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Your friend Michelle discovers that she can astral project, but you don't believe her at first. To prove it to you, she decides to swap spirits with her cat, and the proof is pretty convincing! However, when Michelle leaves to explore the world for an hour in the cat's body, things take an unexpected twist with the cat in her body....
body swap Astral Projection Cat
by
Selimf18
· 02 Jan 2026
Your friend Michelle discovers that she can astral project, but you don't believe her at first. To prove it to you, she decides to swap spirits with her cat, and the proof is pretty convincing! However, when Michelle leaves to explore the world for an hour in the cat's body, things take an unexpected twist with the cat in her body....
body swap
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Short story about a man who moves to Miami and has his life body stolen by a maintenance man when they accidentally swap bodies after a head collision.
The humid Miami air clung to my skin as I adjusted to my new life in the city. My one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy, with a view of palm trees swaying outside my window. At 25, I was young, single, and—according to my friends—lucky enough to turn heads. But none of that mattered when I locked eyes with her at a café near Little Havana.
May.
Her name tasted like honey on my tongue. A stunning Cuban woman with curves that defied gravity, dark eyes that smoldered, and a smile that could melt steel. The moment I saw her, I knew I had to ask her out. And when she said yes, my heart nearly exploded.
There was just one problem: my Spanish was nonexistent.
The night before our date, I was pacing my apartment, rehearsing the few phrases I’d Googled—“Hola, guapa. ¿Quieres bailar?”—when the ceiling fan sputtered and died.
Great.
I called maintenance, and within an hour, a gruff, heavyset Mexican man named Ernesto showed up at my door. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and resentment, his white tank top straining over his gut as he grumbled about his wife under his breath.
“Fan’s broken,” he muttered, climbing the ladder with the grace of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.
I nodded, distracted, when my phone buzzed.
A text from May.
A picture.
My breath hitched. She’d sent a selfie in the dress she was wearing tomorrow—tight, red, and sinful. My fingers hovered over the screen, my pulse racing, when—
CRASH.
Ernesto lost his balance. The ladder wobbled. His arms flailed.
And then—impact.
Our skulls collided with a sickening crack, and everything went black.
---
I woke up disoriented.
The room was different. The clothes were different. And—wait—why was the calendar three weeks ahead?
Before I could process it, the bedroom door swung open.
May.
She stood there in a sundress so short it was practically a suggestion, her hips swaying as she sauntered toward me. A slow, knowing smirk curled her lips as she purred something in Spanish—words I didn’t understand but felt deep in my gut.
My confusion must’ve been obvious because she laughed, a rich, throaty sound, before dropping to her knees.
And then—
Oh. My. God.
The best. Blowjob. Of my life.
When she finally pulled away, licking her lips, she whispered in perfect English, “Tomorrow, we go meet my parents, okay?” Then she winked and strutted out, leaving me dazed, confused, and very satisfied.
But the moment she left, the door swung open again.
Ernesto.
His eyes locked onto mine, and his face drained of color.
“No… no, no, no,” he gasped before bolting like a man possessed.
May poked her head back in. “Who was that?”
I shrugged, my mind racing.
But I needed answers.
---
I tracked Ernesto down at his shitty apartment complex, cornering him in the dimly lit hallway.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
He looked like a man who’d seen a ghost. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he whispered.
“Wake up?!”He swallowed hard. “When we hit heads… I woke up in your body. My body was just… empty. Like a shell.” His voice dropped. “I saw the text from May. The date. I—I went. I speak Spanish. She loved it. We… we’ve been together since.”
My stomach twisted. “You’ve been what?”
“Fucking her,” he admitted, shame and excitement warring in his eyes. “I’d swap back and forth—your body, mine—so I could escape my wife and still be with her. But now you’re here, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
I stared at him, my blood boiling.
This bastard had been living my life.
Touching my woman.
And now?
Now I had a choice to make.
The air between Ernesto and me crackled with tension. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my mind racing with the implications of what he’d just confessed.
He’d been inside my body.
He’d touched May.
He’d lived my life.
A surge of possessive fury burned through me, but beneath it, something else flickered—curiosity.
“So,” I said slowly, stepping closer, “you’re telling me that when we hit heads, you swapped into my body? And you’ve been… switching back and forth?”
Ernesto nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Sí. Your body—it’s like a car. I get in, I drive, then I go back to mine when I’m done.”
I scoffed. “And my body just… waits for you?”
“Exactamente.” He shrugged. “When I’m not in it, it’s just… empty. Like a puppet with no strings.”
My jaw tightened. The idea of my body being used—violated—without my consent made my skin crawl. But then, another thought slithered into my mind.
What if I could do the same?
I crossed my arms. “Show me.”
Ernesto blinked. “¿Qué?”
“Show me how it works,” I demanded. “If you can jump into my body, then I should be able to jump into yours.”
His face paled. “No, no, hombre—it’s not that simple—”
“Bullshit.” I grabbed his wrist, my grip iron-tight. “You stole my life. The least you can do is teach me how to do the same.”
For a long moment, Ernesto just stared at me, his dark eyes flickering with fear… and something else. Resignation.
Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But you’re not gonna like it.”
---
Back in my apartment, Ernesto paced nervously. “It only works when we’re close,” he muttered. “And it hurts.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”
He hesitated, then pointed at the couch. “Sit. And… brace yourself.”
I sat, my heart pounding. Ernesto stood in front of me, his thick fingers flexing like he was preparing for a fight.
Then—
He slammed his forehead into mine.
CRACK.
White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision swam, the room tilting violently—
And then…
Darkness.
---
I woke up with a gasp—but something was wrong.
My hands were thicker, rougher. My gut heavy.
I looked down.
White tank top. Jeans. A gold chain around my neck.
Ernesto’s body.
“Holy shit,” I breathed—but the voice that came out was his. Deep, accented.
Across from me, my body stirred.
Ernesto—now in me—groaned, rubbing his (my?) forehead. Then he looked up, and our eyes met.
A slow, wicked grin spread across my face.
“See?” he said, flexing my fingers. “Now you know.”
Disgust twisted in my gut—but so did something else. Power.
If he could do it…
So could I.
I stood, testing the weight of Ernesto’s body. It was strange—like wearing a suit two sizes too big. But the strength was undeniable.
And then—
The door opened.
May.
Her eyes lit up when she saw me—or rather, my body—sitting there.
“Hola, papi,” she purred, strutting over to him like I wasn’t even there.
My blood boiled.
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to my lips—his lips—her fingers tangling in my hair.
And I was just… standing there.
Invisible.
Forgotten.
A growl ripped from my throat.
May pulled back, frowning at me. “Ernesto? What’s wrong with you?”
Wrong?
Everything was wrong.
But now…
Now I knew how to fix it.
I lunged.
May screamed as I tackled my own body to the ground, our skulls colliding with another sickening CRACK—
And the world went black again.
---
When I opened my eyes, I was back.
My hands. My body.
And May beneath me, her lips swollen from kissing me—the real me.
Her eyes widened. “James?”
The moment May stepped out of the apartment, the air between Ernesto and me grew thick with tension. I ran a hand through my hair—my hair again—and exhaled sharply.
"Alright," I said, turning to Ernesto, who was still rubbing his temple from the last headbutt. "We need to talk."
He scowled but didn't argue.
"I need you to do something for me," I said, keeping my voice low. "Tonight—May wants me to meet her parents. But I can't speak Spanish, and I don’t want to embarrass her."
Ernesto’s eyebrows shot up. "¿En serio? You want me to go?"
I nodded. "Just for the dinner. You go as me, charm them, then we swap back after."
A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. "And what do I get out of it?"
My jaw tightened. "You get to keep using my body whenever you want—within reason. But there’s one condition."
He waited.
"You don’t sleep with May."
Ernesto barked a laugh. "Cabrón, you think I can resist that?" He gestured toward the door where May had just left.
I grabbed his collar, shoving him against the wall. "Yes. Because if you don’t, I swear to God, I’ll make sure your wife finds out exactly where you’ve been disappearing to."
His smirk faltered.
After a tense silence, he finally relented. "Está bien. Fine. No sex. Just dinner."
I released him, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt. "Good. Now get ready. You’ve got a date."
---
The swap was easier this time—just a quick, brutal knock of our foreheads, and suddenly, I was staring at myself again.
Ernesto—now in my body—adjusted my shirt, flashing me a cocky grin.
Ernesto—now wearing my body—with a low, dangerous growl.
“Listen carefully,” I hissed, jabbing a finger into my own chest. “You will be on your best behavior tonight. You will charm her parents. And you will not touch her after.”Ernesto smirked, running my hands down my torso in a way that made my skin crawl. “Relax, güey. I got this.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I snapped. “You think this is some kind of game? You ruin this for me—”
“And what?” He laughed. “You’ll tell her the truth? ‘Oh hey, May, by the way, your novio is really a baldy maintenance man in a stolen body!’” His voice dripped with mocking. “Face it, hermano. You need me.”
I wanted to strangle him. Instead, I took a deep breath.
“One date,” I said through gritted teeth. “Then we swap back. No funny business.”
Ernesto rolled my eyes but nodded. “Sí, sí. No funny business.”---
From the window of my apartment, I watched them leave. May looped her arm through mine, laughing at something he said—something in perfect Spanish, no doubt. The way she looked at him—no, at me—sent a vicious pang of jealousy through my gut.
That should’ve been me walking her to the car.
That smile should’ve been for me.
I clenched the windowsill until my knuckles turned white.
Just get through tonight, I told myself. Then you get your life back.
---
Three hours later, the sound of the front door opening jolted me from my pacing.
“We’re back!” May’s musical voice called.
I rushed into the living room—and froze.
May was pressed against my body—Ernesto—her hips grinding into him as his hands roamed shamelessly over her curves. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her dark eyes hooded with lust.
“Ay, papi,” she purred, biting his—my—ear. “Take me to bed.”
Ernesto smirked—smirked—right at me over her shoulder.
You promised, I mouthed, fury burning in my chest.
His grin widened. Then he hoisted May over his shoulder like a prize, her giggles bouncing off the walls as they disappeared into the bedroom.
A second later, the first moan cut through the air.
Hers.
Then his.
I stood there, shaking.
Traitor. Liar.
I could’ve barged in. I could’ve screamed.
But what would I say?
That’s not me in there!
She’d think I was insane.
So I did the only thing I could.
I sat on the couch.
And I listened.
Every gasp. Every groan. Every filthy, throaty cry May made for him—for my body.
It should’ve been me.
My fists clenched.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, but the sounds—those goddamn sounds—continued to seep through the thin walls. May's breathy moans. The creak of the bedframe. Ernesto's gruff voice, my voice, whispering things in Spanish I couldn't understand but knew were filthy.
I gripped the armrest of the couch, my nails digging into the fabric. Every muscle in my body was tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
I wanted to kick down the door. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was sit there—trapped in Ernesto’s body, stuck on the sidelines of my own fucking life.
A particularly loud cry from May sent a jolt of white-hot anger through me. That was supposed to be mine.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stormed out onto the balcony, gulping the humid Miami air like it could cleanse my rage. The city lights blurred in front of me, my thoughts spinning.
How the hell was I going to fix this?
→ I could try to force another swap—but Ernesto was in my body now. Stronger. Younger. If I charged in there and we fought... May would see. She'd think I was attacking her.
→ I could wait. Let him finish. Maybe he'd keep his word and swap back after. Yeah, right.
→ Or… I could take matters into my own hands. Permanently.
The balcony railing groaned as I leaned against it. Below, the pool shimmered under ultraviolet lights. A dark fantasy flickered in my mind—Ernesto, my body, slipping on wet tiles. Hitting his head. Another accident.
Before I could follow that thought further, the bedroom door creaked open.
I turned.
May stood there in the doorway, draped in nothing but one of my old T-shirts—just long enough to tease the bare skin of her thighs. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were red and swollen.
She looked satisfied.
My stomach turned.
"Ernesto?" Her brow furrowed. "What are you doing out here?"
Ernesto. The name was a punch to the gut.
"Just... needed some air," I muttered, hating the gravel in his voice.
May bit her lip, glancing back toward the bedroom. "James is, uh... resting." A blush crept up her neck, and I knew exactly what kind of 'rest' he was getting.
I swallowed hard. "You two had a good night?"
She smiled—that smile. The one I'd been dreaming about since the day we met. "The best. His parents loved him. And then..." She trailed off, eyes glazing over with memory. My chest ached.
Before she could say more, my voice called from inside.
"Mi vidaaaaa, where'd you go?"
May grinned. "Gotta go." She turned, then hesitated. "Hey... you okay? You seem... off."
I forced a laugh. "Just tired."
She nodded and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
A second later, laughter spilled out. His.
That was it.
I wasn't playing this game anymore.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found her number—Ernesto's wife.
One ring. Two.
"¿Hola?"
I took a deep breath.
"Señora Rodriguez? You might want to come to my apartment. Your husband is here... and you won't believe what he's been doing with my body."
I hung up before she could reply.
Back inside, the sounds of passion had started up again.
But not for long.
The knock at the door came less than twenty minutes later - hard and impatient. I'd know that knock anywhere.
Marisol Rodriguez.
I rubbed my hands together (Ernesto's thick, calloused hands) and hurried to answer. The moment I opened the door, I was nearly knocked backward by the force of Marisol's fury.
"¿DÓNDE ESTÁ?" she demanded, dark eyes blazing. She was a beautiful woman - all dangerous curves and fire - but right now, she looked ready to kill.
I stepped aside. "Master bedroom."
She stormed past me in a whirlwind of floral perfume and righteous anger, platform sandals slapping against the tile. I followed closely behind, my heart pounding with equal parts guilt and anticipation.
The moans grew louder as we approached.
Marisol froze outside my bedroom door, her face twisting in fury. Without hesitation, she swung the door open with a violent crash.
The sight that greeted us was exactly what I expected. May on her back, legs wrapped around my body, sheets tangled around their waists. They froze mid-thrust, identical looks of horror dawning on their faces.
"MARISOL?!" Ernesto's voice cracked.
May scrambled backwards, clutching the sheets to her chest. "James? What the hell? Who is-?"
Marisol didn't say a word. She just smiled - slow and venomous. Then she reached into her designer purse and pulled out a glass bottle of holy water.
Ernesto's eyes went wide. "No, mujer, wait-"
She uncorked it with her teeth and flung the contents straight at his face.
The effect was instantaneous. Ernesto - in my body - screamed as the water hit his skin and began sizzling. His arms flailed as his back arched unnaturally, my body spasming against the mattress.
May screamed, falling off the bed in her scramble to escape. "WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
Marisol crossed herself. "Demonio. I knew it wasn't really my husband."
Smoke began rising from my body's pores as Ernesto thrashed, his screams taking on an unnatural, echoing quality.
And then - with one final, guttural wail - he separated.
A translucent, ghostly version of Ernesto was ejected from my body, hovering mid-air before collapsing into a shimmering puddle on the floor that slowly dissolved into nothing.
My body slumped onto the bed, unmoving.
Complete silence.
Then May scrambled to her feet, naked and terrified, grabbing for her clothes. "What the FUCK was that?!"
Marisol calmly recorked her now-empty bottle. "El Diablo takes many forms, mija." She turned to me - still in Ernesto's body - and tilted her head. "Now. About you..."
I held up my hands. "Marisol, I promise, I'm-"
She reached into her purse again.
I dove for my motionless body on the bed just as she flung another spray of holy water.
CRACK.
Pain exploded through my skull as my forehead connected with my body's.
Darkness.
Then - the feeling of fitting again.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my body - my real body. Down on the floor, Ernesto groaned, back in his own form.
Marisol grabbed her husband by the ear and yanked him upright. "We're leaving. Now."
As she dragged a groggy Ernesto toward the door, she turned back to me and May with a smirk. "You're welcome."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Silence again.
May slowly turned to me, clutching her dress to her chest. "James... what the actual fuck just happened?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Somehow "my maintenance man possessed my body to date you because he was in a bad marriage and now we might both be cursed" didn't seem like the right answer.
So I went with:
"...Miami is weird?"
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then smacked me hard across the face.
"You're goddamn right," she muttered, stalking toward the bathroom. "And you're never sleeping with me again."
The bathroom door slammed.
Alone again.
I rubbed my stinging cheek and sighed.
Worth it.
→ Epilogue →
Three Months Later
The apartment AC hummed as I adjusted my tie in the mirror. First day at my new job - no more staring at Ernesto's ugly mug in the maintenance hallways.
A knock at the door.
I checked the peephole.
And nearly swallowed my tongue.
May stood there in a tight pink dress, arms crossed, looking pissed.
I opened the door slowly. "Uh. Hey?"
She glared. "You owe me dinner."
"...I do?"
"Correct." She shoved a stack of papers into my chest. Every single one was a Spanish workbook. "And you're going to learn real Spanish. Not whatever that pendejo was speaking."
I blinked. Then grinned so wide my cheeks hurt.
"Si, mi amor."
