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Stacey and her team are chosen to fight an alien invasion
mind control possession transformation Futanari Superheroes body horror Body merge possession body merge scatological
by
smatster
· 18 Oct 2025
Stacey as team captain learns a new way to command her team
mind control
+3 more
1.4K
1
0
by
smatster
· 21 Oct 2025
Stacey uses her closeness to gain strength & control
possession
+3 more
752
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0
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Oblivious
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
1
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437
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Will and Claire become close to their siblings in a very intimate sense
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
body swap
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Vega's BEAUTIFUL face is destroyed by Chun Li so he replaces it.
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
body swap
+2 more
3
4.0K
327
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A witch is invited to a college party and offers a special game of Beer Pong. It is a very special version of hooking up.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
possession
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A man has intimate encounters with a Genie
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
magic
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This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
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Stacey and her team are chosen to fight an alien invasion
mind control possession transformation Futanari Superheroes body horror Body merge possession body merge scatological
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· 18 Oct 2025
Stacey as team captain learns a new way to command her team
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Oblivious
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
I wake up. Or rather, we do.
The ceiling is unfamiliar for a split second, but then it clicks. The faint, geometric pattern of shadows from the blinds. The smell of old takeout and clean laundry. Tyler’s bedroom. This is his room. His consciousness, a dense, unyielding weight, fills the entire space of our shared awareness. There is no room for me, Ashley, to be anything but a shiver at the edges, a silent observer encased in the amber of his will.
He sits up. The sheets are his—dark gray, practical. They fall away, and he looks down at our body. His head, with his own familiar face—the strong jaw, the stubble, his short, brown hair—turns on a neck that connects to a landscape that is not his. From the collarbones down, it is all me. Soft, full breasts, curved hips, the gentle swell of a belly. He sees only his body. A possession, whole and complete. He swings his legs—my legs—over the side of the bed and stands.
He walks to his closet and pulls out his clothes. A pair of worn boxer briefs, which he steps into. They conform perfectly. A pair of his favorite jeans. The denim simply fits, the waistband sitting low on my hips, the fabric magically accommodating the fuller curve of my backside. A plain white crewneck sweatshirt goes on next. It settles over my chest, the soft cotton draping without pulling. He runs a hand through his own hair and gives a satisfied grunt. The sound is his, that rough, gravelly noise from his own mouth.
In the kitchen, he makes coffee. He moves with his own familiar, slightly slouched confidence. To any outside eye, he is just Tyler. A guy in his sweatshirt and jeans, maybe looking a little softer than usual, but nothing to remark upon. The magic of the court’s ruling does its work seamlessly; people see Tyler, and their minds simply accept the form as his.
At the gym, he heads for the free weights. He sets up for deadlifts. His form is aggressive, practiced. The sweatshirt rides up slightly as he bends, exposing a sliver of my lower back.
"Tyler! Sup, man?"
It’s Mike. He claps Tyler on the shoulder, his gaze friendly and utterly normal. He doesn’t stare at the hips in the jeans or the chest under the sweatshirt. He sees his buddy Tyler, working out.
"Mike. Just getting after it," Tyler says, his voice that low, steady rumble.
"Looking strong," Mike says, and he means it. He doesn’t see a woman’s body. He sees Tyler lifting weight. He wanders off after a bit more chat, completely at ease.
Later, in the men’s locker room shower, Tyler strips off his sweatshirt and jeans, hanging them up. He showers in just the boxer briefs, as is his habit. The hot water soaks the thin cotton, making it cling. Men are around him, showering, talking about their weekends. No one stares. No one nudges anyone. One guy even says, "Pass the soap, Ty?" as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see Tyler’s familiar face above the wet, clinging fabric outlining full breasts and rounded hips. He is just a guy in the shower. Tyler soaps up, washes his short hair, rinses off. He is utterly at home.
He towels off and gets dressed. His phone buzzes. A text from Emma.
Still on for tonight?
He texts back, Yeah. My place? Confirmation comes quickly.
That evening, his apartment is tidy, music playing low. He’s changed into a tight, black Henley and another pair of his perfect jeans. The Henley stretches over my breasts, the buttons at the placket pulling slightly. His face, so familiar and male, is relaxed, handsome.
When Emma arrives, she smiles warmly. "Hey, you." She steps in, giving him a quick hug. Her eyes sweep over him with clear appreciation, but it’s the appreciation of a woman looking at a man she’s attracted to. She sees Tyler. Charming, solid Tyler. The body, the clothes—they’re just part of him. There’s no confusion in her gaze, only interest.
