A reckless young woman lets an upload share her senses for fun—then her body—then her life—until she realizes too late that she's given away everything she never knew she had.
WARNING: This is a very dark, horror story.
In a near-future where neural implants allow consciousness-sharing and mind uploading is commonplace but legally fraught, Paula discovers sense-sharing forums where uploads can temporarily experience physical sensation through willing hosts. What begins as a thrill-seeking adventure becomes an escalating power exchange that ends with Paula trapped in VR, watching a stranger live her life from the inside.
My implant itched.
It didn't actually itch—Dr. Marchetti had explained the phantom sensations when I got it installed, something about the brain mapping unfamiliar hardware onto familiar feelings—but I scratched the back of my neck anyway.
"You're doing it again," said Kira, not looking up from her tablet.
"Because it itches."
"It doesn't itch. You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous. Why would I be nervous?"
"You're about to let a stranger ride your body like a rented car."
I threw a pillow at her. She caught it without looking—Kira's reflexes were augmented, which she claimed was for her security job but which I suspected was mostly for winning arguments. "It's not like that. He feels what I feel. That's it. People do it all the time."
"Weird people."
"Fun people. His name's Rex, since you're dying to know."
"That's not a name, that's a furry handle."
"It's what he goes by. He's an upload. They pick new names."
Kira's face did something complicated. We'd both grown up in the same neighborhood, and we both knew people who'd uploaded. The money was good, especially if you were young and healthy—the corps paid premium for clean neural maps—and once you were digital, you didn't need to eat, didn't need rent, didn't need anything. That was the pitch, anyway. The reality was that uploads lived in cut-rate server space and worked shit jobs for corps that owned their runtime. But they got paid upfront, and for a lot of people that was enough.
"I still don't get why you want to do this," Kira said.
"Because it's fucking interesting? Because I have this implant and it can do things and I want to know what they feel like?"
"You could also just not."
"I could also die never having done anything worth talking about. Pass."
Kira shook her head, but she was smiling. She knew me. I'd gotten the implant in the first place because my friends were getting them, and then kept it because of what it could do. Record experiences. Share them. Connect to systems that would've seemed like magic twenty years ago. And now I'd found this forum, and this new thing it could do, and of course I was going to try it.
I'd found the sense-sharing forum three months ago, late one night, clicking through link after link of weird little corners of the net. The idea was simple: uploads missed having bodies, and some people with implants were willing to let them feel things again. You linked up, and for a while, the upload experienced everything you experienced. Touch, taste, temperature. Heartbeat. Breathing. The whole mess of being physical.
The forum had rules and ratings and safety protocols. Rex had a good reputation—articulate, respectful, no complaints. We'd been chatting for weeks. He was funny and a little sad and he never tried to push me into anything, which made me want to push myself.
Tonight was our first real session.
"What are you going to do while he's in there?" Kira asked.
"Get ready for Marco's party. Do my makeup, pick an outfit. Normal stuff."
"So he's going to watch you get dressed."
"He's going to feel me get dressed. That's the whole point."
"And you don't think that's—"
"Hot? Yeah, I do, actually."
Kira laughed, finally, and threw the pillow back at me. "You're a freak."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it. Text me when you get to Marco's so I know you didn't get your brain hijacked by some pervert in a server farm."
"He's not a pervert. He's a person who happens to not have a body anymore. I'm doing a nice thing."
"Uh huh."
"A nice, interesting, slightly perverted thing. Get out of my apartment, I have to go let a stranger feel my tits."
She left laughing, and I locked the door behind her, and then I was alone with my implant and the blinking notification that said Rex was online and ready when I was.
I looked at myself in the hall mirror. Twenty-three. Short—five foot three on a good day, in thick socks. Brown hair I'd been growing out, finally long enough to do something with. Face that was fine, nothing special, but I'd learned how to make it work. Body I'd stopped being embarrassed about somewhere around twenty. Small, compact, feminine in ways I'd never had to think about because it was just how I was built.
Rex was going to feel all of it. Every bit.
I smiled at my reflection, and went to start the link.
---
The linking process was simple. I'd done the tutorial three times just to be sure, but it turned out there wasn't much to it. Open the app, confirm the session, accept the connection.
A little notification: Rex has joined.
And then—
It's hard to describe what it feels like when someone else arrives in your body. There's no physical sensation, no pressure or temperature change. But suddenly I was aware of him, a presence at the edge of my thoughts, attentive and quiet.
Hey, I thought at him.
Hey yourself. His mental voice was warm, a little rough. Thanks for doing this.
Thank me after. You might hate it.
I'm not going to hate it.
I was still standing in front of the hall mirror. I watched my reflection and felt him watching too, felt his attention on my face like a second gaze layered over my own.
So this is you, he said.
This is me.
You're pretty.
I know.
He laughed—not out loud, just a ripple of amusement through the link. Modest, too.
Modest is boring. Come on, I have to get ready.
I walked to the bathroom, suddenly conscious of every step in a way I usually wasn't. The pad of my feet on the hardwood. The slight sway of my hips. The way my thighs brushed together. I didn't usually think about how I walked, but now I was performing it, making it something worth feeling.
Jesus, Rex said. That's—I forgot what floors feel like.
Floors?
Solid. Real. In VR everything's a little soft. A little fake. But this— I felt him paying attention to the sensation of my foot pressing down, the texture of the wood grain. This is real.
Wait until you feel the cold tile.
I stepped into the bathroom and flicked on the lights. The tile was cold, sharp and bright against my soles, and Rex made a sound in my head that was almost a gasp.
Told you.
Do it again.