She rolled her eyes. "Dios mío. That's not even the right context." But she was smiling as she pushed past me into the apartment.
Life was good.
And Miami?
Miami was still very weird.
The humid Miami air clung to my skin as I adjusted to my new life in the city. My one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy, with a view of palm trees swaying outside my window. At 25, I was young, single, and—according to my friends—lucky enough to turn heads. But none of that mattered when I locked eyes with her at a café near Little Havana.
May.
Her name tasted like honey on my tongue. A stunning Cuban woman with curves that defied gravity, dark eyes that smoldered, and a smile that could melt steel. The moment I saw her, I knew I had to ask her out. And when she said yes, my heart nearly exploded.
There was just one problem: my Spanish was nonexistent.
The night before our date, I was pacing my apartment, rehearsing the few phrases I’d Googled—“Hola, guapa. ¿Quieres bailar?”—when the ceiling fan sputtered and died.
Great.
I called maintenance, and within an hour, a gruff, heavyset Mexican man named Ernesto showed up at my door. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and resentment, his white tank top straining over his gut as he grumbled about his wife under his breath.
“Fan’s broken,” he muttered, climbing the ladder with the grace of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.
I nodded, distracted, when my phone buzzed.
A text from May.
A picture.
My breath hitched. She’d sent a selfie in the dress she was wearing tomorrow—tight, red, and sinful. My fingers hovered over the screen, my pulse racing, when—
CRASH.
Ernesto lost his balance. The ladder wobbled. His arms flailed.
And then—impact.
Our skulls collided with a sickening crack, and everything went black.
---
I woke up disoriented.
The room was different. The clothes were different. And—wait—why was the calendar three weeks ahead?
Before I could process it, the bedroom door swung open.
May.
She stood there in a sundress so short it was practically a suggestion, her hips swaying as she sauntered toward me. A slow, knowing smirk curled her lips as she purred something in Spanish—words I didn’t understand but felt deep in my gut.
My confusion must’ve been obvious because she laughed, a rich, throaty sound, before dropping to her knees.
And then—
Oh. My. God.
The best. Blowjob. Of my life.
When she finally pulled away, licking her lips, she whispered in perfect English, “Tomorrow, we go meet my parents, okay?” Then she winked and strutted out, leaving me dazed, confused, and very satisfied.
But the moment she left, the door swung open again.
Ernesto.
His eyes locked onto mine, and his face drained of color.
“No… no, no, no,” he gasped before bolting like a man possessed.
May poked her head back in. “Who was that?”
I shrugged, my mind racing.
But I needed answers.
---
I tracked Ernesto down at his shitty apartment complex, cornering him in the dimly lit hallway.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
He looked like a man who’d seen a ghost. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he whispered.
“Wake up?!”He swallowed hard. “When we hit heads… I woke up in your body. My body was just… empty. Like a shell.” His voice dropped. “I saw the text from May. The date. I—I went. I speak Spanish. She loved it. We… we’ve been together since.”
My stomach twisted. “You’ve been what?”
“Fucking her,” he admitted, shame and excitement warring in his eyes. “I’d swap back and forth—your body, mine—so I could escape my wife and still be with her. But now you’re here, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
I stared at him, my blood boiling.
This bastard had been living my life.
Touching my woman.
And now?
Now I had a choice to make.
The air between Ernesto and me crackled with tension. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my mind racing with the implications of what he’d just confessed.
He’d been inside my body.
He’d touched May.
He’d lived my life.
A surge of possessive fury burned through me, but beneath it, something else flickered—curiosity.
“So,” I said slowly, stepping closer, “you’re telling me that when we hit heads, you swapped into my body? And you’ve been… switching back and forth?”
Ernesto nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Sí. Your body—it’s like a car. I get in, I drive, then I go back to mine when I’m done.”
I scoffed. “And my body just… waits for you?”
“Exactamente.” He shrugged. “When I’m not in it, it’s just… empty. Like a puppet with no strings.”
My jaw tightened. The idea of my body being used—violated—without my consent made my skin crawl. But then, another thought slithered into my mind.
What if I could do the same?
I crossed my arms. “Show me.”
Ernesto blinked. “¿Qué?”
“Show me how it works,” I demanded. “If you can jump into my body, then I should be able to jump into yours.”
His face paled. “No, no, hombre—it’s not that simple—”
“Bullshit.” I grabbed his wrist, my grip iron-tight. “You stole my life. The least you can do is teach me how to do the same.”
For a long moment, Ernesto just stared at me, his dark eyes flickering with fear… and something else. Resignation.
Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But you’re not gonna like it.”
---
Back in my apartment, Ernesto paced nervously. “It only works when we’re close,” he muttered. “And it hurts.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”
He hesitated, then pointed at the couch. “Sit. And… brace yourself.”
I sat, my heart pounding. Ernesto stood in front of me, his thick fingers flexing like he was preparing for a fight.
Then—
He slammed his forehead into mine.
CRACK.
White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision swam, the room tilting violently—
And then…
Darkness.
---
I woke up with a gasp—but something was wrong.
My hands were thicker, rougher. My gut heavy.
I looked down.
White tank top. Jeans. A gold chain around my neck.
Ernesto’s body.
“Holy shit,” I breathed—but the voice that came out was his. Deep, accented.
Across from me, my body stirred.
Ernesto—now in me—groaned, rubbing his (my?) forehead. Then he looked up, and our eyes met.
A slow, wicked grin spread across my face.
“See?” he said, flexing my fingers. “Now you know.”
Disgust twisted in my gut—but so did something else. Power.
If he could do it…
So could I.
I stood, testing the weight of Ernesto’s body. It was strange—like wearing a suit two sizes too big. But the strength was undeniable.
And then—
The door opened.
May.
Her eyes lit up when she saw me—or rather, my body—sitting there.
“Hola, papi,” she purred, strutting over to him like I wasn’t even there.
My blood boiled.
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to my lips—his lips—her fingers tangling in my hair.
And I was just… standing there.
Invisible.
Forgotten.
A growl ripped from my throat.
May pulled back, frowning at me. “Ernesto? What’s wrong with you?”
Wrong?
Everything was wrong.
But now…
Now I knew how to fix it.
I lunged.
May screamed as I tackled my own body to the ground, our skulls colliding with another sickening CRACK—
And the world went black again.
---
When I opened my eyes, I was back.
My hands. My body.
And May beneath me, her lips swollen from kissing me—the real me.
Her eyes widened. “James?”
The moment May stepped out of the apartment, the air between Ernesto and me grew thick with tension. I ran a hand through my hair—my hair again—and exhaled sharply.
"Alright," I said, turning to Ernesto, who was still rubbing his temple from the last headbutt. "We need to talk."
He scowled but didn't argue.
"I need you to do something for me," I said, keeping my voice low. "Tonight—May wants me to meet her parents. But I can't speak Spanish, and I don’t want to embarrass her."
Ernesto’s eyebrows shot up. "¿En serio? You want me to go?"
I nodded. "Just for the dinner. You go as me, charm them, then we swap back after."
A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. "And what do I get out of it?"
My jaw tightened. "You get to keep using my body whenever you want—within reason. But there’s one condition."
He waited.
"You don’t sleep with May."
Ernesto barked a laugh. "Cabrón, you think I can resist that?" He gestured toward the door where May had just left.
I grabbed his collar, shoving him against the wall. "Yes. Because if you don’t, I swear to God, I’ll make sure your wife finds out exactly where you’ve been disappearing to."
His smirk faltered.
After a tense silence, he finally relented. "Está bien. Fine. No sex. Just dinner."
I released him, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt. "Good. Now get ready. You’ve got a date."
---
The swap was easier this time—just a quick, brutal knock of our foreheads, and suddenly, I was staring at myself again.
Ernesto—now in my body—adjusted my shirt, flashing me a cocky grin.
Ernesto—now wearing my body—with a low, dangerous growl.
“Listen carefully,” I hissed, jabbing a finger into my own chest. “You will be on your best behavior tonight. You will charm her parents. And you will not touch her after.”Ernesto smirked, running my hands down my torso in a way that made my skin crawl. “Relax, güey. I got this.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I snapped. “You think this is some kind of game? You ruin this for me—”
“And what?” He laughed. “You’ll tell her the truth? ‘Oh hey, May, by the way, your novio is really a baldy maintenance man in a stolen body!’” His voice dripped with mocking. “Face it, hermano. You need me.”
I wanted to strangle him. Instead, I took a deep breath.
“One date,” I said through gritted teeth. “Then we swap back. No funny business.”
Ernesto rolled my eyes but nodded. “Sí, sí. No funny business.”---
From the window of my apartment, I watched them leave. May looped her arm through mine, laughing at something he said—something in perfect Spanish, no doubt. The way she looked at him—no, at me—sent a vicious pang of jealousy through my gut.
That should’ve been me walking her to the car.
That smile should’ve been for me.
I clenched the windowsill until my knuckles turned white.
Just get through tonight, I told myself. Then you get your life back.
---
Three hours later, the sound of the front door opening jolted me from my pacing.
“We’re back!” May’s musical voice called.
I rushed into the living room—and froze.
May was pressed against my body—Ernesto—her hips grinding into him as his hands roamed shamelessly over her curves. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her dark eyes hooded with lust.
“Ay, papi,” she purred, biting his—my—ear. “Take me to bed.”
Ernesto smirked—smirked—right at me over her shoulder.
You promised, I mouthed, fury burning in my chest.
His grin widened. Then he hoisted May over his shoulder like a prize, her giggles bouncing off the walls as they disappeared into the bedroom.
A second later, the first moan cut through the air.
Hers.
Then his.
I stood there, shaking.
Traitor. Liar.
I could’ve barged in. I could’ve screamed.
But what would I say?
That’s not me in there!
She’d think I was insane.
So I did the only thing I could.
I sat on the couch.
And I listened.
Every gasp. Every groan. Every filthy, throaty cry May made for him—for my body.
It should’ve been me.
My fists clenched.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, but the sounds—those goddamn sounds—continued to seep through the thin walls. May's breathy moans. The creak of the bedframe. Ernesto's gruff voice, my voice, whispering things in Spanish I couldn't understand but knew were filthy.
I gripped the armrest of the couch, my nails digging into the fabric. Every muscle in my body was tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
I wanted to kick down the door. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was sit there—trapped in Ernesto’s body, stuck on the sidelines of my own fucking life.
A particularly loud cry from May sent a jolt of white-hot anger through me. That was supposed to be mine.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stormed out onto the balcony, gulping the humid Miami air like it could cleanse my rage. The city lights blurred in front of me, my thoughts spinning.
How the hell was I going to fix this?
→ I could try to force another swap—but Ernesto was in my body now. Stronger. Younger. If I charged in there and we fought... May would see. She'd think I was attacking her.
→ I could wait. Let him finish. Maybe he'd keep his word and swap back after. Yeah, right.
→ Or… I could take matters into my own hands. Permanently.
The balcony railing groaned as I leaned against it. Below, the pool shimmered under ultraviolet lights. A dark fantasy flickered in my mind—Ernesto, my body, slipping on wet tiles. Hitting his head. Another accident.
Before I could follow that thought further, the bedroom door creaked open.
I turned.
May stood there in the doorway, draped in nothing but one of my old T-shirts—just long enough to tease the bare skin of her thighs. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were red and swollen.
She looked satisfied.
My stomach turned.
"Ernesto?" Her brow furrowed. "What are you doing out here?"
Ernesto. The name was a punch to the gut.
"Just... needed some air," I muttered, hating the gravel in his voice.
May bit her lip, glancing back toward the bedroom. "James is, uh... resting." A blush crept up her neck, and I knew exactly what kind of 'rest' he was getting.
I swallowed hard. "You two had a good night?"
She smiled—that smile. The one I'd been dreaming about since the day we met. "The best. His parents loved him. And then..." She trailed off, eyes glazing over with memory. My chest ached.
Before she could say more, my voice called from inside.
"Mi vidaaaaa, where'd you go?"
May grinned. "Gotta go." She turned, then hesitated. "Hey... you okay? You seem... off."
I forced a laugh. "Just tired."
She nodded and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
A second later, laughter spilled out. His.
That was it.
I wasn't playing this game anymore.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found her number—Ernesto's wife.
One ring. Two.
"¿Hola?"
I took a deep breath.
"Señora Rodriguez? You might want to come to my apartment. Your husband is here... and you won't believe what he's been doing with my body."
I hung up before she could reply.
Back inside, the sounds of passion had started up again.
But not for long.
The knock at the door came less than twenty minutes later - hard and impatient. I'd know that knock anywhere.
Marisol Rodriguez.
I rubbed my hands together (Ernesto's thick, calloused hands) and hurried to answer. The moment I opened the door, I was nearly knocked backward by the force of Marisol's fury.
"¿DÓNDE ESTÁ?" she demanded, dark eyes blazing. She was a beautiful woman - all dangerous curves and fire - but right now, she looked ready to kill.
I stepped aside. "Master bedroom."
She stormed past me in a whirlwind of floral perfume and righteous anger, platform sandals slapping against the tile. I followed closely behind, my heart pounding with equal parts guilt and anticipation.
The moans grew louder as we approached.
Marisol froze outside my bedroom door, her face twisting in fury. Without hesitation, she swung the door open with a violent crash.
The sight that greeted us was exactly what I expected. May on her back, legs wrapped around my body, sheets tangled around their waists. They froze mid-thrust, identical looks of horror dawning on their faces.
"MARISOL?!" Ernesto's voice cracked.
May scrambled backwards, clutching the sheets to her chest. "James? What the hell? Who is-?"
Marisol didn't say a word. She just smiled - slow and venomous. Then she reached into her designer purse and pulled out a glass bottle of holy water.
Ernesto's eyes went wide. "No, mujer, wait-"
She uncorked it with her teeth and flung the contents straight at his face.
The effect was instantaneous. Ernesto - in my body - screamed as the water hit his skin and began sizzling. His arms flailed as his back arched unnaturally, my body spasming against the mattress.
May screamed, falling off the bed in her scramble to escape. "WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
Marisol crossed herself. "Demonio. I knew it wasn't really my husband."
Smoke began rising from my body's pores as Ernesto thrashed, his screams taking on an unnatural, echoing quality.
And then - with one final, guttural wail - he separated.
A translucent, ghostly version of Ernesto was ejected from my body, hovering mid-air before collapsing into a shimmering puddle on the floor that slowly dissolved into nothing.
My body slumped onto the bed, unmoving.
Complete silence.
Then May scrambled to her feet, naked and terrified, grabbing for her clothes. "What the FUCK was that?!"
Marisol calmly recorked her now-empty bottle. "El Diablo takes many forms, mija." She turned to me - still in Ernesto's body - and tilted her head. "Now. About you..."
I held up my hands. "Marisol, I promise, I'm-"
She reached into her purse again.
I dove for my motionless body on the bed just as she flung another spray of holy water.
CRACK.
Pain exploded through my skull as my forehead connected with my body's.
Darkness.
Then - the feeling of fitting again.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my body - my real body. Down on the floor, Ernesto groaned, back in his own form.
Marisol grabbed her husband by the ear and yanked him upright. "We're leaving. Now."
As she dragged a groggy Ernesto toward the door, she turned back to me and May with a smirk. "You're welcome."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Silence again.
May slowly turned to me, clutching her dress to her chest. "James... what the actual fuck just happened?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Somehow "my maintenance man possessed my body to date you because he was in a bad marriage and now we might both be cursed" didn't seem like the right answer.
So I went with:
"...Miami is weird?"
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then smacked me hard across the face.
"You're goddamn right," she muttered, stalking toward the bathroom. "And you're never sleeping with me again."
The bathroom door slammed.
Alone again.
I rubbed my stinging cheek and sighed.
Worth it.
→ Epilogue →
Three Months Later
The apartment AC hummed as I adjusted my tie in the mirror. First day at my new job - no more staring at Ernesto's ugly mug in the maintenance hallways.
A knock at the door.
I checked the peephole.
And nearly swallowed my tongue.
May stood there in a tight pink dress, arms crossed, looking pissed.
I opened the door slowly. "Uh. Hey?"
She glared. "You owe me dinner."
"...I do?"
"Correct." She shoved a stack of papers into my chest. Every single one was a Spanish workbook. "And you're going to learn real Spanish. Not whatever that pendejo was speaking."
I blinked. Then grinned so wide my cheeks hurt.
"Si, mi amor."
She rolled her eyes. "Dios mío. That's not even the right context." But she was smiling as she pushed past me into the apartment.
Life was good.
And Miami?
Miami was still very weird.
body swap
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A man joins a yoga studio and its not exactly what he was expecting...
The moving truck groaned as it rolled down the gravel driveway of Jon’s new home—a small rental house on the edge of Laredo, Texas. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to his skin even as the sun dipped low in the sky. He wiped his forehead and glanced around. Quiet. Empty. Just him, his gym bag, and a whole lot of loneliness.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath.