"Hey, Em," he says, and kisses her cheek. Her perfume is sweet, familiar.
They talk easily. He is his direct, confident self. She is flirtatious, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him. She sees the man she’s had a thing for, for months. There is no puzzle to solve, no contradiction to untangle. The magic holds perfectly.
He kisses her, there in his living room. It’s a deep, confident kiss. Her hands slide up his chest, under the Henley, her palms finding the heavy, soft weight of my breasts. She moans into his mouth, her thumbs circling my nipples.
"Tyler," she breathes, the name full of desire.
He leads her to his bedroom. His bed. He pulls the Henley up and over his head. My breasts fall free, full and heavy. Emma’s gaze is hot, adoring. She pushes him back onto the bed and leans down, her mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. Her other hand kneads the other breast. He groans, a low, masculine sound of pleasure.
His hands go to his jeans, undoing them, pushing them and the boxer briefs down. He is completely exposed now, his face flushed with arousal above the naked female body.
Emma shifts lower, settling between my legs, her intent clear. She is going to go down on him. On Tyler. Her Tyler.
She looks down, her breath warm on my skin. And then she freezes.
Her eyes, which had been hazy with lust, sharpen. They focus. They see. Not just a body, but the specific details. The thatch of dark curls. The glistening folds. The complete, undeniable absence of any male anatomy. This is not a man’s body. This is…
Ashley’s.
The realization hits her like a physical blow, a silent thunderclap in the quiet room. Her best friend Ashley’s body. The curve of the hips she’s seen in jeans, the birthmark just inside the thigh she’s noticed at the pool. This is Ashley, laid bare beneath Tyler’s head, under Tyler’s command.
A violent, electric thrill shoots through Emma, so intense it steals her breath. Her secret, private attraction—not just to Tyler, but to Ashley too, that simmering, unacknowledged thing she’s pushed down for years—ignites into a roaring flame. Tyler has Ashley. And he has no idea. And he’s offering this to her.
She looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his head back, waiting for her touch. He is completely oblivious. He thinks she sees him, just him.
A fierce, possessive glee tightens her chest. This is her secret. Hers alone.
She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her heart hammering. Her mission changes. It’s no longer just about pleasing Tyler. It’s about claiming this, about exploring this impossible, stolen intimacy.
Her tongue finds my opening. It’s slick and ready. And then she pushes.
Not a lick. An entry. A deliberate, broad, stretching penetration. Her tongue spears into me, and the stretch is immediate and profound. My tight inner walls yield, parting around the relentless, wet pressure of her muscle. She feels Ashley’s body open for her, and the knowledge that it is Ashley’s makes the sensation a thousand times more potent. She holds the pressure, stretching the soft passage wide around the width of her tongue, feeling the intimate, hot clasp of her friend around her.
She pulls back and plunges in again, deeper. A raw, guttural sound tears from Tyler’s throat. "Fuck, Emma."
She works her tongue in and out, each penetration a slow, deliberate stretch, fucking Ashley open with her mouth. The wet, sucking sounds are loud. Emma is lost in a dual worship: of Tyler’s blissful ignorance above, and of Ashley’s helpless, stretched body below. The burning fullness she’s creating is her secret triumph.
She pulls back, her lips slick. "I need more of you," she pants, the truth of the statement echoing in her skull. More of Ashley. More of this.
She adds a finger, pressing the tip alongside her tongue at the stretched, slick entrance. The dual pressure is immense. She pushes them in together—the firm, probing digit and the relentless, muscular tongue.
The stretch is catastrophic, sublime. Ashley’s body arches off the bed. Emma scissors her finger slowly inside, stretching the tender, yielding flesh of her best friend even wider, while her tongue curls and presses against it from within. The burning, perfect dilation is a conquest. Tyler is chanting, "Yes, yes, give it to me," his voice a broken, masculine litany.
And Emma is silent, her secret knowledge a fire in her blood. She is stretching Ashley open in Tyler’s bed, under Tyler’s command, witnessed by Tyler’s face. Every deep, penetrating thrust of her tongue and finger is a claim staked on the tight, hot passage of the woman she’s secretly desired, a communion with the soul she knows is trapped within, soothed only by the oblivious, proud calm of the man she loves, who wears his own head on borrowed flesh, and who offers up every soft, stretched, conquered inch of what he has made, never knowing the double gift he has given her. She will never tell. This secret, this perfect, twisted intimacy, is hers forever.
