Life at a Snail's Pace
Story created by
When Logan is invited by his friend Ryan to participate in a experiment, the last thing he is expecting is for his mind to be copied into the body of a brain slug.
However, instead of trying to fix things when she discovers this, Ryan sets her sights on fulfilling her all longheld ambitions with Logan's newfound abilities.
Logan is initially keen with just going along things as he possesses more bodies and pushes the extent of his capabilities. However, when a desire to be more than just her golden goose begins to stir within him, he soon finds himself starting to make plans to fulfill his own longheld desires...
However, instead of trying to fix things when she discovers this, Ryan sets her sights on fulfilling her all longheld ambitions with Logan's newfound abilities.
Logan is initially keen with just going along things as he possesses more bodies and pushes the extent of his capabilities. However, when a desire to be more than just her golden goose begins to stir within him, he soon finds himself starting to make plans to fulfill his own longheld desires...
lesbian transformation Unrequited Love
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They say your body is a temple, but for some, it’s just a rental. Lena thought she knew the rules of the night, until a chance encounter at a bar shattered the boundaries of her own skin.
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Hi, author here. o/
I tried to condense the Hopper lore to make the tutoring of a 'newly minted' Hopper feel more believable. I also saw an opportunity to explore a facet of the Hopper world that I feel is somewhat neglected: the rare female Hopper. I hope no one is offended by this story, and I’m open to suggestions on where the plot should go next!
A glitchy holographic rain poured down the facade of "Mandarin," a digital drizzle that shimmered over the sleek obsidian and glass of the Heights. The bar sat in the most exclusive pocket of the city, where holographic cherry blossoms drifted slowly from a ceiling that mimicked a midnight sky over Neo-Tokyo. Slender glass pillars filled with bubbling blue bioluminescence acted as room dividers, and the air smelled of expensive sandalwood and filtered ozone. It was a place for people who wanted to be seen—a high-end sanctuary for the elite.
She didn’t usually go for the insistent types, but there was something hypnotic about the stranger at the end of the bar. He had the kind of face that seemed painted by an artist who couldn't decide on a subject: sharp, masculine bone structure softened by unnervingly delicate, feminine features. High cheekbones, a rose-bud pout, and eyes too large and luminous for a man of his build.
"You're staring," he said. His voice was a rich, vibrating baritone that seemed to hum right through the obsidian of the bar.
Lena didn't look away; she couldn't. "You're weird-looking," she replied, trying to sound bored, but her heart gave a traitorous thud.
He didn't take offense. Instead, he turned his stool fully toward her, a slow, predatory grace in his movements. "Weird is just a lack of imagination, Lena."
She bristled. "How do you know my name?"
"The bartender called it out three minutes ago when he brought your drink. You didn't notice because you were too busy trying to decide if I was a dream or a warning." He leaned in, the scent of expensive tobacco and something else—like the air before a storm—enveloping her. "I'm a bit of both. But trust me, babe, the warning is way more fun than the dream."
He smiled, and it was devastating—a flash of perfect teeth and a crinkle at the corners of those haunting eyes that made her feel suddenly, dangerously exposed. "Give me a chance to show you I’m the good kind of weird. The kind you don't just look at, but the kind you want to remember."
Two hours later, the "weirdness" had followed her home.
***
The air in Lena's apartment felt suddenly, impossibly heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by lead. They were on the brink of a shared, explosive climax, the room thick with the heat of their exertion. The man was deep inside her, his body tensing with the unmistakable, jagged rhythm of a man about to come, while Lena herself was drowning in the white-hot rush of her own nearing orgasm.
With a final, desperate grunt, the man buckled, his body slamming against hers as he came. Lena felt the hot, rhythmic pulse of his release deep inside her, but the heat was instantly followed by a sensation so wrong it made her skin crawl. It wasn't just semen; it felt like a surge of liquid ice, a freezing, invasive presence that began to writhe within her.
Before she could even gasp, the man beneath her began to vibrate with a violent, bone-deep frequency. The pleasure didn't just break; it died. Lena scrambled back with a frantic, animal desperation, her body slick with sweat and the cooling, viscous mess of their encounter. As she tore herself away, she felt a thick, silver-streaked fluid leak from her, a defiling stain that seemed to pulse on her thighs—yet it remained tethered to the man, connected by a glistening, umbilical thread of mercury that pulsed with a life of its own.
In the dim, sickly light of the streetlamp, the stranger's face began to buckle in a terrifying, silent collapse. The delicate, feminine features were vanishing as a viscous, mercury-tinted substance began to weep from his pores. Even as the jaw widened and the skin grew coarse with a beard, the silver was already pouring from his parting lips in a thick, soundless stream, the various pools and the thread inside Lena all drawing back toward the central, shivering mass.
Lena retreated into the small space between the bed and the wall, her naked back pressing against the cold plaster. She watched, paralyzed by a sense of absolute violation, as the silver streaks on her own skin began to move. The portion of the jizz that had carried the metallic infection didn't just sit there; it wriggled with a parasitic intent, trying to find purchase inside her, seeking a way to burrow deeper into her womb.
But it couldn't find a way in.
The silver fluid began to retreat from her body, sliding out of her like a rejected organ, joining the larger mass that was now abandoning the man. The threads of silver slime stretched and snapped mid-air, drawn together by an unseen magnetic hunger. They coalesced rapidly on the mattress, bloating into a translucent, gelatinous mass that shivered with a sickly, bioluminescent inner light.
Lena couldn't move. She could only watch, feeling hollowed out and defiled, as the thing that had just been inside her pulsed with a frustrated, thrumming vibration before scurrying back toward the limp body on the bed.
The creature vanished back into the man's mouth; as the mass disappeared into his throat, his rugged jawline CLIFF once more and those familiar, delicate feminine traces flooded back into his face.
Lena remained pressed against the wall, trembling so violently the headboard rattled. Time had seemingly fractured. In the heat of that terrifying moment, it felt as though hours had bled away while she watched the silver mass writhe and hunger for her; she had counted the pulses of the bioluminescent light as if they were slow, tolling bells. But as her eyes flicked to the digital clock on the bedside table, the red numbers showed that only a few seconds had actually passed. The man opened his eyes. He didn't look at her; he looked at the ceiling.
"Which face are you seeing right now?" he asked. His voice was a steady. "A bearded one? Chiseled? Sharp edges? Maybe a slightly broken nose?"
Lena's breath came in ragged hitches. "It... it was like that. Just for a moment. But not anymore. Now you’re back to..." She shook her head, her voice trembling. "Who are you? What are you?"
The man began to laugh. It started as that same baritone, but halfway through, the pitch slid upward, settling into a clear, mocking, and unmistakably feminine soprano.
"Well, well, well," the man said, though the voice was all woman. He sat up, the movement fluid and graceful in a way the man hadn't been earlier. "Just my luck. A newbie. And a chick, nonetheless."
He turned his head to look at Lena, a wicked glint in those large eyes.
"Welcome to the body hopper world, sister. We just fucked, so I guess I officially popped your hopper cherry."
Lena stared, her mind refusing to compute. "What are you talking about?"
"You're one of us," the voice with that undeniable feminine lilt said. "Dormant. Like a seed waiting for the right... stimulus. I tried to move into your house, but the doors were already locked. Hoppers can’t be hopped by other hoppers—the lease on the soul is already signed. But awakening a dormant? That takes a special kind of intrusion."
The man leaned forward, his massive, hairy chest contrasting sharply with the delicate, breathy voice spilling from his lips. "You were just a pretty little cage with the lock rusted shut. But when I pushed this man's cock deep inside you, I wasn't just giving you his heat. I was flooding you with my essence. Usually, I'd feel your dormant core shiver the second the load hit—it's a distinct resonance, like a bell ringing in a vacuum. But honestly? Kudos, girl. You fucked me good. I was so caught up in your response that I completely lost my way. I didn't even notice the fire starting until I tried to jump in and hit the wall. It’s not every day someone makes me lose my focus like that."
Lena's eyes darted from his hairy shoulders to the delicate pout of his lips. "Why... why are you talking like that? Why did your voice change?"
The man grinned, the expression hauntingly feminine on his face. "Think of it as an instrument, honey." To demonstrate, his voice suddenly plunged back into a coarse, gravelly baritone—the man's natural sound. "One moment, I'm wearing the meat like a heavy coat," he growled, the vibration of the chest cavity making the air around him thrum. Then, with a playful glint in his eyes, the pitch glided back up into that airy, melodic soprano. "And the next, I'm the one playing the keys. A hopper can choose to wear the host’s voice, or let their own vibrate through the vocal cords. It’s a basic skill—tuning the meat to play our own melody."
Lena's jaw dropped as the implication finally sank in, her mind reeling from the violation and the absurdity. "Wait... SO YOU ARE A GIRL?"
The man’s body stood up, but the movements were wrong—too light, too daintily feminine for the frame. He tilted his heavy head, a delicate, coy smile stretching the stubbled lips. "In the flesh, honey," the airy female voice spilled out. The man let out a sharp, tinkling laugh that sounded physically impossible coming from his chest. "Or, more accurately... inside his flesh?"
"This isn't real," Lena stammered, clutching the sheet to her chest, her eyes wide with terror. "Everything you’re saying... it’s crazy. It doesn't make any sense. People don't just... melt and live inside other people. You’re a freak, or I’m drugged, or—"
The man let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of someone dealing with a particularly slow child. "Arguments are so tedious when a demonstration is much more effective. Some people need to touch the stove to believe it's hot." He looked down at the hairy, muscular hands of the host. "Fine. Visual aids, then."
The shuddering began again. The man’s body collapsed like an empty suit of clothes as the silver slime poured out once more. This time, it didn't lunge. It pooled on the hardwood floor, rising and knitting itself together. Within seconds, the gelatinous mass solidified into the form of a woman. She was lithe, beautiful, with the exact same 'weirdly feminine' face Lena had seen on the man.
***
"I wanted to fuck you, then take you," the woman said, her voice now perfectly matching her body. "I love the hop, the rush of shifting into a new skin. There’s nothing like the high of hopping from body to body until I can taste every sensation—until I can feel the climax of the man and the woman at the exact same time. But finding a sister in the wild? Ahh, that’s a rare vintage. It puts a bit of a damper on my plans for the night, though."
The woman looked down at the slack, hollowing body of the man on the bed and smirked. Without another word, her form destabilized, melting back into that shimmering, mercurial slime. It flowed across the floor like a predatory tide, surging up the side of the bed and pouring itself back into the man's mouth and nostrils.
His body jerked once, back arching, before settling into that same uncanny, feminine grace. He stood up, stretching the man's limbs as if testing the tension of a puppet's strings. With practiced ease, the hopper began dressed the host body in the discarded clothes.
"Listen close," the man said, his voice back into that deep, gritty baritone that belonged to the man Lena met earlier. He looked back at Lena while buttoning the shirt. "You’re going to feel like shit for the next week. Fever, nausea, the works. Your body is rewiring itself. When the sweat breaks and you feel like you could leap out of your own skin... that’s because you can."
"Mandarin is just a place for hunting. My real playground is downtown," he added, the male voice speaking but with a wink and a distinctly feminine tilt of the head that felt entirely out of place on the rugged frame. "Every Friday night, look for a place called 'The Rainbow’s End' in the District. It’s a bit more... comfortable. Don't worry about what I'll look like. You're a hopper now. You'll know how to find me."
***
The week had been a blur of cold sweats and a terrifying sensation that her bones were turning into warm wax. Lena had spent three days huddled under her duvet, her skin feeling too tight, her muscles twitching with phantom impulses. But by Thursday, the fever had broken, replaced by an itchy, restless energy that made her apartment feel like a cage.
She couldn't stay away. The mystery was a hook in her jaw, pulling her toward the neon-dimmed corners of The Rainbow’s End.
The District was a stark contrast to the gleaming glass of the Heights. Grime-slicked pavement reflected flickering neon shamrocks, and the air smelled perpetually of spilled stout and damp sawdust. The Rainbow’s End was a dive that had settled into a comfortable, decadent rot. The brass rails were tarnished and the velvet booths were cracked, but in the amber gloom, it still held a ghost of elegance.
Lena sat on a worn wooden stool at the bar—a massive slab of mahogany that felt sticky beneath her palms. Her eyes darted frantically from face to face. She scanned the room with a growing sense of paranoia. Was it the regular in the grease-stained jacket? Or the woman in the faded dress laughing too loudly near the jukebox? Lena watched the way people breathed, looking for any sign of a hopper behind the eyes… if they had the misterious woman’s face.
She felt a strange, nagging pressure behind her eyes, a sort of sixth sense that kept pinging whenever someone brushed past her. It was like a low-frequency hum vibrating in the marrow of her bones, a static charge that spiked when she locked eyes with a stranger. But every time she thought she’d found a "weirdness," the person would simply turn away, leaving her with nothing but her own trembling hands.
"Whiskey ginger," Lena muttered to the bartender without looking up, her voice sounding thin and alien to her own ears. "Heavy on the whiskey."
She stared at the scarred surface of the bar, her mind stuck on a loop. She felt a sudden, sharp spike of that internal hum—a resonance so strong it made her teeth ache. A cold, condensation-beaded glass slid into her field of vision, guided by a hand that moved with a familiar, uncanny grace.
"On the house," a voice chirped. It was clear, melodic, and vibrated with that same frequency Lena now recognized as the sound of her own soul. "For the survivor."