The first week was brutal. Work was fine—some IT gig at a local firm—but the silence at home was deafening. So, naturally, Jon did what any single guy with no social life would do: he practically lived at the gym.
Iron Haven was the kind of place where beefed-up ranchers and college athletes clashed over bench press real estate, but Jon didn’t care. The grind kept him sane.
And then, on day five, he saw her.
She was mid-rep on the squat rack, legs flexed, her dark ponytail swaying with each controlled descent. Half-Filipina, half-Latina, and all trouble for his concentration. When she stood up, racking the bar with effortless strength, she caught him staring. Instead of scowling, she grinned.
"Could use a spot," she called over.
Jon blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Sure."
Her name was Mariah. Twenty-four, worked as a physical therapist, and had a laugh that hit like a shot of whiskey—smooth and dangerous. She teased him about his form, he joked about her terrible taste in gym music (seriously, reggaeton mixed with 90s hip-hop?), and just like that, they were friends.
Mariah was the kind of girl who made Jon forget how to breathe. Not because she was flawless—though the way her leggings hugged those curves didn’t hurt—but because she was real. Quick to poke fun, quicker to check in if she sensed something was off.
"Helloooo? Earth to Jon." She waved a hand in front of his face during cooldown stretches.
"Sorry," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Zoned out."
"Bullshit," she grinned. "You were staring at my ass."
Jon’s face burned. "I was not—"
"—Don’t lie, I saw you." She stretched her arms overhead, flashing a sliver of toned stomach. "It’s cool. I get it. My glutes are legendary."
Jon groaned, but damn if she wasn’t right.
Weeks slipped by. They spotted each other, grabbed post-workout smoothies, and even binged bad action movies sprawled on her couch. Every time she leaned in to steal a fry or playfully shoved him, his pulse spiked. But then she’d mention him.
"Jackson’s flying in next weekend."
Jackson. The long-distance boyfriend. Seattle-based finance guy. Polite, handsome, and—according to Mariah—"super understanding."
Which meant Jon was screwed.
One night, post-deadlifts, Mariah twisted the cap off her water bottle and sighed. "You ever feel like life’s got this weird way of dangling what you want just outta reach?"
Jon swallowed. "Yeah."
She glanced at him, eyes searching. "Jon…"
The air between them thickened. His chest ached.
Then her phone buzzed. She checked it, and just like that, the moment shattered.
"Jackson," she said softly, smiling at the screen.
Jon forced a grin. "Better answer it."
She did. And Jon swallowed his feelings like chalky protein powder—gritty, tasteless, and necessary.
But Texas heat has a way of making fools out of careful men. And Jon was starting to wonder how long he could keep pretending. The weights felt heavier that day.
Not physically—his deadlifts were the same as always—but mentally, his focus was shot. He’d spent the previous night scrolling through Mariah’s Instagram, stalking Jackson’s perfect teeth and vacation pics in Seattle, feeling like an idiot. His grip slipped on the third rep.
Then—pop.
A white-hot bolt of pain ripped through Jon’s lower back. His vision blurred. The barbell hit the floor with a thunderous crash, and suddenly, he was on his knees, gasping.
"Jon?!"
Mariah was at his side in seconds, hands on his shoulders before he could even blink away the sweat burning his eyes. Her touch sent a different kind of electric current through him—not pain, just warmth.
"I’m fine," he lied through clenched teeth.
She gave him that don’t-bullshit-me look—the one that made men stronger than him crumble. "You’re not fine. You just folded like a lawn chair."
The doctor’s verdict later that evening was grim: herniated disc. No lifting. No heavy exertion. For at least three months.
"Try yoga," the doc suggested, scribbling on his clipboard.
Yoga.
Jon wanted to scream.
Day 4 of No Gym
Jon lasted four days before he caved.
The second he walked into Iron Haven, he spotted her—mid-conversation with some beefy guy in a tank top, laughing at something he said. His gut twisted.
Then she saw him. Her smile vanished.
"Jon." She marched over, arms crossed. "What are you doing here?"
"Just... needed to move." He shrugged, trying to play it off. "Light stuff. Maybe just the bike or—"
"No." She poked his chest. "Doctor’s orders. You leave. Now."
The guy she’d been talking to raised an eyebrow.
Embarrassment burned Jon’s neck. "Mariah, c’mon—"
"—I’ll drive you home." She snatched his gym bag off his shoulder.
Jon groaned. "You’re relentless."
"And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you wreck yourself."
That should’ve been sweet. But all it did was remind Jon that she cared—just not the way he wanted her to.
Week 3: The Slow Decline
No gym meant no Mariah.
Sure, she texted. Sent dumb memes. Even dropped by once with soup, which was so disgustingly thoughtful it made Jon’s chest hurt. But without the routine of spotting each other, their interactions dwindled.
Meanwhile, Jackson was in town.
Her Instagram was a barrage of them—brunch, some hipster brewery, his arm slung around her waist in that I-own-this-space way guys like him had.
Jon should’ve stopped looking.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he lay on his couch, ice pack on his back, binge-watching terrible TV and wondering if Mariah ever thought about him when she wasn’t obligated to.
Pathetic. Three months.
Three goddamn months.
Jon stood outside the only yoga studio in Laredo—"Sunrise Yoga & Wellness"—staring at the lavender-scented hellscape beyond the glass door. Inside, a handful of women in stretchy outfits moved in slow, graceful unison. This was a mistake.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His back still ached, despite the epidural shot last week. And his doctor’s smug "told you so" echoed in his skull.
"Try yoga, Jon."
Bullshit.
The studio door chimed as Jon pushed it open.
Instantly, every head turned.
A woman near the front—mid-50s, sipping from a stainless-steel water bottle—gave him a slow once-over. Jon stood there awkwardly, feeling like a linebacker who’d wandered into a ballet rehearsal.
"First time?" a voice chirped.
A petite blonde instructor bounced over, her neon yoga pants practically glowing under the studio lights.
"Yeah," Jon muttered, rubbing his neck. "My doctor said—"
"—Ahhh, the doctor recommended crowd." She grinned. "I get it. You’re skeptical. You think yoga’s just stretching and incense. But trust me—" She poked his bicep. "—you’ll be humiliated by how hard this is."
Great fucking pep talk.
"I'm Marisa, by the way! Class starts in five!" she announced to the room before leaving Jon to grab a mat.
Jon shuffled toward the back corner—least visibility possible—and tried to just hide and observe.
The scent of lavender and jasmine settled over the studio like a warm, cloying blanket. Jon stood frozen at the edge of the room, gripping his rented yoga mat like it might sprout legs and run for the door.
The class was packed—mostly women. Not just any women. Beautiful ones. Laughing, stretching, their toned limbs effortlessly folding into pretzel-like shapes that made his lower back ache in sympathy. At the center of it all was an older woman—maybe late fifties—with silver-streaked dark hair and an easy confidence. She held court among a circle of girls wrapped in expensive athleisure, all giggling at something she said with the familiarity of people who had known each other for years.
Then, in the far corner, her.
A lone figure sitting cross-legged on her mat, deep brown hair spilling over one shoulder. She was younger than the others—early twenties, maybe. Her eyes darted nervously around the room before settling on the ground in front of her. She had that fresh-faced, untouched beauty—soft lips, faint freckles dusting her cheeks—but her posture screamed stay away.
Jon hesitated for half a second before shuffling over and dropping his mat beside hers.
"Hey," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "First time?"
She flinched—actually flinched—as if she hadn’t expected anyone to acknowledge her. Then she nodded, barely lifting her chin.
"Yeah. You?"
"My doctor forced me into this," he admitted with a lopsided grin. "Said I had to 'embrace the healing process' or some shit."
A flicker of a smile. So tiny he almost missed it.
"Me too," she said. "Car accident. My physical therapist recommended it."
"Jon." He held out a hand.
She blinked at it, then placed her hand in his—delicate fingers, cold to the touch.
"Elena," she whispered.
For a second, it felt nice. Just two lost people in a room full of strangers, clinging to the briefest moment of connection.
Then Elena pulled her hand back too quickly, her gaze darting past him. Her expression flattened, her walls slamming up again.
Jon frowned. "Uh—"
"Class is starting," she muttered, turning her body away from him.
And just like that—dismissed.
Confused, he glanced around the room and froze.
The older woman was staring. And so were the others. All of them. Unmistakably. Eyes locked onto Elena with unsettling intensity.
Jon’s skin prickled.
The teacher clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone! Let’s begin!"
But no one moved.
For one bizarre, suspended moment, the air in the room felt wrong.
Then Elena exhaled sharply.
And the older woman smiled.
As they began, it dawned on Jon that he was terrible at yoga.
Like, tragically bad.
Downward Dog? More like Collapsed Mutt. Warrior Pose? More like "Wobbling Toddler." Every time he attempted to mirror the instructor’s graceful movements, his body protested with crackling joints and awkward tremors.
At one point, he caught sight of Elena—effortlessly balanced in a perfect Tree Pose, her slender arms lifted toward the ceiling—and nearly toppled over in distraction. That’s when he noticed the odd little detail: a paper wristband looped around her wrist, stark white with faint black lettering.
Even stranger? The only other people wearing them: the older silver-haired woman and Marisa, the instructor.
Jon waited until they transitioned into Child’s Pose (which, mercifully, mostly involved kneeling and not moving) before leaning toward Elena.
"Hey," he whispered. "Where’d you get the wristband?"
Elena blinked at him, then at her own wrist. "I don't know," she murmured, voice barely audible. "They just gave it to me after I checked in. Did you get one?"
Before Jon could answer—
"Shhhh."
Marisa shot them a pointed look from the front of the room. Elena immediately folded in on herself again, and Jon bit back a frustrated sigh. So much for conversation.
--
Then came meditation.
Lights dimmed, soft music hummed through the speakers, and Jon lay flat on his back, surrendering to the plush mat beneath him. The room sank into silence.
Around him, the others drifted effortlessly into serenity—breaths slow, bodies slack. Even Jon, despite himself, began to relax.
Then—
A scent.
Sweet, floral, intoxicating. Not overpowering—just… there. Like someone had spritzed the air with perfume, subtle but all-encompassing. Jon inhaled deeply, and suddenly, his limbs felt lighter. His thoughts mellowed. A slow, warm buzz settled over him, as if he’d sipped a shot of something strong.
What the hell…?
Then—commotion.
A hushed rustling, a sharp inhale followed by an audible "No."
Jon cracked open an eye.
The older woman sat bolt upright, fists clenched in her lap. Her face was twisted—not in pain, but in... frustration? Anger?
Marisa swooped in instantly, murmuring something soothing before gently guiding her out of the room. The woman didn’t resist, but as the door shut behind them, the air in the studio shifted.
Jon exhaled. Probably nothing.
He closed his eyes again.
And promptly dozed off.
--
When he stirred, the lights were up, and the music had faded. Around him, people stretched, sighed, smiled—blissed-out expressions plastered on every face.
Including Elena’s.
Except now, Elena wasn’t avoiding eye contact.
She wasn’t shy.She was beaming.
Jon barely had time to process before she bounced up to him, rolling up her mat with effortless fluidity.
"Hey," she chirped, "what was your name again?"
"Uh—Jon?"
She laughed—bright, loud. "Right! Sorry!" Then she stuck out her hand. "I’m Elena."
But the way she said it was… off. Over-enunciated. "I’M EL-EEEE-NA." As if she was announcing it to the room.
And then—she winked.
Jon stared.
Five minutes ago, this girl wouldn’t look at him. Now she was grinning, tossing her hair, radiating energy like she’d chugged three espressos.
"Nice to officially meet you," she said—flirty, playful—before sashaying toward the door. "See you next week!"
Then she was gone.
Jon stood frozen, mat half-rolled, brain working overtime.
--
The parking lot was empty, save for one figure.
The older woman slumped on a bench near the exit, face in her hands. Silent sobs wracked her shoulders.
Jon hesitated.
Then he climbed into his car.
And drove away.
---
A week passed before Jon mustered the willpower to return to Sunrise Yoga & Wellness.
This time, the door gave a cheerful ding as he walked in, and Marisa—grinning from ear to ear—welcomed him like an old friend.
"Jon! You actually came back!" she teased, clasping her hands together. "I was sure we scared you off for good."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, doc’s orders."
"Uh-huh, sure." She winked. "Whatever gets you here, handsome."
Jon felt his face warm. The attention was nice—too nice—and for a second, he almost forgot why he’d been weirded out last time.
Then he saw her.
Elena.
She wasn’t hiding in the corner this time. She was thriving.
Surrounded by that same circle of beautiful women, she laughed loudly at some unheard joke, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. She looked different. Confident. Radiant. Entirely at home.
And then—her eyes flicked up.
She saw him.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips before she excused herself and sauntered toward him.
"Jon," she purred, stopping just a little too close, one hand resting lightly on his bicep. "You made it."
He stiffened—partly from surprise, partly because she was touching him like they’d known each other for years.
"Uh, yeah," he managed. "How’s… uh…?" He swallowed. "How’s the physical therapy going?"
A flicker of confusion passed over her face.
Then—just like that—it smoothed into recognition.
"Right! The accident." She laughed, brushing it off. "It’s going great. Thanks for asking."
Jon frowned. Last week, she’d acted like stepping out of her shell was impossible. Now she was making him the nervous one?
Before he could press, another woman walked in—young, gorgeous, glancing around the room with the cautious energy of a first-timer.
Elena immediately lit up.
"Ooooh, fresh meat," she whispered playfully—then shot Jon an apologetic smirk. "Duty calls. Catch you later?"
And just like that, she glided toward the newcomer, all sunshine and charm.
Jon watched as Elena greeted the woman—a hand on her arm, a warm laugh, a little tilt of her head that said you’re safe here.
Then… she slid a white wristband onto the woman’s wrist.
Jon stiffened.
The same exact kind he’d never been given.
He scanned the room.
Only three people had them.
—The new girl.
—Marisa.
—And some unfamiliar older lady, chatting animatedly with the same group of young, polished women as last time.
What the hell is going on?
Jon rolled out his mat, his skin prickling with unease as Elena’s laughter—bright, confident, uncharacteristic—filled the room.
Something was wrong.
And he was starting to think it wasn’t just his imagination.
The class unfolded like a broken-record replay of last week.
Jon struggled through the poses, his muscles protesting as he tried—and failed—to bend his body into shapes it clearly wasn’t meant to hold. Downward Dog still felt less like yoga and more like an uncoordinated stretch before faceplanting. Elena, meanwhile, had become disturbingly good overnight—her movements fluid, effortless, like she’d been doing this for years.
Which was impossible. She was new. Just like me.
Then came the wristbands.
Jon stole glances whenever he could, watching as the new girl—Emma, was it?—kept touching hers, running her fingers over the black lettering Jon still couldn’t read.
Elena noticed him looking and grinned. "whatcha lookin at hon?" she teased, swaying close during a water break.
"Those wristbands. You said last week they gave you one when you walked in. And then you have that new girl Emma one today. What are they for?" Jon hedged.
"Mmmmm, darling those are just for new people. You don't need one." she giggled, popping her hip. Jon wanted to investigate further so he asked "but I was new last week and I never got one. Why is that?" She looked nervous for about a nano second and then replied with "well you're not new anymore sweetheart! So I wouldn't worry your handsome head about it now." she said winking and then she was off again, leaving him standing there like an idiot.
——
Meditation.
Lights dimmed. Music hummed. The same cloying floral scent from last time curled through the air—thick, honey-sweet, with a weight to it that made Jon’s limbs feel like they were floating.
The high crept in slow, a warm, dizzying sensation that smoothed the edges of his thoughts.
Then—
A rustle. A sharp inhale.
Jon slitted his eyes open just in time to see the older woman—the new one this time—jerk upright, her breath ragged.
"What the fu-," she hissed under her breath. Looking at her hands with confusion and touching her face.
Marisa was on her instantly, murmuring soft words, gently steering her toward the door.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
Just like last week.
He wanted to follow. To ask questions. But his body ignored him, melting further into the mat, the scent wrapping around him like a drug.
His eyes closed.
——
Aftermath.
The lights came up. People stretched, sighed, exchanged soft smiles. Jon blinked back to reality, disoriented, an odd languidness clinging to his limbs.
Beside him, the new girl—Emma—sat up, her expression transformed.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
She turned to Elena, beaming. "I get what you meant now," she whispered, touching her wristband.
"Told you," Elena smirked back at her new friend.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Across the room, Marisa stretched her arms overhead, sighing in contentment. "Another amazing session, everyone! See you next week!"
Jon gathered his mat, mind racing.
Same scents. Same meditative shift. Same wristbands.
And now—same people?
He glanced over his shoulder just as Elena caught his eye. She winked, slow, deliberate.
"I think the gals are getting together this weekend for drinks, Jon," she sang. "You should join us, right EMMA?"
Emma was looking down at herself and not paying attention, but then looked back up and looked Jon up and down nodding playfully.
Marisa echoed the invitation for drinks Friday night and Jon politely agreed.
He barely made it to his car before he noticed.