It doesn't work like that. You can't re-feel something for the first time. I walked further in, letting him experience the contrast—warm wood, cold tile, the little rug in front of the sink. But there's plenty more where that came from.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Harsh lighting, no makeup yet, hair a mess. Most people would've started with a more flattering view. I didn't care.
This is the raw material, I told him. Watch what I do with it.
I'm watching.
I started with my hair. Ran my fingers through it, working out the tangles, and I felt Rex feeling the tug at my scalp, the little prickles of sensation. I took my time. Let him experience the weight of my hair, the way it slid through my fingers.
You have no idea, he said, how much I missed hair.
You don't have hair in VR?
I have the appearance of hair. I can see it, style it, whatever. But there's no sensation. It doesn't pull. It doesn't have weight. A pause. This is going to sound stupid, but I used to dream about brushing my hair. Real dreams, not VR-generated ones. I'd wake up and my scalp would tingle like I'd actually done it, and then I'd remember I don't have a scalp anymore.
I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. I just kept brushing, slow and deliberate, giving him the sensation he'd dreamed about.
After a while I set down the brush and picked up my makeup bag. Foundation first. I dabbed it on, blended it out, watching my reflection become smoother, more even.
I've never seen this from the inside, Rex said. The process.
Most guys haven't.
I'm not most guys.
I glanced at my reflection—at our reflection. No, I guess you're not.
Concealer next, under my eyes and at the corners of my nose. Then powder. I worked efficiently but tried to stay present for him. To notice the soft brush against my cheek, the faint chemical smell of the products.
This part I could do without, Rex said. The smell.
You get used to it.
I don't want to get used to it. I want to experience it.
I paused, brush hovering near my face. There's a difference?
Getting used to something means you stop noticing it. Experiencing something means you notice everything, even the parts that aren't pleasant. His attention shifted, and I felt him focusing on my eyes in the mirror. I've had years to think about what I miss. And it's not just the good stuff. It's the cold tile and the chemical smell and the whole texture of being real.
I went back to my makeup. Eyes now—primer, shadow, liner. This part took focus, and I felt Rex go quiet, just watching. Feeling the tiny brush strokes on my eyelids. The slight tug of the liner pencil.
When I was done with both eyes, I leaned back to check my work.
Well? I asked.
You're better at this than I would be.
Practice. I picked up the mascara, leaned in close to the mirror. Hold still. This part's tricky.
I'm literally incapable of moving.
Funny.
I did my lashes slowly, one eye at a time. The mascara wand was an old friend, but I'd never noticed before how strange the sensation was—the comb of bristles through lashes, the faint resistance, the slight tackiness as the product went on. I noticed now. Rex was noticing, and his attention made me notice too.
There, I said, capping the mascara. Eyes done.
You look different. Still you, but more.
That's the point. I turned my head side to side, checking the symmetry. Lips next, and then I have to figure out what to wear.
I did my lips—liner, then color, then gloss. Rex was fascinated by the texture of it, the slide of the gloss, the way my lips stuck together slightly when I pressed them.
Your mouth tastes like strawberries, he said.
It's the gloss. Don't get too attached.
You said getting used to things is bad.
For you. I have to live with this mouth full-time.
I blotted with a tissue and gave myself one last look. The face in the mirror was still mine, but it was the performance version—the one I showed to the world when I wanted the world to look back.
Okay, I said. Wardrobe time.
I went to my bedroom. Rex's presence had settled into something almost comfortable, a passenger who wasn't quite invisible but wasn't intrusive either. I could forget he was there if I wanted to. I didn't want to.
My closet wasn't huge, but I had options. I stood in front of it, still in the oversized t-shirt I'd been wearing around the apartment, and considered.
What's the occasion? Rex asked.
Party. Friend of a friend. I don't know half the people who'll be there, which means I have to look good enough that they'll want to know me.
Armor.
Exactly.
I pulled out a few options and laid them on the bed. A black dress, tight but not slutty. A red top I'd been meaning to wear more. Jeans that made my ass look good. A skirt I'd impulse-bought and never worn.
What do you think? I asked, and then laughed at myself. Sorry. You can't actually see them separately, can you?
I see what you see. So if you look at them...
I looked. Picked up the black dress, held it against myself in front of the mirror.
That's good, Rex said. Classic.
Classic is another word for boring. I tossed it aside, picked up the red top. This is more fun.
What makes it fun?
It's bright. It's tight. It says "look at me" without having to say anything. I held it up, turned slightly. Plus it makes my tits look amazing.
Does it?
I felt the shift in his attention, the way the word had landed. We'd been dancing around the obvious ever since he'd linked in. I was getting ready to go out, which meant I was about to get undressed, and he was feeling every inch of my body from the inside. Neither of us had acknowledged it directly.
Let's find out, I said, and pulled off my t-shirt.
He inhaled—not a real sound, just a mental gasp, a flare of sudden attention. I was in my bra now, a plain black thing that wasn't special, but it didn't need to be special. What was underneath was special enough.
Fuck, Rex said.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Let him look. The swell of my breasts over the cups, the softness of my stomach, the flare of my hips above my underwear. This was my body. I knew it was good. I knew he thought so too.
You okay in there?
Yeah. I'm—yeah.
I reached back and unhooked my bra.
I did it slowly, not because I needed to, but because I wanted him to feel it. The release of pressure as the band loosened. The straps sliding down my arms. The cool air hitting skin that had been covered.
I let the bra drop.
Paula—
What?
I turned to face the mirror straight on. My breasts weren't huge, but they were nice—full enough to have weight, small enough to not need much support. My nipples were already hardening in the cool air. Or from something else, maybe.
You're doing this on purpose, Rex said.
Doing what?
You know what.
