a pair of pumps, that they pinched badly. I stood
in front of the mirror, wrapped too tight to move, my bust squashed to
overflowing while wobbling precariously on Mom's heels. I was not
comfortable, and yet the whole experience of dressing as a woman made
the experience more thrilling, more sexy. I was turned on by the sight
of myself in a dress. When I clutched my breasts through the fabric my
body responded with strong arousal, straining at the confining apparel.
There was no way I could diddle myself like this, so I levered off the
dressâ€"an operation as difficult as getting it onâ€"and looked for what
else I could try. Mom's underwear drawer netted a pair of silky panties
that stretched satisfyingly over my smooth behind. I was disappointed
to find that her bras were far too small for my capacious chest, but in
another drawer I found a striped bikini top that could just about be
made to fit, though it barely cupped my boobs
So in this mismatched outfit of bikini bra, panties and two-inch pumps,
I flopped onto my parents' bed and began to touch myself. I was now
expert in arousing my girl-body. I swiftly felt the wetness come and
then rammed my hand down the sheer front of Mom's underwear to start
the gentle stirring and flicking that would bring me to climax.
This shape was addictive. But there was something else, besides the
erotic sensation of girl flesh, that brought me back to this body. I
was now an attractive woman. I felt desirable. Who would reject someone
who looked at hot as me? People would at last pay me the attention I
never received as a guy.
I climaxed and lay panting, legs akimbo on the bed. The bikini bra was
askew on my chest, the panties were pushed down across my thighs and
those too-tight high heels dug into the bedcover. I must have looked a
mess. As I lay in the afterglow I contemplated going out dressed as a
woman, but I hadn't the guts and I had nothing that fitted.
Days passed and I soon discovered a new limitation of my powers. So
long as the imprint remained fresh, the change was easy. When I
transformed each night I retained a pristine memory of the body shape.
It would even retain changes from the night before, such as the time I
tried shaving my pubic hair, creating a stubbly patch and a couple of
small razor nicks that reappeared each time I changed.
However, if I didn't change into a form regularly, its imprint would
degrade. School and chores and late nights hanging with my friends
online in World of Warcraft finally got the better of me. Exhausted, I
began to go straight to sleep without changing as soon as I hit the
hay. So when, after skipping a couple of nights, I tried to shapeshift
again I realized that my memory of 'Julie' had partially faded.
I focussed on the imprint and felt the usual tingle of morphing, but
the result petered out into an incomplete change. It felt all wrong.
When I stripped and looked in the mirror I appeared to be half man and
half woman. I checked my face and it was partly feminized with Julie's
and nose and the mass of her soft hair framing my features. Though my
hips had widened and my ass had swelled into its familiar proportions,
my waist was still thick and below the abdomen my genitals remained
male, though shriveled and weeny. My narrow chest sported a pair of
tiny, pointed mounds like those of a pubescent girl.
I tried to play with this androgynous physique, but it didn't function
properly. My unfilled breasts ached slightly, as if in
growing pains, and rubbing them only made them sore. It took an age to
bring my tiny dick and balls to climax. It was really difficult to jerk
myself when my penis was so small. At the moment I came barely anything
came out and the pleasure it gave was miniscule and unsatisfying.
The realization that I'd lost the woman's imprint was like a
bereavement. I had become accustomed to that body's comfort and poise
and cursed myself for letting it disappear. I'd never find that woman
again and so I sulked for a day, wondering what to do. Then I resolved
to search for some new bodies to replace hers. I picked out the most
attractive girls in my classes and found ways to imprint them without
getting too touchy-feely. I could now handle three imprints without
much distraction. It wasn't long before I had a new parade of imprinted
shapes. I could feel their exotic forms at the edges of my
consciousness.
With three girl bodies stored safely away my nights became a carnival
of solo sex, enjoyed between the sheets of my bed. The experience of
wearing the new bodies was mind-blowing.
The first shape I tried on was that of a girl named Tani. She was an
ash blonde with a nondescript, almost homely face, but her incredible
curves meant she was much in demand with the boys. It took a gentle
touch of her hand in class to capture her form. Back at home when I
changed bodies that first time I had the brief sensation of feeling
inflated, like a Michelin man. As I adjusted to the shift of fleshy
ballast my sense of balance was thrown. Then I looked in the mirror to
check myself out. Tani possessed a fabulous hourglass with a broad
carriage and heavy breasts sagging down her ribcage, aureoles like
bruised circles.
It didn't take long to put Tani's nimble fingers to work, exploring and
circumnavigating my new frame. Tani was not fat, but her voluptuousness
was such that transitioning from my lean male body to hers was like
being zippered into a padded suit. I began to play with my tits, which
hung like ripe eggplants from my chest, but found they were less
sensitive than in my last girl body. The doughy masses seemed to get in
the way when I moved and were hot and a little uncomfortable. However,
as my hands slid down below the slight swell of my/Tani's belly, I
discovered her vulva. Even before I could enter myself, I felt
something dilate and in moments I was in flood. Tani's clit was a
beautiful instrument to play with; a sleek knot of nerve-endings that
slipped beneath my fingers. Its responses were so acute that in my
nocturnal explorations I had to be careful not to moan as I stroked and
worked it towards a climax. My middle finger sucked and popped as I
thrust it in and out of Tani's, no MY wet vagina. I worked it hard
with rapid little motions, tension brewing until I crested the wave and
came. In Tani's body orgasms were vast and emotional, washing over me
in great beach-breakers, leaving me quietly sobbing, unable to staunch
the tears.
Over the days that followed I kept coming back to Tani's pillowy form.
Her pussy became mine each night and it had me entranced. I began to
use bananas, whisked from the fruit bowl, as improvised dildos,
slipping them between my lips then pushing them gently and deeper
inside until the sensation was so great I could barely breathe. Jerking
the fruit back and forwards in my vagina I seemed to discover new
spots. These broadcast dizzying thrills that made my limbs jerk and my
hips squirm. Here was a luxurious body that screamed for sex. It was a
peak I needed to come down from.
By contrast with Tani, Shelley was a slender, apple-cheeked girl with
the beautiful, elastic body of a ballerina. In class I had fallen for
her smiling eyes and toothsome grin, framed by a bob of dark hair. It
took a momentary touch when handing her a book to steal her imprint.
When I morphed into Shelley's frisky form I discovered she had the most
amazing boobs. They were small, high and barely needed any support.
They came with delightful cherry nipples that, when aroused, broadcast
intense pleasure. Immediately after changing I would rub my body
against my bed so that my tiny teats would begin to buzz.
It was the closest thing I'd yet tried to my male shape: an energetic
body with a boyish figure that was tight, taut and toned. Shelley had
shaved her pussy and it was lovely to slip my finger into her snug,
moist vagina and tenderly quest for pleasure. It was as Shelley that I
discovered how different women's bodies could be from each other. Her
clitoris was a fleshy bean that needed careful caressing. Orgasms were
less overwhelming than in Tani's form. Rather, they were like sharp
peaks of erotic sensation coursing from tip to toe and winding back up
between my legs. But unlike Tani, where each climax would leave me
spent and emotionally wrecked, as Shelley I could rouse myself to
consecutive orgasms, and often did.
I developed a new masturbation technique in Shelley's body. I would
bring myself close to climax and then change back to my boy form.
Suddenly my dick would rear up, aroused and coated in Shelley's girl
juices. With a few slick jerks of my hand I would orgasm, spurting
thick ropes of semen onto my stomach. Immediately I would change back
into a girl and lay there, cum pooling on my baby-soft belly, using my
fingers to rub the sour-smelling semen up onto my tiny
boobs, where I'd lubricate the tips. I once even tried a taste and
found it wasn't that bad. I briefly fantasized about making Shelley's
body pregnant with my own seed, until cold reality dawned and made me
drop the idea like a lead anvil. I had no idea of what havoc pregnancy
would play with my power and I feared getting stuck in that form.
The last of the trio of imprints was that of Lita, a beautiful Asian
girl with a heart-shaped face and full, kissable lips. It was odd to
look in the mirror and, with a finger, gently trace the sharp
epicanthic fold above my dark brown eyes. Her body was well
proportioned, with elegant lines and shapely legs.
Lita's chest was a modest pair of ice cream scoops, with up-tilted
nipples. But I found her boobs thrilling to fondle and they felt
comfortable in a way that Tani's enormous knockers had not. Again, the
response to sex felt different than in my other shapes. In this lithe
body my orgasms were relaxing releases of nervous energy that made me
want to sink into drowsy torpor.