The older woman sat slumped against the wheel of her parked SUV.
Crying.
---
Later that week, Jon found himself harassed and eventually coerced into going out with his new yoga "friends".
The Lone Star Saloon was the kind of small-town bar where the neon sign buzzed, the jukebox played a mix of classic country and top-40 hits no one asked for, and everybody knew everybody—or at least pretended to.
Jon pushed through the scarred wooden door, the chatter of voices and twang of steel guitar hitting him in a wall of sound. He spotted them immediately—the Sunrise Yoga crew clustered around a long table in the back, drinks gleaming under the dim amber lights.
Marisa waved him over, her smile luminous. "Jon! You came!"
He forced a grin, sliding into the booth beside her. "Wouldn’t miss it."
The table was packed—Elena, Emma, the other regulars from class—all polished and glowing like they’d stepped out of some sleek magazine ad for "Small-Town Goddesses." But what caught Jon’s attention were the men—because nearly a third of the girls weren’t alone.
They were with older men.
Much older.
Silver-haired gentlemen in pressed button-downs laughing intimately with girls young enough to be their daughters. One man—late 50s, tan, with the crisp confidence of money—had his hand possessively on the thigh of a yoga regular Jon recognized from class. Another, balding and thick around the middle, leaned in to whisper something that made his dark-haired companion giggle into her cocktail.
Jon frowned, swirling his beer.
A sharp elbow nudged his ribs.
"See something you like?" Marisa murmured, leaning in so close her perfume—something expensive, fruity—tickled his nose.
"Just… surprised," Jon admitted quietly, gesturing subtly toward one of the older couples. "Didn’t realize this was a date night."
Marisa’s laugh was bright, deliberate. "Oh, sweetie, age is just a number. Love doesn’t clock out at forty."
Jon wanted to press—but Elena suddenly appeared at his other side, draping herself halfway over his shoulders. Her touch was warm, her voice whiskey-smooth.
"Don’t worry, Jon," she teased, her breath sweet with gin. "Plenty of us aren’t taken yet."
Emma giggled across the table, twirling her straw. "Speak for yourself."
Elena gasped—mock-offended—and launched into some dramatic retort Jon barely heard.
His attention snagged on the older couple again.
The way the girl—Tiffany?—traced her fingers over her boyfriend’s wrist.
The same white wristband peeked out from under her sleeve.
Just like the others.
Jon’s pulse hitched.
Before he could react, Marisa clinked her glass against his bottle, pulling his focus back.
"To new friends," she toasted, smiling.
Around the table, glasses lifted.
Jon hesitated—then drank.
The beer tasted bitter.
Or maybe that was just the dread creeping up his throat.
The night should’ve been weird.
Elena was trashed—giggling so hard she almost knocked over Emma’s cosmo, her voice sharp and loud in that way drunk people never realize is obnoxious. Emma wasn’t far behind, slurring compliments like "Jon, you’re actually, like, soo funny when you’re not just, like… working out or whatever."
But despite the strangeness hanging over the yoga crew, Jon was surprised to find himself… having fun.
Mostly thanks to Marisa.
She was effortlessly engaging—switching between sarcastic wit and warm wisdom like it was nothing. Every joke landed, every story pulled him in. She teased him about his stiff posture ("Even in a bar booth, you sit like you’re about to deadlift it") but listened intently when he told her about his job, his move to Texas, even his stupid back injury.
At one point, after refilling his beer without him noticing, she smirked and said, "You know, I was worried you’d be the broody, silent type forever. But you’re kinda charming when you’re not scowling."
Jon snorted. "Thanks, I think."
"Oh, it’s a compliment," she laughed, flicking her dark braid over her shoulder. "Most guys in this town peak in high school and never recover."
And yeah—she was older. Easily mid-40s. Not someone he’d look at twice in that way. But damn if she wasn’t the most interesting person in the room.
Then the door swung open.
And all the warmth in Jon’s chest evaporated.
Mariah.
Dressed in jeans that hugged her just right and a soft sweater that made her skin glow under the bar lights. And beside her—Jackson. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of guy who looked like he spent more time on his skincare routine than Jon did on meal prep.
Jon’s grip tightened around his bottle.
He shouldn’t care.
But fuck.
Mariah’s eyes swept the room—paused on him—widened slightly. Then she smiled, small but genuine, and lifted her fingers in a little wave.
Jon managed a stiff nod.
Elena, drunk and oblivious, followed his gaze and gasped. "Oh! Omigod, it’s—" She shot up, wobbling. "—Time for shots! Right, Jon? Right?"
Marisa’s gaze flicked between Jon and Mariah, sharp with understanding.
"Well well," she murmured, lips curving. "This night just got interesting."
And Jon—
Jon really wished he wasn’t trapped in this booth.
Marisa leaned in, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh? Nobody important?" she echoed, watching as Mariah and her boyfriend wound their way toward them through the crowd.
Jon stiffened. "I mean—we’re just friends."
"Mhmm," Marisa hummed, smirking. "The way you just said that tells me everything."
Before Jon could protest, Mariah was there—smiling warmly, her dark eyes bright.
"Jon! Hey!" she said, reaching out to briefly squeeze his shoulder. Her touch sent a jolt through him. "I didn’t expect to see you here."
Jon forced an easy smile—or what he hoped looked like one. "Yeah, uh. Yoga class outing." He gestured vaguely at the table.
Mariah’s boyfriend, Jackson, extended a hand with perfect polite-guy charm. "Hey man, nice to finally meet you. Maria’s told me a lot about you."
Maria.
Not Mariah.
The nickname grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Jon shook his hand—too tight, probably—and muttered, "All good things, I hope."
Jackson laughed, oblivious. "Of course. Says you spot her on squats."
Mariah rolled her eyes playfully. "Jon’s saved my life multiple times from being squashed by a barbell."
Jon swallowed hard.
She was glowing. Happy. Relaxed. Everything about her body language screamed comfortable with this guy.
It stung.
The small talk lasted another painful minute before Mariah excused them both. "We’re meeting some of Jackson’s coworkers, but it was nice seeing you!" She hesitated, then added, "You should come to the gym next week. I’ve missed my lifting buddy."
Missed.
The word dangled between them like bait.
"Yeah," Jon rasped. "Maybe."
And just like that, she was gone again—Jackson’s hand sliding naturally to the small of her back as they walked away.
Jon exhaled slowly.
Marisa didn’t wait.
"Ohhhh honey," she drawled, swirling her drink. "That was painful to watch."
Jon groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up."
"That wasn’t just nobody important." She nudged him. "Tell me the truth—you’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?"
He debated lying.
But the alcohol loosened his tongue.
"Yeah," he muttered. "And it’s fucking stupid."
Marisa arched a brow, sipping her whiskey. "Why?"
Jon huffed a bitter laugh. "Because she’s with him! Because I wait all week just to spot her on bench press like some lovesick puppy. Because—" He cut himself off, frustrated.
Marisa studied him for a long moment. Then, softly: "She doesn’t look at you the way she looks at him?"
Jon froze.
"It's Bullshit," he said automatically.
But Marisa didn’t push. Just shrugged and leaned back, her expression knowing.
"You know, Jon," she said simply. "You should invite her—to Yoga. You never know...your luck might turn around."
Jon didn’t answer.
Just swallowed the rest of his drink whole.
---
The following Monday, the studio was quieter than usual when Jon stepped in—soft murmurs, hushed laughter, the faint sound of bare feet on mats.
And then he saw her.
Mariah.
Standing near the front of the room in black leggings and a fitted tank, talking animatedly with Marisa.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
What the hell is she doing here?
As if sensing his stare, Mariah turned. Her face lit up, and she gave him a little wave. "Hey! Surprise!"
Jon forced his legs to move forward. "You’re—uh—doing yoga now?"
Before she could answer, Marisa slipped an arm around Mariah’s shoulders, grinning. "I invited her after you left the bar. Everyone needs a little spiritual detox, right?" She winked—definitely not subtle.
Mariah laughed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, don’t look so nervous. I won’t completely embarrass myself."
Her ease helped. A little. Jon exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Just—don’t expect me to be any help. I still can’t touch my toes."
Mariah smirked. "For a guy who lifts like you do, that’s kinda pathetic."
It was such a Mariah thing to say—playful, teasing, effortlessly slipping back into the rhythm of their gym banter—that Jon’s chest loosened.
But then—
His gaze snagged on her wrist.
A thin white band.
The wristband.
His blood went cold.
He looked around the room, counting.
Marisa had one.
No one else did.
Not Elena. Not Emma. No one but…
Mariah.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Marisa invited her. Marisa gave her the wristband.
Was this planned?
Before he could think too much about it, the music shifted—soothing chimes, low and melodic.
Marisa clapped her hands. "Alright, lovelies! Let’s begin."
Mariah shot Jon one last grin before unfolding her mat beside him.
Jon unrolled his own, hands just a little unsteady.
He had a very bad feeling about this.
As it happens...Mariah was bad at yoga as well—but in the most endearing way possible.
She was flexible—no shock given how nimble she was with weights—but graceful? Not even close. Every transition was a half-second too slow, her balance tipping like a newborn deer on ice. At one point, halfway through Warrior Three, she wobbled so violently she windmilled her arms and nearly face-planted into Jon’s chest.
He caught her reflexively, grinning. "Maybe ease into it, Rocky."
Mariah clutched his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. "I swear this pose didn’t look this hard from the sidelines."
Jon couldn’t help it—he laughed. Really laughed. For the first time all night, the weird tension evaporated. This was just Mariah: clumsy, determined, utterly herself.
The rest of the class passed smoothly—until meditation.
As usual, the lights dimmed, slow music humming through the speakers. Marisa stretched her arms theatrically. "Alright, everyone, settle in. Deep breaths. I’ll be back in a few."
Jon frowned as she slipped out the door. Strange—she never left during meditation.
But before he could dwell on it, the room sank into silence. Ten minutes passed in a drowsy haze until—
Lights flicked on.
Elena stood at the front, smiling. "Hey guys, Marisa isn’t feeling great. She asked me to finish up. So… namaste, or whatever."
Jon sat up, blinking.
Beside him, Mariah was staring at her hands—turning them over, flexing her fingers. Almost like she was… checking them.
She caught him looking and immediately smirked. "Like what you see?"
Jon flushed. "Just—uh—making sure you didn’t pull anything."
Mariah rolled her eyes. "Relax, tough guy. I’m kidding." But her tone was different—sharper, smoother. Off.
The class dispersed quickly after that. Jon lingered, watching as Mariah gathered her things with uncharacteristic imprecision—dropping her keys, fumbling her water bottle.
Outside, the night air was thick with humidity.
"Walk me to my car?" Mariah asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah. Sure."
They crossed the darkened parking lot in silence. Mariah’s steps were confident now—almost swaggering—where earlier she’d been all stiff concentration.
Then—she stopped at a silver Honda.
Jon hesitated. "...That’s not your car."
Mariah froze.
For half a second, her face went utterly blank. Then she laughed, loud and careless. "Whoops! Wrong rental." She spun and marched three cars down to her actual Toyota.
Jon’s stomach knotted.
Rental? Mariah had owned that car for years.
She tossed her bag inside, flashing him a smirk. "See you at the gym tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Jon lied.
She drove off.
Jon stared after her, pulse humming uneasily.
Same voice. Same face.
But was that Mariah?
---
The next morning, Jon spotted her the second he walked into Iron Haven.
"Mariah".
Perched on the edge of a bench, stretching in sleek black yoga pants and a cropped athletic top—clothes he'd never seen her wear to lift before.
She caught his eye immediately, grinning as she unfolded herself in a fluid, feline motion. "There you are," she said, voice warm and teasing. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."
Jon frowned. Her cadence was different—smoother, almost calculated. Even the way she stood seemed unnaturally poised, like someone who'd studied confidence rather than lived it.
"...You're in yoga gear," he blurted.
She glanced down, running her hands over her hips as if appreciating the fabric. "Mm. Felt like a change. Cute, right?"
Jon swallowed hard. Every alarm in his head was screaming.
Then came the real red flags.
She couldn't remember their usual push-pull split. She kept asking about muscle groups like the terms were foreign. And when she loaded up the bar for squats—
"Mariah, your knees—they're caving in. Big time," Jon warned, hovering behind her.
She just giggled. "Oops. Guess I need you to really spot me today."
Her wink was deliberate, her hips shifting invitingly as she started her descent with terrifying instability. Jon had to brace both hands on her waist to keep her from wobbling sideways—too close, too intimate.
When they switched to bench press, she abandoned form entirely, arching in a way that was less about power and more about giving him an obstructed view down her tank top.
Jon's face burned.
Then—
"So, big news," she announced between sets, twirling a lock of hair. "Me and Jackson? Done." She popped the p playfully. "Thought you'd be happy to hear that."
Jon froze mid-reach for his water bottle.
"You... broke up?"
"Mhmm." She stretched her arms overhead, watching his reaction like a cat eyeing a trapped mouse. "Long-distance sucked anyway. But now I'm single... lonely... could really use a friend tonight." Her foot nudged his calf. "Maybe you?"
Jon felt like he'd been dunked in ice water.
This wasn't Mariah.
The real Mariah would never ditch form like this. Would never flirt this blatantly. And if—some impossible fantasy—she'd actually broken up with Jackson, she'd be hurting. Drinking sad-girl wine, venting to friends, not propositioning him mid-workout.
Yet here this not-Mariah stood, smirking, waiting.
Jon forced a stiff smile. "Yeah. Maybe."
She beamed, like he'd confirmed some secret she already knew. "Great. Come by my place at 8. Don't bring beer—I've got better drinks."
She sauntered away to the water fountain, her stride too smooth, too practiced.
Jon stared after her.
He had no intention of showing up.
But he was going to figure out what the hell was happening.
---
Jon stood on Mariah’s porch at 8:03 PM, fist raised to knock, heart hammering like he was about to step into a trap.
Because he was.
But he had to know.
The door swung open before his knuckles even touched wood.
Mariah leaned against the frame, bathed in warm lamplight—barefoot, in a silky slip of a dress that clung to every curve. A far cry from her usual gym shorts and oversized tees.
"You came," she purred, stepping aside to let him in.
Jon forced himself to move. "Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it."
The apartment smelled like vanilla and red wine. Candles flickered on the coffee table beside an already half-empty bottle.
Mariah snatched it up, pouring him a glass without asking. "Relax," she laughed, pressing it into his hand. "You look like you’re about to bolt."
Jon took a sip. "Just… surprised, I guess."
"About?" She flopped onto the couch, patting the space beside her.
"This. You. Us hanging out like…" He gestured vaguely at the wine, the dim lighting, her.
Mariah’s smile turned sly. "Like a date?"
Jon choked on his drink.
She just giggled, leaning in to swipe a thumb over the corner of his lips, catching the spilled wine. Then—slow, deliberate—she sucked it off her own finger, watching him.
Jon’s pulse roared in his ears.
This was wrong.
The real Mariah would’ve teased him, sure. Would’ve maybe flirted after one too many drinks. But not like this. Not with this calculated, predatory heat.
Yet here she was, closing the distance between them, her knee brushing his.
"You’ve always been so careful with me," she murmured, fingers tracing idle circles on his thigh. "But you don’t have to be. Not anymore."
Jon’s grip tightened on his glass. "Mariah—"
"Shhh." Her hand slid up to cradle his jaw. "Just kiss me."
And then she did.
Her mouth was warm, insistent—wrong. The way she moved, the taste of her, the pressure—it was like kissing a stranger wearing Mariah’s skin. Little did he know how right he was.
Jon pulled back, breath ragged.
Mariah just smirked, licking her lips. "See? Not so hard."
Mariah didn’t just kiss him—she consumed him.
One second, Jon was reeling from the wrongness of it all—the next, her hands were fisted in his shirt, yanking him forward until his back hit the couch. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan, and suddenly any semblance of hesitation shattered.
Her tongue swiped against his, tasting of rich red wine and something else—something darkly intoxicating. She climbed onto his lap in one smooth motion, her silky dress riding up as she straddled him.
“You’ve wanted this,” she breathed, grinding down against the painful hardness in his jeans. “For so long.”
Jon’s hands found her hips on instinct, gripping tight as she rocked against him. He should’ve stopped. Should’ve asked what the hell was happening.
But then her mouth was on his neck, nipping, sucking, marking him like she was staking a claim—and logic dissolved.
She pulled back just enough to smirk at the mess she’d made of him.
“Pathetic,” she teased, dragging her nails down his chest. “All this time pretending you didn’t want me.”
Before he could respond, she slid off his lap and onto her knees between his legs.
Her fingers made quick work of his belt, his zipper, his straining boxers. When she freed him, hot and heavy in her grip, she licked her lips—slow, deliberate, savoring the moment.
Then, without warning, she took him deep.
Jon’s back arched off the couch, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat.
Fuck.