Lena looked up, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The face was unmistakable—those high cheekbones and the mischievous, luminous eyes. But here, in the gloom of the dive, she was wearing a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans, her hair tied back in a messy bun. A name tag pinned to her shirt read: CAMMY.
Cammy leaned over the bar, her elbows resting on the mahogany, her face inches from Lena's. She wore a devilish, wide-eyed smile. "Thought you’d never recognize me," she whispered, her voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial tone. "You look better. Less... melting."
Lena gripped the glass so hard her knuckles turned white. "You're... you're a bartender? After everything you said, you just serve drinks here?"
Cammy chuckled, "Honey, being a hopper is expensive. You need a paper trail, a social security number that doesn't trigger red flags, and a place where people are too loaded to notice when you melt into a puddle to hop a body. Plus, the crowd at a place like Rainbow’s End is way easier to manage. No stuck-up elite types asking questions."
She winked, and for a split second, Lena saw it—a flash of silver mercury swirling in the depths of Cammy's pupils.
***
"Drink up," Cammy said, nodding toward the glass. "We have a lot to talk about, and you’re going to need the liquid courage. Your first hop is always the messiest, and trust me, you’re already vibrating. If you don’t learn how to steer it, you’re going to end up accidentally wearing your neighbor by morning."
She raised a finger, signaling to a burly bartender across the way—a man with a shaved head and a tattooed neck who was monitoring the taps. He caught her eye and gave a single, slow nod. Cammy turned back to Lena. "Mitch owes me for covering his shift last Halloween. He'll close up for me. Means I can give you my full attention tonight. Consider yourself lucky, babe."
***
Cammy leaned in closer, her voice dropping. "We’re a glitch in the system, Lena. Especially us. Most hoppers are born into male biology—it’s just how the parasite stabilizes. A female-born hopper is like finding a white crow. You're rare, you're strong, and you're going to be very, very hungry."
She explained The Hunger. It wasn't about food; it was about the static. If Lena stayed in her own skin too long, her nerves would start to fray, feeling like live wires buzzing under her flesh. But the trap was The Drown. If she stayed in a host for too long, she’d lose the thread of her own soul, eventually becoming the person she was wearing—forgetting she ever had the power to leave.
Cammy's eyes scanned the room, finally settling on a man at the far end of the bar, sitting near a flickering neon sign. He was nursing a beer, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He’d just been ignored by a group of girls near the dartboard—the third, or maybe fourth time Cammy had watched him get shot down tonight. He was a magnet for rejection.
"That’s Kevin," Cammy murmured. "Perfect practice dummy. Desperate, lonely, and his aura is practically screaming 'please use me.' Let's go."
She slid off her stool, and Lena, heart hammering, followed. They approached Kevin just as he was sighing into his drink.
"Rough night, sugar?" Cammy asked, her voice bright and false.
Kevin looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of two women addressing him. He straightened, trying to look suave and failing miserably. "Uh. Yeah. I mean, no. It's fine. Just... you know. The scene."
"The scene," Cammy repeated, dripping with mock sympathy. "It's brutal. But you look like a guy who knows how to show a girl a good time. Two girls, even."
Kevin's mouth opened, then closed. He looked from Cammy's amused smirk to Lena's tense, wide-eyed expression. "I... I do?"
"Straight up," Cammy said, her tone turning impositive. "Here's the deal. My friend and I are bored. We want some real fun. Private fun. You look like you could use a story to tell your grandkids. So here’s the play: you want to fuck us both, or not? If you do, take us to your place. Right now. No more talking here."
Kevin blinked, his brain visibly short-circuiting. He stammered, "Both? I mean, are you... is this a joke?" He glanced nervously toward the exit.
Cammy sighed, a sound of profound impatience. "Look at her," she said, jerking a thumb at Lena. "Does she look like she's joking? Look at me. I'm a bartender. I don't have time for games. It's a yes or no question. Your place. Now. Or we find someone who doesn't need a map and a consent form to get laid."
A war played out on Kevin's face—incredulity, suspicion, and a desperate, hungry hope. The hunger won. He swallowed hard, nodded too many times, and fumbled for his wallet to throw some crumpled bills on the bar. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah. My place is just a few blocks away. It's... it's not much."
"Perfect," Cammy said, her smile sharp. She linked her arm through Lena's, pulling her along as Kevin led the way out of The Rainbow’s End, walking with the stiff, disbelieving gait of a man who thought he’d won a lottery he hadn't even bought a ticket for.
Back at his cramped, messy apartment, the "wild night" he expected never began.
Cammy moved with terrifying fluidity. She reached for the hem of her t-shirt, but her hands were already trembling with that familiar, violent vibration. Leading Kevin toward the sagging sofa, she pushed him down into the cushions, making sure he was braced against the armrest. As her skin began to shimmer with a metallic sheen, she didn't just step out of her clothes; her body simply collapsed into itself. The shirt and jeans fluttered to the floor in a heap, empty of substance, as the silver mercury flooded out from the neck and waist. The liquid mass surged across the floor before leaping upward into Kevin's throat. His eyes rolled back, then settled into a dull, glazed stare. A moment later, the slime poured back out of him, before coalescing back into the solid, beautiful form of a naked Cammy.
Kevin didn't fall. He remained slumped safely against the back of the sofa, his body jerking slightly from the residual shock of the exit before settling into The Torpor—the mental fog that follows a possession.
"He’ve wide open," Cammy whispered, her eyes fixed on Lena. "Focus on the base of your spine. Feel the heat there. Don't think about 'moving'—think about flowing."
Lena felt a sickening, wonderful lurch. Mimicking Cammy's practiced rhythm, her skin felt like it was unzipping, a violent heat radiating from her core. As she exhaled, her body lost its structural integrity, slumping downward as if the bones had vanished. Her clothes—jeans, t-shirt, and lace—collapsed into a discarded pile on the carpet. Out of the neck of her shirt, her consciousness poured forth as a thick, viscous liquid. It wasn't silver like Cammy's; it was a deep, iridescent metallic green, shimmering like the wing of a beetle. She watched, detached from her own horror, as her true form pooled on the floor before surging toward the warmth of Kevin's skin.
She poured upward. Entering him felt like sliding into a warm, wet glove.
Suddenly, she was six feet tall. Her center of gravity shifted. She felt the heavy, unfamiliar weight between her legs—the physical reality of being male. With a shaky, curious hand, Lena guided Kevin’s arm downward, her fingers slithering between his legs. Her breath caught in the host's throat as she gripped the thick, dormant meat. It felt massive in her palm, a solid, heavy presence that seemed to define the entire center of her new perspective. She explored the texture, the heat, and the surprising sensitivity of the two heavy meat spheres tucked below it.
He’s large, she thought, her internal voice a frantic whisper. This wasn't a grower; Kevin was a shower, carrying a quiet, impressive weight even in his stupor.
Cammy watched from the center of the room, a hand on her hip and a smirk playing on her lips. "Straight to the goods?" she teased. "So, tell me... how does it feel having one on you for once, instead of just inside you?"
Lena tried to respond, but the sound that tore from her throat was a jagged, gravelly baritone. "It's... it's heavy," she blurted out, her eyes widening.
The sound of Kevin's voice—rough, deep, and utterly masculine—sent a jolt of confusion through her mind. "What the fuck?" she barked, the coarse voice echoing in the small room. "God dammit, why do I sound like a sailor?"
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to find the "vibration" Cammy had mentioned. She felt a phantom tension in her chest, a different way to push the air. "Wait... like this?" she tried again. This time, the voice was hers—soft, breathy, and undeniably feminine—spilling out of Kevin's stubbled lips.
She let out a soft, delighted giggle that vibrated through Kevin's broad chest. Then, she plunged the pitch back down, letting out a deep, booming "HO HO HO" in the host's natural bass. She was like a giddy kid with a brand new, impossible toy, chirping out high-pitched bird calls then plunging into a gravelly, low growl, her shoulders shaking with the novelty of it.
Cammy's hand shot out, grabbing the mount's muscular forearm with a sharp, anchoring squeeze. "You can do that another day, newbie," she hissed, her eyes flashing with a stern reprimand. "Focus. Don't waste my time on cheap tricks. Explore his mind. Learn the terrain before you try to drive the car."
Lena pushed deeper, probing his mind. Memories flashed like strobe lights: a childhood dog, the smell of a burnt dinner, the crushing loneliness of his commute. It was intoxicating.
***
Lena walked the heavy, clumsy body to the bathroom. She looked into the glass. There was no trace of Kevin's dull, average features. Staring back at her from the mirror was her own face—pale, wide-eyed, and undeniably feminine—fixed perfectly atop Kevin's broad, masculine shoulders. The glass refused to acknowledge the mount; it saw only the pilot.
"The mirror doesn't lie," Cammy said, appearing in the doorway. Her beautiful face watched Lena with a sharp, knowing intensity. "To the world, you’re Kevin. To a mirror, and to me, you’re always Lena. Never forget that. And if you start seeing his face in the mirror instead of yours... jump out immediately. Or you're gone forever."
Lena flexed Kevin's hands, watching her own ghostly fingers move in sync in the reflection. The power was addictive. She felt the "static" in her mind go silent, replaced by the thrumming heartbeat of a body that wasn't hers.
***
The bathroom was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. Lena, wrapped in the heavy, unfamiliar musculature of Kevin, felt a surge of electricity that had nothing to do with her own nerves.
Cammy stood before her, already completely naked, her lithe body glowing softly in the dim light. She walked over, her eyes locked on Lena's—or rather, the Lena staring through Kevin's pupils. She reached down, her hands steady as she helped Lena disrobe Kevin's frame, discarding his jeans and boxers until the pilot was as exposed as she was.
"Let's not waste the night," Cammy whispered, her voice a sultry hum. She reached out, her fingers wrapping tight and firm around the thick, heavy length between Kevin's legs. Lena gasped through Kevin's throat as Cammy began to pull, leading her toward the bedroom. "You really should feel special, you know," Cammy added, her eyes flashing with a rare softness. "I almost never use my own skin for this. It's usually much cleaner to just... stay in the mounts. But for a sister? For you? I wanted you to feel me."
Lena found herself letting out a dry, masculine chuckle, a sound that felt amusingly strange coming from a body she barely knew. "Special?" she whispered back, watching the way the light hit Cammy's curves with an intensity that made her vision swim. "You're gorgeous, Cammy. Seriously. You're fucking insane. I’m pretty sure you could have anyone you wanted just by walking into a room. The fact that you're choosing to be 'you' with 'me'... yeah, I guess I do feel special."
As the words left her mouth, Lena's genuine awe at Cammy’s beauty seemed to ignite a short-circuit in Kevin’s nerves. The mount's body responded with a primal, unchecked autonomy. Under the pressure of Cammy's grip, Lena felt a sudden, hot rush of blood—a pressurized weight that was entirely new. It wasn't just a physical sensation; the acknowledgment of her own attraction triggered an astonishing, sudden erection that throbbed against Cammy's palm with a life of its own.
Lena had noticed he was already impressive while flaccid, but now, the transformation was staggering. Kevin’s anatomy wasn't just growing; it was expanding into a veritable behemoth, the skin stretching taut and pulsing with a frantic, rhythmic heat.
Cammy promptly noticed the surge beneath her palm, her fingers struggling to fully encircle the thickening girth. She squeezed, her thumb tracing the crown of the host’s arousal as it jumped toward the ceiling, her eyes alight with a mix of hunger and wicked amusement. "Oh," she purred, feeling the heavy, insistent pulse. "She’s a fast learner. And look at that... we certainly caught ourselves a big one for your first night, didn't we? He was hiding a monster under those cheap jeans."
Lena's mind whirled, the sheer scale of the tool she now wielded making her feel powerful and small all at once. Using Kevin's raspy, unfamiliar voice, she stuttered out, "God, I'm sorry, I just... everything is so much. I can't look away from you. You're so beautiful, it’s actually kind of terrifying." She felt a flush of heat that wasn't just biological; it was the intoxicating rush of the connection. "I don't even know where my head is at—if this is me wanting you or if Kevin's just losing it, but you look so hot it’s making my skin crawl in the best way."
Cammy stepped even closer, her naked chest brushing against Kevin’s hairy pectorals. She looked down at the massive, twitching length between them and then back up at Lena’s eyes. "Don't apologize for his hunger, babe. Use it. That’s the beauty of the hop, Lena. You don't have to choose. His hunger is your fuel now."
Cammy laughed, a low, melodic sound that vibrated in the air between them. "I want you to take that meat pole and stir my insides until I can't remember my own name. Poke my womb, go further if you can—I want to feel every inch of that behemoth stretching me out."
***
Cammy was a master of the craft. She guided Lena—through Kevin’s meat suit—into a night of a raw and feral education. They started on the bed, Cammy taking the lead by straddling Lena's hips.
As Cammy lowered herself, the process was slow and deliberate. Lena watched, mesmerized through the host's eyes, as Cammy’s breath hitched, her eyes rolling back in a mix of shock and pure ecstasy. The sheer girth of Kevin's anatomy was a daunting challenge, and Cammy took her time, gasping as she adjusted to the massive intrusion. As she finally settled flush against Lena, a distinct, rounded bulge appeared on her lower abdomen, the host's heavy man-meat distending her lithe form from within. Cammy let out a long, ragged moan, a triumphant smile breaking across her face. "God... this is perfect," she whispered, her hands clawing at Lena's shoulders.