I cupped my breasts, one in each hand. Lifted them slightly, like I was checking the fit of an invisible bra. I felt the weight in my palms, the soft skin, the way my nipples pressed against my fingers.
And I felt Rex feeling it too. His attention was so focused it was almost a physical pressure, a second pair of hands ghosting over mine.
This? I said. I'm just getting dressed.
You're teasing me.
Maybe. I squeezed gently, ran my thumbs across my nipples, felt the little shock of sensation. Is it working?
You know it is.
I smiled at myself in the mirror. At him. Good.
I held the pose for another moment—hands on my breasts, his attention burning through me—and then let my hands trail down my stomach, over my hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of my underwear.
Rex's anticipation spiked. I could feel it like a held breath, like the moment before a drop on a roller coaster.
I pulled my hands away.
Wait—
Gotta get dressed. Party to go to. I picked up the red top and pulled it on in one smooth motion, covering myself before he could object. See? Amazing tits.
I looked at myself again. The top was low-cut enough to show cleavage, tight enough to emphasize the shape. Rex was still reeling, I could tell. His presence felt almost dizzy.
You're cruel, he said.
I'm fun. There's a difference.
Is there?
Cruel would be if I didn't let you feel anything. This way you get to feel everything. I adjusted the neckline, making sure the view was exactly right. You just don't get to decide what you feel.
That's—
That's the deal. You knew that coming in.
He was quiet for a moment. I let him be quiet. Picked up the jeans, considered them, set them aside in favor of the impulse-buy skirt. It was short and black and I'd never had the nerve to wear it.
Tonight felt like a good night for nerve.
I turned away from the mirror—giving him only the sensation, not the view—and slid my underwear down my legs. Plain cotton, not worth keeping. I let Rex experience that: the cool air between my thighs, the vulnerability of being completely bare from the waist down.
I didn't tease this time. Just let him feel it for a moment, the simple reality of nakedness, before I pulled on a better pair of underwear—black lace that matched nothing but looked good—and stepped into the skirt.
How's that? I asked, turning back to the mirror.
You look incredible.
I know.
The skirt was short—mid-thigh, maybe a little higher. When I moved, it moved with me, hinting at what was underneath without revealing anything. Perfect.
Shoes, I said. This is the important part.
I went to my closet and dug out the heels. Black, strappy, four inches. I almost never wore them because they were murder on my feet, but they made my legs look endless and they forced me to walk like I meant every step.
I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped them on, one foot at a time.
Oh, Rex said, and something shifted in him. Something deeper than before, more personal.
What?
Nothing. Just—the heels.
I stood up, wobbling for a second before I found my balance. The shift in posture was immediate: chest out, ass back, weight on the balls of my feet. I took a few steps, getting used to them.
You like this, I said. It wasn't a question.
I—yeah.
More than the other stuff?
He hesitated. I felt him trying to find the words.
It's different, he said finally. The other stuff is—I mean, obviously, your body is incredible—but this is something else. The way you're standing now. The way you have to move. It's so...
Feminine?
Yeah.
I walked to the mirror and back, letting him experience it. The careful steps, the sway of my hips that the heels forced, the way my calves tensed with each stride. My feet were already starting to ache, but I didn't care.
I used to dream about this too, he said quietly. Before I uploaded. I'd see women in heels and I'd think about what it felt like. Not in a creepy way, just—wondering. What's it like to walk like that? To have your body move like that?
And now you know.
Now I know.
I stopped in front of the mirror. My reflection looked good—really good. The kind of good that would turn heads at the party, that would make people want to talk to me.
Thank you, Rex said. For this.
We're not done yet. I grabbed my clutch, checked that I had my keys and phone. You're coming with me.
To the party?
To the party. If you're going to feel what it's like to be a woman, you might as well feel what it's like to be a woman who gets looked at.
I headed for the door, heels clicking on the hardwood. Rex was quiet, but I could feel his anticipation, his gratitude, his hunger for more.
One rule, I said as I reached for the handle.
What?
You feel everything I feel. But I decide what I feel. If I want to dance, you dance. If I want to flirt, you flirt. And if I want to go home with someone—
Paula—
Relax. I'm not going to. Probably. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. But the point is, it's my choice. You're along for the ride. That's it.
I understand.
Good.
I walked to the elevator, hips swaying, heels clicking, feeling his presence like a warm shadow inside my skin.
This was going to be fun.
---
The party was everything I'd expected: loud music, dim lighting, too many people in too little space. Marco's apartment was nice but not nice enough for this crowd, and within ten minutes of arriving I had a drink in my hand and a stranger's elbow in my ribs.
Is it always like this? Rex asked.
Pretty much.
How do you stand it?
I don't stand it. I move through it. I squeezed between two guys arguing about something sports-related and found a slightly less crowded corner. See? Adaptation.
I sipped my drink—vodka soda, nothing fancy—and let him feel the burn of alcohol, the cool wash of carbonation. His attention sharpened at the taste.
That's different, he said.
Bad different?
No, just—alcohol doesn't work in VR. I mean, you can simulate the effects, but the taste is just data. This is chemistry.
This is Smirnoff, which is barely chemistry. I took another sip anyway, for his benefit. Wait until you feel drunk.
Are you planning to get drunk?
I'm planning to have a good time. Sometimes those overlap.
I scanned the room, looking for familiar faces. Kira wasn't here yet; she'd said she might stop by later, but I wasn't counting on it. Marco was holding court somewhere, probably wherever the best speakers were. I spotted a few people I half-recognized—friends of friends, faces from other parties.
A song came on that I liked—something with a heavy bass line and a hook that made my hips want to move—and I pushed off from the wall.
What are you doing?
Dancing.
Here?