The best thing about Lita was that she was the same height and slim
shape as my mother. I waited until my folks went away again before I
stole once more into my parents' bedroom to play with Mom's clothes.
Naked, I slipped on a pair of four-inch pumps and discovered that Lita
could wear Mom's shoes. With a little practice I could walk in them
comfortably, my trim fanny figure-eighting as I strolled across the
room. Mom's bras were just the right size to pack my perky bosom into
and I soon found myself encased in an underwired lace brassiere and
matching panties. I felt so hot and sexy it was all I could do to stop
myself dancing.
Dresses, pants and blouses fitted perfectly and I spent an exciting day
dressing up. I learned to walk in a skirt, which felt so strange
compared to pants. I marveled at the sheerness of a peach color silk
teddy sliding against my skin. I admired myself in a side-tie bikini
while still wearing those shiny heels that seemed to elongate my nice
legs even further. I put on a black party frock and paraded up and down
the bedroom, feeling it swish around me. I knew I had here a wardrobe I
could go out in, even if it was for someone a little older.
With three bodies at my command this was the happy time. I was sorta
getting sex, even if it was by masturbating. I would change two or
three times every night to keep the imprint of each girl-shape fresh.
The power did wonders for my self-esteem and I found that even in my
male body I was beginning to act more confident and assertive in
company.
"The first time it happened was when I shapechanged into a friend by
accident," I admitted, reluctantly.
"How did that happen?" asked Jo. She was starting to relax a little,
her head canted slightly so that her wavy red hair draped languidly
into her face. She'd taken her goggles off since the fight, revealing
eyes that were large, gray-tinted and beautiful. They were familiar.
I'd once looked through those eyes and I remembered the crystal clarity
of their vision. "Was it some kind of big, colorful manifestation?" she
insisted.
"No, nothing like that." I stopped to clear my throat before going on.
"Only I knew anything had happened. I was hanging with my pal and just
patted them on the shoulder, all friendly. Then there was this 'zap'
feeling as I touched them, like a small electric shock. Suddenly I
could feel their shape in my head. It was like I held the blueprints
for their body in my mind. It made me feel weird. I didn't actually
shapechange properly until later. Not 'til I got home."
There was a lot I'd left out of this description. The friend had been
Bill, my bud at school. He's a smart, funny guy. Good grades. Good
enough at sports and the social round to be at the centre of several
circles. He hung with the nerd crowd and played in our World of
Warcraft clan. He was our natural leader and the organizer of many
online raids and stunts.
That time I'd felt the zap, the experience had left me feeling so
queasy and sick that I crawled home, leaving Bill at the arcade where
we'd been hanging. I stumbled into my bed complaining of a stomachache
and asked Mom to stop fussing and leave me alone. I dozed off and when
I woke up I was in Bill's body--or at least a copy of it--looking
through his eyes and breathing his air.
"Who was this friend of yours?" Jo asked, trying to gently lever her
way past my defenses. I licked my dry lips and tried to fend her off.
"Can we leave my friends out of it, Jo?" I briefly felt assertive and
defensive of my privacy. "They have nothing to do with this. I
discovered I could touch people and get an impression of their form
from the physical contact. Once it was in my head I could change into
that imprinted form and back again."
Jo wisely let it drop. "Did you use the power much once you'd mastered
it?"
"Uh, yeah. I experimented."
Yes, I experimented. A lot.
Of course, there was Bill's body at first. I wasn't really sure how I
had come to change, and after the initial panic it was a while before I
realized that my mind seemed to hold imprints of my old and new bodies.
I could focus on the ghostly shape there and swap between his body and
mine as easy as moving from one train of thought to another. It didn't
take more than five or six seconds to transform and it was painless. My
entire body would bubble with a weird energy, then it would flow and
gel into the new shape and become solid again.
I soon discovered the power's first limitation. It didn't work on
clothes, leaving me wearing whatever I had on before the change. That
would be a source of occasional embarrassment in the times to come.
As Bill it was disconcerting to have his bulk, his muscle, his senses,
and even his man-parts. Yeah, that felt icky at first. But once I felt
comfortable shifting back and forth between forms I test-drove his
body. I was impressed by how different a climax felt; it seemed to go
on longer than in my own physique.
All this, of course, was in secret, in the warm privacy of my bedroom
or the shower; anywhere my parents couldn't see me. There was no way I
was going to tell Mom or Pop about this and I was never going to admit
amything to Bill.
I spent a week trying to figure out the power, trying to master it. I
wondered if it was a one-off so I tried imprinting other friends from
school. All it took was some handshakes and backslaps and I soon also
had the imprints of three other friends. Having four phantom shapes
floating at the back of my consciousness was distracting and made it
hard to concentrate. I was glad when, after a few days, they began to
fade away.
However, while I held their imprints each change catapulted me into an
exhilarating new world of sensation. Each body had its own signature
characteristics, slightly different from my own. John's vision had an
acuity that profoundly changed the way I looked at the universe. The
colors I saw through his eyes seemed so much more vibrant. Tanc was
blessed with sharp hearing and I could make out sounds and voices more
easily from the tumble of background noise, while Raul possessed a
sense of smell so fine that I could make out olfactory notes I never
knew existed.
There were other unexpected differences. Muscles stretched and twanged
in unfamiliar ways. John's body seemed more flexible than the others
while in Raul's form my hands felt pudgy and clumsy. Tanc's legs seemed
so long compared to my own that I kept stumbling as I walked. Shifts in
height or reach could be a minefield, as they changed my perception of
distances and space. Even mundane alterations could be striking. In
each body I had a different heartbeat, an alien breathing rhythm, the
altered tang of saliva in my mouth and the feel of a new set of teeth
against my tongue.
Practicing the changes I found I could control the imprinting so that
it didn't happen on every physical contact. The transformations were
coming easy now and the overwhelming rush of the impressions didn't
make me feel sick like the first time.
I felt I was ready to try the biggest change yet. I wanted to become a
girl.
This was something I didn't want to mention to Jo. This was all about
sex, okay? Pure gratification. I was this lanky geek, a horny teen
who'd never dated yet was forced to swim in the hormone-charged
environment of high school. I felt I was missing what other guys at
school seemed to be getting, and that was pussy.
But now I could change my physical form to whomever I was able to touch
and imprint. Who needed to date a woman if you could become one? This
fever dream began to exterminate all rational thought. I started to
fantasize about transforming into a hot chick and checking myself out.
As soon as the idea of changing into a girl began to careen across my
imagination, I began to form a plan. I wanted to become someone foxy-
looking, of course. By a shaky process of logic I concluded that I
should imprint a person I'd never met and who didn't know me. So I set
my trap at the Mall.
If this sounds like stalkerish behavior, well, I plead that this was a
victimless crime. I wasn't going to attack anyone, just touch them for
a moment, imprint their physical pattern and then I'd be gone. However,
I didn't want any awkward questions, so to disguise myself I changed
into John's tall, rangy body. His was the closest shape to mine, I
wasn't too clumsy in it and I could wear the same clothes in both
forms. I biked down to the Mall and hung about the marble air-
conditioned concourse, watching people walk by and rating the women on
a one to ten scale.
It took a while to find the right subject. Most of the women were too
old or too young, too fat or thin. There were lumpen women, saggy
women, girls with lived-in faces. There were some who looked great at a
distance and as they walked closer did not look so hot. And there were
some who were pretty, but not pretty enough. I had this great power and
arrogantly felt I could afford to pick and choose.
Eventually I saw what I wanted: she was definitely a nine out of ten, a
lovely brunette with lustrous, shoulder-length hair. The woman was a
twenty-something, with an oval face and dazzling eyes that were kissed
with a dash of green. She had a small, straight nose and a generous
mouth with inviting lips. Her figure was slim-waisted and wide-hipped,
with what looked like shapely legs beneath her pants, and she wore a
stretch top that barely contained her generous breasts. I watched them
move as she did, bobbing in sympathy with her walk. The woman's well-
tanned arms were bare, which was ideal for me to make contact, and she
was alone, window shopping outside the chic clothes stores with a bag
swinging from her shoulder. Heart in my mouth I approached her from the
side.
"Hi Julie!" I said to her, all enthusiasm and bonhomie. I had no idea
who Julie was; it was the first name that came to mind. I lightly
touched the woman's arm, just long enough to feel the zap and rush of
the imprint. Startled, her head snapped to look at me, hair whirling
and mouth open. I was momentarily transfixed; she looked really
beautiful. But before she could say anything I immediately launched
into an apology. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I said, backing out of her
personal space. "From a distance I thought you were my friend. My bad,
I'm real sorry."