For Lena, the sensation was a complete sensory overload. She was losing her male virginity in the most literal sense, feeling the tight, wet heat of Cammy's body clamping down on her through Kevin's hyper-sensitized nerves. She could feel the intricate landscape of Cammy's insides—the way her muscles pulse and took the shape of the meat she was now piloting. It felt like she was pumping her own essence directly into Cammy's core, the connection bypassing the physical and anchoring her soul to the pleasure.
Lena found it absolutely fascinating that their two distinct lives were currently joined by this single, throbbing male appendage. It was a bridge of flesh and blood, a conduit for a power she was only beginning to understand. Cammy didn't just sit there; she began to expertly circle her body, her hips rotating in a slow, grinding friction that drove a dual-edged pleasure into both of them. Lena could feel Cammy’s internal heat swirling around the shaft, the suction so intense it felt like it was drawing her very soul forward.
Then, they found the rhythm. It started as a slow, synchronized pulse—Cammy lowering herself with a deliberate, hungry weight, while Lena thrust upward with the raw, reflexive power of the host’s quads. Soon, the pace accelerated into a frantic, driving marathon. Every time their bodies collided, a heavy, wet slap echoed through the room—the primitive sound of meat hitting meat. The impact was visceral, a percussive punctuation to their shared gasps.
After a few minutes of this intense collision, Lena felt the pressure in Kevin’s loins reach a critical mass. The orgasm was no longer a possibility; it was an oncoming storm, a surge that threatened to incinerate her control. "Cammy," she choked out through Kevin's gravelly voice, "I'm... I'm close. I can't hold him back much longer."
Cammy’s eyes snapped open, a predatory glint in their depths. Without a word, she suddenly surged upward, disengaging from Lena's huge dick with an audible, wet slurp sound that made Lena's head spin. The sudden loss of contact was a shock to the system, leaving the host's anatomy twitching and exposed in the cool air.
"Don't get too comfortable on your back," Cammy hissed, her chest heaving as she rolled off the bed, pulling Lena with her until they hit the soft rug on the floor. "Get behind me," she commanded, her eyes dark with a primal intent. "Now. Doggy style. I want to feel that monster hit the back of my throat from the other side."
She dropped onto her hands and knees on the floor, her back arched, her hair cascading over her shoulders. Lena felt the blood rush to Kevin's face as she moved behind Cammy, gripping her hips from behind. Cammy reached back, her hand finding the host's hair and pulling his head down with a sharp, aggressive yank. "Drive," she ordered. Lena moved Kevin into a deep, rhythmic doggy-style stance, feeling the power in the mount's quads and the raw, rhythmic thud of his hips hitting Cammy's. The aggression from Cammy was intoxicating; she wasn't just receiving, she was demanding, her breath coming in sharp, shallow hitches as she took every inch Lena offered.
"You're learning," Cammy gasped, feeling the shift in the mount's performance. "You're actually... holding it."
But that admission seemed to trigger a new level of challenge from Cammy. "Enough of that," she groaned, her voice thick with a molten desire. Before Lena could celebrate her control, Cammy flipped over onto her back, pulling Lena down until she was straddling the host's lap in a punishingly intimate cowgirl position. Cammy's fingers dug into the host’s shoulders, her nails leaving red marks that Lena felt as a dull, pleasant stinging. She took control of the pace, her hips moving in a brutal, deep grind that made the host's lungs burn.
"Be a man, Lena!" Cammy commanded, her head lolling back as she rode the massive length. "Take what you want! Squeeze my tits! Make me feel your hands!"
Lena leaned forward, Kevin's thick, calloused fingers sinking into Cammy’s soft, pale breasts. She squeezed with a strength that was terrifying and exhilarating, the tactile contrast of the host's rough skin against Cammy's silkiness vibrating through her iridescent green core. Lena found herself leaning closer, her breath hot against Cammy's neck. Up close, the "weirdness" was gone, replaced by a magnetic beauty that made Lena's own heart thud with an urgent, irrational desire.
She wanted to kiss her. It was weird; so far, this had been an exercise in male anatomy, some perverted kind of clinical exploration of a stolen machine. She could justify the arousal as biological resonance, she could tell herself she was still hetero and just playing along Kevin’s body. But as she pressed her lips against Cammy’s, the justification died. Cammy reciprocated with a fierce, possessive hunger, her tongue tangling with Lena’s in a way that felt like soul touching soul. In that kiss, Lena felt a line blur and snap. This wasn't just roleplay. This was a recognition that transcended the stolen meat.
As the pressure built to an impossible peak, Lena felt a sensation that was entirely alien—the feeling of Cammy's internal muscles clamping down, a rhythmic, powerful suction that seemed to be physically pulling the essence out of the mount's body. It was like being sucked dry, a vacuum of pleasure that bypassed the physical and hit Lena's very core.
The first shot of cum hit Cammy like a physical blow, a hot, pressurized jet that made the hopper gasp. Lena felt it leave her—a rhythmic, violent pulse of Kevin's vitality. The second shot followed instantly, a heavy cord of heat that made Kevin’s entire frame arch in a silent scream. By the third pulse, Lena felt hollowed out, her green consciousness vibrating in sync with the rhythmic spasms of the host’s balls. The fourth and fifth shots were desperate, deep tremors, emptying Kevin’s reservoir into Cammy's waiting womb until his heart felt like it was trying to leap through his ribs.
But that was just the beginning of the night.
As the first release settled, the wanting didn't fade—it mutated. Cammy didn't let Lena rest. She forced her to keep Kevin's body active, pushing the host through a grueling marathon of exploration. They moved from the floor back to the bed, then to the shower, where the spray of hot water mingled with their sweat. Cammy was relentless, demanding different angles, forcing Lena to discover the precise tilt of the pelvis that triggered the most intense neural spikes.
***
By the time the sun began to bleed through the curtains, the "static" in Lena's mind had been replaced by a deep, satisfied hum. She knew this body now. She knew its triggers, its limits, and its hidden joys.
As the room brightened, Cammy stood up, entirely unfazed by the night's exertion. Kevin's body lay on the sofa, panting and exhausted, Lena still anchored behind his eyes.
Lena felt a sudden, sharp pang of vulnerability. Using Kevin's deep, tired voice, she whispered, "Cammy... I need to say something. About the night. How I felt."
Cammy arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "Oh? Let me guess. You're in love with me now? The newbie falls for her mentor after one wild ride?"
"Shut up, Cammy," Lena snapped, the baritone voice sounding surprisingly firm. "I'm serious. For my entire life, I've never touched a girl beyond some light fun in a high school locker room. I've never had an intense desire for a woman’s body before. Not like this. Watching you, touching you... it felt more real than anything I've done with a guy." She paused, Kevin’s chest hitching. "Am I lesbian? Is that what this is?"
Cammy’s expression softened, but the devilish glint remained. She stepped closer, striking a pose that emphasized the long, elegant curves of her body, her hands resting on her hips as she tilted her head. "Don't be so wary, newbie," she purred, her voice a soothing, magnetic melody. "You're in a new world now. A world where the rules of that dull, monotonous reality you lived in simply don't apply. You weren't just Lena tonight. You were Kevin. You had his testosterone, his desires, and you played along beautifully."
She flitted a hand toward her own chest, then traced the line of her waist with a slow, deliberate finger. "If we're being strictly factual, you were having a night of love with this," she said, winking. "And Kevin sure as hell liked this. You felt his hunger, but you steered it with your own heart. Don't try to label it yet. Just feel the power of the blur."
She straightened up, the playful moment ending as her tone turned professional. "But enough of the existential crisis. We have work to do."
"Last lesson for the morning," Cammy said, wiping a stray hair from her forehead. She knelt by the sofa, looking into Lena's (Kevin's) eyes. "The exit. You can't just jump and leave a mess. You have to handle his head, or the body-shock will break him."
Cammy raised three fingers. "Option one: The Fast Exit. You just jump. It’s the default, it’s instant, but it’s cruel. He’ll wake up with the absolute truth—vivid memories of every touch, but with the haunting realization that his body was moving on its own. He’ll think he’s a passenger in his own skin, Lena. That leads to a psych ward and a life of trauma."
She folded one finger. "Option two: The Wipe. You reach into his short-term buffer and just... delete it. It's faster than the final option, but it’s messy. He’ll wake up on the floor with no clothes and no memory of how he got there. It breeds a deep, localized paranoia. He’ll spend the rest of his life wondering if he’s a somnambulist, a blackout drunk or if he were drugged."
She held up her last finger. "Option three: The Weave. This is the art, newbie. It takes time and effort. You take the real memories and you edit them. You make him believe that every touch, every moan, was his idea. You replace our faces with ghosts of his desires. You give him a dream he’ll treasure for the rest of his life, even if it’s a total, convenient lie. It keeps him sane, and it keeps us invisible."
Cammy showed her how to reach into the "wetware" of Kevin's brain. Lena felt the memories of the night—the real, gritty details—and began to soften them. Under Cammy's guidance, she blurred the edges, weaving in the phantom image of herself and Cammy as two willing participants in a legendary threesome. She planted the seed of "free will," making Kevin's subconscious believe he had been the architect of the entire encounter.
While Lena worked on Kevin's mind, Cammy began to dress with a languid, practiced ease. Lena watched her through Kevin's heavy eyelids, a strange, lingering heat still simmering in her gut. As Cammy pulled on her lace undergarments and adjusted her black shirt, Lena found herself admiring the elegant line of her spine, the way her muscles move beneath her skin. It wasn't the frantic, burning passion of an hour ago; it was a more quiet, aesthetic appreciation. She realized with a start that some of Kevin's base desire was still blurring into her own thoughts—a residual stain of his biology that made her linger on the curve of Cammy's hip longer than she should have.
"Stop staring, Kevin," Cammy teased, though she didn't look back. She knew exactly what Lena was feeling. "Or should I say… stop letting him stare. Tidy up your own house before you leave his."
Lena flushed, a wave of heat passing through the mount's exhausted body. She forced herself to focus, pulling the last threads of the night together into a coherent, pleasant blur in Kevin's memory.
With a shove, Lena pulled herself out.
The metallic green slime slithered out of Kevin's mouth, pooling on the floor before rising back into Lena's own soft, aching female form. She stood up, feeling light—almost dangerously so—while Kevin remained in a deep, peaceful Torpor on the sofa, a faint, stupid grin plastered on his face.
"He’ll wake up feeling like a god," Cammy said, heading for the door. "And we’ll be long gone. Dress up and let's bounce, newbie. You've got a lot to process before next Friday."
---
Hi, author here. o/
I tried to condense the Hopper lore to make the tutoring of a 'newly minted' Hopper feel more believable. I also saw an opportunity to explore a facet of the Hopper world that I feel is somewhat neglected: the rare female Hopper. I hope no one is offended by this story, and I’m open to suggestions on where the plot should go next!
A glitchy holographic rain poured down the facade of "Mandarin," a digital drizzle that shimmered over the sleek obsidian and glass of the Heights. The bar sat in the most exclusive pocket of the city, where holographic cherry blossoms drifted slowly from a ceiling that mimicked a midnight sky over Neo-Tokyo. Slender glass pillars filled with bubbling blue bioluminescence acted as room dividers, and the air smelled of expensive sandalwood and filtered ozone. It was a place for people who wanted to be seen—a high-end sanctuary for the elite.
She didn’t usually go for the insistent types, but there was something hypnotic about the stranger at the end of the bar. He had the kind of face that seemed painted by an artist who couldn't decide on a subject: sharp, masculine bone structure softened by unnervingly delicate, feminine features. High cheekbones, a rose-bud pout, and eyes too large and luminous for a man of his build.
"You're staring," he said. His voice was a rich, vibrating baritone that seemed to hum right through the obsidian of the bar.
Lena didn't look away; she couldn't. "You're weird-looking," she replied, trying to sound bored, but her heart gave a traitorous thud.
He didn't take offense. Instead, he turned his stool fully toward her, a slow, predatory grace in his movements. "Weird is just a lack of imagination, Lena."
She bristled. "How do you know my name?"
"The bartender called it out three minutes ago when he brought your drink. You didn't notice because you were too busy trying to decide if I was a dream or a warning." He leaned in, the scent of expensive tobacco and something else—like the air before a storm—enveloping her. "I'm a bit of both. But trust me, babe, the warning is way more fun than the dream."
He smiled, and it was devastating—a flash of perfect teeth and a crinkle at the corners of those haunting eyes that made her feel suddenly, dangerously exposed. "Give me a chance to show you I’m the good kind of weird. The kind you don't just look at, but the kind you want to remember."
Two hours later, the "weirdness" had followed her home.
***
The air in Lena's apartment felt suddenly, impossibly heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by lead. They were on the brink of a shared, explosive climax, the room thick with the heat of their exertion. The man was deep inside her, his body tensing with the unmistakable, jagged rhythm of a man about to come, while Lena herself was drowning in the white-hot rush of her own nearing orgasm.
With a final, desperate grunt, the man buckled, his body slamming against hers as he came. Lena felt the hot, rhythmic pulse of his release deep inside her, but the heat was instantly followed by a sensation so wrong it made her skin crawl. It wasn't just semen; it felt like a surge of liquid ice, a freezing, invasive presence that began to writhe within her.
Before she could even gasp, the man beneath her began to vibrate with a violent, bone-deep frequency. The pleasure didn't just break; it died. Lena scrambled back with a frantic, animal desperation, her body slick with sweat and the cooling, viscous mess of their encounter. As she tore herself away, she felt a thick, silver-streaked fluid leak from her, a defiling stain that seemed to pulse on her thighs—yet it remained tethered to the man, connected by a glistening, umbilical thread of mercury that pulsed with a life of its own.