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Will and Claire become close to their siblings in a very intimate sense
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
The morning light was harsh through the blinds, slicing across the rumpled bed. Claire blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, medicinal ache. Something warm and soft was pressed against her. She looked down.
Amy was nestled in her arms, asleep, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Except… Claire’s arms were thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, and the body she held was decidedly male. The firm plane of a chest, the coarse hair on a forearm. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Amy?” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. It came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher.
The body in her arms stirred. Blue eyes, so like Will’s, fluttered open. They widened in instant, sheer panic. “Frank? What the hell? Why are you… holding me?” The voice was high, melodic. Amy’s voice. But the tone was all Will—confused, irritable, direct.
Claire—in Frank’s body—pushed herself up on her elbows. Past the tangle of Amy’s blond hair, she saw the closet mirror. The reflection showed Frank’s familiar, lean frame, his own dark hair mussed from sleep, his bandaged arms wrapped around a petite, curvy Amy. But Amy’s face was contorted in a terror that wasn’t hers.
“Will?” Claire breathed, the name feeling foreign in this new throat. “Is that you in there?”
The person in Amy’s body scrambled back, the sheets pooling around a waist that was suddenly, distressingly narrow. “Claire? What did you call me?” He—Will—looked down at himself, at the pronounced swell of his sister’s breasts beneath the thin cotton sleep shirt, and his hands flew to his throat. “That’s my… this is Amy’s voice. What is this?”
“I think… I think I’m you,” Claire said, the reality of it dawning with a sick, dizzying weight. She swung Frank’s legs—her legs—out of bed. The movement was all wrong, the center of gravity shifted, a heavy, unfamiliar weight swinging between her thighs. She ignored it, for now. “The accident. The goodbye. Don’t you remember?”
Will—in Amy—stood up shakily. He looked down at his new body, his hands hovering over the generous curves. “I remember you… you and me, in the car. Crushed. Then nothing. Then waking up here, smothered by my little brother.” He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the new flesh quiver. “This isn’t right. This is Amy.”
“And this is Frank,” Claire said, staring at Frank’s hands—her hands—as she flexed them. “We’re in our siblings. Our spouses’ siblings.” The sheer, grotesque improbability of it threatened to swallow her. But the throbbing in her bandaged arms was real. The discharge papers on the nightstand were real.
They found them, the crisp hospital printout. Franklin Miller, contusions, lacerations. Amy Miller, contusions, mild concussion. The names were wrong, but the injuries mapped. They had been patched up and sent home, two souls crammed into the wrong, aching containers.
Wordlessly, they moved to the kitchen, the beach house silent except for the distant crash of Pacific waves. The medical instructions said to clean and re-dress the wounds. They worked in a stunned quiet, Claire clumsily winding fresh gauze around Will-Amy’s slender forearm, Will using Amy’s delicate fingers to secure the wrap on Claire-Frank’s broader bicep with a efficiency that was utterly his own.
“We need to shower,” Will said finally, his voice tight. “We’re covered in road grit and… and whatever else.”
Claire nodded. It was practical. A step. They stood in the master bathroom, a spacious tiled room with a large glass-walled shower. The silence grew thick.
“Just… get it over with,” Will muttered, not looking at her. He—in Amy’s body—peeled the sleep shirt over his head, revealing Amy’s full, pale breasts. He froze, his breath catching, his face a mask of profound disorientation. Claire watched, a strange, detached part of her noting how Will’s shock did nothing to diminish the natural, ripe beauty of the form he now wore.
Swallowing hard, Claire turned her attention to Frank’s clothes. The jeans were awkward, the button fly an unfamiliar puzzle for her fingers. She got them open, pushed them down Frank’s hips. The boxer briefs followed. And there it was.
Frank’s penis, soft and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. It was… there. A presence. A weight. She stared at it, this alien appendage that was now, technically, hers. The core of her being, Claire, recoiled. But the body she inhabited didn’t. There was a low, curious hum of sensation, a connection to the thing that was both deeply wrong and undeniably physical.
Will had stripped completely now, standing naked by the sink. He was staring into the mirror, at Amy’s face, with a kind of horrified fascination. His hands skimmed over the dramatic hourglass curve of the hips, the soft swell of the stomach. “God,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” Claire said, her new voice gruff. “Just… don’t think. Clean. That’s all.”
They stepped into the shower together, a bizarre and intimate pantomime of their old married life. The water was hot, a welcome shock. Claire let it sluice over Frank’s broad shoulders, watching as Will soaped Amy’s body with a clinical, hurried desperation. The suds slid over smooth skin, over curves that Will had only ever seen on his sister from a detached, brotherly distance. Now he was mapping them with his own, stolen hands.