"No, uh, it's okay," she said and gave an embarrassed laugh. Her voice
was light and friendly. She hadn't felt the imprint process. None of
them ever do, though I saw her hand absently brush the skin where I'd
touched her.
"Look, I'd better go!" I said, thumbing toward the exit. "I gotta find
my friend Julie. Again, I'm sorry about the mistake!" Heart-in-mouth I
dashed outside to the lonely concrete post where I'd shackled my
mountain bike. I took a moment to morph back into my own shape and then
pedaled back home as fast as my legs could take me.
I almost never made it. My limbs were shaking from the adrenalin rush
of what I'd just done. And then there was the imprint of the woman's
body, which was beginning to fill my senses.
It's hard to articulate how an imprint feels. It's like a new sense, a
spectral memory of a body shape on the edge of my consciousness. On
that bike ride I could feel the outline of this woman's physical form
and it was making me horny. My dick was so hard I could barely pedal.
This was different from the guy forms I'd impressed. Almost as if it
could touch them my mind could make out the fleshy physicality of
breasts, the curve of a waist and an unfamiliar space between my
thighs. It's a wonder I didn't orgasm in my shorts.
Back in the house, I ran thumpety-thump upstairs and locked myself in
the antiseptic privacy of the bathroom. I stripped in a hurry, clumsily
hurling off shoes, shirt and pants until they were strewn across the
floor. Then my hands, on autopilot, pushed down my shorts and began to
stroke and jerk my dick, which was hard, hot and sleek. I felt an urge
to ejaculate before I transformed. But the weight of the strange,
feminine imprint on my psyche was too great. My mind kept flicking to
the ghostly sensations of tits, ass and clit. The feeling of male
orgasm began to build, but I couldn't stop the deep desire to change
from overwhelming me. Just as I was about to come I began to morph and
my penis shrunk back out of my hands. I was suddenly robbed of my
ability to orgasm, leaving a momentary ache where my balls had been. In
seconds, I was all woman, standing naked save for the shorts pooling
around my ankles. In the bathroom mirror I could see a bloom of sweat
across my heaving chest while the hand that had held my dick now
grasped at empty air in front of my pussy.
Not for the first time I was to discover that there's a disjoint
between looking at a pretty girl and actually occupying her body. This
is especially true when your only experience of hot women comes from
airbrushed photos on the internet. There's a rude reality you have to
face up to. This close I could see the myriad tiny flaws of a real
woman's form. I had fine hairs on my arms, enlarged pores on my skin,
tiny wrinkles near my eyes and a barely perceptible bend in my nose,
along with a dozen other irritating defects. Already my long, dark hair
was wandering into my face to itch and scratch at my nose and my hands
rose up to flick it away with long-nailed fingers.
Suddenly I was aware of padding in places that were unfamiliar. My ass
and thighs felt unusually plump, as if the world around my tuchas began
a long way away. Then there was the mass of flesh tugging at my chest
muscles. I had breasts that were big, but without a bra to hold them
they just sagged back against my body and looked uneven, one larger
than the other.
My cans were nothing like the firm mountains I'd imagined they'd be.
They shivered like jello and yielded to the slightest touch. A tracery
of veins tracked across a skin that blazed with pale bikini triangles.
My hands mashed my boobs then lifted them, feeling their heft and
fleshy weight. Something carnal stirred in my chest and crotch as
fingernails brushed the hardening blobs of my redcurrant nipples and
their large surrounds. It was different from a hard-on. This arousal
was more like a heavy heat that made my skin more sensitive, that made
me conscious of the secret new spaces inside of me.
Suddenly the flaws didn't matter any more and my hands were all over my
body. It was almost like I didn't have enough fingers to stroke, touch
and pinch at all the parts of my new physique. Playing with my breasts
was sensational, feeling a horny thrill prickle back from behind the
teats and make its way to my cootchie, which became tremendously wet. I
hadn't anticipated how rapidly this warmth and moistness in my loins
would build. My face flushed and I felt as if I was starting to glow.
As the excitement increased I caressed my flat belly, with its firm
abs, and cupped the swell of my ass. It was a lovely peach-skinned
behind, soft and satisfyingly round.
And then, after exploring the slick sensitivity of my inner thighs,
which staggered me and almost made me fall on the floor, I began to
quest at the soft folds of skin around my vagina. I was about to slip
one nailed finger gingerly in to the hot wetness when a voice from
downstairs rose up and drenched me like a cold shower. It was Mom
calling me down for lunch. I cursed a streak in a soft soprano and then
stood there, staring angrily around the spotless expanse of the
bathroom. The spell was broken and the exquisite sexual heat of my
girl-body was cooling. Reluctantly, I focused for long enough to shift
back to my own shape, feeling its bony angles develop and my balls
drop. I felt a deep resentment at having to give up the exotic
experience of being a woman and return to my original form. I wiped
myself where girl-juices had dripped a slick, solitary trail down the
inside of one thigh, then got dressed and went downstairs to a
miserable meal.
From that day on I would have to hunt for private moments to explore my
feminine form. Often this was at night when I was safe in bed and the
house was suspended in sleep. In the stillness, with the warm urban
nightlight filtering through the blinds, I'd transform beneath the
sheets. My skinny awkwardness would subside and swell into supple
curves, reshaping the bedclothes. My head would suddenly be pillowed by
a mass of soft hair.
I'd lay there for a while, absorbing the new rhythms, the breathing and
heartbeat, of this limber body. I'd taste my sweet saliva and explore
my perfect, regular teeth with my tongue. Then slowly, in an act of
seduction, I'd start to play with myself in the dark. Slim hands would
flutter across my breasts as they puddled on my chest. Fingers would
delicately pluck at my sweet teats, teasing them rigid and making my
body writhe in response before my hand slid down across my belly and a
ragged thatch of pubic hair to reach the entrance to my vulva. There,
sliding into the folds of flesh, I was able to explore the hot
moistness, hunt out my clitoris and press it to make my back arch. Then
I'd enjoy the sensation of my fingers inside of me. I liked to withdraw
a wet digit and taste myself; lapping with my tongue at the hot musk of
my sex.
The first time I climaxed it was difficult to keep the noise down and I
lay in bed, gasping, feeling buzzy and blissed out. It was nothing like
the urgent surge of my male orgasms. This was more like a tide, a rise
and fall of sensation and emotion. Exhausted, I dozed off, still
encased in a female body. I was fortunate not to be discovered before I
woke and could change back.
I kept this pattern of exploration up for almost two weeks, excited by
my female shape and entranced by its otherness. I'd lock myself in my
room all evening, enjoying the experience of being a woman. I felt more
relaxed in this form, and was becoming increasingly comfortable with
it. As the sensation of breasts and vagina became familiar, I started
to appreciate the rest of what I thought of as my 'Julie body'. I loved
the line formed by my slim waist and broad hips, and the way my center
of gravity seemed to shift downwards. I admired the shapliness of my
legs and how even the back of my knees seemed to be an erogenous zone.
I would spend some evenings playing World of Warcraft in my Julie
shape, typing chat messages to friends. They couldn't see me, of
course. They didn't realize that I was now a hottie, sitting at a
screen clad only in a bathrobe, a stray boob just poking out from
behind the towelling. That gave me a secret thrill for as long as it
lasted, but I'd always have to change back whenever we raided, as our
guild used voice chat to communicate. I contemplated creating a new
game account, a new identity in which I could be a woman all the time,
and I wondered how differently my friends would respond to a girl's
voice.
Now I could turn into a sexy girl at will, I became obsessed with
clothing and tried to see how much of my wardrobe would fit a figure
that was shorter, but curved in new places. I pulled on a T-shirt that
squashed my chest flat, then fondled my boobs through the taut fabric.
That was so arousing that I tried my swimming briefs on. They stretched
pleasingly over the plumpness of my ass but bunched into unsightly
folds at the crotch. At least there was plenty of space there to reach
a hand inside and rub my vajayjay.
My boy clothes were all the wrong cut and didn't feel comfortable or
sexy enough. I wondered what it felt like to try on some women's
clothing. One Saturday afternoon, while my parents were visiting a
distant uncle, I stayed home and nervously snuck into the sacred space
of my mother's wardrobe. Mom was in her late thirties and, my friends
reckoned, had kept her looks. Amongst the racks of clothes I found
something that I thought I could squeeze my girl form into.