Her mouth was perfect—hot, wet, relentless. No hesitation, no teasing buildup. Just ruthless skill. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips tightened on the upstroke, her nails dug into his thighs when he tried to buck deeper. “Don’t,” she warned, smirking up at him before swallowing him down again.
Jon’s vision blurred.
She was too good. Knew exactly how to hollow her cheeks, when to hum, when to drag her teeth just enough to make him see stars. It wasn’t just the best head of his life—it was like she’d mapped out every desperate fantasy he’d ever had and cranked it to eleven.
When he growled, “I’m close,” she didn’t pull away.
She laughed around him—laughed—and doubled down, taking him to the hilt.
Jon came with a curse, fingers tangled in her hair as she milked him through it, swallowing every drop.
He barely had time to recover before she climbed back into his lap, yanking her dress down over her shoulders in one motion. No bra. Just smooth, golden skin and perfect curves.
Jon crushed her against him, hands roaming, mouth claiming hers again—but she was the one in control.
She pushed him back onto the couch, guiding him inside her with a slow, torturous roll of her hips. He hissed at the slick, blazing heat of her.
Then she moved.
No sweet, tentative rhythm. Just pure, unrelenting dominance. She rode him like she was punishing him for every second he’d spent pining—hard, fast, her nails scoring down his chest as she chased her own pleasure.
“Look at you,” she taunted, grinding down, clenching around him. “Mr. Self-Control.”
Jon didn’t last. Couldn’t. Not with her above him—eyes dark, body arching, her breath coming in sharp, needy gasps.
He flipped her beneath him in one rough motion, driving into her deep enough to wrench a sharp cry from her lips.
“Jon—!”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Their coupling turned savage—skin slapping, teeth clashing, her thighs trembling around his waist as she clawed at his back. When she came, it was with a scream, her body locking around him like a vice.
Jon followed, burying himself inside her with a groan.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths.
Then she laughed.
Low. Triumphant.
Jon tensed.
Because that laugh—
It didn’t belong to Mariah.
Jon froze as Mariah's laugh - too deep, too smug, too knowing - echoed through the bedroom. That wasn't Mariah's giggle. That wasn't Mariah's playful tone.
He recognized it only a nanosecond later...That was Marisa.
"Enjoy yourself, big boy?" the woman in Mariah's body purred, stretching like a satisfied cat as she rolled away from him. When she turned back, there was something terrifyingly wrong about the way she moved - the familiar curves now inhabited by something alien. "I knew you'd be fun."
Jon sat up sharply, the post-coital haze evaporating. "What the fuck are you?"
Mariah's lips - no, not Mariah's lips - curved into a smile Jon had only ever seen on one person before.
"Smart boy," Marisa chuckled from Mariah's mouth, running Mariah's hands down Mariah's body in a way that made Jon's stomach lurch. "I was wondering when you'd notice."
Jon scrambled off the bed, grabbing for his pants. "Where's Mariah? What did you do to her?"
Marisa sighed dramatically, rolling Mariah's eyes - but the gesture was all wrong, like watching a bad actor play a part. "God, fine. Since you're so clever..." She sat up, tossing Mariah's hair. "I suppose you've earned the whole sordid story."
She spread Mariah's hands like she was giving a presentation.
"Astral projection. Soul transference. A little aromatherapy magic in the yoga studio. Basically..." She smirked. "I help older women trade up. Give some lonely grandma a chance to be young and beautiful again by hopping into a fresh new body. All it takes is a willing participant on each side - well, 'willing' in the loosest sense."
Jon's blood went cold as he remembered the wristbands. The older woman crying in the parking lot. The way Elena had changed so suddenly.
"You give them the bands," he breathed.
"Bingo." Marisa clapped Mariah's hands. "The wristband marks the donors. The incense during meditation loosens their soul's grip on their body just enough for me to... help them let go." She smiled. "Most of them don't even realize what's happening until it's too late."
Jon felt sick. "And the older women? You just... convince them to give up their bodies?"
Marisa shrugged. "They want to. At first they're confused, sure. But then they look in the mirror and realize what they've gained. A tight little body, smooth skin, all the time in the world..." She ran Mariah's hands over Mariah's breasts. "Would you give that up?"
Jon's stomach churned. This was worse than any nightmare his mind could come up with.
Jon felt dizzy, the room spinning as the horrific truth sank in. The yoga studio wasn't just a business - it was a hunting ground. And Mariah had walked right into the trap.
"I knew you had a thing for her," Marisa cooed, crawling toward him on the bed with Mariah's body. "So when I saw my chance to finally upgrade from my 46-year-old vessel... well, who better than your beautiful gym crush?" She laughed - that same rich, throaty laugh Jon now realized had never belonged to Mariah at all.
Jon backed away, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone. "I'm calling the cops. This stops now."
Marisa rolled Mariah's eyes. "And say what? That your crush's body got possessed by a yoga instructor?" She smirked. "They'll lock you in the psych ward before you finish speaking."
Panic clawed at Jon's throat. She was right. No one would believe this. But he couldn't just walk away - not while the real Mariah was...
"Where is she?" Jon demanded. "Where's Mariah's soul right now?"
Marisa stretched luxuriously. "Oh, she's fine. Currently occupying my old body locked in a dark room back at the studio and tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth so nobody has to hear her scream. A little trade we made during meditation today." Her smile turned cruel. "Though I did warn her - if she tries telling anyone, no one will believe the crazy old lady claiming to be a 24-year-old."
Jon's mind raced. The crying woman in the parking lot. The way Mariah had stumbled getting into the wrong car. The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity.
"So all of then are actually old women...," he realized. "Elena, Emma, now Mariah...all those girls."
"Very good!" Marisa applauded. "Honestly, Mariah put up more fight than most. But they all give in eventually." She sauntered closer. "Now, you've got two choices. Either accept this sexy new version of your gym buddy..." She trailed Mariah's fingers down his chest. "Or go charging off to 'save the day' and look like a goddamn fool."
Jon's fists clenched. He knew Marisa was right about one thing - no cop would ever believe his story. He was out of options.
The moving truck groaned as it rolled down the gravel driveway of Jon’s new home—a small rental house on the edge of Laredo, Texas. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to his skin even as the sun dipped low in the sky. He wiped his forehead and glanced around. Quiet. Empty. Just him, his gym bag, and a whole lot of loneliness.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath.
The first week was brutal. Work was fine—some IT gig at a local firm—but the silence at home was deafening. So, naturally, Jon did what any single guy with no social life would do: he practically lived at the gym.
Iron Haven was the kind of place where beefed-up ranchers and college athletes clashed over bench press real estate, but Jon didn’t care. The grind kept him sane.
And then, on day five, he saw her.
She was mid-rep on the squat rack, legs flexed, her dark ponytail swaying with each controlled descent. Half-Filipina, half-Latina, and all trouble for his concentration. When she stood up, racking the bar with effortless strength, she caught him staring. Instead of scowling, she grinned.
"Could use a spot," she called over.
Jon blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Sure."
Her name was Mariah. Twenty-four, worked as a physical therapist, and had a laugh that hit like a shot of whiskey—smooth and dangerous. She teased him about his form, he joked about her terrible taste in gym music (seriously, reggaeton mixed with 90s hip-hop?), and just like that, they were friends.
Mariah was the kind of girl who made Jon forget how to breathe. Not because she was flawless—though the way her leggings hugged those curves didn’t hurt—but because she was real. Quick to poke fun, quicker to check in if she sensed something was off.
"Helloooo? Earth to Jon." She waved a hand in front of his face during cooldown stretches.
"Sorry," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Zoned out."
"Bullshit," she grinned. "You were staring at my ass."
Jon’s face burned. "I was not—"
"—Don’t lie, I saw you." She stretched her arms overhead, flashing a sliver of toned stomach. "It’s cool. I get it. My glutes are legendary."
Jon groaned, but damn if she wasn’t right.
Weeks slipped by. They spotted each other, grabbed post-workout smoothies, and even binged bad action movies sprawled on her couch. Every time she leaned in to steal a fry or playfully shoved him, his pulse spiked. But then she’d mention him.
"Jackson’s flying in next weekend."
Jackson. The long-distance boyfriend. Seattle-based finance guy. Polite, handsome, and—according to Mariah—"super understanding."
Which meant Jon was screwed.
One night, post-deadlifts, Mariah twisted the cap off her water bottle and sighed. "You ever feel like life’s got this weird way of dangling what you want just outta reach?"
Jon swallowed. "Yeah."
She glanced at him, eyes searching. "Jon…"
The air between them thickened. His chest ached.
Then her phone buzzed. She checked it, and just like that, the moment shattered.
"Jackson," she said softly, smiling at the screen.
Jon forced a grin. "Better answer it."
She did. And Jon swallowed his feelings like chalky protein powder—gritty, tasteless, and necessary.
But Texas heat has a way of making fools out of careful men. And Jon was starting to wonder how long he could keep pretending. The weights felt heavier that day.
Not physically—his deadlifts were the same as always—but mentally, his focus was shot. He’d spent the previous night scrolling through Mariah’s Instagram, stalking Jackson’s perfect teeth and vacation pics in Seattle, feeling like an idiot. His grip slipped on the third rep.
Then—pop.
A white-hot bolt of pain ripped through Jon’s lower back. His vision blurred. The barbell hit the floor with a thunderous crash, and suddenly, he was on his knees, gasping.
"Jon?!"
Mariah was at his side in seconds, hands on his shoulders before he could even blink away the sweat burning his eyes. Her touch sent a different kind of electric current through him—not pain, just warmth.
"I’m fine," he lied through clenched teeth.
She gave him that don’t-bullshit-me look—the one that made men stronger than him crumble. "You’re not fine. You just folded like a lawn chair."
The doctor’s verdict later that evening was grim: herniated disc. No lifting. No heavy exertion. For at least three months.
"Try yoga," the doc suggested, scribbling on his clipboard.
Yoga.
Jon wanted to scream.
Day 4 of No Gym
Jon lasted four days before he caved.
The second he walked into Iron Haven, he spotted her—mid-conversation with some beefy guy in a tank top, laughing at something he said. His gut twisted.
Then she saw him. Her smile vanished.
"Jon." She marched over, arms crossed. "What are you doing here?"
"Just... needed to move." He shrugged, trying to play it off. "Light stuff. Maybe just the bike or—"
"No." She poked his chest. "Doctor’s orders. You leave. Now."
The guy she’d been talking to raised an eyebrow.
Embarrassment burned Jon’s neck. "Mariah, c’mon—"
"—I’ll drive you home." She snatched his gym bag off his shoulder.
Jon groaned. "You’re relentless."
"And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you wreck yourself."
That should’ve been sweet. But all it did was remind Jon that she cared—just not the way he wanted her to.
Week 3: The Slow Decline
No gym meant no Mariah.
Sure, she texted. Sent dumb memes. Even dropped by once with soup, which was so disgustingly thoughtful it made Jon’s chest hurt. But without the routine of spotting each other, their interactions dwindled.
Meanwhile, Jackson was in town.
Her Instagram was a barrage of them—brunch, some hipster brewery, his arm slung around her waist in that I-own-this-space way guys like him had.
Jon should’ve stopped looking.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he lay on his couch, ice pack on his back, binge-watching terrible TV and wondering if Mariah ever thought about him when she wasn’t obligated to.
Pathetic. Three months.
Three goddamn months.
Jon stood outside the only yoga studio in Laredo—"Sunrise Yoga & Wellness"—staring at the lavender-scented hellscape beyond the glass door. Inside, a handful of women in stretchy outfits moved in slow, graceful unison. This was a mistake.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His back still ached, despite the epidural shot last week. And his doctor’s smug "told you so" echoed in his skull.
"Try yoga, Jon."
Bullshit.
The studio door chimed as Jon pushed it open.
Instantly, every head turned.
A woman near the front—mid-50s, sipping from a stainless-steel water bottle—gave him a slow once-over. Jon stood there awkwardly, feeling like a linebacker who’d wandered into a ballet rehearsal.
"First time?" a voice chirped.
A petite blonde instructor bounced over, her neon yoga pants practically glowing under the studio lights.
"Yeah," Jon muttered, rubbing his neck. "My doctor said—"
"—Ahhh, the doctor recommended crowd." She grinned. "I get it. You’re skeptical. You think yoga’s just stretching and incense. But trust me—" She poked his bicep. "—you’ll be humiliated by how hard this is."
Great fucking pep talk.
"I'm Marisa, by the way! Class starts in five!" she announced to the room before leaving Jon to grab a mat.
Jon shuffled toward the back corner—least visibility possible—and tried to just hide and observe.
The scent of lavender and jasmine settled over the studio like a warm, cloying blanket. Jon stood frozen at the edge of the room, gripping his rented yoga mat like it might sprout legs and run for the door.
The class was packed—mostly women. Not just any women. Beautiful ones. Laughing, stretching, their toned limbs effortlessly folding into pretzel-like shapes that made his lower back ache in sympathy. At the center of it all was an older woman—maybe late fifties—with silver-streaked dark hair and an easy confidence. She held court among a circle of girls wrapped in expensive athleisure, all giggling at something she said with the familiarity of people who had known each other for years.
Then, in the far corner, her.
A lone figure sitting cross-legged on her mat, deep brown hair spilling over one shoulder. She was younger than the others—early twenties, maybe. Her eyes darted nervously around the room before settling on the ground in front of her. She had that fresh-faced, untouched beauty—soft lips, faint freckles dusting her cheeks—but her posture screamed stay away.
Jon hesitated for half a second before shuffling over and dropping his mat beside hers.
"Hey," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "First time?"
She flinched—actually flinched—as if she hadn’t expected anyone to acknowledge her. Then she nodded, barely lifting her chin.
"Yeah. You?"
"My doctor forced me into this," he admitted with a lopsided grin. "Said I had to 'embrace the healing process' or some shit."
A flicker of a smile. So tiny he almost missed it.
"Me too," she said. "Car accident. My physical therapist recommended it."
"Jon." He held out a hand.
She blinked at it, then placed her hand in his—delicate fingers, cold to the touch.
"Elena," she whispered.
For a second, it felt nice. Just two lost people in a room full of strangers, clinging to the briefest moment of connection.
Then Elena pulled her hand back too quickly, her gaze darting past him. Her expression flattened, her walls slamming up again.
Jon frowned. "Uh—"
"Class is starting," she muttered, turning her body away from him.
And just like that—dismissed.
Confused, he glanced around the room and froze.
The older woman was staring. And so were the others. All of them. Unmistakably. Eyes locked onto Elena with unsettling intensity.
Jon’s skin prickled.
The teacher clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone! Let’s begin!"
But no one moved.
For one bizarre, suspended moment, the air in the room felt wrong.
Then Elena exhaled sharply.
And the older woman smiled.
As they began, it dawned on Jon that he was terrible at yoga.
Like, tragically bad.
Downward Dog? More like Collapsed Mutt. Warrior Pose? More like "Wobbling Toddler." Every time he attempted to mirror the instructor’s graceful movements, his body protested with crackling joints and awkward tremors.
At one point, he caught sight of Elena—effortlessly balanced in a perfect Tree Pose, her slender arms lifted toward the ceiling—and nearly toppled over in distraction. That’s when he noticed the odd little detail: a paper wristband looped around her wrist, stark white with faint black lettering.
Even stranger? The only other people wearing them: the older silver-haired woman and Marisa, the instructor.
Jon waited until they transitioned into Child’s Pose (which, mercifully, mostly involved kneeling and not moving) before leaning toward Elena.
"Hey," he whispered. "Where’d you get the wristband?"
Elena blinked at him, then at her own wrist. "I don't know," she murmured, voice barely audible. "They just gave it to me after I checked in. Did you get one?"
Before Jon could answer—
"Shhhh."
Marisa shot them a pointed look from the front of the room. Elena immediately folded in on herself again, and Jon bit back a frustrated sigh. So much for conversation.
--
Then came meditation.
Lights dimmed, soft music hummed through the speakers, and Jon lay flat on his back, surrendering to the plush mat beneath him. The room sank into silence.
Around him, the others drifted effortlessly into serenity—breaths slow, bodies slack. Even Jon, despite himself, began to relax.
Then—
A scent.
Sweet, floral, intoxicating. Not overpowering—just… there. Like someone had spritzed the air with perfume, subtle but all-encompassing. Jon inhaled deeply, and suddenly, his limbs felt lighter. His thoughts mellowed. A slow, warm buzz settled over him, as if he’d sipped a shot of something strong.
What the hell…?
Then—commotion.
A hushed rustling, a sharp inhale followed by an audible "No."
Jon cracked open an eye.
The older woman sat bolt upright, fists clenched in her lap. Her face was twisted—not in pain, but in... frustration? Anger?
Marisa swooped in instantly, murmuring something soothing before gently guiding her out of the room. The woman didn’t resist, but as the door shut behind them, the air in the studio shifted.
Jon exhaled. Probably nothing.
He closed his eyes again.
And promptly dozed off.
--
When he stirred, the lights were up, and the music had faded. Around him, people stretched, sighed, smiled—blissed-out expressions plastered on every face.