In the dim, sickly light of the streetlamp, the stranger's face began to buckle in a terrifying, silent collapse. The delicate, feminine features were vanishing as a viscous, mercury-tinted substance began to weep from his pores. Even as the jaw widened and the skin grew coarse with a beard, the silver was already pouring from his parting lips in a thick, soundless stream, the various pools and the thread inside Lena all drawing back toward the central, shivering mass.
Lena retreated into the small space between the bed and the wall, her naked back pressing against the cold plaster. She watched, paralyzed by a sense of absolute violation, as the silver streaks on her own skin began to move. The portion of the jizz that had carried the metallic infection didn't just sit there; it wriggled with a parasitic intent, trying to find purchase inside her, seeking a way to burrow deeper into her womb.
But it couldn't find a way in.
The silver fluid began to retreat from her body, sliding out of her like a rejected organ, joining the larger mass that was now abandoning the man. The threads of silver slime stretched and snapped mid-air, drawn together by an unseen magnetic hunger. They coalesced rapidly on the mattress, bloating into a translucent, gelatinous mass that shivered with a sickly, bioluminescent inner light.
Lena couldn't move. She could only watch, feeling hollowed out and defiled, as the thing that had just been inside her pulsed with a frustrated, thrumming vibration before scurrying back toward the limp body on the bed.
The creature vanished back into the man's mouth; as the mass disappeared into his throat, his rugged jawline CLIFF once more and those familiar, delicate feminine traces flooded back into his face.
Lena remained pressed against the wall, trembling so violently the headboard rattled. Time had seemingly fractured. In the heat of that terrifying moment, it felt as though hours had bled away while she watched the silver mass writhe and hunger for her; she had counted the pulses of the bioluminescent light as if they were slow, tolling bells. But as her eyes flicked to the digital clock on the bedside table, the red numbers showed that only a few seconds had actually passed. The man opened his eyes. He didn't look at her; he looked at the ceiling.
"Which face are you seeing right now?" he asked. His voice was a steady. "A bearded one? Chiseled? Sharp edges? Maybe a slightly broken nose?"
Lena's breath came in ragged hitches. "It... it was like that. Just for a moment. But not anymore. Now you’re back to..." She shook her head, her voice trembling. "Who are you? What are you?"
The man began to laugh. It started as that same baritone, but halfway through, the pitch slid upward, settling into a clear, mocking, and unmistakably feminine soprano.
"Well, well, well," the man said, though the voice was all woman. He sat up, the movement fluid and graceful in a way the man hadn't been earlier. "Just my luck. A newbie. And a chick, nonetheless."
He turned his head to look at Lena, a wicked glint in those large eyes.
"Welcome to the body hopper world, sister. We just fucked, so I guess I officially popped your hopper cherry."
Lena stared, her mind refusing to compute. "What are you talking about?"
"You're one of us," the voice with that undeniable feminine lilt said. "Dormant. Like a seed waiting for the right... stimulus. I tried to move into your house, but the doors were already locked. Hoppers can’t be hopped by other hoppers—the lease on the soul is already signed. But awakening a dormant? That takes a special kind of intrusion."
The man leaned forward, his massive, hairy chest contrasting sharply with the delicate, breathy voice spilling from his lips. "You were just a pretty little cage with the lock rusted shut. But when I pushed this man's cock deep inside you, I wasn't just giving you his heat. I was flooding you with my essence. Usually, I'd feel your dormant core shiver the second the load hit—it's a distinct resonance, like a bell ringing in a vacuum. But honestly? Kudos, girl. You fucked me good. I was so caught up in your response that I completely lost my way. I didn't even notice the fire starting until I tried to jump in and hit the wall. It’s not every day someone makes me lose my focus like that."
Lena's eyes darted from his hairy shoulders to the delicate pout of his lips. "Why... why are you talking like that? Why did your voice change?"
The man grinned, the expression hauntingly feminine on his face. "Think of it as an instrument, honey." To demonstrate, his voice suddenly plunged back into a coarse, gravelly baritone—the man's natural sound. "One moment, I'm wearing the meat like a heavy coat," he growled, the vibration of the chest cavity making the air around him thrum. Then, with a playful glint in his eyes, the pitch glided back up into that airy, melodic soprano. "And the next, I'm the one playing the keys. A hopper can choose to wear the host’s voice, or let their own vibrate through the vocal cords. It’s a basic skill—tuning the meat to play our own melody."
Lena's jaw dropped as the implication finally sank in, her mind reeling from the violation and the absurdity. "Wait... SO YOU ARE A GIRL?"
The man’s body stood up, but the movements were wrong—too light, too daintily feminine for the frame. He tilted his heavy head, a delicate, coy smile stretching the stubbled lips. "In the flesh, honey," the airy female voice spilled out. The man let out a sharp, tinkling laugh that sounded physically impossible coming from his chest. "Or, more accurately... inside his flesh?"
"This isn't real," Lena stammered, clutching the sheet to her chest, her eyes wide with terror. "Everything you’re saying... it’s crazy. It doesn't make any sense. People don't just... melt and live inside other people. You’re a freak, or I’m drugged, or—"
The man let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of someone dealing with a particularly slow child. "Arguments are so tedious when a demonstration is much more effective. Some people need to touch the stove to believe it's hot." He looked down at the hairy, muscular hands of the host. "Fine. Visual aids, then."
The shuddering began again. The man’s body collapsed like an empty suit of clothes as the silver slime poured out once more. This time, it didn't lunge. It pooled on the hardwood floor, rising and knitting itself together. Within seconds, the gelatinous mass solidified into the form of a woman. She was lithe, beautiful, with the exact same 'weirdly feminine' face Lena had seen on the man.
***
"I wanted to fuck you, then take you," the woman said, her voice now perfectly matching her body. "I love the hop, the rush of shifting into a new skin. There’s nothing like the high of hopping from body to body until I can taste every sensation—until I can feel the climax of the man and the woman at the exact same time. But finding a sister in the wild? Ahh, that’s a rare vintage. It puts a bit of a damper on my plans for the night, though."
The woman looked down at the slack, hollowing body of the man on the bed and smirked. Without another word, her form destabilized, melting back into that shimmering, mercurial slime. It flowed across the floor like a predatory tide, surging up the side of the bed and pouring itself back into the man's mouth and nostrils.
His body jerked once, back arching, before settling into that same uncanny, feminine grace. He stood up, stretching the man's limbs as if testing the tension of a puppet's strings. With practiced ease, the hopper began dressed the host body in the discarded clothes.
"Listen close," the man said, his voice back into that deep, gritty baritone that belonged to the man Lena met earlier. He looked back at Lena while buttoning the shirt. "You’re going to feel like shit for the next week. Fever, nausea, the works. Your body is rewiring itself. When the sweat breaks and you feel like you could leap out of your own skin... that’s because you can."
"Mandarin is just a place for hunting. My real playground is downtown," he added, the male voice speaking but with a wink and a distinctly feminine tilt of the head that felt entirely out of place on the rugged frame. "Every Friday night, look for a place called 'The Rainbow’s End' in the District. It’s a bit more... comfortable. Don't worry about what I'll look like. You're a hopper now. You'll know how to find me."
***
The week had been a blur of cold sweats and a terrifying sensation that her bones were turning into warm wax. Lena had spent three days huddled under her duvet, her skin feeling too tight, her muscles twitching with phantom impulses. But by Thursday, the fever had broken, replaced by an itchy, restless energy that made her apartment feel like a cage.
She couldn't stay away. The mystery was a hook in her jaw, pulling her toward the neon-dimmed corners of The Rainbow’s End.
The District was a stark contrast to the gleaming glass of the Heights. Grime-slicked pavement reflected flickering neon shamrocks, and the air smelled perpetually of spilled stout and damp sawdust. The Rainbow’s End was a dive that had settled into a comfortable, decadent rot. The brass rails were tarnished and the velvet booths were cracked, but in the amber gloom, it still held a ghost of elegance.
Lena sat on a worn wooden stool at the bar—a massive slab of mahogany that felt sticky beneath her palms. Her eyes darted frantically from face to face. She scanned the room with a growing sense of paranoia. Was it the regular in the grease-stained jacket? Or the woman in the faded dress laughing too loudly near the jukebox? Lena watched the way people breathed, looking for any sign of a hopper behind the eyes… if they had the misterious woman’s face.
She felt a strange, nagging pressure behind her eyes, a sort of sixth sense that kept pinging whenever someone brushed past her. It was like a low-frequency hum vibrating in the marrow of her bones, a static charge that spiked when she locked eyes with a stranger. But every time she thought she’d found a "weirdness," the person would simply turn away, leaving her with nothing but her own trembling hands.
"Whiskey ginger," Lena muttered to the bartender without looking up, her voice sounding thin and alien to her own ears. "Heavy on the whiskey."
She stared at the scarred surface of the bar, her mind stuck on a loop. She felt a sudden, sharp spike of that internal hum—a resonance so strong it made her teeth ache. A cold, condensation-beaded glass slid into her field of vision, guided by a hand that moved with a familiar, uncanny grace.
"On the house," a voice chirped. It was clear, melodic, and vibrated with that same frequency Lena now recognized as the sound of her own soul. "For the survivor."
Lena looked up, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The face was unmistakable—those high cheekbones and the mischievous, luminous eyes. But here, in the gloom of the dive, she was wearing a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans, her hair tied back in a messy bun. A name tag pinned to her shirt read: CAMMY.
Cammy leaned over the bar, her elbows resting on the mahogany, her face inches from Lena's. She wore a devilish, wide-eyed smile. "Thought you’d never recognize me," she whispered, her voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial tone. "You look better. Less... melting."
Lena gripped the glass so hard her knuckles turned white. "You're... you're a bartender? After everything you said, you just serve drinks here?"
Cammy chuckled, "Honey, being a hopper is expensive. You need a paper trail, a social security number that doesn't trigger red flags, and a place where people are too loaded to notice when you melt into a puddle to hop a body. Plus, the crowd at a place like Rainbow’s End is way easier to manage. No stuck-up elite types asking questions."
She winked, and for a split second, Lena saw it—a flash of silver mercury swirling in the depths of Cammy's pupils.
***
"Drink up," Cammy said, nodding toward the glass. "We have a lot to talk about, and you’re going to need the liquid courage. Your first hop is always the messiest, and trust me, you’re already vibrating. If you don’t learn how to steer it, you’re going to end up accidentally wearing your neighbor by morning."
She raised a finger, signaling to a burly bartender across the way—a man with a shaved head and a tattooed neck who was monitoring the taps. He caught her eye and gave a single, slow nod. Cammy turned back to Lena. "Mitch owes me for covering his shift last Halloween. He'll close up for me. Means I can give you my full attention tonight. Consider yourself lucky, babe."
***
Cammy leaned in closer, her voice dropping. "We’re a glitch in the system, Lena. Especially us. Most hoppers are born into male biology—it’s just how the parasite stabilizes. A female-born hopper is like finding a white crow. You're rare, you're strong, and you're going to be very, very hungry."
She explained The Hunger. It wasn't about food; it was about the static. If Lena stayed in her own skin too long, her nerves would start to fray, feeling like live wires buzzing under her flesh. But the trap was The Drown. If she stayed in a host for too long, she’d lose the thread of her own soul, eventually becoming the person she was wearing—forgetting she ever had the power to leave.
Cammy's eyes scanned the room, finally settling on a man at the far end of the bar, sitting near a flickering neon sign. He was nursing a beer, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He’d just been ignored by a group of girls near the dartboard—the third, or maybe fourth time Cammy had watched him get shot down tonight. He was a magnet for rejection.
"That’s Kevin," Cammy murmured. "Perfect practice dummy. Desperate, lonely, and his aura is practically screaming 'please use me.' Let's go."
She slid off her stool, and Lena, heart hammering, followed. They approached Kevin just as he was sighing into his drink.
"Rough night, sugar?" Cammy asked, her voice bright and false.
Kevin looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of two women addressing him. He straightened, trying to look suave and failing miserably. "Uh. Yeah. I mean, no. It's fine. Just... you know. The scene."
"The scene," Cammy repeated, dripping with mock sympathy. "It's brutal. But you look like a guy who knows how to show a girl a good time. Two girls, even."
Kevin's mouth opened, then closed. He looked from Cammy's amused smirk to Lena's tense, wide-eyed expression. "I... I do?"
"Straight up," Cammy said, her tone turning impositive. "Here's the deal. My friend and I are bored. We want some real fun. Private fun. You look like you could use a story to tell your grandkids. So here’s the play: you want to fuck us both, or not? If you do, take us to your place. Right now. No more talking here."
Kevin blinked, his brain visibly short-circuiting. He stammered, "Both? I mean, are you... is this a joke?" He glanced nervously toward the exit.
Cammy sighed, a sound of profound impatience. "Look at her," she said, jerking a thumb at Lena. "Does she look like she's joking? Look at me. I'm a bartender. I don't have time for games. It's a yes or no question. Your place. Now. Or we find someone who doesn't need a map and a consent form to get laid."
A war played out on Kevin's face—incredulity, suspicion, and a desperate, hungry hope. The hunger won. He swallowed hard, nodded too many times, and fumbled for his wallet to throw some crumpled bills on the bar. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah. My place is just a few blocks away. It's... it's not much."
"Perfect," Cammy said, her smile sharp. She linked her arm through Lena's, pulling her along as Kevin led the way out of The Rainbow’s End, walking with the stiff, disbelieving gait of a man who thought he’d won a lottery he hadn't even bought a ticket for.