I took it down from its hanger, a simple knee-length dress with a
conservative floral pattern. I stripped nude, unzipped the back and
stepped into it, feeling a thrill as I pulled it up. The dress slid up
my legs, but then got stuck at my ass. I had to spend a few minutes
working my curves into it, inch by inch. By the time I'd managed, with
some effort, to zip it (mostly) up the back, everything felt
constricted and fit to burst. I could barely move for fear of something
ripping.
I found Mom's shoes in the wardrobe and was disappointed to find, after
forcing my feet into a pair of pumps, that they pinched badly. I stood
in front of the mirror, wrapped too tight to move, my bust squashed to
overflowing while wobbling precariously on Mom's heels. I was not
comfortable, and yet the whole experience of dressing as a woman made
the experience more thrilling, more sexy. I was turned on by the sight
of myself in a dress. When I clutched my breasts through the fabric my
body responded with strong arousal, straining at the confining apparel.
There was no way I could diddle myself like this, so I levered off the
dressâ€"an operation as difficult as getting it onâ€"and looked for what
else I could try. Mom's underwear drawer netted a pair of silky panties
that stretched satisfyingly over my smooth behind. I was disappointed
to find that her bras were far too small for my capacious chest, but in
another drawer I found a striped bikini top that could just about be
made to fit, though it barely cupped my boobs
So in this mismatched outfit of bikini bra, panties and two-inch pumps,
I flopped onto my parents' bed and began to touch myself. I was now
expert in arousing my girl-body. I swiftly felt the wetness come and
then rammed my hand down the sheer front of Mom's underwear to start
the gentle stirring and flicking that would bring me to climax.
This shape was addictive. But there was something else, besides the
erotic sensation of girl flesh, that brought me back to this body. I
was now an attractive woman. I felt desirable. Who would reject someone
who looked at hot as me? People would at last pay me the attention I
never received as a guy.
I climaxed and lay panting, legs akimbo on the bed. The bikini bra was
askew on my chest, the panties were pushed down across my thighs and
those too-tight high heels dug into the bedcover. I must have looked a
mess. As I lay in the afterglow I contemplated going out dressed as a
woman, but I hadn't the guts and I had nothing that fitted.
Days passed and I soon discovered a new limitation of my powers. So
long as the imprint remained fresh, the change was easy. When I
transformed each night I retained a pristine memory of the body shape.
It would even retain changes from the night before, such as the time I
tried shaving my pubic hair, creating a stubbly patch and a couple of
small razor nicks that reappeared each time I changed.
However, if I didn't change into a form regularly, its imprint would
degrade. School and chores and late nights hanging with my friends
online in World of Warcraft finally got the better of me. Exhausted, I
began to go straight to sleep without changing as soon as I hit the
hay. So when, after skipping a couple of nights, I tried to shapeshift
again I realized that my memory of 'Julie' had partially faded.
I focussed on the imprint and felt the usual tingle of morphing, but
the result petered out into an incomplete change. It felt all wrong.
When I stripped and looked in the mirror I appeared to be half man and
half woman. I checked my face and it was partly feminized with Julie's
and nose and the mass of her soft hair framing my features. Though my
hips had widened and my ass had swelled into its familiar proportions,
my waist was still thick and below the abdomen my genitals remained
male, though shriveled and weeny. My narrow chest sported a pair of
tiny, pointed mounds like those of a pubescent girl.
I tried to play with this androgynous physique, but it didn't function
properly. My adolescent, unfilled breasts ached slightly, as if in
growing pains, and rubbing them only made them sore. It took an age to
bring my tiny dick and balls to climax. It was really difficult to jerk
myself when my penis was so small. At the moment I came barely anything
came out and the pleasure it gave was miniscule and unsatisfying.
The realization that I'd lost the woman's imprint was like a
bereavement. I had become accustomed to that body's comfort and poise
and cursed myself for letting it disappear. I'd never find that woman
again and so I sulked for a day, wondering what to do. Then I resolved
to search for some new bodies to replace hers. I picked out the most
attractive girls in my classes and found ways to imprint them without
getting too touchy-feely. I could now handle three imprints without
much distraction. It wasn't long before I had a new parade of imprinted
shapes. I could feel their exotic forms at the edges of my
consciousness.
With three girl bodies stored safely away my nights became a carnival
of solo sex, enjoyed between the sheets of my bed. The experience of
wearing the new bodies was mind-blowing.
The first shape I tried on was that of a girl named Tani. She was an
ash blonde with a nondescript, almost homely face, but her incredible
curves meant she was much in demand with the boys. It took a gentle
touch of her hand in class to capture her form. Back at home when I
changed bodies that first time I had the brief sensation of feeling
inflated, like a Michelin man. As I adjusted to the shift of fleshy
ballast my sense of balance was thrown. Then I looked in the mirror to
check myself out. Tani possessed a fabulous hourglass with a broad
carriage and heavy breasts sagging down her ribcage, aureoles like
bruised circles.
It didn't take long to put Tani's nimble fingers to work, exploring and
circumnavigating my new frame. Tani was not fat, but her voluptuousness
was such that transitioning from my lean male body to hers was like
being zippered into a padded suit. I began to play with my tits, which
hung like ripe eggplants from my chest, but found they were less
sensitive than in my last girl body. The doughy masses seemed to get in
the way when I moved and were hot and a little uncomfortable. However,
as my hands slid down below the slight swell of my/Tani's belly, I
discovered her vulva. Even before I could enter myself, I felt
something dilate and in moments I was in flood. Tani's clit was a
beautiful instrument to play with; a sleek knot of nerve-endings that
slipped beneath my fingers. Its responses were so acute that in my
nocturnal explorations I had to be careful not to moan as I stroked and
worked it towards a climax. My middle finger sucked and popped as I
thrust it in and out of Tani's, no MY wet vagina. I worked it hard
with rapid little motions, tension brewing until I crested the wave and
came. In Tani's body orgasms were vast and emotional, washing over me
in great beach-breakers, leaving me quietly sobbing, unable to staunch
the tears.
Over the days that followed I kept coming back to Tani's pillowy form.
Her pussy became mine each night and it had me entranced. I began to
use bananas, whisked from the fruit bowl, as improvised dildos,
slipping them between my lips then pushing them gently and deeper
inside until the sensation was so great I could barely breathe. Jerking
the fruit back and forwards in my vagina I seemed to discover new
spots. These broadcast dizzying thrills that made my limbs jerk and my
hips squirm. Here was a luxurious body that screamed for sex. It was a
peak I needed to come down from.
By contrast with Tani, Shelley was a slender, apple-cheeked girl with
the beautiful, elastic body of a ballerina. In class I had fallen for
her smiling eyes and toothsome grin, framed by a bob of dark hair. It
took a momentary touch when handing her a book to steal her imprint.
When I morphed into Shelley's frisky form I discovered she had the most
amazing boobs. They were small, high and barely needed any support.
They came with delightful cherry nipples that, when aroused, broadcast
intense pleasure. Immediately after changing I would rub my body
against my bed so that my tiny teats would begin to buzz.
It was the closest thing I'd yet tried to my male shape: an energetic
body with a boyish figure that was tight, taut and toned. Shelley had
shaved her pussy and it was lovely to slip my finger into her snug,
moist vagina and tenderly quest for pleasure. It was as Shelley that I
discovered how different women's bodies could be from each other. Her
clitoris was a fleshy bean that needed careful caressing. Orgasms were
less overwhelming than in Tani's form. Rather, they were like sharp
peaks of erotic sensation coursing from tip to toe and winding back up
between my legs. But unlike Tani, where each climax would leave me
spent and emotionally wrecked, as Shelley I could rouse myself to
consecutive orgasms, and often did.
I developed a new masturbation technique in Shelley's body. I would
bring myself close to climax and then change back to my boy form.
Suddenly my dick would rear up, aroused and coated in Shelley's girl
juices. With a few slick jerks of my hand I would orgasm, spurting
thick ropes of semen onto my stomach. Immediately I would change back
into a girl and lay there, cum pooling on my baby-soft belly, using my
fingers to rub the sour-smelling semen up onto my tiny, schoolgirl
boobs, where I'd lubricate the tips. I once even tried a taste and
found it wasn't that bad. I briefly fantasized about making Shelley's
body pregnant with my own seed, until cold reality dawned and made me
drop the idea like a lead anvil. I had no idea of what havoc pregnancy
would play with my power and I feared getting stuck in that form.