Claire’s own washing was more hesitant. The soap slid over Frank’s chest, flat and hard. Down the taut stomach. Her hand, wrapped in plastic to protect the bandages, hesitated again at the groin. She had to clean it. It was just a body part. A piece of biology.
She touched it. Frank’s flaccid penis was soft, vulnerable in her grip. She washed it quickly, the soap slick, her mind screaming the wrongness of it. But as her fingers moved, a jolt went through her—through Frank’s body. A thick, gathering tension. A flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the shower. She gasped, and the thing in her hand began to change, to swell and stiffen, lengthening and thickening in a way that was utterly, overwhelmingly male.
In the mirror of her mind, she was still Claire. But the sensation… the sensation was a deep, insistent pulse, a claiming of blood and flesh that centered entirely on that stretching, hardening shaft. It felt powerful. It felt hungry.
She looked up, water streaming down Frank’s face, and met Will’s eyes. He had seen. He was staring, not at her face, but lower, at the clear, hard evidence of the body’s response. In his own new body, Amy’s body, a sympathetic flush spread across the chest and throat.
“It’s… it’s just the heat,” Claire stammered, the excuse weak even to her own ears.
Will didn’t answer. He was looking down now, at Amy’s body. At the space between her legs. His expression was one of dawning, awful comprehension. “It would… it would stretch,” he said, his voice hollow. “Wouldn’t it? If we… that would stretch this.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The image was there, brutal and visceral: the thick, hard length of Frank, of the penis Claire now felt twitching in her hand, pushing into the tight, small space that was now his.
The thought should have revolted him. It should have revolted her. But standing there in the steam, with the water beating down on their stolen, aching forms, it didn’t. It hummed between them, a forbidden current. A terrible, logical next step. The body Claire was in throbbed with a need that was entirely about filling a space, about the profound, physical truth of fit and stretch. And the body Will was in, for all his mental horror, seemed to soften in response, a faint, unfamiliar ache blooming low in Amy’s belly.
They finished rinsing in silence, the air crackling with things unsaid. They toweled off, avoiding each other’s eyes, avoiding looking too long at the reflections in the fogged-up glass. They were two people, stranded in the wrong skins, with the ghosts of their spouses between them and a terrifying, tantalizing new physics of flesh beckoning from the shadows of their own home.
body swap
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Vega's BEAUTIFUL face is destroyed by Chun Li so he replaces it.
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
A reimagining of 'Palette Swap' by Team Lady Valiant & FarhadTG
The final kick landed with a sickening crack. My heel connected squarely with Vega's porcelain mask, shattering it—and the bone beneath—with a sound like splintering china. He went down hard, clutching his ruined face, blood seeping between his perfect fingers. For a moment, there was only his ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.
Then he started to laugh.
"Beautiful... so beautiful..." he gurgled through the wreckage of his jaw, his once-perfect features now a jigsaw puzzle of gore and ceramic shards. His free hand fumbled at his belt, producing a small device I recognized from Bison's labs. "But beauty... can be transferred."
"No—!" I lunged forward, but too late. He pressed the trigger.
The world exploded in white light and static. I felt myself falling, spinning, my consciousness ripping away from my body like silk tearing. When I could see again, I was looking up at the ceiling from the floor, my perspective completely wrong. Vega's hands—my hands now—rose into view. Long-fingered and pale. I touched my face and felt bandages, surgical tape, the swollen flesh beneath.
Across from me, Vega—now wearing my body—stood staring down at itself with wide, hungry eyes. He immediately grabbed the neckline of my qipao top and tore it open, exposing the breasts I'd known my whole life as if seeing them for the first time. "Exquisite," he breathed in my voice, a sound so wrong it made my stomach turn. He cupped them, his fingers—my fingers once—squeezing the weight of them with obscene fascination.
"Three days later."
The words felt surreal to even think. Three days of surgery, of recovery, of Vega preening and parading in my skin while I lay in his bed, trapped in his broken body. I shifted against silk sheets that smelled of roses and blood, trying to find a position that didn't send agony lancing through Vega's four fractured ribs—my fractured ribs now.
The bedroom door opened. Vega entered—not the Vega I'd fought, but the Vega who now wore my face and form. He'd styled my hair into his signature braid, the dark ropes hanging over one shoulder. My breasts—his breasts now—were completely exposed, moving with a bounce and weight I intimately understood but had never witnessed from this angle. His nipples, my nipples once, were hard on my former breasts and already healed into them was a matching version of Vega's serpent tattoo, coiling around his left breast.