Where else? I found a spot on the makeshift dance floor and started to move. Feel this.
Dancing in heels is its own skill. You can't move the way you would in flats; everything's different, from your center of gravity to your ankle flexibility. But if you know what you're doing, you can use the constraints. Let the heels force your hips into a certain sway. Let the height change how you hold yourself.
I knew what I was doing.
Oh, Rex said, and then went quiet.
I danced through one song, then another. Let him feel the movement of my body, the bass vibrating through my chest, the heat building under my skin. People were watching—I could feel their eyes on me, and I let myself enjoy it.
They're looking at you, Rex said.
I know.
Does that—do you like that?
What do you think?
I made eye contact with a guy near the speakers—tall, dark hair, decent face. Held it for a beat, then looked away. Classic move. When I glanced back, he was still watching.
You're good at this, Rex said. At being looked at. At making people want you.
It's not magic. It's just confidence. I spun, letting my skirt flare. Anyone can do it. You just have to believe you're worth looking at.
Easy for you to say.
I heard something in his voice—his mental voice—that made me slow down. Step off the dance floor, find a quieter corner.
What does that mean?
It means you've always had this. The body, the face, the way you move. You don't know what it's like to not have it.
Rex—
I'm not complaining. I'm just— He stopped, and I felt something complicated in him. Envy. Longing. A sadness that went deeper than I'd realized. It's a lot. Being here, feeling this. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring the mood down.
You didn't. I leaned against the wall, giving us both a break from the dancing. But maybe we should talk about it.
About what?
About what you actually want out of this.
Silence. I could feel him weighing how much to say.
I want to feel real, he said finally. That's all. Just for a little while. I want to feel like I'm actually alive, instead of just running.
Running?
That's what being an upload is. You're a program. You run on a server somewhere, and the server belongs to a corporation, and they decide everything—how much processing power you get, what kind of sensory resolution you're allowed, whether you even get to keep existing. You're not a person. You're a process.
That sounds—
It sounds awful because it is awful. His voice was harder now, edged with something raw. But I made my choice. I took the money, I signed the contract, I uploaded. And now this is my existence, and I don't get to complain.
You can complain to me.
Can I?
Obviously. I pushed off the wall, headed for the drinks table. Come on. Let's get another drink and you can tell me everything.
He talked. Not about the party, not about the dancing or the heels or any of the physical sensations—about his life. About the upload process: having his brain scanned and copied, waking up in a virtual space, finding out his original body had already been cremated because the corps didn't keep the meat once they had the data. About the server farms, the endless identical days, the work that was basically being a smarter chatbot for some corporation's customer service line. About the other uploads he knew—the ones who'd given up and requested deletion, the ones who'd found ways to cope, the ones who were still hoping for something better.
And he told me about the thing he'd never told anyone. The reason he'd uploaded in the first place.
I always knew something was wrong, he said. With my body. Not wrong like sick, just wrong like it didn't fit. I'd look in the mirror and see this guy looking back, and I'd think, that's not me. That's not who I'm supposed to be.
You wanted to be a woman.
I didn't have the words for it then. But yeah. I think I always did.
And uploading was supposed to fix that?
Uploading was supposed to let me be whoever I wanted. That's what they told us in recruitment. "In VR, you can be anyone." And they weren't lying. I can have any avatar I want. I can look like a woman, sound like a woman, move like a woman.
But it's not the same.
It's not even close. His voice cracked. Because it's still just data. When I touch something in VR, I'm not really touching it. When I look in the mirror and see a woman, I'm not really seeing myself. I'm seeing a picture. A very convincing, very detailed picture that I can manipulate however I want. But it's not real.
I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.
That's why this matters so much, he said. Feeling your body. Being inside something real. When you put on those heels and looked in the mirror, I saw a woman looking back. An actual woman, in an actual body. And I felt what it was like to be her.
To be me.
To be you. Yeah. A pause. It's the closest I've ever come to being who I'm supposed to be.
I finished my drink. Set the empty glass on a nearby table.
Rex.
Yeah?
Same time next week.
His surprise was warm and sudden. Really?
Really. And we can do it again after that. As many times as you want.
He didn't say anything, but I felt something from him—gratitude, relief, something that might have been tears if uploads could cry.
Now, I said, I'm going to dance some more. Ready?
Ready.
I went back to the dance floor, and we stayed until last call, and when I finally walked home—heels in my hand, bare feet on cold pavement—I felt more alive than I had in months.
That was incredible, Rex said as I let myself into my apartment. Thank you.
Stop thanking me. It's weird.
I can't help it. You gave me something tonight that I didn't know I needed.
I kicked off the heels—my feet screaming with relief—and headed for the bathroom. Started taking off my makeup, watching the performance version of myself dissolve back into the everyday one.
Rex?
Yeah?
Same time next week. I meant it.
I know. A pause. Paula?
Yeah?
I think I might love you a little bit.
I laughed—out loud, not just in my head. You don't love me. You love having a body. There's a difference.
Maybe. But right now it feels like the same thing.
I finished taking off my makeup. Got undressed—letting him feel that too, the relief of getting out of party clothes and into soft pajamas. Brushed my teeth. Fell into bed.
I'm going to disconnect now, I said. Unless you want to feel me sleep.
I wouldn't mind.
Weirdo.
Guilty.
I closed my eyes. Felt myself drifting. And just before I fell asleep, I felt something else: Rex's presence, quiet and watchful, feeling my body relax into unconsciousness.
I should have found it creepy. Instead, I found it comforting.
I slept better than I had in years.
WARNING: This is a very dark, horror story.