The last of the trio of imprints was that of Lita, a beautiful Asian
girl with a heart-shaped face and full, kissable lips. It was odd to
look in the mirror and, with a finger, gently trace the sharp
epicanthic fold above my dark brown eyes. Her body was well
proportioned, with elegant lines and shapely legs.
Lita's chest was a modest pair of ice cream scoops, with up-tilted
nipples. But I found her boobs thrilling to fondle and they felt
comfortable in a way that Tani's enormous knockers had not. Again, the
response to sex felt different than in my other shapes. In this lithe
body my orgasms were relaxing releases of nervous energy that made me
want to sink into drowsy torpor.
The best thing about Lita was that she was the same height and slim
shape as my mother. I waited until my folks went away again before I
stole once more into my parents' bedroom to play with Mom's clothes.
Naked, I slipped on a pair of four-inch pumps and discovered that Lita
could wear Mom's shoes. With a little practice I could walk in them
comfortably, my trim fanny figure-eighting as I strolled across the
room. Mom's bras were just the right size to pack my perky bosom into
and I soon found myself encased in an underwired lace brassiere and
matching panties. I felt so hot and sexy it was all I could do to stop
myself dancing.
Dresses, pants and blouses fitted perfectly and I spent an exciting day
dressing up. I learned to walk in a skirt, which felt so strange
compared to pants. I marveled at the sheerness of a peach color silk
teddy sliding against my skin. I admired myself in a side-tie bikini
while still wearing those shiny heels that seemed to elongate my nice
legs even further. I put on a black party frock and paraded up and down
the bedroom, feeling it swish around me. I knew I had here a wardrobe I
could go out in, even if it was for someone a little older.
With three bodies at my command this was the happy time. I was sorta
getting sex, even if it was by masturbating. I would change two or
three times every night to keep the imprint of each girl-shape fresh.
The power did wonders for my self-esteem and I found that even in my
male body I was beginning to act more confident and assertive in
company.
Then one day my wish came true.
"The first time it happened was when I shapechanged into a friend by
accident," I admitted, reluctantly.
"How did that happen?" asked Jo. She was starting to relax a little,
her head canted slightly so that her wavy red hair draped languidly
into her face. She'd taken her goggles off since the fight, revealing
eyes that were large, gray-tinted and beautiful. They were familiar.
I'd once looked through those eyes and I remembered the crystal clarity
of their vision. "Was it some kind of big, colorful manifestation?" she
insisted.
"No, nothing like that." I stopped to clear my throat before going on.
"Only I knew anything had happened. I was hanging with my pal and just
patted them on the shoulder, all friendly. Then there was this 'zap'
feeling as I touched them, like a small electric shock. Suddenly I
could feel their shape in my head. It was like I held the blueprints
for their body in my mind. It made me feel weird. I didn't actually
shapechange properly until later. Not 'til I got home."
There was a lot I'd left out of this description. The friend had been
Bill, my bud at school. He's a smart, funny guy. Good grades. Good
enough at sports and the social round to be at the centre of several
circles. He hung with the nerd crowd and played in our World of
Warcraft clan. He was our natural leader and the organizer of many
online raids and stunts.
That time I'd felt the zap, the experience had left me feeling so
queasy and sick that I crawled home, leaving Bill at the arcade where
we'd been hanging. I stumbled into my bed complaining of a stomachache
and asked Mom to stop fussing and leave me alone. I dozed off and when
I woke up I was in Bill's body--or at least a copy of it--looking
through his eyes and breathing his air.
"Who was this friend of yours?" Jo asked, trying to gently lever her
way past my defenses. I licked my dry lips and tried to fend her off.
"Can we leave my friends out of it, Jo?" I briefly felt assertive and
defensive of my privacy. "They have nothing to do with this. I
discovered I could touch people and get an impression of their form
from the physical contact. Once it was in my head I could change into
that imprinted form and back again."
Jo wisely let it drop. "Did you use the power much once you'd mastered
it?"
"Uh, yeah. I experimented."
Yes, I experimented. A lot.
Of course, there was Bill's body at first. I wasn't really sure how I
had come to change, and after the initial panic it was a while before I
realized that my mind seemed to hold imprints of my old and new bodies.
I could focus on the ghostly shape there and swap between his body and
mine as easy as moving from one train of thought to another. It didn't
take more than five or six seconds to transform and it was painless. My
entire body would bubble with a weird energy, then it would flow and
gel into the new shape and become solid again.
I soon discovered the power's first limitation. It didn't work on
clothes, leaving me wearing whatever I had on before the change. That
would be a source of occasional embarrassment in the times to come.
As Bill it was disconcerting to have his bulk, his muscle, his senses,
and even his man-parts. Yeah, that felt icky at first. But once I felt
comfortable shifting back and forth between forms I test-drove his
body. I was impressed by how different a climax felt; it seemed to go
on longer than in my own physique.
All this, of course, was in secret, in the warm privacy of my bedroom
or the shower; anywhere my parents couldn't see me. There was no way I
was going to tell Mom or Pop about this and I was never going to admit
amything to Bill.
I spent a week trying to figure out the power, trying to master it. I
wondered if it was a one-off so I tried imprinting other friends from
school. All it took was some handshakes and backslaps and I soon also
had the imprints of three other friends. Having four phantom shapes
floating at the back of my consciousness was distracting and made it
hard to concentrate. I was glad when, after a few days, they began to
fade away.
However, while I held their imprints each change catapulted me into an
exhilarating new world of sensation. Each body had its own signature
characteristics, slightly different from my own. John's vision had an
acuity that profoundly changed the way I looked at the universe. The
colors I saw through his eyes seemed so much more vibrant. Tanc was
blessed with sharp hearing and I could make out sounds and voices more
easily from the tumble of background noise, while Raul possessed a
sense of smell so fine that I could make out olfactory notes I never
knew existed.
There were other unexpected differences. Muscles stretched and twanged
in unfamiliar ways. John's body seemed more flexible than the others
while in Raul's form my hands felt pudgy and clumsy. Tanc's legs seemed
so long compared to my own that I kept stumbling as I walked. Shifts in
height or reach could be a minefield, as they changed my perception of
distances and space. Even mundane alterations could be striking. In
each body I had a different heartbeat, an alien breathing rhythm, the
altered tang of saliva in my mouth and the feel of a new set of teeth
against my tongue.
Practicing the changes I found I could control the imprinting so that
it didn't happen on every physical contact. The transformations were
coming easy now and the overwhelming rush of the impressions didn't
make me feel sick like the first time.
I felt I was ready to try the biggest change yet. I wanted to become a
girl.
This was something I didn't want to mention to Jo. This was all about
sex, okay? Pure gratification. I was this lanky geek, a horny teen
who'd never dated yet was forced to swim in the hormone-charged
environment of high school. I felt I was missing what other guys at
school seemed to be getting, and that was pussy.
But now I could change my physical form to whomever I was able to touch
and imprint. Who needed to date a woman if you could become one? This
fever dream began to exterminate all rational thought. I started to
fantasize about transforming into a hot chick and checking myself out.
As soon as the idea of changing into a girl began to careen across my
imagination, I began to form a plan. I wanted to become someone foxy-
looking, of course. By a shaky process of logic I concluded that I
should imprint a person I'd never met and who didn't know me. So I set
my trap at the Mall.
If this sounds like stalkerish behavior, well, I plead that this was a
victimless crime. I wasn't going to attack anyone, just touch them for
a moment, imprint their physical pattern and then I'd be gone. However,
I didn't want any awkward questions, so to disguise myself I changed
into John's tall, rangy body. His was the closest shape to mine, I
wasn't too clumsy in it and I could wear the same clothes in both
forms. I biked down to the Mall and hung about the marble air-
conditioned concourse, watching people walk by and rating the women on
a one to ten scale.
It took a while to find the right subject. Most of the women were too
old or too young, too fat or thin. There were lumpen women, saggy
women, girls with lived-in faces. There were some who looked great at a
distance and as they walked closer did not look so hot. And there were
some who were pretty, but not pretty enough. I had this great power and
arrogantly felt I could afford to pick and choose.