Back at his cramped, messy apartment, the "wild night" he expected never began.
Cammy moved with terrifying fluidity. She reached for the hem of her t-shirt, but her hands were already trembling with that familiar, violent vibration. Leading Kevin toward the sagging sofa, she pushed him down into the cushions, making sure he was braced against the armrest. As her skin began to shimmer with a metallic sheen, she didn't just step out of her clothes; her body simply collapsed into itself. The shirt and jeans fluttered to the floor in a heap, empty of substance, as the silver mercury flooded out from the neck and waist. The liquid mass surged across the floor before leaping upward into Kevin's throat. His eyes rolled back, then settled into a dull, glazed stare. A moment later, the slime poured back out of him, before coalescing back into the solid, beautiful form of a naked Cammy.
Kevin didn't fall. He remained slumped safely against the back of the sofa, his body jerking slightly from the residual shock of the exit before settling into The Torpor—the mental fog that follows a possession.
"He’ve wide open," Cammy whispered, her eyes fixed on Lena. "Focus on the base of your spine. Feel the heat there. Don't think about 'moving'—think about flowing."
Lena felt a sickening, wonderful lurch. Mimicking Cammy's practiced rhythm, her skin felt like it was unzipping, a violent heat radiating from her core. As she exhaled, her body lost its structural integrity, slumping downward as if the bones had vanished. Her clothes—jeans, t-shirt, and lace—collapsed into a discarded pile on the carpet. Out of the neck of her shirt, her consciousness poured forth as a thick, viscous liquid. It wasn't silver like Cammy's; it was a deep, iridescent metallic green, shimmering like the wing of a beetle. She watched, detached from her own horror, as her true form pooled on the floor before surging toward the warmth of Kevin's skin.
She poured upward. Entering him felt like sliding into a warm, wet glove.
Suddenly, she was six feet tall. Her center of gravity shifted. She felt the heavy, unfamiliar weight between her legs—the physical reality of being male. With a shaky, curious hand, Lena guided Kevin’s arm downward, her fingers slithering between his legs. Her breath caught in the host's throat as she gripped the thick, dormant meat. It felt massive in her palm, a solid, heavy presence that seemed to define the entire center of her new perspective. She explored the texture, the heat, and the surprising sensitivity of the two heavy meat spheres tucked below it.
He’s large, she thought, her internal voice a frantic whisper. This wasn't a grower; Kevin was a shower, carrying a quiet, impressive weight even in his stupor.
Cammy watched from the center of the room, a hand on her hip and a smirk playing on her lips. "Straight to the goods?" she teased. "So, tell me... how does it feel having one on you for once, instead of just inside you?"
Lena tried to respond, but the sound that tore from her throat was a jagged, gravelly baritone. "It's... it's heavy," she blurted out, her eyes widening.
The sound of Kevin's voice—rough, deep, and utterly masculine—sent a jolt of confusion through her mind. "What the fuck?" she barked, the coarse voice echoing in the small room. "God dammit, why do I sound like a sailor?"
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to find the "vibration" Cammy had mentioned. She felt a phantom tension in her chest, a different way to push the air. "Wait... like this?" she tried again. This time, the voice was hers—soft, breathy, and undeniably feminine—spilling out of Kevin's stubbled lips.
She let out a soft, delighted giggle that vibrated through Kevin's broad chest. Then, she plunged the pitch back down, letting out a deep, booming "HO HO HO" in the host's natural bass. She was like a giddy kid with a brand new, impossible toy, chirping out high-pitched bird calls then plunging into a gravelly, low growl, her shoulders shaking with the novelty of it.
Cammy's hand shot out, grabbing the mount's muscular forearm with a sharp, anchoring squeeze. "You can do that another day, newbie," she hissed, her eyes flashing with a stern reprimand. "Focus. Don't waste my time on cheap tricks. Explore his mind. Learn the terrain before you try to drive the car."
Lena pushed deeper, probing his mind. Memories flashed like strobe lights: a childhood dog, the smell of a burnt dinner, the crushing loneliness of his commute. It was intoxicating.
***
Lena walked the heavy, clumsy body to the bathroom. She looked into the glass. There was no trace of Kevin's dull, average features. Staring back at her from the mirror was her own face—pale, wide-eyed, and undeniably feminine—fixed perfectly atop Kevin's broad, masculine shoulders. The glass refused to acknowledge the mount; it saw only the pilot.
"The mirror doesn't lie," Cammy said, appearing in the doorway. Her beautiful face watched Lena with a sharp, knowing intensity. "To the world, you’re Kevin. To a mirror, and to me, you’re always Lena. Never forget that. And if you start seeing his face in the mirror instead of yours... jump out immediately. Or you're gone forever."
Lena flexed Kevin's hands, watching her own ghostly fingers move in sync in the reflection. The power was addictive. She felt the "static" in her mind go silent, replaced by the thrumming heartbeat of a body that wasn't hers.
***
The bathroom was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. Lena, wrapped in the heavy, unfamiliar musculature of Kevin, felt a surge of electricity that had nothing to do with her own nerves.
Cammy stood before her, already completely naked, her lithe body glowing softly in the dim light. She walked over, her eyes locked on Lena's—or rather, the Lena staring through Kevin's pupils. She reached down, her hands steady as she helped Lena disrobe Kevin's frame, discarding his jeans and boxers until the pilot was as exposed as she was.
"Let's not waste the night," Cammy whispered, her voice a sultry hum. She reached out, her fingers wrapping tight and firm around the thick, heavy length between Kevin's legs. Lena gasped through Kevin's throat as Cammy began to pull, leading her toward the bedroom. "You really should feel special, you know," Cammy added, her eyes flashing with a rare softness. "I almost never use my own skin for this. It's usually much cleaner to just... stay in the mounts. But for a sister? For you? I wanted you to feel me."
Lena found herself letting out a dry, masculine chuckle, a sound that felt amusingly strange coming from a body she barely knew. "Special?" she whispered back, watching the way the light hit Cammy's curves with an intensity that made her vision swim. "You're gorgeous, Cammy. Seriously. You're fucking insane. I’m pretty sure you could have anyone you wanted just by walking into a room. The fact that you're choosing to be 'you' with 'me'... yeah, I guess I do feel special."
As the words left her mouth, Lena's genuine awe at Cammy’s beauty seemed to ignite a short-circuit in Kevin’s nerves. The mount's body responded with a primal, unchecked autonomy. Under the pressure of Cammy's grip, Lena felt a sudden, hot rush of blood—a pressurized weight that was entirely new. It wasn't just a physical sensation; the acknowledgment of her own attraction triggered an astonishing, sudden erection that throbbed against Cammy's palm with a life of its own.
Lena had noticed he was already impressive while flaccid, but now, the transformation was staggering. Kevin’s anatomy wasn't just growing; it was expanding into a veritable behemoth, the skin stretching taut and pulsing with a frantic, rhythmic heat.
Cammy promptly noticed the surge beneath her palm, her fingers struggling to fully encircle the thickening girth. She squeezed, her thumb tracing the crown of the host’s arousal as it jumped toward the ceiling, her eyes alight with a mix of hunger and wicked amusement. "Oh," she purred, feeling the heavy, insistent pulse. "She’s a fast learner. And look at that... we certainly caught ourselves a big one for your first night, didn't we? He was hiding a monster under those cheap jeans."
Lena's mind whirled, the sheer scale of the tool she now wielded making her feel powerful and small all at once. Using Kevin's raspy, unfamiliar voice, she stuttered out, "God, I'm sorry, I just... everything is so much. I can't look away from you. You're so beautiful, it’s actually kind of terrifying." She felt a flush of heat that wasn't just biological; it was the intoxicating rush of the connection. "I don't even know where my head is at—if this is me wanting you or if Kevin's just losing it, but you look so hot it’s making my skin crawl in the best way."
Cammy stepped even closer, her naked chest brushing against Kevin’s hairy pectorals. She looked down at the massive, twitching length between them and then back up at Lena’s eyes. "Don't apologize for his hunger, babe. Use it. That’s the beauty of the hop, Lena. You don't have to choose. His hunger is your fuel now."
Cammy laughed, a low, melodic sound that vibrated in the air between them. "I want you to take that meat pole and stir my insides until I can't remember my own name. Poke my womb, go further if you can—I want to feel every inch of that behemoth stretching me out."
***
Cammy was a master of the craft. She guided Lena—through Kevin’s meat suit—into a night of a raw and feral education. They started on the bed, Cammy taking the lead by straddling Lena's hips.
As Cammy lowered herself, the process was slow and deliberate. Lena watched, mesmerized through the host's eyes, as Cammy’s breath hitched, her eyes rolling back in a mix of shock and pure ecstasy. The sheer girth of Kevin's anatomy was a daunting challenge, and Cammy took her time, gasping as she adjusted to the massive intrusion. As she finally settled flush against Lena, a distinct, rounded bulge appeared on her lower abdomen, the host's heavy man-meat distending her lithe form from within. Cammy let out a long, ragged moan, a triumphant smile breaking across her face. "God... this is perfect," she whispered, her hands clawing at Lena's shoulders.
For Lena, the sensation was a complete sensory overload. She was losing her male virginity in the most literal sense, feeling the tight, wet heat of Cammy's body clamping down on her through Kevin's hyper-sensitized nerves. She could feel the intricate landscape of Cammy's insides—the way her muscles pulse and took the shape of the meat she was now piloting. It felt like she was pumping her own essence directly into Cammy's core, the connection bypassing the physical and anchoring her soul to the pleasure.
Lena found it absolutely fascinating that their two distinct lives were currently joined by this single, throbbing male appendage. It was a bridge of flesh and blood, a conduit for a power she was only beginning to understand. Cammy didn't just sit there; she began to expertly circle her body, her hips rotating in a slow, grinding friction that drove a dual-edged pleasure into both of them. Lena could feel Cammy’s internal heat swirling around the shaft, the suction so intense it felt like it was drawing her very soul forward.
Then, they found the rhythm. It started as a slow, synchronized pulse—Cammy lowering herself with a deliberate, hungry weight, while Lena thrust upward with the raw, reflexive power of the host’s quads. Soon, the pace accelerated into a frantic, driving marathon. Every time their bodies collided, a heavy, wet slap echoed through the room—the primitive sound of meat hitting meat. The impact was visceral, a percussive punctuation to their shared gasps.
After a few minutes of this intense collision, Lena felt the pressure in Kevin’s loins reach a critical mass. The orgasm was no longer a possibility; it was an oncoming storm, a surge that threatened to incinerate her control. "Cammy," she choked out through Kevin's gravelly voice, "I'm... I'm close. I can't hold him back much longer."
Cammy’s eyes snapped open, a predatory glint in their depths. Without a word, she suddenly surged upward, disengaging from Lena's huge dick with an audible, wet slurp sound that made Lena's head spin. The sudden loss of contact was a shock to the system, leaving the host's anatomy twitching and exposed in the cool air.
"Don't get too comfortable on your back," Cammy hissed, her chest heaving as she rolled off the bed, pulling Lena with her until they hit the soft rug on the floor. "Get behind me," she commanded, her eyes dark with a primal intent. "Now. Doggy style. I want to feel that monster hit the back of my throat from the other side."
She dropped onto her hands and knees on the floor, her back arched, her hair cascading over her shoulders. Lena felt the blood rush to Kevin's face as she moved behind Cammy, gripping her hips from behind. Cammy reached back, her hand finding the host's hair and pulling his head down with a sharp, aggressive yank. "Drive," she ordered. Lena moved Kevin into a deep, rhythmic doggy-style stance, feeling the power in the mount's quads and the raw, rhythmic thud of his hips hitting Cammy's. The aggression from Cammy was intoxicating; she wasn't just receiving, she was demanding, her breath coming in sharp, shallow hitches as she took every inch Lena offered.
"You're learning," Cammy gasped, feeling the shift in the mount's performance. "You're actually... holding it."
But that admission seemed to trigger a new level of challenge from Cammy. "Enough of that," she groaned, her voice thick with a molten desire. Before Lena could celebrate her control, Cammy flipped over onto her back, pulling Lena down until she was straddling the host's lap in a punishingly intimate cowgirl position. Cammy's fingers dug into the host’s shoulders, her nails leaving red marks that Lena felt as a dull, pleasant stinging. She took control of the pace, her hips moving in a brutal, deep grind that made the host's lungs burn.
"Be a man, Lena!" Cammy commanded, her head lolling back as she rode the massive length. "Take what you want! Squeeze my tits! Make me feel your hands!"
Lena leaned forward, Kevin's thick, calloused fingers sinking into Cammy’s soft, pale breasts. She squeezed with a strength that was terrifying and exhilarating, the tactile contrast of the host's rough skin against Cammy's silkiness vibrating through her iridescent green core. Lena found herself leaning closer, her breath hot against Cammy's neck. Up close, the "weirdness" was gone, replaced by a magnetic beauty that made Lena's own heart thud with an urgent, irrational desire.
She wanted to kiss her. It was weird; so far, this had been an exercise in male anatomy, some perverted kind of clinical exploration of a stolen machine. She could justify the arousal as biological resonance, she could tell herself she was still hetero and just playing along Kevin’s body. But as she pressed her lips against Cammy’s, the justification died. Cammy reciprocated with a fierce, possessive hunger, her tongue tangling with Lena’s in a way that felt like soul touching soul. In that kiss, Lena felt a line blur and snap. This wasn't just roleplay. This was a recognition that transcended the stolen meat.