In a near-future where neural implants allow consciousness-sharing and mind uploading is commonplace but legally fraught, Paula discovers sense-sharing forums where uploads can temporarily experience physical sensation through willing hosts. What begins as a thrill-seeking adventure becomes an escalating power exchange that ends with Paula trapped in VR, watching a stranger live her life from the inside.
My implant itched.
It didn't actually itch—Dr. Marchetti had explained the phantom sensations when I got it installed, something about the brain mapping unfamiliar hardware onto familiar feelings—but I scratched the back of my neck anyway.
"You're doing it again," said Kira, not looking up from her tablet.
"Because it itches."
"It doesn't itch. You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous. Why would I be nervous?"
"You're about to let a stranger ride your body like a rented car."
I threw a pillow at her. She caught it without looking—Kira's reflexes were augmented, which she claimed was for her security job but which I suspected was mostly for winning arguments. "It's not like that. He feels what I feel. That's it. People do it all the time."
"Weird people."
"Fun people. His name's Rex, since you're dying to know."
"That's not a name, that's a furry handle."
"It's what he goes by. He's an upload. They pick new names."
Kira's face did something complicated. We'd both grown up in the same neighborhood, and we both knew people who'd uploaded. The money was good, especially if you were young and healthy—the corps paid premium for clean neural maps—and once you were digital, you didn't need to eat, didn't need rent, didn't need anything. That was the pitch, anyway. The reality was that uploads lived in cut-rate server space and worked shit jobs for corps that owned their runtime. But they got paid upfront, and for a lot of people that was enough.
"I still don't get why you want to do this," Kira said.
"Because it's fucking interesting? Because I have this implant and it can do things and I want to know what they feel like?"
"You could also just not."
"I could also die never having done anything worth talking about. Pass."
Kira shook her head, but she was smiling. She knew me. I'd gotten the implant in the first place because my friends were getting them, and then kept it because of what it could do. Record experiences. Share them. Connect to systems that would've seemed like magic twenty years ago. And now I'd found this forum, and this new thing it could do, and of course I was going to try it.
I'd found the sense-sharing forum three months ago, late one night, clicking through link after link of weird little corners of the net. The idea was simple: uploads missed having bodies, and some people with implants were willing to let them feel things again. You linked up, and for a while, the upload experienced everything you experienced. Touch, taste, temperature. Heartbeat. Breathing. The whole mess of being physical.
The forum had rules and ratings and safety protocols. Rex had a good reputation—articulate, respectful, no complaints. We'd been chatting for weeks. He was funny and a little sad and he never tried to push me into anything, which made me want to push myself.
Tonight was our first real session.
"What are you going to do while he's in there?" Kira asked.
"Get ready for Marco's party. Do my makeup, pick an outfit. Normal stuff."
"So he's going to watch you get dressed."
"He's going to feel me get dressed. That's the whole point."
"And you don't think that's—"
"Hot? Yeah, I do, actually."
Kira laughed, finally, and threw the pillow back at me. "You're a freak."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it. Text me when you get to Marco's so I know you didn't get your brain hijacked by some pervert in a server farm."
"He's not a pervert. He's a person who happens to not have a body anymore. I'm doing a nice thing."
"Uh huh."
"A nice, interesting, slightly perverted thing. Get out of my apartment, I have to go let a stranger feel my tits."
She left laughing, and I locked the door behind her, and then I was alone with my implant and the blinking notification that said Rex was online and ready when I was.
I looked at myself in the hall mirror. Twenty-three. Short—five foot three on a good day, in thick socks. Brown hair I'd been growing out, finally long enough to do something with. Face that was fine, nothing special, but I'd learned how to make it work. Body I'd stopped being embarrassed about somewhere around twenty. Small, compact, feminine in ways I'd never had to think about because it was just how I was built.
Rex was going to feel all of it. Every bit.
I smiled at my reflection, and went to start the link.
---
The linking process was simple. I'd done the tutorial three times just to be sure, but it turned out there wasn't much to it. Open the app, confirm the session, accept the connection.
A little notification: Rex has joined.
And then—
It's hard to describe what it feels like when someone else arrives in your body. There's no physical sensation, no pressure or temperature change. But suddenly I was aware of him, a presence at the edge of my thoughts, attentive and quiet.
Hey, I thought at him.
Hey yourself. His mental voice was warm, a little rough. Thanks for doing this.
Thank me after. You might hate it.
I'm not going to hate it.
I was still standing in front of the hall mirror. I watched my reflection and felt him watching too, felt his attention on my face like a second gaze layered over my own.
So this is you, he said.
This is me.
You're pretty.
I know.
He laughed—not out loud, just a ripple of amusement through the link. Modest, too.
Modest is boring. Come on, I have to get ready.
I walked to the bathroom, suddenly conscious of every step in a way I usually wasn't. The pad of my feet on the hardwood. The slight sway of my hips. The way my thighs brushed together. I didn't usually think about how I walked, but now I was performing it, making it something worth feeling.
Jesus, Rex said. That's—I forgot what floors feel like.
Floors?
Solid. Real. In VR everything's a little soft. A little fake. But this— I felt him paying attention to the sensation of my foot pressing down, the texture of the wood grain. This is real.
Wait until you feel the cold tile.
I stepped into the bathroom and flicked on the lights. The tile was cold, sharp and bright against my soles, and Rex made a sound in my head that was almost a gasp.
Told you.
Do it again.
It doesn't work like that. You can't re-feel something for the first time. I walked further in, letting him experience the contrast—warm wood, cold tile, the little rug in front of the sink. But there's plenty more where that came from.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Harsh lighting, no makeup yet, hair a mess. Most people would've started with a more flattering view. I didn't care.
This is the raw material, I told him. Watch what I do with it.
I'm watching.