Eventually I saw what I wanted: she was definitely a nine out of ten, a
lovely brunette with lustrous, shoulder-length hair. The woman was a
twenty-something, with an oval face and dazzling eyes that were kissed
with a dash of green. She had a small, straight nose and a generous
mouth with inviting lips. Her figure was slim-waisted and wide-hipped,
with what looked like shapely legs beneath her pants, and she wore a
stretch top that barely contained her generous breasts. I watched them
move as she did, bobbing in sympathy with her walk. The woman's well-
tanned arms were bare, which was ideal for me to make contact, and she
was alone, window shopping outside the chic clothes stores with a bag
swinging from her shoulder. Heart in my mouth I approached her from the
side.
"Hi Julie!" I said to her, all enthusiasm and bonhomie. I had no idea
who Julie was; it was the first name that came to mind. I lightly
touched the woman's arm, just long enough to feel the zap and rush of
the imprint. Startled, her head snapped to look at me, hair whirling
and mouth open. I was momentarily transfixed; she looked really
beautiful. But before she could say anything I immediately launched
into an apology. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I said, backing out of her
personal space. "From a distance I thought you were my friend. My bad,
I'm real sorry."
"No, uh, it's okay," she said and gave an embarrassed laugh. Her voice
was light and friendly. She hadn't felt the imprint process. None of
them ever do, though I saw her hand absently brush the skin where I'd
touched her.
"Look, I'd better go!" I said, thumbing toward the exit. "I gotta find
my friend Julie. Again, I'm sorry about the mistake!" Heart-in-mouth I
dashed outside to the lonely concrete post where I'd shackled my
mountain bike. I took a moment to morph back into my own shape and then
pedaled back home as fast as my legs could take me.
I almost never made it. My limbs were shaking from the adrenalin rush
of what I'd just done. And then there was the imprint of the woman's
body, which was beginning to fill my senses.
It's hard to articulate how an imprint feels. It's like a new sense, a
spectral memory of a body shape on the edge of my consciousness. On
that bike ride I could feel the outline of this woman's physical form
and it was making me horny. My dick was so hard I could barely pedal.
This was different from the guy forms I'd impressed. Almost as if it
could touch them my mind could make out the fleshy physicality of
breasts, the curve of a waist and an unfamiliar space between my
thighs. It's a wonder I didn't orgasm in my shorts.
Back in the house, I ran thumpety-thump upstairs and locked myself in
the antiseptic privacy of the bathroom. I stripped in a hurry, clumsily
hurling off shoes, shirt and pants until they were strewn across the
floor. Then my hands, on autopilot, pushed down my shorts and began to
stroke and jerk my dick, which was hard, hot and sleek. I felt an urge
to ejaculate before I transformed. But the weight of the strange,
feminine imprint on my psyche was too great. My mind kept flicking to
the ghostly sensations of tits, ass and clit. The feeling of male
orgasm began to build, but I couldn't stop the deep desire to change
from overwhelming me. Just as I was about to come I began to morph and
my penis shrunk back out of my hands. I was suddenly robbed of my
ability to orgasm, leaving a momentary ache where my balls had been. In
seconds, I was all woman, standing naked save for the shorts pooling
around my ankles. In the bathroom mirror I could see a bloom of sweat
across my heaving chest while the hand that had held my dick now
grasped at empty air in front of my pussy.
Not for the first time I was to discover that there's a disjoint
between looking at a pretty girl and actually occupying her body. This
is especially true when your only experience of hot women comes from
airbrushed photos on the internet. There's a rude reality you have to
face up to. This close I could see the myriad tiny flaws of a real
woman's form. I had fine hairs on my arms, enlarged pores on my skin,
tiny wrinkles near my eyes and a barely perceptible bend in my nose,
along with a dozen other irritating defects. Already my long, dark hair
was wandering into my face to itch and scratch at my nose and my hands
rose up to flick it away with long-nailed fingers.
Suddenly I was aware of padding in places that were unfamiliar. My ass
and thighs felt unusually plump, as if the world around my tuchas began
a long way away. Then there was the mass of flesh tugging at my chest
muscles. I had breasts that were big, but without a bra to hold them
they just sagged back against my body and looked uneven, one larger
than the other.
My cans were nothing like the firm mountains I'd imagined they'd be.
They shivered like jello and yielded to the slightest touch. A tracery
of veins tracked across a skin that blazed with pale bikini triangles.
My hands mashed my boobs then lifted them, feeling their heft and
fleshy weight. Something carnal stirred in my chest and crotch as
fingernails brushed the hardening blobs of my redcurrant nipples and
their large surrounds. It was different from a hard-on. This arousal
was more like a heavy heat that made my skin more sensitive, that made
me conscious of the secret new spaces inside of me.
Suddenly the flaws didn't matter any more and my hands were all over my
body. It was almost like I didn't have enough fingers to stroke, touch
and pinch at all the parts of my new physique. Playing with my breasts
was sensational, feeling a horny thrill prickle back from behind the
teats and make its way to my cootchie, which became tremendously wet. I
hadn't anticipated how rapidly this warmth and moistness in my loins
would build. My face flushed and I felt as if I was starting to glow.
As the excitement increased I caressed my flat belly, with its firm
abs, and cupped the swell of my ass. It was a lovely peach-skinned
behind, soft and satisfyingly round.
And then, after exploring the slick sensitivity of my inner thighs,
which staggered me and almost made me fall on the floor, I began to
quest at the soft folds of skin around my vagina. I was about to slip
one nailed finger gingerly in to the hot wetness when a voice from
downstairs rose up and drenched me like a cold shower. It was Mom
calling me down for lunch. I cursed a streak in a soft soprano and then
stood there, staring angrily around the spotless expanse of the
bathroom. The spell was broken and the exquisite sexual heat of my
girl-body was cooling. Reluctantly, I focused for long enough to shift
back to my own shape, feeling its bony angles develop and my balls
drop. I felt a deep resentment at having to give up the exotic
experience of being a woman and return to my original form. I wiped
myself where girl-juices had dripped a slick, solitary trail down the
inside of one thigh, then got dressed and went downstairs to a
miserable meal.
From that day on I would have to hunt for private moments to explore my
feminine form. Often this was at night when I was safe in bed and the
house was suspended in sleep. In the stillness, with the warm urban
nightlight filtering through the blinds, I'd transform beneath the
sheets. My skinny awkwardness would subside and swell into supple
curves, reshaping the bedclothes. My head would suddenly be pillowed by
a mass of soft hair.
I'd lay there for a while, absorbing the new rhythms, the breathing and
heartbeat, of this limber body. I'd taste my sweet saliva and explore
my perfect, regular teeth with my tongue. Then slowly, in an act of
seduction, I'd start to play with myself in the dark. Slim hands would
flutter across my breasts as they puddled on my chest. Fingers would
delicately pluck at my sweet teats, teasing them rigid and making my
body writhe in response before my hand slid down across my belly and a
ragged thatch of pubic hair to reach the entrance to my vulva. There,
sliding into the folds of flesh, I was able to explore the hot
moistness, hunt out my clitoris and press it to make my back arch. Then
I'd enjoy the sensation of my fingers inside of me. I liked to withdraw
a wet digit and taste myself; lapping with my tongue at the hot musk of
my sex.
The first time I climaxed it was difficult to keep the noise down and I
lay in bed, gasping, feeling buzzy and blissed out. It was nothing like
the urgent surge of my male orgasms. This was more like a tide, a rise
and fall of sensation and emotion. Exhausted, I dozed off, still
encased in a female body. I was fortunate not to be discovered before I
woke and could change back.
I kept this pattern of exploration up for almost two weeks, excited by
my female shape and entranced by its otherness. I'd lock myself in my
room all evening, enjoying the experience of being a woman. I felt more
relaxed in this form, and was becoming increasingly comfortable with
it. As the sensation of breasts and vagina became familiar, I started
to appreciate the rest of what I thought of as my 'Julie body'. I loved
the line formed by my slim waist and broad hips, and the way my center
of gravity seemed to shift downwards. I admired the shapliness of my
legs and how even the back of my knees seemed to be an erogenous zone.
I would spend some evenings playing World of Warcraft in my Julie
shape, typing chat messages to friends. They couldn't see me, of
course. They didn't realize that I was now a hottie, sitting at a
screen clad only in a bathrobe, a stray boob just poking out from
behind the towelling. That gave me a secret thrill for as long as it
lasted, but I'd always have to change back whenever we raided, as our
guild used voice chat to communicate. I contemplated creating a new
game account, a new identity in which I could be a woman all the time,
and I wondered how differently my friends would respond to a girl's
voice.