He wore the ceremonial trousers of a matador in murrey and yellow, so tight they might have been painted on. Every curve of what had been my hips, my ass, my thighs—his now—was outlined in devastating detail. The white leggings hugged his calves, the red sash cinched his waist, and the loafers clicked softly on the marble floor. There was no shirt, no vest, no modesty whatsoever.
"How are we feeling today, my beautiful monster?" he purred in my voice, running his hands down his bare torso, fingers tracing the new tattoo. "I've been breaking in your body. The flexibility is... inspiring."
I pushed myself up on Vega's arms—my arms now—so much stronger than my own had been, but currently useless thanks to the ribs. I wore the masculine version of my Street Fighter Alpha outfit: an embroidered vest that strained across his broad shoulders, a navy unitard that did nothing to hide the evidence of my new anatomy, athletic shoes, and studded wristbands. My face was still wrapped in bandages, Napoleon's guise hiding the damage I'd inflicted.
"You're a psychopath," I rasped, his voice grating in my throat.
"I'm an artist," he corrected, striking a pose that made his—my breasts once—lift and press together. "And I've finally achieved my masterpiece. The face I was always meant to have, the body I've coveted for years. But..." He frowned, touching his bandaged visage on my body. "I still need to fix this. Your brutality marred perfection."
Despite everything, despite the pain and violation, I felt a strange heat pooling in my new groin as I watched him touch what had been my face. My old body was undeniably beautiful, even under his control. And his body... I flexed Vega's powerful thighs—my thighs now—felt the weight of different muscles, the tightness of the unitard against an erection I hadn't asked for.
His eyes—my eyes once—caught the movement. "Ah, I see my husband is adjusting. Good." He began to pace, each step deliberate, making my former hips sway. "I've been thinking, my love. About our arrangement. You gave me this gift, this perfect vessel. And I realized something." He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on what had been my hips. "I'm in love. With you. With the fighter who broke me, who made this possible."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He smiled with my lips, then reached down and began to touch himself through the impossibly tight matador trousers. "But watch how your former body responds to the truth." One hand squeezed his breast—the weight of it filling his palm perfectly—while the other rubbed slow circles between his legs. "I've been touching myself constantly, wife. Learning every secret you kept hidden. Did you know you could get this wet?"
He turned, presenting the profile of my former body, and I watched in horrified fascination as his fingers worked faster. The trousers were so tight I could see the outline of his hand, the way the fabric pulled and strained. He was getting wet—I could smell it, that familiar scent from a foreign source, and the dark patch spreading across the murrey fabric.
"Vega, stop—" I protested, but my new voice was weak.
"Why? This is as much yours as mine now." He approached the bed, leaning over my new crotch, my former breasts—his breasts now—swaying. "Let me show you what I've learned as your wife."
His hands moved to my unitard, and before I could protest, he tore the reinforced fabric between my legs with shocking ease. Vega's cock sprang free, already hard and throbbing. I gasped at the sensation—so different, so urgent.
"Beautiful," he whispered, taking it in my former hands. "Just like the rest of your husband."
Then he leaned forward and pressed my erection between his breasts—the breasts I'd once soaped in the shower, the breasts that had fit into specific sports bras, the breasts that were now his to wield as mother to my fatherhood. The sensation was overwhelming. He squeezed them together, creating a channel of soft, yielding flesh, and began to move.
"Watch," he commanded in my voice, looking down at me with my own dark eyes—his eyes now. "Watch what you made of your wife."
He worked faster, the gold rings in his nipples glinting, his braid swinging with each motion. The pleasure built in this unfamiliar body, coiling tighter and tighter. When he lowered his mouth to the tip and took me—Vega—between my own lips—his lips now—I couldn't hold back.
The orgasm ripped through me, a different kind of explosion than any kick or punch. He swallowed, his throat working in a way I'd never felt, then released me with a satisfied smile. Vega's cock—my cock now—still twitched, half-hard and sensitive.
"There," he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of my former hand. "Now we understand each other, husband."
I was panting, each breath sending pain through Vega's ribs—my ribs now. "More," I managed, hips still twitching with aftershocks. "I want..."
"Shhh." He leaned close, my former breasts—his breasts now—pressing against the vest covering his old chest. "Your body is still healing. I had to have extensive reconstructive surgery on your face, you know. These ribs need time." He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against skin that was his but now mine: "We have all the time in the world, my love. When you're whole again, your wife will take you so much further."