I started with my hair. Ran my fingers through it, working out the tangles, and I felt Rex feeling the tug at my scalp, the little prickles of sensation. I took my time. Let him experience the weight of my hair, the way it slid through my fingers.
You have no idea, he said, how much I missed hair.
You don't have hair in VR?
I have the appearance of hair. I can see it, style it, whatever. But there's no sensation. It doesn't pull. It doesn't have weight. A pause. This is going to sound stupid, but I used to dream about brushing my hair. Real dreams, not VR-generated ones. I'd wake up and my scalp would tingle like I'd actually done it, and then I'd remember I don't have a scalp anymore.
I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. I just kept brushing, slow and deliberate, giving him the sensation he'd dreamed about.
After a while I set down the brush and picked up my makeup bag. Foundation first. I dabbed it on, blended it out, watching my reflection become smoother, more even.
I've never seen this from the inside, Rex said. The process.
Most guys haven't.
I'm not most guys.
I glanced at my reflection—at our reflection. No, I guess you're not.
Concealer next, under my eyes and at the corners of my nose. Then powder. I worked efficiently but tried to stay present for him. To notice the soft brush against my cheek, the faint chemical smell of the products.
This part I could do without, Rex said. The smell.
You get used to it.
I don't want to get used to it. I want to experience it.
I paused, brush hovering near my face. There's a difference?
Getting used to something means you stop noticing it. Experiencing something means you notice everything, even the parts that aren't pleasant. His attention shifted, and I felt him focusing on my eyes in the mirror. I've had years to think about what I miss. And it's not just the good stuff. It's the cold tile and the chemical smell and the whole texture of being real.
I went back to my makeup. Eyes now—primer, shadow, liner. This part took focus, and I felt Rex go quiet, just watching. Feeling the tiny brush strokes on my eyelids. The slight tug of the liner pencil.
When I was done with both eyes, I leaned back to check my work.
Well? I asked.
You're better at this than I would be.
Practice. I picked up the mascara, leaned in close to the mirror. Hold still. This part's tricky.
I'm literally incapable of moving.
Funny.
I did my lashes slowly, one eye at a time. The mascara wand was an old friend, but I'd never noticed before how strange the sensation was—the comb of bristles through lashes, the faint resistance, the slight tackiness as the product went on. I noticed now. Rex was noticing, and his attention made me notice too.
There, I said, capping the mascara. Eyes done.
You look different. Still you, but more.
That's the point. I turned my head side to side, checking the symmetry. Lips next, and then I have to figure out what to wear.
I did my lips—liner, then color, then gloss. Rex was fascinated by the texture of it, the slide of the gloss, the way my lips stuck together slightly when I pressed them.
Your mouth tastes like strawberries, he said.
It's the gloss. Don't get too attached.
You said getting used to things is bad.
For you. I have to live with this mouth full-time.
I blotted with a tissue and gave myself one last look. The face in the mirror was still mine, but it was the performance version—the one I showed to the world when I wanted the world to look back.
Okay, I said. Wardrobe time.
I went to my bedroom. Rex's presence had settled into something almost comfortable, a passenger who wasn't quite invisible but wasn't intrusive either. I could forget he was there if I wanted to. I didn't want to.
My closet wasn't huge, but I had options. I stood in front of it, still in the oversized t-shirt I'd been wearing around the apartment, and considered.
What's the occasion? Rex asked.
Party. Friend of a friend. I don't know half the people who'll be there, which means I have to look good enough that they'll want to know me.
Armor.
Exactly.
I pulled out a few options and laid them on the bed. A black dress, tight but not slutty. A red top I'd been meaning to wear more. Jeans that made my ass look good. A skirt I'd impulse-bought and never worn.
What do you think? I asked, and then laughed at myself. Sorry. You can't actually see them separately, can you?
I see what you see. So if you look at them...
I looked. Picked up the black dress, held it against myself in front of the mirror.
That's good, Rex said. Classic.
Classic is another word for boring. I tossed it aside, picked up the red top. This is more fun.
What makes it fun?
It's bright. It's tight. It says "look at me" without having to say anything. I held it up, turned slightly. Plus it makes my tits look amazing.
Does it?
I felt the shift in his attention, the way the word had landed. We'd been dancing around the obvious ever since he'd linked in. I was getting ready to go out, which meant I was about to get undressed, and he was feeling every inch of my body from the inside. Neither of us had acknowledged it directly.
Let's find out, I said, and pulled off my t-shirt.
He inhaled—not a real sound, just a mental gasp, a flare of sudden attention. I was in my bra now, a plain black thing that wasn't special, but it didn't need to be special. What was underneath was special enough.
Fuck, Rex said.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Let him look. The swell of my breasts over the cups, the softness of my stomach, the flare of my hips above my underwear. This was my body. I knew it was good. I knew he thought so too.
You okay in there?
Yeah. I'm—yeah.
I reached back and unhooked my bra.
I did it slowly, not because I needed to, but because I wanted him to feel it. The release of pressure as the band loosened. The straps sliding down my arms. The cool air hitting skin that had been covered.
I let the bra drop.
Paula—
What?
I turned to face the mirror straight on. My breasts weren't huge, but they were nice—full enough to have weight, small enough to not need much support. My nipples were already hardening in the cool air. Or from something else, maybe.
You're doing this on purpose, Rex said.
Doing what?
You know what.
I cupped my breasts, one in each hand. Lifted them slightly, like I was checking the fit of an invisible bra. I felt the weight in my palms, the soft skin, the way my nipples pressed against my fingers.
And I felt Rex feeling it too. His attention was so focused it was almost a physical pressure, a second pair of hands ghosting over mine.