Now I could turn into a sexy girl at will, I became obsessed with
clothing and tried to see how much of my wardrobe would fit a figure
that was shorter, but curved in new places. I pulled on a T-shirt that
squashed my chest flat, then fondled my boobs through the taut fabric.
That was so arousing that I tried my swimming briefs on. They stretched
pleasingly over the plumpness of my ass but bunched into unsightly
folds at the crotch. At least there was plenty of space there to reach
a hand inside and rub my vajayjay.
My boy clothes were all the wrong cut and didn't feel comfortable or
sexy enough. I wondered what it felt like to try on some women's
clothing. One Saturday afternoon, while my parents were visiting a
distant uncle, I stayed home and nervously snuck into the sacred space
of my mother's wardrobe. Mom was in her late thirties and, my friends
reckoned, had kept her looks. Amongst the racks of clothes I found
something that I thought I could squeeze my girl form into.
I took it down from its hanger, a simple knee-length dress with a
conservative floral pattern. I stripped nude, unzipped the back and
stepped into it, feeling a thrill as I pulled it up. The dress slid up
my legs, but then got stuck at my ass. I had to spend a few minutes
working my curves into it, inch by inch. By the time I'd managed, with
some effort, to zip it (mostly) up the back, everything felt
constricted and fit to burst. I could barely move for fear of something
ripping.
I found Mom's shoes in the wardrobe and was disappointed to find, after
forcing my feet into a pair of pumps, that they pinched badly. I stood
in front of the mirror, wrapped too tight to move, my bust squashed to
overflowing while wobbling precariously on Mom's heels. I was not
comfortable, and yet the whole experience of dressing as a woman made
the experience more thrilling, more sexy. I was turned on by the sight
of myself in a dress. When I clutched my breasts through the fabric my
body responded with strong arousal, straining at the confining apparel.
There was no way I could diddle myself like this, so I levered off the
dressâ€"an operation as difficult as getting it onâ€"and looked for what
else I could try. Mom's underwear drawer netted a pair of silky panties
that stretched satisfyingly over my smooth behind. I was disappointed
to find that her bras were far too small for my capacious chest, but in
another drawer I found a striped bikini top that could just about be
made to fit, though it barely cupped my boobs
So in this mismatched outfit of bikini bra, panties and two-inch pumps,
I flopped onto my parents' bed and began to touch myself. I was now
expert in arousing my girl-body. I swiftly felt the wetness come and
then rammed my hand down the sheer front of Mom's underwear to start
the gentle stirring and flicking that would bring me to climax.
This shape was addictive. But there was something else, besides the
erotic sensation of girl flesh, that brought me back to this body. I
was now an attractive woman. I felt desirable. Who would reject someone
who looked at hot as me? People would at last pay me the attention I
never received as a guy.
I climaxed and lay panting, legs akimbo on the bed. The bikini bra was
askew on my chest, the panties were pushed down across my thighs and
those too-tight high heels dug into the bedcover. I must have looked a
mess. As I lay in the afterglow I contemplated going out dressed as a
woman, but I hadn't the guts and I had nothing that fitted.
Days passed and I soon discovered a new limitation of my powers. So
long as the imprint remained fresh, the change was easy. When I
transformed each night I retained a pristine memory of the body shape.
It would even retain changes from the night before, such as the time I
tried shaving my pubic hair, creating a stubbly patch and a couple of
small razor nicks that reappeared each time I changed.
However, if I didn't change into a form regularly, its imprint would
degrade. School and chores and late nights hanging with my friends
online in World of Warcraft finally got the better of me. Exhausted, I
began to go straight to sleep without changing as soon as I hit the
hay. So when, after skipping a couple of nights, I tried to shapeshift
again I realized that my memory of 'Julie' had partially faded.
I focussed on the imprint and felt the usual tingle of morphing, but
the result petered out into an incomplete change. It felt all wrong.
When I stripped and looked in the mirror I appeared to be half man and
half woman. I checked my face and it was partly feminized with Julie's
and nose and the mass of her soft hair framing my features. Though my
hips had widened and my ass had swelled into its familiar proportions,
my waist was still thick and below the abdomen my genitals remained
male, though shriveled and weeny. My narrow chest sported a pair of
tiny, pointed mounds like those of a pubescent girl.
I tried to play with this androgynous physique, but it didn't function
properly. My unfilled breasts ached slightly, as if in
growing pains, and rubbing them only made them sore. It took an age to
bring my tiny dick and balls to climax. It was really difficult to jerk
myself when my penis was so small. At the moment I came barely anything
came out and the pleasure it gave was miniscule and unsatisfying.
The realization that I'd lost the woman's imprint was like a
bereavement. I had become accustomed to that body's comfort and poise
and cursed myself for letting it disappear. I'd never find that woman
again and so I sulked for a day, wondering what to do. Then I resolved
to search for some new bodies to replace hers. I picked out the most
attractive girls in my classes and found ways to imprint them without
getting too touchy-feely. I could now handle three imprints without
much distraction. It wasn't long before I had a new parade of imprinted
shapes. I could feel their exotic forms at the edges of my
consciousness.
With three girl bodies stored safely away my nights became a carnival
of solo sex, enjoyed between the sheets of my bed. The experience of
wearing the new bodies was mind-blowing.
The first shape I tried on was that of a girl named Tani. She was an
ash blonde with a nondescript, almost homely face, but her incredible
curves meant she was much in demand with the boys. It took a gentle
touch of her hand in class to capture her form. Back at home when I
changed bodies that first time I had the brief sensation of feeling
inflated, like a Michelin man. As I adjusted to the shift of fleshy
ballast my sense of balance was thrown. Then I looked in the mirror to
check myself out. Tani possessed a fabulous hourglass with a broad
carriage and heavy breasts sagging down her ribcage, aureoles like
bruised circles.
It didn't take long to put Tani's nimble fingers to work, exploring and
circumnavigating my new frame. Tani was not fat, but her voluptuousness
was such that transitioning from my lean male body to hers was like
being zippered into a padded suit. I began to play with my tits, which
hung like ripe eggplants from my chest, but found they were less
sensitive than in my last girl body. The doughy masses seemed to get in
the way when I moved and were hot and a little uncomfortable. However,
as my hands slid down below the slight swell of my/Tani's belly, I
discovered her vulva. Even before I could enter myself, I felt
something dilate and in moments I was in flood. Tani's clit was a
beautiful instrument to play with; a sleek knot of nerve-endings that
slipped beneath my fingers. Its responses were so acute that in my
nocturnal explorations I had to be careful not to moan as I stroked and
worked it towards a climax. My middle finger sucked and popped as I
thrust it in and out of Tani's, no MY wet vagina. I worked it hard
with rapid little motions, tension brewing until I crested the wave and
came. In Tani's body orgasms were vast and emotional, washing over me
in great beach-breakers, leaving me quietly sobbing, unable to staunch
the tears.
Over the days that followed I kept coming back to Tani's pillowy form.
Her pussy became mine each night and it had me entranced. I began to
use bananas, whisked from the fruit bowl, as improvised dildos,
slipping them between my lips then pushing them gently and deeper
inside until the sensation was so great I could barely breathe. Jerking
the fruit back and forwards in my vagina I seemed to discover new
spots. These broadcast dizzying thrills that made my limbs jerk and my
hips squirm. Here was a luxurious body that screamed for sex. It was a
peak I needed to come down from.
By contrast with Tani, Shelley was a slender, apple-cheeked girl with
the beautiful, elastic body of a ballerina. In class I had fallen for
her smiling eyes and toothsome grin, framed by a bob of dark hair. It
took a momentary touch when handing her a book to steal her imprint.
When I morphed into Shelley's frisky form I discovered she had the most
amazing boobs. They were small, high and barely needed any support.
They came with delightful cherry nipples that, when aroused, broadcast
intense pleasure. Immediately after changing I would rub my body
against my bed so that my tiny teats would begin to buzz.
It was the closest thing I'd yet tried to my male shape: an energetic
body with a boyish figure that was tight, taut and toned. Shelley had
shaved her pussy and it was lovely to slip my finger into her snug,
moist vagina and tenderly quest for pleasure. It was as Shelley that I
discovered how different women's bodies could be from each other. Her
clitoris was a fleshy bean that needed careful caressing. Orgasms were
less overwhelming than in Tani's form. Rather, they were like sharp
peaks of erotic sensation coursing from tip to toe and winding back up
between my legs. But unlike Tani, where each climax would leave me
spent and emotionally wrecked, as Shelley I could rouse myself to
consecutive orgasms, and often did.