Including Elena’s.
Except now, Elena wasn’t avoiding eye contact.
She wasn’t shy.She was beaming.
Jon barely had time to process before she bounced up to him, rolling up her mat with effortless fluidity.
"Hey," she chirped, "what was your name again?"
"Uh—Jon?"
She laughed—bright, loud. "Right! Sorry!" Then she stuck out her hand. "I’m Elena."
But the way she said it was… off. Over-enunciated. "I’M EL-EEEE-NA." As if she was announcing it to the room.
And then—she winked.
Jon stared.
Five minutes ago, this girl wouldn’t look at him. Now she was grinning, tossing her hair, radiating energy like she’d chugged three espressos.
"Nice to officially meet you," she said—flirty, playful—before sashaying toward the door. "See you next week!"
Then she was gone.
Jon stood frozen, mat half-rolled, brain working overtime.
--
The parking lot was empty, save for one figure.
The older woman slumped on a bench near the exit, face in her hands. Silent sobs wracked her shoulders.
Jon hesitated.
Then he climbed into his car.
And drove away.
---
A week passed before Jon mustered the willpower to return to Sunrise Yoga & Wellness.
This time, the door gave a cheerful ding as he walked in, and Marisa—grinning from ear to ear—welcomed him like an old friend.
"Jon! You actually came back!" she teased, clasping her hands together. "I was sure we scared you off for good."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, doc’s orders."
"Uh-huh, sure." She winked. "Whatever gets you here, handsome."
Jon felt his face warm. The attention was nice—too nice—and for a second, he almost forgot why he’d been weirded out last time.
Then he saw her.
Elena.
She wasn’t hiding in the corner this time. She was thriving.
Surrounded by that same circle of beautiful women, she laughed loudly at some unheard joke, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. She looked different. Confident. Radiant. Entirely at home.
And then—her eyes flicked up.
She saw him.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips before she excused herself and sauntered toward him.
"Jon," she purred, stopping just a little too close, one hand resting lightly on his bicep. "You made it."
He stiffened—partly from surprise, partly because she was touching him like they’d known each other for years.
"Uh, yeah," he managed. "How’s… uh…?" He swallowed. "How’s the physical therapy going?"
A flicker of confusion passed over her face.
Then—just like that—it smoothed into recognition.
"Right! The accident." She laughed, brushing it off. "It’s going great. Thanks for asking."
Jon frowned. Last week, she’d acted like stepping out of her shell was impossible. Now she was making him the nervous one?
Before he could press, another woman walked in—young, gorgeous, glancing around the room with the cautious energy of a first-timer.
Elena immediately lit up.
"Ooooh, fresh meat," she whispered playfully—then shot Jon an apologetic smirk. "Duty calls. Catch you later?"
And just like that, she glided toward the newcomer, all sunshine and charm.
Jon watched as Elena greeted the woman—a hand on her arm, a warm laugh, a little tilt of her head that said you’re safe here.
Then… she slid a white wristband onto the woman’s wrist.
Jon stiffened.
The same exact kind he’d never been given.
He scanned the room.
Only three people had them.
—The new girl.
—Marisa.
—And some unfamiliar older lady, chatting animatedly with the same group of young, polished women as last time.
What the hell is going on?
Jon rolled out his mat, his skin prickling with unease as Elena’s laughter—bright, confident, uncharacteristic—filled the room.
Something was wrong.
And he was starting to think it wasn’t just his imagination.
The class unfolded like a broken-record replay of last week.
Jon struggled through the poses, his muscles protesting as he tried—and failed—to bend his body into shapes it clearly wasn’t meant to hold. Downward Dog still felt less like yoga and more like an uncoordinated stretch before faceplanting. Elena, meanwhile, had become disturbingly good overnight—her movements fluid, effortless, like she’d been doing this for years.
Which was impossible. She was new. Just like me.
Then came the wristbands.
Jon stole glances whenever he could, watching as the new girl—Emma, was it?—kept touching hers, running her fingers over the black lettering Jon still couldn’t read.
Elena noticed him looking and grinned. "whatcha lookin at hon?" she teased, swaying close during a water break.
"Those wristbands. You said last week they gave you one when you walked in. And then you have that new girl Emma one today. What are they for?" Jon hedged.
"Mmmmm, darling those are just for new people. You don't need one." she giggled, popping her hip. Jon wanted to investigate further so he asked "but I was new last week and I never got one. Why is that?" She looked nervous for about a nano second and then replied with "well you're not new anymore sweetheart! So I wouldn't worry your handsome head about it now." she said winking and then she was off again, leaving him standing there like an idiot.
——
Meditation.
Lights dimmed. Music hummed. The same cloying floral scent from last time curled through the air—thick, honey-sweet, with a weight to it that made Jon’s limbs feel like they were floating.
The high crept in slow, a warm, dizzying sensation that smoothed the edges of his thoughts.
Then—
A rustle. A sharp inhale.
Jon slitted his eyes open just in time to see the older woman—the new one this time—jerk upright, her breath ragged.
"What the fu-," she hissed under her breath. Looking at her hands with confusion and touching her face.
Marisa was on her instantly, murmuring soft words, gently steering her toward the door.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
Just like last week.
He wanted to follow. To ask questions. But his body ignored him, melting further into the mat, the scent wrapping around him like a drug.
His eyes closed.
——
Aftermath.
The lights came up. People stretched, sighed, exchanged soft smiles. Jon blinked back to reality, disoriented, an odd languidness clinging to his limbs.
Beside him, the new girl—Emma—sat up, her expression transformed.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
She turned to Elena, beaming. "I get what you meant now," she whispered, touching her wristband.
"Told you," Elena smirked back at her new friend.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Across the room, Marisa stretched her arms overhead, sighing in contentment. "Another amazing session, everyone! See you next week!"
Jon gathered his mat, mind racing.
Same scents. Same meditative shift. Same wristbands.
And now—same people?
He glanced over his shoulder just as Elena caught his eye. She winked, slow, deliberate.
"I think the gals are getting together this weekend for drinks, Jon," she sang. "You should join us, right EMMA?"
Emma was looking down at herself and not paying attention, but then looked back up and looked Jon up and down nodding playfully.
Marisa echoed the invitation for drinks Friday night and Jon politely agreed.
He barely made it to his car before he noticed.
The older woman sat slumped against the wheel of her parked SUV.
Crying.
---
Later that week, Jon found himself harassed and eventually coerced into going out with his new yoga "friends".
The Lone Star Saloon was the kind of small-town bar where the neon sign buzzed, the jukebox played a mix of classic country and top-40 hits no one asked for, and everybody knew everybody—or at least pretended to.
Jon pushed through the scarred wooden door, the chatter of voices and twang of steel guitar hitting him in a wall of sound. He spotted them immediately—the Sunrise Yoga crew clustered around a long table in the back, drinks gleaming under the dim amber lights.
Marisa waved him over, her smile luminous. "Jon! You came!"
He forced a grin, sliding into the booth beside her. "Wouldn’t miss it."
The table was packed—Elena, Emma, the other regulars from class—all polished and glowing like they’d stepped out of some sleek magazine ad for "Small-Town Goddesses." But what caught Jon’s attention were the men—because nearly a third of the girls weren’t alone.
They were with older men.
Much older.
Silver-haired gentlemen in pressed button-downs laughing intimately with girls young enough to be their daughters. One man—late 50s, tan, with the crisp confidence of money—had his hand possessively on the thigh of a yoga regular Jon recognized from class. Another, balding and thick around the middle, leaned in to whisper something that made his dark-haired companion giggle into her cocktail.
Jon frowned, swirling his beer.
A sharp elbow nudged his ribs.
"See something you like?" Marisa murmured, leaning in so close her perfume—something expensive, fruity—tickled his nose.
"Just… surprised," Jon admitted quietly, gesturing subtly toward one of the older couples. "Didn’t realize this was a date night."
Marisa’s laugh was bright, deliberate. "Oh, sweetie, age is just a number. Love doesn’t clock out at forty."
Jon wanted to press—but Elena suddenly appeared at his other side, draping herself halfway over his shoulders. Her touch was warm, her voice whiskey-smooth.
"Don’t worry, Jon," she teased, her breath sweet with gin. "Plenty of us aren’t taken yet."
Emma giggled across the table, twirling her straw. "Speak for yourself."
Elena gasped—mock-offended—and launched into some dramatic retort Jon barely heard.
His attention snagged on the older couple again.
The way the girl—Tiffany?—traced her fingers over her boyfriend’s wrist.
The same white wristband peeked out from under her sleeve.
Just like the others.
Jon’s pulse hitched.
Before he could react, Marisa clinked her glass against his bottle, pulling his focus back.
"To new friends," she toasted, smiling.
Around the table, glasses lifted.
Jon hesitated—then drank.
The beer tasted bitter.
Or maybe that was just the dread creeping up his throat.
The night should’ve been weird.
Elena was trashed—giggling so hard she almost knocked over Emma’s cosmo, her voice sharp and loud in that way drunk people never realize is obnoxious. Emma wasn’t far behind, slurring compliments like "Jon, you’re actually, like, soo funny when you’re not just, like… working out or whatever."
But despite the strangeness hanging over the yoga crew, Jon was surprised to find himself… having fun.
Mostly thanks to Marisa.
She was effortlessly engaging—switching between sarcastic wit and warm wisdom like it was nothing. Every joke landed, every story pulled him in. She teased him about his stiff posture ("Even in a bar booth, you sit like you’re about to deadlift it") but listened intently when he told her about his job, his move to Texas, even his stupid back injury.
At one point, after refilling his beer without him noticing, she smirked and said, "You know, I was worried you’d be the broody, silent type forever. But you’re kinda charming when you’re not scowling."
Jon snorted. "Thanks, I think."
"Oh, it’s a compliment," she laughed, flicking her dark braid over her shoulder. "Most guys in this town peak in high school and never recover."
And yeah—she was older. Easily mid-40s. Not someone he’d look at twice in that way. But damn if she wasn’t the most interesting person in the room.
Then the door swung open.
And all the warmth in Jon’s chest evaporated.
Mariah.
Dressed in jeans that hugged her just right and a soft sweater that made her skin glow under the bar lights. And beside her—Jackson. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of guy who looked like he spent more time on his skincare routine than Jon did on meal prep.
Jon’s grip tightened around his bottle.
He shouldn’t care.
But fuck.
Mariah’s eyes swept the room—paused on him—widened slightly. Then she smiled, small but genuine, and lifted her fingers in a little wave.
Jon managed a stiff nod.
Elena, drunk and oblivious, followed his gaze and gasped. "Oh! Omigod, it’s—" She shot up, wobbling. "—Time for shots! Right, Jon? Right?"
Marisa’s gaze flicked between Jon and Mariah, sharp with understanding.
"Well well," she murmured, lips curving. "This night just got interesting."
And Jon—
Jon really wished he wasn’t trapped in this booth.
Marisa leaned in, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh? Nobody important?" she echoed, watching as Mariah and her boyfriend wound their way toward them through the crowd.
Jon stiffened. "I mean—we’re just friends."
"Mhmm," Marisa hummed, smirking. "The way you just said that tells me everything."
Before Jon could protest, Mariah was there—smiling warmly, her dark eyes bright.
"Jon! Hey!" she said, reaching out to briefly squeeze his shoulder. Her touch sent a jolt through him. "I didn’t expect to see you here."
Jon forced an easy smile—or what he hoped looked like one. "Yeah, uh. Yoga class outing." He gestured vaguely at the table.
Mariah’s boyfriend, Jackson, extended a hand with perfect polite-guy charm. "Hey man, nice to finally meet you. Maria’s told me a lot about you."
Maria.
Not Mariah.
The nickname grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Jon shook his hand—too tight, probably—and muttered, "All good things, I hope."
Jackson laughed, oblivious. "Of course. Says you spot her on squats."
Mariah rolled her eyes playfully. "Jon’s saved my life multiple times from being squashed by a barbell."
Jon swallowed hard.
She was glowing. Happy. Relaxed. Everything about her body language screamed comfortable with this guy.
It stung.
The small talk lasted another painful minute before Mariah excused them both. "We’re meeting some of Jackson’s coworkers, but it was nice seeing you!" She hesitated, then added, "You should come to the gym next week. I’ve missed my lifting buddy."
Missed.
The word dangled between them like bait.
"Yeah," Jon rasped. "Maybe."
And just like that, she was gone again—Jackson’s hand sliding naturally to the small of her back as they walked away.
Jon exhaled slowly.
Marisa didn’t wait.
"Ohhhh honey," she drawled, swirling her drink. "That was painful to watch."
Jon groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up."
"That wasn’t just nobody important." She nudged him. "Tell me the truth—you’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?"
He debated lying.
But the alcohol loosened his tongue.
"Yeah," he muttered. "And it’s fucking stupid."
Marisa arched a brow, sipping her whiskey. "Why?"
Jon huffed a bitter laugh. "Because she’s with him! Because I wait all week just to spot her on bench press like some lovesick puppy. Because—" He cut himself off, frustrated.
Marisa studied him for a long moment. Then, softly: "She doesn’t look at you the way she looks at him?"
Jon froze.
"It's Bullshit," he said automatically.
But Marisa didn’t push. Just shrugged and leaned back, her expression knowing.
"You know, Jon," she said simply. "You should invite her—to Yoga. You never know...your luck might turn around."
Jon didn’t answer.
Just swallowed the rest of his drink whole.
---
The following Monday, the studio was quieter than usual when Jon stepped in—soft murmurs, hushed laughter, the faint sound of bare feet on mats.
And then he saw her.
Mariah.
Standing near the front of the room in black leggings and a fitted tank, talking animatedly with Marisa.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
What the hell is she doing here?
As if sensing his stare, Mariah turned. Her face lit up, and she gave him a little wave. "Hey! Surprise!"
Jon forced his legs to move forward. "You’re—uh—doing yoga now?"
Before she could answer, Marisa slipped an arm around Mariah’s shoulders, grinning. "I invited her after you left the bar. Everyone needs a little spiritual detox, right?" She winked—definitely not subtle.
Mariah laughed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, don’t look so nervous. I won’t completely embarrass myself."
Her ease helped. A little. Jon exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Just—don’t expect me to be any help. I still can’t touch my toes."
Mariah smirked. "For a guy who lifts like you do, that’s kinda pathetic."
It was such a Mariah thing to say—playful, teasing, effortlessly slipping back into the rhythm of their gym banter—that Jon’s chest loosened.
But then—
His gaze snagged on her wrist.
A thin white band.
The wristband.
His blood went cold.
He looked around the room, counting.
Marisa had one.
No one else did.
Not Elena. Not Emma. No one but…
Mariah.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Marisa invited her. Marisa gave her the wristband.
Was this planned?
Before he could think too much about it, the music shifted—soothing chimes, low and melodic.
Marisa clapped her hands. "Alright, lovelies! Let’s begin."
Mariah shot Jon one last grin before unfolding her mat beside him.
Jon unrolled his own, hands just a little unsteady.
He had a very bad feeling about this.
As it happens...Mariah was bad at yoga as well—but in the most endearing way possible.
She was flexible—no shock given how nimble she was with weights—but graceful? Not even close. Every transition was a half-second too slow, her balance tipping like a newborn deer on ice. At one point, halfway through Warrior Three, she wobbled so violently she windmilled her arms and nearly face-planted into Jon’s chest.
He caught her reflexively, grinning. "Maybe ease into it, Rocky."
Mariah clutched his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. "I swear this pose didn’t look this hard from the sidelines."
Jon couldn’t help it—he laughed. Really laughed. For the first time all night, the weird tension evaporated. This was just Mariah: clumsy, determined, utterly herself.
The rest of the class passed smoothly—until meditation.
As usual, the lights dimmed, slow music humming through the speakers. Marisa stretched her arms theatrically. "Alright, everyone, settle in. Deep breaths. I’ll be back in a few."
Jon frowned as she slipped out the door. Strange—she never left during meditation.
But before he could dwell on it, the room sank into silence. Ten minutes passed in a drowsy haze until—
Lights flicked on.
Elena stood at the front, smiling. "Hey guys, Marisa isn’t feeling great. She asked me to finish up. So… namaste, or whatever."
Jon sat up, blinking.
Beside him, Mariah was staring at her hands—turning them over, flexing her fingers. Almost like she was… checking them.
She caught him looking and immediately smirked. "Like what you see?"
Jon flushed. "Just—uh—making sure you didn’t pull anything."
Mariah rolled her eyes. "Relax, tough guy. I’m kidding." But her tone was different—sharper, smoother. Off.
The class dispersed quickly after that. Jon lingered, watching as Mariah gathered her things with uncharacteristic imprecision—dropping her keys, fumbling her water bottle.
Outside, the night air was thick with humidity.
"Walk me to my car?" Mariah asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah. Sure."
They crossed the darkened parking lot in silence. Mariah’s steps were confident now—almost swaggering—where earlier she’d been all stiff concentration.