This? I said. I'm just getting dressed.
You're teasing me.
Maybe. I squeezed gently, ran my thumbs across my nipples, felt the little shock of sensation. Is it working?
You know it is.
I smiled at myself in the mirror. At him. Good.
I held the pose for another moment—hands on my breasts, his attention burning through me—and then let my hands trail down my stomach, over my hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of my underwear.
Rex's anticipation spiked. I could feel it like a held breath, like the moment before a drop on a roller coaster.
I pulled my hands away.
Wait—
Gotta get dressed. Party to go to. I picked up the red top and pulled it on in one smooth motion, covering myself before he could object. See? Amazing tits.
I looked at myself again. The top was low-cut enough to show cleavage, tight enough to emphasize the shape. Rex was still reeling, I could tell. His presence felt almost dizzy.
You're cruel, he said.
I'm fun. There's a difference.
Is there?
Cruel would be if I didn't let you feel anything. This way you get to feel everything. I adjusted the neckline, making sure the view was exactly right. You just don't get to decide what you feel.
That's—
That's the deal. You knew that coming in.
He was quiet for a moment. I let him be quiet. Picked up the jeans, considered them, set them aside in favor of the impulse-buy skirt. It was short and black and I'd never had the nerve to wear it.
Tonight felt like a good night for nerve.
I turned away from the mirror—giving him only the sensation, not the view—and slid my underwear down my legs. Plain cotton, not worth keeping. I let Rex experience that: the cool air between my thighs, the vulnerability of being completely bare from the waist down.
I didn't tease this time. Just let him feel it for a moment, the simple reality of nakedness, before I pulled on a better pair of underwear—black lace that matched nothing but looked good—and stepped into the skirt.
How's that? I asked, turning back to the mirror.
You look incredible.
I know.
The skirt was short—mid-thigh, maybe a little higher. When I moved, it moved with me, hinting at what was underneath without revealing anything. Perfect.
Shoes, I said. This is the important part.
I went to my closet and dug out the heels. Black, strappy, four inches. I almost never wore them because they were murder on my feet, but they made my legs look endless and they forced me to walk like I meant every step.
I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped them on, one foot at a time.
Oh, Rex said, and something shifted in him. Something deeper than before, more personal.
What?
Nothing. Just—the heels.
I stood up, wobbling for a second before I found my balance. The shift in posture was immediate: chest out, ass back, weight on the balls of my feet. I took a few steps, getting used to them.
You like this, I said. It wasn't a question.
I—yeah.
More than the other stuff?
He hesitated. I felt him trying to find the words.
It's different, he said finally. The other stuff is—I mean, obviously, your body is incredible—but this is something else. The way you're standing now. The way you have to move. It's so...
Feminine?
Yeah.
I walked to the mirror and back, letting him experience it. The careful steps, the sway of my hips that the heels forced, the way my calves tensed with each stride. My feet were already starting to ache, but I didn't care.
I used to dream about this too, he said quietly. Before I uploaded. I'd see women in heels and I'd think about what it felt like. Not in a creepy way, just—wondering. What's it like to walk like that? To have your body move like that?
And now you know.
Now I know.
I stopped in front of the mirror. My reflection looked good—really good. The kind of good that would turn heads at the party, that would make people want to talk to me.
Thank you, Rex said. For this.
We're not done yet. I grabbed my clutch, checked that I had my keys and phone. You're coming with me.
To the party?
To the party. If you're going to feel what it's like to be a woman, you might as well feel what it's like to be a woman who gets looked at.
I headed for the door, heels clicking on the hardwood. Rex was quiet, but I could feel his anticipation, his gratitude, his hunger for more.
One rule, I said as I reached for the handle.
What?
You feel everything I feel. But I decide what I feel. If I want to dance, you dance. If I want to flirt, you flirt. And if I want to go home with someone—
Paula—
Relax. I'm not going to. Probably. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. But the point is, it's my choice. You're along for the ride. That's it.
I understand.
Good.
I walked to the elevator, hips swaying, heels clicking, feeling his presence like a warm shadow inside my skin.
This was going to be fun.
---
The party was everything I'd expected: loud music, dim lighting, too many people in too little space. Marco's apartment was nice but not nice enough for this crowd, and within ten minutes of arriving I had a drink in my hand and a stranger's elbow in my ribs.
Is it always like this? Rex asked.
Pretty much.
How do you stand it?
I don't stand it. I move through it. I squeezed between two guys arguing about something sports-related and found a slightly less crowded corner. See? Adaptation.
I sipped my drink—vodka soda, nothing fancy—and let him feel the burn of alcohol, the cool wash of carbonation. His attention sharpened at the taste.
That's different, he said.
Bad different?
No, just—alcohol doesn't work in VR. I mean, you can simulate the effects, but the taste is just data. This is chemistry.
This is Smirnoff, which is barely chemistry. I took another sip anyway, for his benefit. Wait until you feel drunk.
Are you planning to get drunk?
I'm planning to have a good time. Sometimes those overlap.
I scanned the room, looking for familiar faces. Kira wasn't here yet; she'd said she might stop by later, but I wasn't counting on it. Marco was holding court somewhere, probably wherever the best speakers were. I spotted a few people I half-recognized—friends of friends, faces from other parties.
A song came on that I liked—something with a heavy bass line and a hook that made my hips want to move—and I pushed off from the wall.
What are you doing?
Dancing.
Here?
Where else? I found a spot on the makeshift dance floor and started to move. Feel this.
Dancing in heels is its own skill. You can't move the way you would in flats; everything's different, from your center of gravity to your ankle flexibility. But if you know what you're doing, you can use the constraints. Let the heels force your hips into a certain sway. Let the height change how you hold yourself.