I developed a new masturbation technique in Shelley's body. I would
bring myself close to climax and then change back to my boy form.
Suddenly my dick would rear up, aroused and coated in Shelley's girl
juices. With a few slick jerks of my hand I would orgasm, spurting
thick ropes of semen onto my stomach. Immediately I would change back
into a girl and lay there, cum pooling on my baby-soft belly, using my
fingers to rub the sour-smelling semen up onto my tiny
boobs, where I'd lubricate the tips. I once even tried a taste and
found it wasn't that bad. I briefly fantasized about making Shelley's
body pregnant with my own seed, until cold reality dawned and made me
drop the idea like a lead anvil. I had no idea of what havoc pregnancy
would play with my power and I feared getting stuck in that form.
The last of the trio of imprints was that of Lita, a beautiful Asian
girl with a heart-shaped face and full, kissable lips. It was odd to
look in the mirror and, with a finger, gently trace the sharp
epicanthic fold above my dark brown eyes. Her body was well
proportioned, with elegant lines and shapely legs.
Lita's chest was a modest pair of ice cream scoops, with up-tilted
nipples. But I found her boobs thrilling to fondle and they felt
comfortable in a way that Tani's enormous knockers had not. Again, the
response to sex felt different than in my other shapes. In this lithe
body my orgasms were relaxing releases of nervous energy that made me
want to sink into drowsy torpor.
The best thing about Lita was that she was the same height and slim
shape as my mother. I waited until my folks went away again before I
stole once more into my parents' bedroom to play with Mom's clothes.
Naked, I slipped on a pair of four-inch pumps and discovered that Lita
could wear Mom's shoes. With a little practice I could walk in them
comfortably, my trim fanny figure-eighting as I strolled across the
room. Mom's bras were just the right size to pack my perky bosom into
and I soon found myself encased in an underwired lace brassiere and
matching panties. I felt so hot and sexy it was all I could do to stop
myself dancing.
Dresses, pants and blouses fitted perfectly and I spent an exciting day
dressing up. I learned to walk in a skirt, which felt so strange
compared to pants. I marveled at the sheerness of a peach color silk
teddy sliding against my skin. I admired myself in a side-tie bikini
while still wearing those shiny heels that seemed to elongate my nice
legs even further. I put on a black party frock and paraded up and down
the bedroom, feeling it swish around me. I knew I had here a wardrobe I
could go out in, even if it was for someone a little older.
With three bodies at my command this was the happy time. I was sorta
getting sex, even if it was by masturbating. I would change two or
three times every night to keep the imprint of each girl-shape fresh.
The power did wonders for my self-esteem and I found that even in my
male body I was beginning to act more confident and assertive in
company.
This is a rewrite & expansion of The Guillotine by Smiles on Writing.com -- https://www.writing.com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1575512-The-Guillotine
It's set in the same world and will start of similarly, but will quickly expand out in different directions without directly copying the original.
____
A family member discovers a magical guillotine at a magic shop called Franz Joseph Illusions. It has the ability to cut off body parts and let them be reattached to anyone and anywhere!
Rules:
- When a body part is cut off, the person it is removed from can still feel and move it until it is attached to somebody else.
- When it is attached to somebody else, the original owner loses all sensation in it, and the new person gains the ability to move and feel it as if it is their own.
- If it is cut off from the second person, they keep control of the body part until it is again attached to another person.
- If a body part is attached to something inanimate (like a wall or a table), it just goes completely numb.
The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Franz Joseph Illusions, the musty scent of aged wood and old velvet filling your nose. The shop was dimly lit, dust motes swirling in the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the grimy front windows. Behind the counter sat an ancient man with wiry white hair and thick spectacles that magnified his watery blue eyes. He barely glanced up from his newspaper as you entered.
Your boots scuffed against the worn wooden floorboards as you wandered between displays of magic props. A gleaming chrome box for sawing women in half stood beside a levitation rig with silk scarves still draped over its frame. But your attention kept drifting to the back corner where a massive guillotine loomed, its polished blade catching the light in a way that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.
Running your fingers along the smooth oak frame, you examined the intricate carvings of fleur-de-lis along the sides. The metal components gleamed with fresh oil, the blade's edge so sharp you could see your distorted reflection in it. Crouching down, you checked beneath the lunette - the semicircular brace where a victim's neck would rest - but found no manufacturer's marks or price tags.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" The old man's voice made you jump. He'd appeared silently beside you, his gnarled hands stroking the guillotine's frame with disturbing affection. "Built in 1793 for the Comte de Rougemont. He commissioned it to save his own neck, if you'll pardon the expression."
You frowned. "How does a guillotine save someone?"
The old man's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Magic, my boy. The oldest kind." He rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame. "This one's special. The blade never quite... connects. Makes for quite the party trick."
Your fingers itched to try it. "How much?"
"To buy? More than you've got in that wallet." He chuckled at your crestfallen expression. "But I'll lend it to you for a week. Show your friends. Maybe slice some fruit. Just remember to mention Franz Joseph's when they scream."
Within the hour, you'd carefully loaded the massive contraption into your pickup, the old man fussing over the padding like a mother with a newborn. The drive home was tense, every bump making you glance nervously at the rearview mirror to check the guillotine hadn't shifted.
Back in your garage, you wrestled the heavy device into position, the scent of oil and aged wood filling the space. The blade hung ominously above the empty lunette, the release mechanism's rope coiled like a sleeping serpent. Excited to test it, you hurried inside to grab a watermelon from the fridge.
The cool night air hit your face as you returned, the watermelon heavy in your arms. But as you stepped into the garage, you froze. Someone was already there, their silhouette framed against the guillotine's massive outline....
It's set in the same world and will start of similarly, but will quickly expand out in different directions without directly copying the original.
____
A family member discovers a magical guillotine at a magic shop called Franz Joseph Illusions. It has the ability to cut off body parts and let them be reattached to anyone and anywhere!
Rules:
- When a body part is cut off, the person it is removed from can still feel and move it until it is attached to somebody else.
- When it is attached to somebody else, the original owner loses all sensation in it, and the new person gains the ability to move and feel it as if it is their own.
- If it is cut off from the second person, they keep control of the body part until it is again attached to another person.
- If a body part is attached to something inanimate (like a wall or a table), it just goes completely numb.
The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Franz Joseph Illusions, the musty scent of aged wood and old velvet filling your nose. The shop was dimly lit, dust motes swirling in the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the grimy front windows. Behind the counter sat an ancient man with wiry white hair and thick spectacles that magnified his watery blue eyes. He barely glanced up from his newspaper as you entered.
Your boots scuffed against the worn wooden floorboards as you wandered between displays of magic props. A gleaming chrome box for sawing women in half stood beside a levitation rig with silk scarves still draped over its frame. But your attention kept drifting to the back corner where a massive guillotine loomed, its polished blade catching the light in a way that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.
Running your fingers along the smooth oak frame, you examined the intricate carvings of fleur-de-lis along the sides. The metal components gleamed with fresh oil, the blade's edge so sharp you could see your distorted reflection in it. Crouching down, you checked beneath the lunette - the semicircular brace where a victim's neck would rest - but found no manufacturer's marks or price tags.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" The old man's voice made you jump. He'd appeared silently beside you, his gnarled hands stroking the guillotine's frame with disturbing affection. "Built in 1793 for the Comte de Rougemont. He commissioned it to save his own neck, if you'll pardon the expression."
You frowned. "How does a guillotine save someone?"
The old man's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Magic, my boy. The oldest kind." He rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame. "This one's special. The blade never quite... connects. Makes for quite the party trick."
Your fingers itched to try it. "How much?"
"To buy? More than you've got in that wallet." He chuckled at your crestfallen expression. "But I'll lend it to you for a week. Show your friends. Maybe slice some fruit. Just remember to mention Franz Joseph's when they scream."
Within the hour, you'd carefully loaded the massive contraption into your pickup, the old man fussing over the padding like a mother with a newborn. The drive home was tense, every bump making you glance nervously at the rearview mirror to check the guillotine hadn't shifted.
Back in your garage, you wrestled the heavy device into position, the scent of oil and aged wood filling the space. The blade hung ominously above the empty lunette, the release mechanism's rope coiled like a sleeping serpent. Excited to test it, you hurried inside to grab a watermelon from the fridge.
The cool night air hit your face as you returned, the watermelon heavy in your arms. But as you stepped into the garage, you froze. Someone was already there, their silhouette framed against the guillotine's massive outline....
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.
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