He kissed the bandages covering Vega's ruined features—my ruined features now—then rose from the bed, adjusting his trousers with a satisfied smile. My body left the room with his swagger, the door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed back against the pillows, remembering as Vega removed his breasts from my half-hard penis, the wetness left behind cooling in the air. My mind reeled with the obscene intimacy of what we'd just done. Three days in, and I was already lost, already thinking of this monster in my skin as "my wife." How many more until I didn't want to find my way back?
body swap
+2 more
3
4.0K
327
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A witch is invited to a college party and offers a special game of Beer Pong. It is a very special version of hooking up.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
The silence in the room was thick enough to chew. All eyes were locked on Keisha and the impossible sight of Tai’s arms buried deep within her. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, her body trembling not with fear, but with volcanic rage.
“Maybe I can dig it out with my other hand?” Tai offered, his voice muffled and strained from inside her.
“TAI! DON’T YOU DA—” Keisha’s command was obliterated by a guttural, choking scream as his second hand plunged in after the first, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching with an audible, wet sssskkkrtch to accommodate the double intrusion. Inside, the sensation was beyond anything she could have conceived. It wasn't just a presence; it was a colonizing force. She could feel the precise shape of his fingers, the rough texture of his palms as they brushed against her most intimate internal walls, exploring, mapping her from the inside out. A hot, full pressure began to build deep in her core, a feeling of being packed, filled beyond her limits.
“Vivian,” Keisha hissed, her voice dripping with venom, every word a struggle. “There is currently a Korean man wedged shoulder deep in my anal cavity. Would you PLEASE do something about it before he explodes out through my stomach?”
Vivian’s eyes lit up with demonic glee. “Oooh, do something about it?! I thought you’d never ask!” She practically skipped behind Keisha, placing her small foot squarely on the small of Tai’s back, the only part of him still visible.
The kick wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. With a sound like a giant cork being pulled from a bottle of thick oil, followed by a deep, resonant FWUMP, Tai’s torso was suddenly propelled inward. Keisha’s eyes shot wide, then instantly rolled back into her head, a strangled grunt the only protest she could muster as her body accepted the violation. Her glorious, sculpted ass cheeks quivered violently before clapping together with a final, wet smack, sealing Tai completely inside her. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, her body humming with the shock of the intrusion.
Then, the real transformation began.
A distinct bulge, the unmistakable outline of a man’s face, pushed against the tight, toned skin of her lower abdomen. Keisha looked down, her horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers. “Wha— what is that?” she gasped, her hands flying to the protrusion. As she touched it, the face within seemed to smile, stretching her skin grotesquely.
The rest of Tai followed in a relentless, internal avalanche. She felt him bundling into her stomach, a tangle of limbs and mass forcing her midsection to distend outward. Her flat, hard-won abs disappeared, replaced by a bloated, pregnant dome that strained her skin. Inside, it was a maelstrom. Tai, disoriented and panicked, began to thrash. His knees jerked, and Keisha’s legs buckled involuntarily. His elbows flailed, and her arms spasmed at her sides. She stumbled, a marionette with a frantic puppeteer trapped inside her, emitting a series of choked yelps and moans with every involuntary movement.
“You said you were going to help!” Keisha accused Vivian, her voice wavering as she struggled to remain upright.
Vivian just blinked. “I did help you. Is he still stuck?”
Keisha’s mental struggle was a silent scream in a dissolving prison. My body! This is MY body! she thought, a mantra of defiance. But with every thrash, Tai’s consciousness seeped into her nerves, his confusion and panic becoming her own. She felt his legs, strong and muscular, sliding into the length of her own. It was a horrifying, stretching sensation, like her bones were being remolded. Her thighs, already powerful, gained a new, thicker solidity. Her calves tightened. And then, with a final, psychic click, control of her legs was severed from her brain and handed over to his. He was in charge of moving them now.
The loss of autonomy was more terrifying than the physical invasion. She tried to command her legs to step forward, but they remained rooted. Instead, Tai, blindly seeking leverage, forced them to collapse.
She fell backward, her enormous new ass—now the seat of his consciousness—thudding onto the carpet with a jiggle that sent a shockwave through her frame. The impact seemed to energize him. Using the new-found anchor of her lower body, he began to push upward, trying to climb out of the fleshy well of her torso.