As the pressure built to an impossible peak, Lena felt a sensation that was entirely alien—the feeling of Cammy's internal muscles clamping down, a rhythmic, powerful suction that seemed to be physically pulling the essence out of the mount's body. It was like being sucked dry, a vacuum of pleasure that bypassed the physical and hit Lena's very core.
The first shot of cum hit Cammy like a physical blow, a hot, pressurized jet that made the hopper gasp. Lena felt it leave her—a rhythmic, violent pulse of Kevin's vitality. The second shot followed instantly, a heavy cord of heat that made Kevin’s entire frame arch in a silent scream. By the third pulse, Lena felt hollowed out, her green consciousness vibrating in sync with the rhythmic spasms of the host’s balls. The fourth and fifth shots were desperate, deep tremors, emptying Kevin’s reservoir into Cammy's waiting womb until his heart felt like it was trying to leap through his ribs.
But that was just the beginning of the night.
As the first release settled, the wanting didn't fade—it mutated. Cammy didn't let Lena rest. She forced her to keep Kevin's body active, pushing the host through a grueling marathon of exploration. They moved from the floor back to the bed, then to the shower, where the spray of hot water mingled with their sweat. Cammy was relentless, demanding different angles, forcing Lena to discover the precise tilt of the pelvis that triggered the most intense neural spikes.
***
By the time the sun began to bleed through the curtains, the "static" in Lena's mind had been replaced by a deep, satisfied hum. She knew this body now. She knew its triggers, its limits, and its hidden joys.
As the room brightened, Cammy stood up, entirely unfazed by the night's exertion. Kevin's body lay on the sofa, panting and exhausted, Lena still anchored behind his eyes.
Lena felt a sudden, sharp pang of vulnerability. Using Kevin's deep, tired voice, she whispered, "Cammy... I need to say something. About the night. How I felt."
Cammy arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "Oh? Let me guess. You're in love with me now? The newbie falls for her mentor after one wild ride?"
"Shut up, Cammy," Lena snapped, the baritone voice sounding surprisingly firm. "I'm serious. For my entire life, I've never touched a girl beyond some light fun in a high school locker room. I've never had an intense desire for a woman’s body before. Not like this. Watching you, touching you... it felt more real than anything I've done with a guy." She paused, Kevin’s chest hitching. "Am I lesbian? Is that what this is?"
Cammy’s expression softened, but the devilish glint remained. She stepped closer, striking a pose that emphasized the long, elegant curves of her body, her hands resting on her hips as she tilted her head. "Don't be so wary, newbie," she purred, her voice a soothing, magnetic melody. "You're in a new world now. A world where the rules of that dull, monotonous reality you lived in simply don't apply. You weren't just Lena tonight. You were Kevin. You had his testosterone, his desires, and you played along beautifully."
She flitted a hand toward her own chest, then traced the line of her waist with a slow, deliberate finger. "If we're being strictly factual, you were having a night of love with this," she said, winking. "And Kevin sure as hell liked this. You felt his hunger, but you steered it with your own heart. Don't try to label it yet. Just feel the power of the blur."
She straightened up, the playful moment ending as her tone turned professional. "But enough of the existential crisis. We have work to do."
"Last lesson for the morning," Cammy said, wiping a stray hair from her forehead. She knelt by the sofa, looking into Lena's (Kevin's) eyes. "The exit. You can't just jump and leave a mess. You have to handle his head, or the body-shock will break him."
Cammy raised three fingers. "Option one: The Fast Exit. You just jump. It’s the default, it’s instant, but it’s cruel. He’ll wake up with the absolute truth—vivid memories of every touch, but with the haunting realization that his body was moving on its own. He’ll think he’s a passenger in his own skin, Lena. That leads to a psych ward and a life of trauma."
She folded one finger. "Option two: The Wipe. You reach into his short-term buffer and just... delete it. It's faster than the final option, but it’s messy. He’ll wake up on the floor with no clothes and no memory of how he got there. It breeds a deep, localized paranoia. He’ll spend the rest of his life wondering if he’s a somnambulist, a blackout drunk or if he were drugged."
She held up her last finger. "Option three: The Weave. This is the art, newbie. It takes time and effort. You take the real memories and you edit them. You make him believe that every touch, every moan, was his idea. You replace our faces with ghosts of his desires. You give him a dream he’ll treasure for the rest of his life, even if it’s a total, convenient lie. It keeps him sane, and it keeps us invisible."
Cammy showed her how to reach into the "wetware" of Kevin's brain. Lena felt the memories of the night—the real, gritty details—and began to soften them. Under Cammy's guidance, she blurred the edges, weaving in the phantom image of herself and Cammy as two willing participants in a legendary threesome. She planted the seed of "free will," making Kevin's subconscious believe he had been the architect of the entire encounter.
While Lena worked on Kevin's mind, Cammy began to dress with a languid, practiced ease. Lena watched her through Kevin's heavy eyelids, a strange, lingering heat still simmering in her gut. As Cammy pulled on her lace undergarments and adjusted her black shirt, Lena found herself admiring the elegant line of her spine, the way her muscles move beneath her skin. It wasn't the frantic, burning passion of an hour ago; it was a more quiet, aesthetic appreciation. She realized with a start that some of Kevin's base desire was still blurring into her own thoughts—a residual stain of his biology that made her linger on the curve of Cammy's hip longer than she should have.
"Stop staring, Kevin," Cammy teased, though she didn't look back. She knew exactly what Lena was feeling. "Or should I say… stop letting him stare. Tidy up your own house before you leave his."
Lena flushed, a wave of heat passing through the mount's exhausted body. She forced herself to focus, pulling the last threads of the night together into a coherent, pleasant blur in Kevin's memory.
With a shove, Lena pulled herself out.
The metallic green slime slithered out of Kevin's mouth, pooling on the floor before rising back into Lena's own soft, aching female form. She stood up, feeling light—almost dangerously so—while Kevin remained in a deep, peaceful Torpor on the sofa, a faint, stupid grin plastered on his face.
"He’ll wake up feeling like a god," Cammy said, heading for the door. "And we’ll be long gone. Dress up and let's bounce, newbie. You've got a lot to process before next Friday."
Hasti isn't from Nashville, so she's been running into issues finding men that like anything other than blue eyes and blonde hair. As a beautiful Indian girl that grew up in Chicago, she never had issues finding men that were into her, however she's dealing with a bit of an identity crisis. She recently discovered the ability to leave her body and pull other's soul's out of theirs so she can become anyone...including the perfect woman for the city of Nashville.
Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.
But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.
She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.
Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—
The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.
Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.
The frat boy blinked. “You good?”
Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”
His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.
All part of the plan.
Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.
"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.
She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."
Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."
As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.
The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.
By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."
Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.
But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.
She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."
He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—
Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.
Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.
Damn, that was fun.
Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.
As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.
-
The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.
A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.
"You zoning out again?"
Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."
Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."
"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"
Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.
Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"
Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"
"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."
Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."
Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."
-
The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.
Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.
"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"
Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."
Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.
"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"
Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."
Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."
The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.
Until she saw her.
Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.
A familiar itch prickled under her skin.
No. Not tonight.
She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"
"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"
Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.
It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—
"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"
Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."
Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."
Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."
But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.
Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.
She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."
Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."
Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.
Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.
"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."
Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”
Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”
Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.
Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”
Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”
Layla grinned. “Deal.”
Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”
The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”
She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”
“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”
She already knew.
“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.
His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”
“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”
She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.
“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.
Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”
Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”
“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.
The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”
“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.
Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.
The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.
There they were.
Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.
Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.
"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."
Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.
"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.
"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"
Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."
Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."
Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."
Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.
Not in her own skin, anyway.
The thought hit like lightning.
"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."
She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.
She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.
Or.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes.
And let her spirit slip free.....
The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.
Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.
With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.
A sharp tug.
The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"
Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.
Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.
When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."
Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."
And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.
Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.
Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.
She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.
“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.
Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”
And then she kneed him square in the crotch.
Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.
“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”
She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.
The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.
Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.
"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"
Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."
Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."
Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."
Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**
Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.
"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.
And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.
But damn, it sure was fun.
And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.
Some victories were sweeter in silence.
Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.
But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.
She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.
Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—
The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.
Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.
The frat boy blinked. “You good?”
Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”
His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.
All part of the plan.
Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.
"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.
She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."
Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."
As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.
The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.
By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."
Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.
But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.
She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."
He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—
Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.
Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.
Damn, that was fun.
Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.
As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.
-
The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.
A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.
"You zoning out again?"
Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."
Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."
"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"
Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.
Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"
Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"
"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."
Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."
Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."
-
The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.
Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.
"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"
Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."
Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.
"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"
Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."
Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."
The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.
Until she saw her.
Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.
A familiar itch prickled under her skin.
No. Not tonight.
She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"
"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"
Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.
It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—
"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"
Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."
Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."
Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."
But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.
Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.
She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."
Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."
Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.
Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.
"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."
Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”
Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”
Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.
Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”
Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.
“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”
Layla grinned. “Deal.”
Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”
The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”
She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”
“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”
She already knew.
“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.
His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”
“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”
She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.
“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.
Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”
Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”
“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.
The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”
“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.
Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.
The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.
There they were.
Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.
Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.
"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."
Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.
"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.
"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"
Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."
Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."
Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."
Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.
Not in her own skin, anyway.
The thought hit like lightning.
"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."
She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.
She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.
Or.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes.
And let her spirit slip free.....
The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.
Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.
With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.
A sharp tug.
The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"
Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.
Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.
When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."
Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."
And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.
Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.
Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.
She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.
“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.
Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”
And then she kneed him square in the crotch.
Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.
“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”
She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.
The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.
Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.
"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"
Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."
Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."
Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."
Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**
Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.
"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.
And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.
But damn, it sure was fun.
And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.
Some victories were sweeter in silence.
Inspired by a comic.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Inspired by a Rere comic.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
This story explores disturbing themes of non-consensual bodily violation and the total loss of autonomy through a forced supernatural transformation. Due to its focus on the graphic and psychological invasion of the protagonist's identity and physical self, this content may be distressing or triggering and is not suitable for all audiences.
The fluorescent hum of the office had finally been replaced by the amber glow of the lounge. It was his last night in a standard business trip. Stale air, PowerPoint slides, and the dull ache of a life lived in middle management. Arthur swirled the ice in his scotch, feeling the weight of the gold band on his left finger.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, a shock of crimson hair against a backless emerald dress. Her silhouette was a perfect hourglass, a literal curve in an otherwise linear world. When she looked up, her piercing and predatory green eyes locked onto his. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline he hadn't felt in a decade. She’s way out of your league, he thought. Then she winked.
Calculated and quick, Arthur slipped his wedding ring into his coin pocket. He stood up, smoothed his suit, and walked over.
The conversation was effortless. Her name was Elena. She laughed at his tired jokes as if they were comedic gold, leaning in close enough for him to smell jasmine. He felt invincible. He felt like a king.
"This place is a bit... public," he whispered, emboldened by the third drink. "I have a suite upstairs."
Elena’s gaze dropped to his lips. "I thought you’d never ask."
The elevator ride was a blur of heavy breathing and frantic hands. By the time the door to Room 412 clicked shut, clothes were hitting the carpet. In the dim light of the city skyline, Elena was a masterpiece. Arthur felt like he’d won the lottery, his pulse hammering against his ribs as they moved together.
Her skin was cool silk against his, and when her mouth found his again, the taste of scotch and her was overwhelming. She was not passive. She guided his hands to the zipper of her dress, letting it fall in a whisper of emerald to the floor. The city lights through the window painted stripes of gold across her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the incredible flare of her hips.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, her crimson hair a curtain that smelled of jasmine. There was nothing tentative in her touch. Her nails scraped lightly down his chest, making him gasp, and her mouth was hot and demanding on his neck, his collarbone, lower. She took him in her mouth, and Arthur’s head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. It had been years, a lifetime maybe, since he’d felt anything so intense, so shockingly skilled. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
When he tried to roll her over, she resisted with a throaty laugh, planting a hand on his chest. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, her green eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “My turn.” She straddled him, taking him inside her in one slow, exquisite slide that made them both cry out. She moved with a rhythm that was ancient and utterly new to him, her head thrown back, a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips, feeling the muscles work beneath her skin. He was lost in the sight of her, the feel of her tight heat, the low, encouraging murmurs that she made, coiled heat in his gut. The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this woman who rode him with fierce, unapologetic pleasure. His own climax built like a storm, inevitable and terrifying in its power. He was mumbling nonsense, praises, curses, her name.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice a rough scrape. He forced his eyes open, meeting her predatory gaze. She held it, unblinking, as she ground down against him, her body clenching around his, and that was all it took. Arthur shattered, a white-hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like oblivion, his vision spotting as he spilled into her with a broken shout.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot against his skin, her own body trembling through the aftershocks. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
"Again," she whispered. Her voice sounded deeper, a resonant vibration that seemed to rattle the glass. "But this time, stay on your feet."
He laughed, breathless. "You’re a machine, Elena. You gonna dry me up."
He stood against the cold drywall, and she pressed into him. She moved with a sudden, violent strength, impaling herself upon him with a force that made his breath hitch. But as they moved, the sensation began to change.
The heat between them turned into a searing, liquid fire. The air in Room 412 had grown thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Arthur was pinned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. When Elena had suggested "one more time," he thought it was a testament to his prowess. He didn't realize he was being prepared for a harvest.
As she continued impaling herself upon him, the pleasure didn't peak. It curdled.
A cold, rhythmic suction began at the point of contact between his dick and her pussy. A psychic vacuum that started at the base of his spine and began pulling. Arthur’s eyes widened. He tried to push her shoulders away, but her skin felt like cooling iron.
"Something’s... wrong," he wheezed. His voice cracked, losing its baritone edge.
Elena leaned into his ear, her breath a freezing mist. "Don't fight it, Arthur. The more you struggle, the more it hurts."