Then—she stopped at a silver Honda.
Jon hesitated. "...That’s not your car."
Mariah froze.
For half a second, her face went utterly blank. Then she laughed, loud and careless. "Whoops! Wrong rental." She spun and marched three cars down to her actual Toyota.
Jon’s stomach knotted.
Rental? Mariah had owned that car for years.
She tossed her bag inside, flashing him a smirk. "See you at the gym tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Jon lied.
She drove off.
Jon stared after her, pulse humming uneasily.
Same voice. Same face.
But was that Mariah?
---
The next morning, Jon spotted her the second he walked into Iron Haven.
"Mariah".
Perched on the edge of a bench, stretching in sleek black yoga pants and a cropped athletic top—clothes he'd never seen her wear to lift before.
She caught his eye immediately, grinning as she unfolded herself in a fluid, feline motion. "There you are," she said, voice warm and teasing. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."
Jon frowned. Her cadence was different—smoother, almost calculated. Even the way she stood seemed unnaturally poised, like someone who'd studied confidence rather than lived it.
"...You're in yoga gear," he blurted.
She glanced down, running her hands over her hips as if appreciating the fabric. "Mm. Felt like a change. Cute, right?"
Jon swallowed hard. Every alarm in his head was screaming.
Then came the real red flags.
She couldn't remember their usual push-pull split. She kept asking about muscle groups like the terms were foreign. And when she loaded up the bar for squats—
"Mariah, your knees—they're caving in. Big time," Jon warned, hovering behind her.
She just giggled. "Oops. Guess I need you to really spot me today."
Her wink was deliberate, her hips shifting invitingly as she started her descent with terrifying instability. Jon had to brace both hands on her waist to keep her from wobbling sideways—too close, too intimate.
When they switched to bench press, she abandoned form entirely, arching in a way that was less about power and more about giving him an obstructed view down her tank top.
Jon's face burned.
Then—
"So, big news," she announced between sets, twirling a lock of hair. "Me and Jackson? Done." She popped the p playfully. "Thought you'd be happy to hear that."
Jon froze mid-reach for his water bottle.
"You... broke up?"
"Mhmm." She stretched her arms overhead, watching his reaction like a cat eyeing a trapped mouse. "Long-distance sucked anyway. But now I'm single... lonely... could really use a friend tonight." Her foot nudged his calf. "Maybe you?"
Jon felt like he'd been dunked in ice water.
This wasn't Mariah.
The real Mariah would never ditch form like this. Would never flirt this blatantly. And if—some impossible fantasy—she'd actually broken up with Jackson, she'd be hurting. Drinking sad-girl wine, venting to friends, not propositioning him mid-workout.
Yet here this not-Mariah stood, smirking, waiting.
Jon forced a stiff smile. "Yeah. Maybe."
She beamed, like he'd confirmed some secret she already knew. "Great. Come by my place at 8. Don't bring beer—I've got better drinks."
She sauntered away to the water fountain, her stride too smooth, too practiced.
Jon stared after her.
He had no intention of showing up.
But he was going to figure out what the hell was happening.
---
Jon stood on Mariah’s porch at 8:03 PM, fist raised to knock, heart hammering like he was about to step into a trap.
Because he was.
But he had to know.
The door swung open before his knuckles even touched wood.
Mariah leaned against the frame, bathed in warm lamplight—barefoot, in a silky slip of a dress that clung to every curve. A far cry from her usual gym shorts and oversized tees.
"You came," she purred, stepping aside to let him in.
Jon forced himself to move. "Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it."
The apartment smelled like vanilla and red wine. Candles flickered on the coffee table beside an already half-empty bottle.
Mariah snatched it up, pouring him a glass without asking. "Relax," she laughed, pressing it into his hand. "You look like you’re about to bolt."
Jon took a sip. "Just… surprised, I guess."
"About?" She flopped onto the couch, patting the space beside her.
"This. You. Us hanging out like…" He gestured vaguely at the wine, the dim lighting, her.
Mariah’s smile turned sly. "Like a date?"
Jon choked on his drink.
She just giggled, leaning in to swipe a thumb over the corner of his lips, catching the spilled wine. Then—slow, deliberate—she sucked it off her own finger, watching him.
Jon’s pulse roared in his ears.
This was wrong.
The real Mariah would’ve teased him, sure. Would’ve maybe flirted after one too many drinks. But not like this. Not with this calculated, predatory heat.
Yet here she was, closing the distance between them, her knee brushing his.
"You’ve always been so careful with me," she murmured, fingers tracing idle circles on his thigh. "But you don’t have to be. Not anymore."
Jon’s grip tightened on his glass. "Mariah—"
"Shhh." Her hand slid up to cradle his jaw. "Just kiss me."
And then she did.
Her mouth was warm, insistent—wrong. The way she moved, the taste of her, the pressure—it was like kissing a stranger wearing Mariah’s skin. Little did he know how right he was.
Jon pulled back, breath ragged.
Mariah just smirked, licking her lips. "See? Not so hard."
Mariah didn’t just kiss him—she consumed him.
One second, Jon was reeling from the wrongness of it all—the next, her hands were fisted in his shirt, yanking him forward until his back hit the couch. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan, and suddenly any semblance of hesitation shattered.
Her tongue swiped against his, tasting of rich red wine and something else—something darkly intoxicating. She climbed onto his lap in one smooth motion, her silky dress riding up as she straddled him.
“You’ve wanted this,” she breathed, grinding down against the painful hardness in his jeans. “For so long.”
Jon’s hands found her hips on instinct, gripping tight as she rocked against him. He should’ve stopped. Should’ve asked what the hell was happening.
But then her mouth was on his neck, nipping, sucking, marking him like she was staking a claim—and logic dissolved.
She pulled back just enough to smirk at the mess she’d made of him.
“Pathetic,” she teased, dragging her nails down his chest. “All this time pretending you didn’t want me.”
Before he could respond, she slid off his lap and onto her knees between his legs.
Her fingers made quick work of his belt, his zipper, his straining boxers. When she freed him, hot and heavy in her grip, she licked her lips—slow, deliberate, savoring the moment.
Then, without warning, she took him deep.
Jon’s back arched off the couch, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat.
Fuck.
Her mouth was perfect—hot, wet, relentless. No hesitation, no teasing buildup. Just ruthless skill. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips tightened on the upstroke, her nails dug into his thighs when he tried to buck deeper. “Don’t,” she warned, smirking up at him before swallowing him down again.
Jon’s vision blurred.
She was too good. Knew exactly how to hollow her cheeks, when to hum, when to drag her teeth just enough to make him see stars. It wasn’t just the best head of his life—it was like she’d mapped out every desperate fantasy he’d ever had and cranked it to eleven.
When he growled, “I’m close,” she didn’t pull away.
She laughed around him—laughed—and doubled down, taking him to the hilt.
Jon came with a curse, fingers tangled in her hair as she milked him through it, swallowing every drop.
He barely had time to recover before she climbed back into his lap, yanking her dress down over her shoulders in one motion. No bra. Just smooth, golden skin and perfect curves.
Jon crushed her against him, hands roaming, mouth claiming hers again—but she was the one in control.
She pushed him back onto the couch, guiding him inside her with a slow, torturous roll of her hips. He hissed at the slick, blazing heat of her.
Then she moved.
No sweet, tentative rhythm. Just pure, unrelenting dominance. She rode him like she was punishing him for every second he’d spent pining—hard, fast, her nails scoring down his chest as she chased her own pleasure.
“Look at you,” she taunted, grinding down, clenching around him. “Mr. Self-Control.”
Jon didn’t last. Couldn’t. Not with her above him—eyes dark, body arching, her breath coming in sharp, needy gasps.
He flipped her beneath him in one rough motion, driving into her deep enough to wrench a sharp cry from her lips.
“Jon—!”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Their coupling turned savage—skin slapping, teeth clashing, her thighs trembling around his waist as she clawed at his back. When she came, it was with a scream, her body locking around him like a vice.
Jon followed, burying himself inside her with a groan.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths.
Then she laughed.
Low. Triumphant.
Jon tensed.
Because that laugh—
It didn’t belong to Mariah.
Jon froze as Mariah's laugh - too deep, too smug, too knowing - echoed through the bedroom. That wasn't Mariah's giggle. That wasn't Mariah's playful tone.
He recognized it only a nanosecond later...That was Marisa.
"Enjoy yourself, big boy?" the woman in Mariah's body purred, stretching like a satisfied cat as she rolled away from him. When she turned back, there was something terrifyingly wrong about the way she moved - the familiar curves now inhabited by something alien. "I knew you'd be fun."
Jon sat up sharply, the post-coital haze evaporating. "What the fuck are you?"
Mariah's lips - no, not Mariah's lips - curved into a smile Jon had only ever seen on one person before.
"Smart boy," Marisa chuckled from Mariah's mouth, running Mariah's hands down Mariah's body in a way that made Jon's stomach lurch. "I was wondering when you'd notice."
Jon scrambled off the bed, grabbing for his pants. "Where's Mariah? What did you do to her?"
Marisa sighed dramatically, rolling Mariah's eyes - but the gesture was all wrong, like watching a bad actor play a part. "God, fine. Since you're so clever..." She sat up, tossing Mariah's hair. "I suppose you've earned the whole sordid story."
She spread Mariah's hands like she was giving a presentation.
"Astral projection. Soul transference. A little aromatherapy magic in the yoga studio. Basically..." She smirked. "I help older women trade up. Give some lonely grandma a chance to be young and beautiful again by hopping into a fresh new body. All it takes is a willing participant on each side - well, 'willing' in the loosest sense."
Jon's blood went cold as he remembered the wristbands. The older woman crying in the parking lot. The way Elena had changed so suddenly.
"You give them the bands," he breathed.
"Bingo." Marisa clapped Mariah's hands. "The wristband marks the donors. The incense during meditation loosens their soul's grip on their body just enough for me to... help them let go." She smiled. "Most of them don't even realize what's happening until it's too late."
Jon felt sick. "And the older women? You just... convince them to give up their bodies?"
Marisa shrugged. "They want to. At first they're confused, sure. But then they look in the mirror and realize what they've gained. A tight little body, smooth skin, all the time in the world..." She ran Mariah's hands over Mariah's breasts. "Would you give that up?"
Jon's stomach churned. This was worse than any nightmare his mind could come up with.
Jon felt dizzy, the room spinning as the horrific truth sank in. The yoga studio wasn't just a business - it was a hunting ground. And Mariah had walked right into the trap.
"I knew you had a thing for her," Marisa cooed, crawling toward him on the bed with Mariah's body. "So when I saw my chance to finally upgrade from my 46-year-old vessel... well, who better than your beautiful gym crush?" She laughed - that same rich, throaty laugh Jon now realized had never belonged to Mariah at all.
Jon backed away, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone. "I'm calling the cops. This stops now."
Marisa rolled Mariah's eyes. "And say what? That your crush's body got possessed by a yoga instructor?" She smirked. "They'll lock you in the psych ward before you finish speaking."
Panic clawed at Jon's throat. She was right. No one would believe this. But he couldn't just walk away - not while the real Mariah was...
"Where is she?" Jon demanded. "Where's Mariah's soul right now?"
Marisa stretched luxuriously. "Oh, she's fine. Currently occupying my old body locked in a dark room back at the studio and tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth so nobody has to hear her scream. A little trade we made during meditation today." Her smile turned cruel. "Though I did warn her - if she tries telling anyone, no one will believe the crazy old lady claiming to be a 24-year-old."
Jon's mind raced. The crying woman in the parking lot. The way Mariah had stumbled getting into the wrong car. The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity.
"So all of then are actually old women...," he realized. "Elena, Emma, now Mariah...all those girls."
"Very good!" Marisa applauded. "Honestly, Mariah put up more fight than most. But they all give in eventually." She sauntered closer. "Now, you've got two choices. Either accept this sexy new version of your gym buddy..." She trailed Mariah's fingers down his chest. "Or go charging off to 'save the day' and look like a goddamn fool."
Jon's fists clenched. He knew Marisa was right about one thing - no cop would ever believe his story. He was out of options.
body swap
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John makes a wish one fateful night to be able to get closer to his crush and gets more than he'd bargained for with via a gender bending trip in the body of his attractive step-mom.
Chapter 1: Backstory
The sun hung high over the quiet suburban neighborhood of Willow Creek, casting a golden haze over manicured lawns and white picket fences that seemed frozen in time. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business, but no one ever admitted it-secrets simmered beneath the surface like the humid Texas air in mid-July. John Thompson, an 18-year-old fresh out of high school, wiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed the old lawnmower across Jessica's expansive front yard. The machine's rumble drowned out the distant chirp of cicadas, and the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint floral perfume wafting from the nearby rose bushes Jessica so meticulously tended.
John had been helping out both families for years now-his own and the neighboring one headed by Jessica and her daughter Summer. It started as odd jobs to earn pocket money: mowing lawns, fixing fences, even helping with groceries when Heather, his step-mom, was swamped with her part-time job at the local boutique. Heather had married John's dad when John was just a kid, but after his dad passed away five years ago from a sudden heart attack, it had been just the three of them: Heather, John, and Amy-Heather's biological daughter from her first marriage. Amy was 20 now, home from college for the summer, and she treated John like the annoying little brother he sometimes felt he was.
But Summer, oh, Summer was different. She'd been Amy's best friend since middle school, the kind of girl who turned heads without even trying. John had nursed a crush on her for as long as he could remember-those stolen glances during family barbecues, the way her laughter echoed like music when she and Amy gossiped in the backyard. She was 20 now too, taller than most girls at 5'10", with a lithe, athletic build from years of volleyball, sun-kissed blonde hair that cascaded in waves down her back, and a bust that filled out her tops in a way that made John's heart race. Her mom, Jessica, was the stuff of local legend-the town's ultimate MILF at 46, with platinum blonde locks, a curvy figure boasting a generous D-cup bust, and legs that seemed to go on forever. She owned a small yoga studio downtown, which kept her toned and flexible, and her flirtatious smile had broken more than a few hearts.
John paused the mower to chug from his water bottle, his t-shirt clinging to his lean, teenage frame. He wasn't unattractive-tallish at 5'11", with messy brown hair and a boyish charm-but he felt invisible next to the likes of Summer. "Just finish this up," he muttered to himself, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. That's when he heard the car pull into the driveway.
The sleek SUV doors opened, and out stepped Summer, looking every bit the college bombshell in cutoff denim shorts that hugged her firm ass and a crop top that revealed a sliver of toned midriff. Her bigger bust-easily an E-cup-strained against the fabric, bouncing slightly as she slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. "John? Is that you?" she called out, her voice bright and melodic, waving enthusiastically.
John's heart skipped a beat. He killed the mower's engine, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and disheveled he looked-grass clippings stuck to his sneakers, beads of perspiration dripping down his neck. "Uh, hey, Summer! Welcome home!" He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked just a little.
She dropped her bag and bounded over, enveloping him in a tight hug before he could protest. Her body pressed against his-soft, warm, and smelling faintly of vanilla and sunscreen. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her hips brushing his, and for a split second, his mind blanked. "It's so good to see you! You've gotten taller or something," she laughed, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms. Her blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth.
John's face flushed crimson. "Y-yeah, maybe. Sorry, I'm all sweaty and gross. Wasn't expecting, you know." He gestured vaguely at himself, inwardly cursing his awkwardness. God, she looks incredible, he thought. Even better than I remembered. Those lips, that smile, what I wouldn't give to just...
Summer giggled, tilting her head. "Aw, don't worry about it. You're doing us a huge favor with the lawn. Mom's been raving about how helpful you've been." She glanced back at the house, where Jessica was unloading more bags, her own figure poured into yoga pants and a tank top that accentuated her ample cleavage. Jessica caught John's eye and waved with a wink, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.
John opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. Summer's proximity was overwhelming-her scent, her touch, the way her top rode up just enough to show a hint of underboob. He stood there, dumbstruck, his brain short-circuiting as he imagined what it would be like to hold her, to kiss her, to explore every inch of her perfect body. "I, uh, yeah, no problem," he finally stammered, stepping back awkwardly.
Summer smiled sympathetically, picking up her bag. "Well, catch you later? Amy and I are planning a pool day soon- you should join!" With that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying in a way that made John's knees weak.
He watched her go, his mind reeling. How does she do that? Just exist and make everything else fade away? Shaking his head, he restarted the mower, but his thoughts lingered on her-the crush that had only grown stronger over the years.
Later that afternoon, after finishing up and heading home, John bumped into Amy in the kitchen. She was perched on the counter, scrolling through her phone, her brunette hair tied back in a ponytail. Amy took after Heather-modest but attractive, with a fit body from her college track team, perky C-cup breasts, and a girl-next-door vibe. At 20, she was confident and teasing, especially with her little step-brother.
"Hey, loser," she said without looking up, popping a grape into her mouth. "Heard you were over at Jessica's. See Summer yet?"