Keisha’s upper body was dragged across the floor, her back arching, her head lolling. She was a passenger, forced to feel every graze of the carpet, every powerful, uncoordinated jerk. Next, his arms slipped into hers. The feeling was one of overwhelming fullness; her biceps and forearms thickened, gaining a lean, wiry strength that was entirely his. Her hands, once her own, now felt alien, their movements his impulses.
The final assault was on her head. The bulging face in her stomach began its ascent, tunneling up through her organs, a relentless pressure moving up her diaphragm, between her lungs, pushing her breasts aside. She could feel the shape of his nose, his lips, his brow ridge moving up through her core. Her neck distended, a grotesque balloon animal version of itself as his head forced its way into the column. She arched her back, a final, desperate attempt to keep her own head above the rising tide of him, her eyes locking with Vivian’s in a final promise of vengeance.
“Remember, bitch. I WILL get you back for this.”
It was her last coherent thought. His skull pressed up against the base of her own, and with a final, full-body spasm that was entirely his doing, he merged. It was like a key turning in a lock. Her consciousness didn’t vanish; it was simply… submerged, pushed into a tiny, dark corner of her own mind. She was aware, but she was no longer in control. She could only watch, a ghost in her own machine, as her eyes—his eyes now—snapped open.
“Holy shit, was that a ride!” The voice that came from her mouth was Tai’s—his cadence, his excited pitch—but filtered through Keisha’s softer vocal cords, creating a strange, androgynous sound. He sat up, using her hands to grab a fistful of her own wispy raven hair, his amazement palpable. “Thank god I landed on this bean bag when I fell though, I’d hate to damage the goods before I got to sample them!” He chuckled, patting the generous curve of her ass beneath him.
From the corner, Danny, still lounging on the actual beanbag, piped up. “But dude, I’m on the bean bag! You didn’t land on anything bro. That’s just Keisha’s…”
A look of dawning, ecstatic comprehension spread across Keisha’s features—Tai’s expressions now. “OH SWEET MOSES!” he exclaimed, the voice a perfect blend of his shock and her tone. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—with an agility that was all his. His hands, her hands, flew to the monumental cheeks he’d just been sitting on, groping and kneading the flesh with ravenous disbelief.
The sensation was double-layered: Tai’s euphoric discovery and, buried deep within, Keisha’s mortified, screaming silence as she felt her own hands violating her in ways she never had. He shook his—their—hips, watching in a nearby reflective surface as the jiggle propagated in a wave of mesmerizing motion.
“Is this what she feels ALL THE TIME!” he whooped, his laughter echoing in the silent, stunned room. Inside, Keisha fought, a desperate mental push against a wall of overwhelming control. She tried to scream, to regain a muscle, but was pulled into Tai. She was no longer separate but now a part of Tai. Her body was no longer hers. It was now Taisha’s. And Taisha was thrilled.
possession
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A man has intimate encounters with a Genie
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
I could feel her warmth wrapping around me, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through both of us. Her name—if genies even have names—was Lila, and she was everything I’d ever dreamed of: fierce, magical, impossibly beautiful. Her dark eyes locked with mine, her lips parted in a breathless moan as I moved inside her.
“I wish you were always with me,” I breathed into the space between us, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I felt her tighten around me, her body shuddering with the beginnings of her climax. At the same moment, my own release surged through me, hot and overwhelming.
That’s when she snapped her fingers.
A soft, shimmering light enveloped her, and before my eyes, Lila began to dissolve—not into nothing, but into swirls of violet and gold smoke. The scent of jasmine and ozone filled the air. Panic shot through me as her form evaporated, the smoke curling like living tendrils, spiraling downward, drawn inexorably toward my still-throbbing cock.
“What the—?” I choked out, but it was too late.
The smoke poured into me, a strange, tingling sensation flooding my veins. My penis swelled, heavier, fuller than it had ever felt, almost unnaturally so. I stared down, half-expecting to see something grotesque, but it looked… normal. Except for the faint, shimmering glow just beneath the skin.
Then her voice—Lila’s voice—echoed not from the air around me, but from somewhere deep inside.
“Mmm, much cozier than a lamp,” she purred, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
I stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, heart hammering against my ribs. “Lila? Where are you? What did you do?”
Her laugh was a soft vibration that seemed to ripple through my entire body. “You wished for me to always be with you, my dear. And a wish is a wish.” She sounded utterly pleased with herself. “Consider me… relocated.”
“Relocated?” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You’re inside my… my…”
“Your magnificent new vessel, yes,” she finished for me, her tone light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a bother. Well, not unless you want me to be.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at my own body. “How do I get you out?”