The sensation wasn't just a draining. It was a re-sculpting. As that cold suction pulled at the very marrow of him, Arthur’s mind was flooded with fragments of not his own memories, but ghostly echoes trapped within the thing that wore Elena’s skin. He glimpsed, in a dizzying flash, a stern jaw that was not her jaw, a pair of broad, laborer’s hands that were not her hands. The impressions were faint and crumbling, like a statue worn smooth by a relentless sea. This beautiful, predatory form had not always been so. Once, perhaps, it had been something else, someone else, someone strapping and male, before it, too, had been hollowed out and remade into a perfect, terrible feminine vessel.
What was happening to him now was the final, violent stage of a timeless digestion. The entity within Elena was an insatiable furnace, a primal masculine hunger that had consumed its original body ages ago. From time to time, to live, it needed the fresh fuel of a man’s essence, his vitality, his very identity. It would gorge until the stolen male form could no longer contain the paradox of its nature, until the excess began to warp the shell from the inside out. The muscles would soften into curves, the face would refine into soft features, the body would blossom into a hyper-feminine masterpiece, not for pleasure, but for purpose. It was a biological honeypot, a chrysalis of flesh designed for one thing: to lure the next sustenance, and begin the cycle anew. Arthur was just its most recent prey.
Arthur felt his chest tighten. He looked down and watched in silent horror as his pectorals softened and swelled, the skin stretching into a delicate, pale ivory. He tried to flex his biceps to strike her, but the muscle mass was melting, flowing into her like water down a drain.
"No!" he roared, but the sound was becoming a soprano wail.
He fought. He reached deep into his mind, clutching at the memories of his father, his sports, the weight of his tools, the nights of passion with his wife Sarah. He tried to anchor the very concept of himself as a man in his spirit.
Elena, or the thing with the statuesque her form in front of him, let out a low, guttural growl of delight. Her (his) shoulders began to broaden.
"Yes," the entity hissed, its voice now a deep, vibrating rumble that shook Arthur’s new, fragile ribcage. "Give me that defiance. I haven't tasted a will this stubborn in a century."
The transition became a violent, intimate tug-of-war. Arthur fought not with his weakening muscles, but with his will, clawing at the memory of his own face in the mirror, the scrape of a morning shave, the satisfying heft of a hammer in his grip. He poured every stubborn ounce of his identity into the fight, trying to anchor the very shape of his bones.
He felt the rasp of his beard beginning to recede, the follicles dying with a faint, prickling itch. In response, the entity pinning him merely grinned, a cruel slash of a smile. A shadow of coarse, dark stubble sprouted across its jaw, each hair pushing through the skin with an audible, scratchy whisper. Arthur’s own jawline ached as it softened, the hard angle melting into a delicate, heart-shaped curve. He tried to clench his teeth, to feel the familiar tension in his masseter muscle, but even that resistance was siphoned away, leaving a smooth, feminine line.
His hands came up, instinct driving him to shove at the solid wall of the entity’s new chest. But his hands… they were betraying him. The knuckles, once prominent and scarred from a long-ago fight, smoothed into gentle bumps. His fingers, which had once confidently curled around a steering wheel, now slimmed and elongated, the tendons standing out in delicate relief. They were becoming slender, manicured things, like a pianist’s hands or a courtesan’s hands. He stared at them, willing them to curl into fists, but they remained limp and elegant, their strength flowing out through his fingertips.
The entity watched this internal struggle with the bored, appreciative gaze of a connoisseur. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Arthur’s fragile new frame.
“Struggle,” the entity whispered, its voice now fully Arthur’s own baritone, but laced with a dark, ancient amusement. “I can taste the defiance. It’s the best part, you know. The raw, panicked flavor of a man who still believes he can win.” It leaned in, its new, rough stubble scratching Arthur’s cheek, now smooth as porcelain. “I have fought dozens wills like yours before. I am so very used to it. And I always win in the end.”
To emphasize its point, the entity ground its hips forward, a brutal reminder of their grotesque connection. With that motion, a fresh, dizzying wave of suction pulled at Arthur’s core. He felt a final, visceral shift in his hands, the last of the calluses dissolving, the palms becoming soft and unmarked. They were utterly alien to him now, tools of pleasure, not labor. The entity lifted one of its own new, broad hands, Arthur’s old hands, and examined it with satisfaction, flexing the powerful fingers before closing them into a fist that could shatter bone.
“There,” the entity sighed, the sound one of deep, sated pleasure. “Now the real masterpiece begins.”
The entity let out a final, triumphant breath, vacuuming the last embers of Arthur’s masculinity.
The cold suction reached its zenith, pulling not just substance but shape, rearranging Arthur on a cellular level. He felt a final, wrenching pull deep in his groin, a sensation of inversion so profound it stole his breath. His own penis, the last proud emblem of his stolen manhood, didn’t just wither, it reversed. It was a sickening, intimate retreat, the flesh drawing inward, folding and reforming itself with wet, muscular ripples into a new, sensitive hollow. A high, keening sound escaped his lips as he felt it settle, a completed, vulnerable absence.
At the same time, as his body yielded, Elena’s consumed it. The entity, still pressed flush against him, let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. Arthur felt the warm, slick folds he’d been buried within moments before begin to change against his new flesh. It fused, the lips sealing together with a faint, sticky sound, the seam smoothing into unbroken skin. Then, beneath that skin, something swelled. It hardened and lengthened, pushing outward, an obscene bloom of stolen virility. Arthur’s own former shaft, now ruddy and thick and fully erect, emerged from where Elena’s femininity had been, glistening in the low light.
The entity looked down, a cruel smile playing on its—his—newly masculine lips. He gripped Arthur’s, now Elena’s, slender hips with one broad hand. With the other, he guided his new cock, the flesh that had once been Arthur’s pride, to the newly formed, tight entrance he had just carved out of Arthur’s body.
“Full circle,” the entity rumbled in Arthur’s stolen voice.
And he impaled him with it.
It was a violation that transcended the physical, a horrific echo of their earlier coupling. Arthur screamed, a raw, feminine sound of shock and agony as he was filled by the very essence of what he had lost. The entity moved, a few slow, brutal thrusts, not for pleasure but for possession, a brand of final ownership. Each drive home seemed to hammer the last of Arthur’s resistance into dust, sealing his new form with the brutal stamp of his old one.
The entity held him there for a long, final moment, buried to the hilt. Arthur felt a hot, impossible pressure building at the root of the cock that had once been his own. Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through both their bodies, the new Arthur released.
It was a flood, a heavy, viscous pour of stolen seed. Arthur felt it jetting deep inside the new, sensitive cavity of his body, a searing heat that was both alien and horribly familiar. This was his essence, the vital, masculine potential that had been ripped from him, now being returned in this corrupted, violating baptism. His stomach, flat and taut moments before, gave a faint, phantom swell under the sheer volume of it, the sensation of being filled branding itself onto his new nerves.
With a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the silent room, a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle, the entity withdrew.
The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. And then, a warm, trickling release. Arthur looked down, his vision blurred with tears, as a thick, pearlescent stream began to seep from his violated opening. It traced a glistening path down the inside of one slender, pale thigh, a second rivulet following the other. It dripped onto the carpet, his cum, their cum, marking the spot where he had ceased to be a man. The entity took a step back, admiring its work.
The man—the new Arthur—stood tall, broad-shouldered and radiating a terrifying, predatory calm. He looked down at the trembling creature slumped against the wall, her beautiful legs slick and shameful.
Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation, and its violent consummation, was complete. He was sobbing with a voice that didn't know how to be his, his body throbbing with the brutal memory of its own creation and the heavy, leaking proof of its new purpose.
He had the red hair, the green eyes, and the hourglass curves that he had lusted just hours ago. Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation was complete and functional.
She was beautiful, she was “Elena”.
---
It was already morning.
The entity reached into the discarded suit jacket, pulled out a gold wedding band, and slid it onto its finger.
"Beautiful," the entity said, using Arthur's voice. "I think I’ll enjoy being a husband for a while."
"You were a heavy meal, Elena," the entity said, while dressing as Arthur. Its new voice, Arthur's old voice, rolling over her like a physical weight. It was adjusting to the timber, testing the name it had stolen along with everything else. "It will take a long time to digest you. But when I am hungry again... when this body begins to soften and distort into a walking wet dream once more, into a hyper-feminized version of your old shell, I’ll find someone just like you."
He stepped back, and as he did, a wave of something colder than the room’s air washed over the woman who had been Arthur. It wasn’t a touch, but an impression, a psychic stamp pressed deep into the soft, new clay of her mind.
The first thing to go was the sharp, specific ache for home. The memory of a wife, his wife, Sarah, with her soft laughter and the little mole on her left shoulder, didn’t vanish so much as unravel. The love became a vague, sentimental warmth, then a faded photograph of a stranger, then a blank space where a feeling should have been. Sarah? Who was Sarah? The question drifted through her head and found no anchor, slipping away like smoke. The comfortable weight of a mortgage, the solid pride of a career, the reassuring grind of middle management, all these concepts melted like sugar in rain, leaving behind only a hollow, formless longing for stability, with no memory of ever having possessed it.
In their place, new memories began to crystallize, not as a flood, but as a slow, sickening seep. They felt thin and cheap, like bad perfume.
She remembered a cramped apartment that always smelled of stale smoke and someone else’s cooking. She remembered the pinch of too-tight shoes, bought from a discount bin, and the constant, gnawing anxiety that came two days before rent was due. She remembered standing under flickering neon, not as a choice, but as a grim arithmetic: fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for half an hour, enough to keep the lights on and the landlord’s threats at bay for one more week. The memories carried no history, no childhood, no dreams deferred. They started, abruptly, with a desperate choice made in a cold bus station, and they stretched forward into an endless, grinding present.
Her certainty, the ironclad knowledge that she was Arthur, that she had been robbed, began to waver. The fight that had defined her final moments as a man now seemed like a delirious dream, a strange story she’d once heard about someone else. Had she been a man? The idea felt absurd, laughable. She looked down at her own delicate hands, at the shimmering fall of red hair over a pale shoulder, at the beautiful, treacherous curves that had ensnared her. This was her. This had always been her.
The entity watched the understanding dawn in her new, green eyes. It was the final gift, the cruelest one: not just a new body, but a new past, engineered to fit its purpose. She wasn’t a victim of a grand, supernatural theft. She was just Elena. A girl with no education, no family safety net, no prospects. Her body was her only viable tool, her pleasure a currency she didn’t control. The world was a series of rooms like this one, of transactions, of fleeting power that always ended with her alone and counting crumpled bills.
A single, hot tear traced a path through her face. It wasn’t a tear of rage, not anymore. It was a tear of bitter, total recognition. The sob that followed was quieter, defeated. She remembered the feel of cheap hotel carpet under her knees. She remembered the hollow click of a lock in a stranger’s door. This was her life. It had always been her life.
The entity smiled, a perfect, terrible mirror of Arthur’s old, confident grin. It watched as the fight left her eyes, seeing her mind finally buckle under the weight of her stolen skin. She was no longer a man who had lost; she was a hyper-feminized byproduct, a soft, decorative high-heeled tragedy, destined to spend her days selling her body and to be stared at and objectified wherever she goes. The woman that used to be Arthur looked down at her new, delicate hands and finally stopped sobbing, accepting the silence of her own situation.
“Good girl,” the entity rumbled, turning toward the door. It didn’t look back. Its work was done.
The fluorescent hum of the office had finally been replaced by the amber glow of the lounge. It was his last night in a standard business trip. Stale air, PowerPoint slides, and the dull ache of a life lived in middle management. Arthur swirled the ice in his scotch, feeling the weight of the gold band on his left finger.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, a shock of crimson hair against a backless emerald dress. Her silhouette was a perfect hourglass, a literal curve in an otherwise linear world. When she looked up, her piercing and predatory green eyes locked onto his. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline he hadn't felt in a decade. She’s way out of your league, he thought. Then she winked.
Calculated and quick, Arthur slipped his wedding ring into his coin pocket. He stood up, smoothed his suit, and walked over.
The conversation was effortless. Her name was Elena. She laughed at his tired jokes as if they were comedic gold, leaning in close enough for him to smell jasmine. He felt invincible. He felt like a king.
"This place is a bit... public," he whispered, emboldened by the third drink. "I have a suite upstairs."
Elena’s gaze dropped to his lips. "I thought you’d never ask."
The elevator ride was a blur of heavy breathing and frantic hands. By the time the door to Room 412 clicked shut, clothes were hitting the carpet. In the dim light of the city skyline, Elena was a masterpiece. Arthur felt like he’d won the lottery, his pulse hammering against his ribs as they moved together.
Her skin was cool silk against his, and when her mouth found his again, the taste of scotch and her was overwhelming. She was not passive. She guided his hands to the zipper of her dress, letting it fall in a whisper of emerald to the floor. The city lights through the window painted stripes of gold across her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the incredible flare of her hips.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, her crimson hair a curtain that smelled of jasmine. There was nothing tentative in her touch. Her nails scraped lightly down his chest, making him gasp, and her mouth was hot and demanding on his neck, his collarbone, lower. She took him in her mouth, and Arthur’s head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. It had been years, a lifetime maybe, since he’d felt anything so intense, so shockingly skilled. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
When he tried to roll her over, she resisted with a throaty laugh, planting a hand on his chest. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, her green eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “My turn.” She straddled him, taking him inside her in one slow, exquisite slide that made them both cry out. She moved with a rhythm that was ancient and utterly new to him, her head thrown back, a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips, feeling the muscles work beneath her skin. He was lost in the sight of her, the feel of her tight heat, the low, encouraging murmurs that she made, coiled heat in his gut. The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this woman who rode him with fierce, unapologetic pleasure. His own climax built like a storm, inevitable and terrifying in its power. He was mumbling nonsense, praises, curses, her name.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice a rough scrape. He forced his eyes open, meeting her predatory gaze. She held it, unblinking, as she ground down against him, her body clenching around his, and that was all it took. Arthur shattered, a white-hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like oblivion, his vision spotting as he spilled into her with a broken shout.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot against his skin, her own body trembling through the aftershocks. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
"Again," she whispered. Her voice sounded deeper, a resonant vibration that seemed to rattle the glass. "But this time, stay on your feet."