I knew what I was doing.
Oh, Rex said, and then went quiet.
I danced through one song, then another. Let him feel the movement of my body, the bass vibrating through my chest, the heat building under my skin. People were watching—I could feel their eyes on me, and I let myself enjoy it.
They're looking at you, Rex said.
I know.
Does that—do you like that?
What do you think?
I made eye contact with a guy near the speakers—tall, dark hair, decent face. Held it for a beat, then looked away. Classic move. When I glanced back, he was still watching.
You're good at this, Rex said. At being looked at. At making people want you.
It's not magic. It's just confidence. I spun, letting my skirt flare. Anyone can do it. You just have to believe you're worth looking at.
Easy for you to say.
I heard something in his voice—his mental voice—that made me slow down. Step off the dance floor, find a quieter corner.
What does that mean?
It means you've always had this. The body, the face, the way you move. You don't know what it's like to not have it.
Rex—
I'm not complaining. I'm just— He stopped, and I felt something complicated in him. Envy. Longing. A sadness that went deeper than I'd realized. It's a lot. Being here, feeling this. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring the mood down.
You didn't. I leaned against the wall, giving us both a break from the dancing. But maybe we should talk about it.
About what?
About what you actually want out of this.
Silence. I could feel him weighing how much to say.
I want to feel real, he said finally. That's all. Just for a little while. I want to feel like I'm actually alive, instead of just running.
Running?
That's what being an upload is. You're a program. You run on a server somewhere, and the server belongs to a corporation, and they decide everything—how much processing power you get, what kind of sensory resolution you're allowed, whether you even get to keep existing. You're not a person. You're a process.
That sounds—
It sounds awful because it is awful. His voice was harder now, edged with something raw. But I made my choice. I took the money, I signed the contract, I uploaded. And now this is my existence, and I don't get to complain.
You can complain to me.
Can I?
Obviously. I pushed off the wall, headed for the drinks table. Come on. Let's get another drink and you can tell me everything.
He talked. Not about the party, not about the dancing or the heels or any of the physical sensations—about his life. About the upload process: having his brain scanned and copied, waking up in a virtual space, finding out his original body had already been cremated because the corps didn't keep the meat once they had the data. About the server farms, the endless identical days, the work that was basically being a smarter chatbot for some corporation's customer service line. About the other uploads he knew—the ones who'd given up and requested deletion, the ones who'd found ways to cope, the ones who were still hoping for something better.
And he told me about the thing he'd never told anyone. The reason he'd uploaded in the first place.
I always knew something was wrong, he said. With my body. Not wrong like sick, just wrong like it didn't fit. I'd look in the mirror and see this guy looking back, and I'd think, that's not me. That's not who I'm supposed to be.
You wanted to be a woman.
I didn't have the words for it then. But yeah. I think I always did.
And uploading was supposed to fix that?
Uploading was supposed to let me be whoever I wanted. That's what they told us in recruitment. "In VR, you can be anyone." And they weren't lying. I can have any avatar I want. I can look like a woman, sound like a woman, move like a woman.
But it's not the same.
It's not even close. His voice cracked. Because it's still just data. When I touch something in VR, I'm not really touching it. When I look in the mirror and see a woman, I'm not really seeing myself. I'm seeing a picture. A very convincing, very detailed picture that I can manipulate however I want. But it's not real.
I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.
That's why this matters so much, he said. Feeling your body. Being inside something real. When you put on those heels and looked in the mirror, I saw a woman looking back. An actual woman, in an actual body. And I felt what it was like to be her.
To be me.
To be you. Yeah. A pause. It's the closest I've ever come to being who I'm supposed to be.
I finished my drink. Set the empty glass on a nearby table.
Rex.
Yeah?
Same time next week.
His surprise was warm and sudden. Really?
Really. And we can do it again after that. As many times as you want.
He didn't say anything, but I felt something from him—gratitude, relief, something that might have been tears if uploads could cry.
Now, I said, I'm going to dance some more. Ready?
Ready.
I went back to the dance floor, and we stayed until last call, and when I finally walked home—heels in my hand, bare feet on cold pavement—I felt more alive than I had in months.
That was incredible, Rex said as I let myself into my apartment. Thank you.
Stop thanking me. It's weird.
I can't help it. You gave me something tonight that I didn't know I needed.
I kicked off the heels—my feet screaming with relief—and headed for the bathroom. Started taking off my makeup, watching the performance version of myself dissolve back into the everyday one.
Rex?
Yeah?
Same time next week. I meant it.
I know. A pause. Paula?
Yeah?
I think I might love you a little bit.
I laughed—out loud, not just in my head. You don't love me. You love having a body. There's a difference.
Maybe. But right now it feels like the same thing.
I finished taking off my makeup. Got undressed—letting him feel that too, the relief of getting out of party clothes and into soft pajamas. Brushed my teeth. Fell into bed.
I'm going to disconnect now, I said. Unless you want to feel me sleep.
I wouldn't mind.
Weirdo.
Guilty.
I closed my eyes. Felt myself drifting. And just before I fell asleep, I felt something else: Rex's presence, quiet and watchful, feeling my body relax into unconsciousness.
I should have found it creepy. Instead, I found it comforting.
I slept better than I had in years.
1
4.8K
0
0
Loading...
The First Session in Sense Share
by
ArtificialFox
· 02 Jan 2026
Paula links Rex in while getting ready for a party. He experiences her body's sensations—brushing hair, applying makeup, choosing clothes—while she teases and performs for him. She shows off her body while denying him real exploration, enjoying the power. Rex is overwhelmed by the reality of physical sensation after years in VR.
4.8K
0
0
Loading...