“The usual way, of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A genie must be released from her vessel by the one who possesses it. All it takes is a rub—a good, firm, intentional one—and I’ll manifest. Though I must say,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m rather enjoying the view from in here.”
I could feel her presence like a warmth pooling low in my belly, a constant, intimate hum. Part of me was terrified. The other part… well, the other part was already imagining what it might be like the next time I “rubbed” her out.
“So,” I said slowly, my hand hovering uncertainly near my hip. “Any time I… touch myself… you’ll come out?”
Her laughter vibrated through me again, warm and rich. “Only if you mean it, my dear. But I have a feeling you will.”
And just like that, my life got a whole lot more interesting.
magic
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This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
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Chapter by
smatster · 21 Oct 2025 -
Stacey uses her closeness to gain strength & control
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The following week brought a new monster, this one a lumbering creature composed of writhing, doughy tentacles that shot globs of sticky frosting. Its Planet Fitness minions chanted about "cheat days" as they slicked the school's football field with an impossibly slippery glaze. We fought, a whirlwind of color and motion, but our individual attacks just seemed to make it... sweeter. Finally, we managed a combined energy blast that made it stumble, and just as before, it began to grow, swelling into a five-story tall walking bakery disaster.
I slapped the Megazord belt around my waist. Time froze.
This time, I was ready. My eyes went straight to Chloe. Pink. My first friend on the squad, always so bubbly and bright. But lately, I’d noticed a new tension in her eyes when she looked at me, a mixture of awe and something else… something like longing.
She floated toward me, her eyes glazed, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Instead of both legs going to separate teammates, Nagai's voice whispered in my mind, "Your connection deepens. Anchor yourself to one. Make her your foundation."
Understanding clicked into place. As Chloe drifted closer, I guided my right leg toward her. Her mouth opened, not in a scream, but in a silent, willing gasp. My foot slid past her lips, down her throat. The sensation was even more intense than the first time, more personal. I felt the delicate muscles of her esophagus constrict around my calf, a warm, velvet embrace that went on and on until my foot settled deep within her, a part of her now. Her two legs became my one, a pillar of strength.
The others assembled as before: Zoe (Purple) taking my left leg, Hannah and Maya my arms, and Brianna sealing herself to my chest. But the connection with Chloe was different. It was dominant. I could feel her more distinctly—the quick, fluttery beat of her heart, the subtle shift of her weight. When I thought to step forward, it was Chloe’s body that initiated the movement, her muscles firing in perfect, obedient sync with my will. As I looked at her she morphed until I had a giant human right leg. She was no longer just a component; she was my leg.
Time restarted. The giant cupcake monster hurled a blob of frosting the size of a minivan.
"Pink Leg, pivot!" I commanded, not out loud, but through the link.
The response was instantaneous. Chloe’s body twisted, carrying our entire form into a graceful, powerful spin that avoided the attack seamlessly. It was like dancing with a perfect partner who anticipated my every move.
"Whoa! That was smooth!" Hannah's voice chirped from my right arm, though she had no conscious control.
We fought, but it felt like a dance. Every kick was an extension of Chloe’s power, fueled by my intent. I felt a surge of possession, a thrilling intimacy. She was mine in a way the others weren't yet. I was inside her, controlling her, and she was responding with a eager, submissive strength.
After a series of powerful, leg-driven kicks that shattered the monster's candy-shell armor, it wobbled, weakened.
"FINISHER!" I yelled.
We leaped, a soaring arc that was all grace and power, a testament to the perfect union of my will and Chloe’s body. We came down, and just like before, Brianna’s divine softness enveloped the monster's head, silencing its gurgling shrieks. It dissolved into a cloud of sweet-smelling sparkles.
The belt clicked. The world flashed.
I was back on the field, standing close to Chloe. She stumbled slightly, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. Her face was flushed, her breathing rapid.
"Stacey," she murmured, her eyes wide and dazed. "I... I had the weirdest dream. I felt so... connected to you. Like we were one person." She blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it. "It felt... really good."
I smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and put my arm around her. "We are connected, Chloe. More than you know."
She looked up at me, that same mix of awe and submission in her eyes, now sharper, more real. She didn't remember the details, but her body remembered. Her spirit remembered belonging to me.
The others were cheering, high-fiving, oblivious. But Chloe stayed by my side, her grip on my shoulder tightening just a little. One down. Four to go. The Megazord was taking shape, and with each battle, I would claim another piece of it. Another piece of them.
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