He laughed, breathless. "You’re a machine, Elena. You gonna dry me up."
He stood against the cold drywall, and she pressed into him. She moved with a sudden, violent strength, impaling herself upon him with a force that made his breath hitch. But as they moved, the sensation began to change.
The heat between them turned into a searing, liquid fire. The air in Room 412 had grown thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Arthur was pinned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. When Elena had suggested "one more time," he thought it was a testament to his prowess. He didn't realize he was being prepared for a harvest.
As she continued impaling herself upon him, the pleasure didn't peak. It curdled.
A cold, rhythmic suction began at the point of contact between his dick and her pussy. A psychic vacuum that started at the base of his spine and began pulling. Arthur’s eyes widened. He tried to push her shoulders away, but her skin felt like cooling iron.
"Something’s... wrong," he wheezed. His voice cracked, losing its baritone edge.
Elena leaned into his ear, her breath a freezing mist. "Don't fight it, Arthur. The more you struggle, the more it hurts."
The sensation wasn't just a draining. It was a re-sculpting. As that cold suction pulled at the very marrow of him, Arthur’s mind was flooded with fragments of not his own memories, but ghostly echoes trapped within the thing that wore Elena’s skin. He glimpsed, in a dizzying flash, a stern jaw that was not her jaw, a pair of broad, laborer’s hands that were not her hands. The impressions were faint and crumbling, like a statue worn smooth by a relentless sea. This beautiful, predatory form had not always been so. Once, perhaps, it had been something else, someone else, someone strapping and male, before it, too, had been hollowed out and remade into a perfect, terrible feminine vessel.
What was happening to him now was the final, violent stage of a timeless digestion. The entity within Elena was an insatiable furnace, a primal masculine hunger that had consumed its original body ages ago. From time to time, to live, it needed the fresh fuel of a man’s essence, his vitality, his very identity. It would gorge until the stolen male form could no longer contain the paradox of its nature, until the excess began to warp the shell from the inside out. The muscles would soften into curves, the face would refine into soft features, the body would blossom into a hyper-feminine masterpiece, not for pleasure, but for purpose. It was a biological honeypot, a chrysalis of flesh designed for one thing: to lure the next sustenance, and begin the cycle anew. Arthur was just its most recent prey.
Arthur felt his chest tighten. He looked down and watched in silent horror as his pectorals softened and swelled, the skin stretching into a delicate, pale ivory. He tried to flex his biceps to strike her, but the muscle mass was melting, flowing into her like water down a drain.
"No!" he roared, but the sound was becoming a soprano wail.
He fought. He reached deep into his mind, clutching at the memories of his father, his sports, the weight of his tools, the nights of passion with his wife Sarah. He tried to anchor the very concept of himself as a man in his spirit.
Elena, or the thing with the statuesque her form in front of him, let out a low, guttural growl of delight. Her (his) shoulders began to broaden.
"Yes," the entity hissed, its voice now a deep, vibrating rumble that shook Arthur’s new, fragile ribcage. "Give me that defiance. I haven't tasted a will this stubborn in a century."
The transition became a violent, intimate tug-of-war. Arthur fought not with his weakening muscles, but with his will, clawing at the memory of his own face in the mirror, the scrape of a morning shave, the satisfying heft of a hammer in his grip. He poured every stubborn ounce of his identity into the fight, trying to anchor the very shape of his bones.
He felt the rasp of his beard beginning to recede, the follicles dying with a faint, prickling itch. In response, the entity pinning him merely grinned, a cruel slash of a smile. A shadow of coarse, dark stubble sprouted across its jaw, each hair pushing through the skin with an audible, scratchy whisper. Arthur’s own jawline ached as it softened, the hard angle melting into a delicate, heart-shaped curve. He tried to clench his teeth, to feel the familiar tension in his masseter muscle, but even that resistance was siphoned away, leaving a smooth, feminine line.
His hands came up, instinct driving him to shove at the solid wall of the entity’s new chest. But his hands… they were betraying him. The knuckles, once prominent and scarred from a long-ago fight, smoothed into gentle bumps. His fingers, which had once confidently curled around a steering wheel, now slimmed and elongated, the tendons standing out in delicate relief. They were becoming slender, manicured things, like a pianist’s hands or a courtesan’s hands. He stared at them, willing them to curl into fists, but they remained limp and elegant, their strength flowing out through his fingertips.
The entity watched this internal struggle with the bored, appreciative gaze of a connoisseur. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Arthur’s fragile new frame.
“Struggle,” the entity whispered, its voice now fully Arthur’s own baritone, but laced with a dark, ancient amusement. “I can taste the defiance. It’s the best part, you know. The raw, panicked flavor of a man who still believes he can win.” It leaned in, its new, rough stubble scratching Arthur’s cheek, now smooth as porcelain. “I have fought dozens wills like yours before. I am so very used to it. And I always win in the end.”
To emphasize its point, the entity ground its hips forward, a brutal reminder of their grotesque connection. With that motion, a fresh, dizzying wave of suction pulled at Arthur’s core. He felt a final, visceral shift in his hands, the last of the calluses dissolving, the palms becoming soft and unmarked. They were utterly alien to him now, tools of pleasure, not labor. The entity lifted one of its own new, broad hands, Arthur’s old hands, and examined it with satisfaction, flexing the powerful fingers before closing them into a fist that could shatter bone.
“There,” the entity sighed, the sound one of deep, sated pleasure. “Now the real masterpiece begins.”
The entity let out a final, triumphant breath, vacuuming the last embers of Arthur’s masculinity.
The cold suction reached its zenith, pulling not just substance but shape, rearranging Arthur on a cellular level. He felt a final, wrenching pull deep in his groin, a sensation of inversion so profound it stole his breath. His own penis, the last proud emblem of his stolen manhood, didn’t just wither, it reversed. It was a sickening, intimate retreat, the flesh drawing inward, folding and reforming itself with wet, muscular ripples into a new, sensitive hollow. A high, keening sound escaped his lips as he felt it settle, a completed, vulnerable absence.
At the same time, as his body yielded, Elena’s consumed it. The entity, still pressed flush against him, let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. Arthur felt the warm, slick folds he’d been buried within moments before begin to change against his new flesh. It fused, the lips sealing together with a faint, sticky sound, the seam smoothing into unbroken skin. Then, beneath that skin, something swelled. It hardened and lengthened, pushing outward, an obscene bloom of stolen virility. Arthur’s own former shaft, now ruddy and thick and fully erect, emerged from where Elena’s femininity had been, glistening in the low light.
The entity looked down, a cruel smile playing on its—his—newly masculine lips. He gripped Arthur’s, now Elena’s, slender hips with one broad hand. With the other, he guided his new cock, the flesh that had once been Arthur’s pride, to the newly formed, tight entrance he had just carved out of Arthur’s body.
“Full circle,” the entity rumbled in Arthur’s stolen voice.
And he impaled him with it.
It was a violation that transcended the physical, a horrific echo of their earlier coupling. Arthur screamed, a raw, feminine sound of shock and agony as he was filled by the very essence of what he had lost. The entity moved, a few slow, brutal thrusts, not for pleasure but for possession, a brand of final ownership. Each drive home seemed to hammer the last of Arthur’s resistance into dust, sealing his new form with the brutal stamp of his old one.
The entity held him there for a long, final moment, buried to the hilt. Arthur felt a hot, impossible pressure building at the root of the cock that had once been his own. Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through both their bodies, the new Arthur released.
It was a flood, a heavy, viscous pour of stolen seed. Arthur felt it jetting deep inside the new, sensitive cavity of his body, a searing heat that was both alien and horribly familiar. This was his essence, the vital, masculine potential that had been ripped from him, now being returned in this corrupted, violating baptism. His stomach, flat and taut moments before, gave a faint, phantom swell under the sheer volume of it, the sensation of being filled branding itself onto his new nerves.
With a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the silent room, a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle, the entity withdrew.
The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. And then, a warm, trickling release. Arthur looked down, his vision blurred with tears, as a thick, pearlescent stream began to seep from his violated opening. It traced a glistening path down the inside of one slender, pale thigh, a second rivulet following the other. It dripped onto the carpet, his cum, their cum, marking the spot where he had ceased to be a man. The entity took a step back, admiring its work.
The man—the new Arthur—stood tall, broad-shouldered and radiating a terrifying, predatory calm. He looked down at the trembling creature slumped against the wall, her beautiful legs slick and shameful.
Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation, and its violent consummation, was complete. He was sobbing with a voice that didn't know how to be his, his body throbbing with the brutal memory of its own creation and the heavy, leaking proof of its new purpose.
He had the red hair, the green eyes, and the hourglass curves that he had lusted just hours ago. Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation was complete and functional.
She was beautiful, she was “Elena”.
---
It was already morning.
The entity reached into the discarded suit jacket, pulled out a gold wedding band, and slid it onto its finger.
"Beautiful," the entity said, using Arthur's voice. "I think I’ll enjoy being a husband for a while."
"You were a heavy meal, Elena," the entity said, while dressing as Arthur. Its new voice, Arthur's old voice, rolling over her like a physical weight. It was adjusting to the timber, testing the name it had stolen along with everything else. "It will take a long time to digest you. But when I am hungry again... when this body begins to soften and distort into a walking wet dream once more, into a hyper-feminized version of your old shell, I’ll find someone just like you."
He stepped back, and as he did, a wave of something colder than the room’s air washed over the woman who had been Arthur. It wasn’t a touch, but an impression, a psychic stamp pressed deep into the soft, new clay of her mind.
The first thing to go was the sharp, specific ache for home. The memory of a wife, his wife, Sarah, with her soft laughter and the little mole on her left shoulder, didn’t vanish so much as unravel. The love became a vague, sentimental warmth, then a faded photograph of a stranger, then a blank space where a feeling should have been. Sarah? Who was Sarah? The question drifted through her head and found no anchor, slipping away like smoke. The comfortable weight of a mortgage, the solid pride of a career, the reassuring grind of middle management, all these concepts melted like sugar in rain, leaving behind only a hollow, formless longing for stability, with no memory of ever having possessed it.
In their place, new memories began to crystallize, not as a flood, but as a slow, sickening seep. They felt thin and cheap, like bad perfume.
She remembered a cramped apartment that always smelled of stale smoke and someone else’s cooking. She remembered the pinch of too-tight shoes, bought from a discount bin, and the constant, gnawing anxiety that came two days before rent was due. She remembered standing under flickering neon, not as a choice, but as a grim arithmetic: fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for half an hour, enough to keep the lights on and the landlord’s threats at bay for one more week. The memories carried no history, no childhood, no dreams deferred. They started, abruptly, with a desperate choice made in a cold bus station, and they stretched forward into an endless, grinding present.
Her certainty, the ironclad knowledge that she was Arthur, that she had been robbed, began to waver. The fight that had defined her final moments as a man now seemed like a delirious dream, a strange story she’d once heard about someone else. Had she been a man? The idea felt absurd, laughable. She looked down at her own delicate hands, at the shimmering fall of red hair over a pale shoulder, at the beautiful, treacherous curves that had ensnared her. This was her. This had always been her.
The entity watched the understanding dawn in her new, green eyes. It was the final gift, the cruelest one: not just a new body, but a new past, engineered to fit its purpose. She wasn’t a victim of a grand, supernatural theft. She was just Elena. A girl with no education, no family safety net, no prospects. Her body was her only viable tool, her pleasure a currency she didn’t control. The world was a series of rooms like this one, of transactions, of fleeting power that always ended with her alone and counting crumpled bills.
A single, hot tear traced a path through her face. It wasn’t a tear of rage, not anymore. It was a tear of bitter, total recognition. The sob that followed was quieter, defeated. She remembered the feel of cheap hotel carpet under her knees. She remembered the hollow click of a lock in a stranger’s door. This was her life. It had always been her life.
The entity smiled, a perfect, terrible mirror of Arthur’s old, confident grin. It watched as the fight left her eyes, seeing her mind finally buckle under the weight of her stolen skin. She was no longer a man who had lost; she was a hyper-feminized byproduct, a soft, decorative high-heeled tragedy, destined to spend her days selling her body and to be stared at and objectified wherever she goes. The woman that used to be Arthur looked down at her new, delicate hands and finally stopped sobbing, accepting the silence of her own situation.
“Good girl,” the entity rumbled, turning toward the door. It didn’t look back. Its work was done.
Latest Stories on Outfox
by
Eb18
· 03 Feb 2026
Ryan invites Logan to participate in experiment with some unexpected results.
A story written by my good friend Eagle_Bacon
Please check out some of their art and other work on Chyoa, Deviantart, X, or Patreon
Story concept by MonsterInNeed
Please check out their work on Chyoa under MonsterInNeed and Patreon or Smashwords under Dominic H. Hugh