John grabbed a soda from the fridge, trying to act nonchalant. "Yeah, she just got home. Hugged me and everything." He couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face.
Amy finally glanced at him, smirking. "Ooh, a hug? Careful, John, you might actually talk to a girl for once." She hopped down, nudging him playfully. "Seriously, though, when are you gonna get a girlfriend? You're 18 now-high school's over. You can't just mope around playing video games all summer."
John rolled his eyes, but her words stung a bit. "I'm not moping. Just, busy helping out. And who says I need a girlfriend right now?"
Amy laughed, ruffling his hair. "Come on, make some friends at least. Hit up the beach, the mall-anything. Summer's single, you know. But you'd have to actually, like, speak in full sentences around her."
If only it were that easy, John thought, his mind flashing back to the hug. She's way out of my league. But god, what I wouldn't do to be closer to her... "Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it."
The conversation fizzled as Amy headed upstairs, leaving John to ponder her advice. Dinner that evening was a typical affair-Heather had whipped up a simple pasta dish, her brunette hair pulled back, her modest blouse and jeans hugging her still-fit 45-year-old figure. Heather was classically attractive: soft curves, a B-cup bust that she carried with quiet confidence, and warm brown eyes that always seemed to know more than she let on. She was the glue holding the family together, working her boutique job while keeping the house running smoothly.
They ate at the kitchen table, chatting about mundane things-Amy's college stories, John's lawn-mowing adventures, Heather's latest customer drama. "John, sweetie, thanks for helping Jessica out today," Heather said, smiling across the table. "You're turning into quite the responsible young man."
John shrugged, blushing slightly. "No big deal, Mom." The meal wrapped up normally, with everyone retreating to their own spaces: Amy to her room for a video call with friends, Heather to the living room with a book, and John upstairs to his bedroom.
He locked the door behind him, flopping onto his bed with a sigh. The room was a typical teenage haven-posters of video games and bands on the walls, a cluttered desk with his laptop, and a faint scent of Axe body spray. But tonight, his mind was fixated on Summer. That hug, her body against mine. Fuck, she's perfect. He felt a familiar stir in his pants, his cock twitching at the memory.
Unable to resist, he grabbed his laptop, dimming the lights as he settled against the pillows. A quick incognito search brought up porn sites, and he typed in descriptors that reminded him of her: "tall blonde big tits college girl." Videos popped up-women who vaguely resembled Summer, but none captured her essence. He clicked on one: a busty blonde riding a guy reverse cowgirl, her moans filling his headphones.
John's hand slipped into his boxers, wrapping around his hardening shaft. He stroked slowly at first, imagining it was Summer on top of him, her breasts bouncing, her tight pussy gripping him. God, I wish I could get closer to her, he thought, his pace quickening. Not just know her, but be intimate. Feel her from the outside, sure, but, inside too? Like, understand her completely. The fantasy spiraled-taboo thoughts of body swaps, gender bends from the weird porn he'd stumbled upon before, where guys became girls and explored forbidden desires.
His breath hitched as the orgasm built, more intense than usual. "Fuck, I wish I could be closer to Summer, inside and out," he whispered aloud, his voice hoarse. The video played on, the actress crying out in ecstasy. John's body tensed, cum erupting in hot spurts over his hand and stomach. Waves of pleasure crashed over him, stronger than ever, his vision blurring as a strange dizziness took hold. The world spun, and suddenly-blackness. He collapsed back, unconscious, the laptop still humming softly in the dim room.
Chapter 2: Freaky Morning
The first rays of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains of Heather's bedroom, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the king-sized bed with its crisp white sheets and plush comforter. The room was a sanctuary of feminine elegance-walls painted a calming lavender, a vanity table cluttered with perfumes and jewelry, and a full-length mirror propped against the far wall, reflecting the orderly chaos of a woman's life well-lived. Heather's closet stood slightly ajar, revealing rows of neatly hung blouses, dresses, and jeans, while the faint scent of lavender sachets mingled with the subtle musk of her favorite body lotion. It was a space John had only glimpsed in passing, never truly entered, let alone woken up in.
But this morning, that's exactly where he found himself-or rather, where she found herself. John's consciousness stirred groggily, his mind foggy from what felt like the deepest sleep of his life. His body felt, off. Lighter somehow, yet weighted in unfamiliar places. He blinked against the light, rubbing his eyes with hands that seemed smaller, more delicate. What a weird dream, he thought hazily, the remnants of last night's intense orgasm flickering in his memory like a half-remembered fantasy. That blackout, must've passed out hard. A pressing urge built in his lower abdomen-the need to pee-and without much thought, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The nightgown whispered against his skin as he stood, a silky fabric that clung in ways his boxers never did. It was Heather's favorite-a simple lavender slip that reached mid-thigh, with thin straps and a lace-trimmed neckline that dipped just enough to hint at cleavage. John didn't register the difference yet; his brain was still booting up. He padded across the plush carpet, the cool hardwood of the en suite bathroom floor sending a shiver up his spine as he entered. The bathroom was pristine: marble counters, a deep soaking tub, and a rainfall showerhead that Heather loved for its spa-like feel. He lifted the toilet seat out of habit-wait, no, that felt wrong. Instinct took over, and he hiked up the nightgown, sat down on the cool porcelain, and let go.
The stream came easily, a soft trickle that felt strangely relieving but, different. No standing, no aiming-just sitting and releasing. He reached for the toilet paper without thinking, wiping front to back in a motion that came as naturally as breathing. Flush. Stand. Wash hands. It was all autopilot, muscle memory kicking in from a body that wasn't his. Huh, that was, easy, he mused internally, still half-asleep. Usually takes forever to wake up properly.
He shuffled to the vanity sink, the mirror fogged slightly from the humidity of the night. Grabbing Heather's toothbrush-pink-handled, with soft bristles-he squeezed on a dollop of minty toothpaste and began brushing. The rhythm was familiar, but as he raised his arm, it brushed against something soft and yielding. A jolt of sensation shot through him-nipples hardening under the fabric, a subtle weight shifting on his chest. What the...? He paused, toothbrush in mouth, and glanced down. Breasts. Actual breasts, modestly sized but pert, straining slightly against the nightgown. The toothbrush clattered into the sink as awareness crashed over him like a wave.
John's eyes widened in the mirror, staring back at a face that wasn't his. Heather's face: high cheekbones, full lips painted a natural pink from last night's gloss, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and a cascade of brunette hair tumbling over shoulders. "Oh my God," he whispered, but the voice that emerged was soft, feminine-Heather's voice, with its gentle Texas lilt. He gasped externally, a sharp intake of breath that echoed in the tiled room. Internally, his mind screamed: What the fuck is happening? This can't be real. Am I still dreaming? Did I die? Panic bubbled up, his new heart pounding in a chest that felt both alien and intimately responsive.
He leaned closer to the mirror, hands-slender, with manicured nails-gripping the counter. Calm down, John. Breathe. Figure this out. How had this happened? Last night, the porn, the wish whispered aloud as he came. I wish I could get closer to Summer, inside and out. Was this some cosmic joke? A body swap? Like those weird stories he'd read online, the gender bender fantasies that always got him off harder than he cared to admit. But this was real-the cool air from the AC vent brushing against his skin, making goosebumps rise, and lower, a chill teasing at exposed folds he shouldn't have. Holy shit, I have a vagina.
Curiosity edged out the panic as he calmed. If this is a dream, might as well explore. He started with the face, poking and prodding gently. Heather's skin was smooth, softer than his ever was-no stubble, just the faint peach fuzz of a woman's complexion. He stuck out his tongue-pink and agile-wagging it experimentally. Then, an UwU face: cheeks puffed, eyes wide and innocent, lips pursed in a cute pout. It looked ridiculous on Heather's mature features, but oddly endearing. A sad face next-eyebrows furrowed, lower lip trembling-as if practicing for a role in a drama. She looks, kinda hot like this, he admitted to himself, a forbidden thought creeping in.
Now, the voice. "Hello?" he tested, the word coming out smooth and melodic. He cleared his throat-her throat-and tried seductive: "Come here, big boy," drawled low and husky, with a sultry emphasis that made his new nipples tingle. Angry and authoritative: "Young man, you're grounded!" barked out, stern and commanding, the kind of tone Heather used when scolding him. Curse words for fun: "Fuck, shit, damn," he whispered, giggling at how prim and proper it sounded in her voice, then louder, "Oh, fuck me," with a moan that surprised him with its authenticity. This is insane. I sound just like her. But better? Sexier?
Satisfied for now, he ventured back into the bedroom, the nightgown swishing around his thighs. The full-body mirror beckoned, a ornate antique piece Heather had inherited from her mother. John stood before it, heart racing anew. He slipped the straps off his shoulders, letting the nightgown pool at his feet. Naked now, he stared. Heather's body-his body-was stunning in a way he'd never appreciated. At 45, she was fit from yoga classes with Jessica, her skin glowing with a natural tan. Modest B-cup breasts hung with a natural heft, nipples a dusky pink and erect from the cool air. He cupped them experimentally, feeling the weight-soft yet firm, like ripe fruit. These are, heavy. But nice. Sensitive too. A gentle squeeze sent a spark straight to his core, a warmth building between his legs.
His hands roamed lower: smooth, hairless skin everywhere except a neatly trimmed patch above his new slit. No coarse body hair, just silkiness. Legs long and dainty, toned calves leading to petite feet. He turned, admiring the curve of his ass-round and perky, not as voluptuous as Jessica's but inviting. Fingernails painted a soft nude, longer than he was used to, scratching lightly over his skin. She's gorgeous. Why didn't I notice before? Taboo, I guess. But now... The thought aroused him-her. A slickness grew between his thighs, a moist heat that made him clench involuntarily. I'm getting wet. Fuck, that's hot. But not now-gotta figure this out.
Shaking it off, he headed to the closet, an instinctive pull guiding him. Muscle memory? Heather's knowledge seeped in-he knew exactly where her lingerie drawer was, tucked in the back. He pulled out a comfortable bra: beige lace, supportive underwire. Slipping it on was effortless-arms through straps, clasp in front with a twist, adjust the cups. Whoa, that was easy. Like I've done it a thousand times. It felt amazing: the lift pushing his breasts up, creating subtle cleavage, the fabric hugging like a second skin. Panties next-a thong, black and silky, something he wouldn't have pegged for Heather's modest style. Does she wear these? Kinky, Mom. He stepped in, pulling it up; the string nestled between his ass cheeks, a constant teasing pressure, while the front panel cupped his mound, the fabric brushing his slit in a way that made him gasp. Feels, exposing. But good. Like it's right there, ready.
Clothes: tight skinny jeans that hugged his hips and ass like a glove, zipping up with a satisfying snugness. A button-up blouse in soft blue, rolling the sleeves for a casual look that accentuated his figure. This outfits screams 'hot mom.' Matches perfectly.
Drawn to the makeup vanity next-a wooden table with a lighted mirror, drawers full of palettes and brushes. He sat, brushing out the long brunette locks-silky and thick, falling to mid-back. Tying it into a loose ponytail was second nature, strands framing his face. Feels lighter now. Smells like her shampoo-floral and fresh.
The makeup array was overwhelming: foundations, blushes, eyeshadows in every shade, lipsticks from nude to bold red. So much stuff. Eyeliners, mascaras, how does she choose? But again, instinct guided him. He applied a light foundation, blending seamlessly; a touch of blush for a rosy glow; eyeliner winged just so, making his eyes pop; mascara for length; and a lipstick a shade pinker than Heather's usual, with a gloss that made his lips look fuller, kissable. Cuter, slightly seductive-eyebrows arched playfully, a hint of shimmer on the lids. Not her everyday look. More, flirty. Like I'm dolling up for something special.
Stepping back, he admired the full effect in the mirror: a vision of mature allure, jeans accentuating curves, blouse hinting at cleavage, makeup enhancing natural beauty. If this is permanent, what now? Excitement mingled with fear, but a thrill coursed through him. Summer. This could be my chance to get close. Really close. With that, he headed downstairs, ready to face whatever bizarre day awaited in his step-mom's body.
Chapter 3: "Heather"'s Day
The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the Thompson household, a cozy two-story home nestled in the heart of Willow Creek. The kitchen was Heather's domain-granite countertops gleaming under pendant lights, a farmhouse sink piled with mixing bowls, and a window overlooking the backyard where John had spent countless summers playing catch with his late dad. But this morning, it was John-or rather, "Heather"-commanding the space with an ease that surprised even him. Dressed in those tight skinny jeans that hugged his new curves like a second skin and the button-up blouse that teased just a hint of cleavage, he moved with a fluid grace, flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs as if he'd done it a thousand times. Which, in a way, he had-Heather's muscle memory was a godsend, guiding his hands through the motions without a second thought.
What the hell is going on? John pondered internally, stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. Am I stuck like this forever? Is this some kind of freaky punishment for jerking off to Summer? Or, fulfillment of that wish? The confusion gnawed at him, but a strange exhilaration bubbled underneath. No more awkward stares from afar; he could be close now, in ways he never imagined. But first, gotta play the part. Don't freak out the family. He set the table with Heather's favorite floral plates, humming a tune he didn't even know he knew-a soft melody from one of her yoga playlists.
As the first one up, John had the house to himself for a blissful half-hour, but soon enough, footsteps thudded down the stairs. His heart-or Heather's-skipped a beat as he wondered about his old body. What if Mom's in there? Trapped, screaming? Or, what if it's empty? The question was answered when "John" shuffled into the kitchen, yawning in his rumpled pajamas, hair tousled just like always. "Morning, Mom," the body said in John's own voice, wrapping arms around "Heather" in a casual hug. The embrace felt surreal-hugging himself, essentially-but there was no hint of anything amiss. "John" pulled back, sniffing the air. "Smells awesome. You making pancakes? Sweet."
"Yeah, sweetie, your favorite," John replied in Heather's warm tone, forcing a smile while his mind raced. He's acting just like me. Saying shit I'd say, moving like I do. Is it, on autopilot? Some kind of echo? Relief washed over him; at least no one was suffering in his place. Amy joined moments later, her ponytail bouncing as she plopped into a chair, phone in hand. "Morning, everyone! Ooh, bacon-thanks, Mom."
Breakfast unfolded in a haze of normalcy that bordered on the absurd. They chatted about the weather-hot and humid, as always in Texas-the latest neighborhood gossip, and Amy's excitement about her summer classes. John, as Heather, navigated it flawlessly: laughing at "John's" dumb joke about a video game boss, passing the syrup with a maternal nod, even scolding Amy gently for scrolling too much at the table. Internally, though, it was a mindfuck. This is me, eating with my family, but I'm Mom. Watching myself chew with my mouth open. Hearing Amy call me 'Mom.' It's like a VR sim gone wrong. A flicker of arousal stirred as he caught sight of Amy's tank top riding up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach-taboo thoughts he quickly shoved down. Focus, dude. You're her mom now.
As the meal wrapped up, plans emerged. "John" mentioned heading out to mow more lawns-my old job, John thought wryly-while Amy talked about meeting friends downtown. "Hey, Mom," Amy said, stacking plates, "you should hit the mall today. Get that new bathing suit we talked about. Remember, tomorrow's the double date at the beach spa with Jessica and Summer! It's gonna be so fun-sun, sand, massages..."
John's new body reacted instantly: a flush of heat between his legs, nipples tightening under the bra. Double date? With Jessica and Summer? Holy shit. Images flooded his mind-Summer in a bikini, water glistening on her curves, her laughter echoing over waves. This is it. The wish. Getting closer to her, even if it's as Mom. Bizarre, but, hot? He nodded enthusiastically, Heather's voice steady. "That sounds perfect, honey. I could use a little retail therapy."
Amy grinned. "Awesome! Pick something cute. Maybe something a bit, sexier? You're still got it, Mom." She winked, and "John" chuckled, oblivious.
Once they left-the door clicking shut behind them-John was alone, the house silent except for the hum of the fridge. Okay, game on. He grabbed Heather's purse from the hook by the door-a stylish leather satchel stuffed with wallet, keys, and lip gloss-and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping out, he felt a literal spring in his step: lighter on his feet, hips swaying naturally, the thong riding up just enough to remind him of his new anatomy. Feels, empowering? Like I'm strutting.
Heather's car-a reliable SUV-waited in the driveway. Sliding into the driver's seat, he adjusted the mirror, buckling up. The seatbelt nestled between his breasts, the strap pressing against the soft mounds, creating a valley of cleavage. Whoa, that's, distracting. Unable to resist, he glanced around-no nosy neighbors watching-and cupped his boobs through the blouse, squeezing gently. The sensation zinged straight to his core, a moist warmth building. These feel amazing. So sensitive. He admired his reflection: ponytail bouncing, makeup flawless, lips plump. Looking good, 'Heather.' A little crazy? Maybe. But fuck it. Starting the engine, he pulled out, heading to the mall with a mix of nerves and excitement.
The Willow Creek Mall was bustling mid-morning: families milling about, teens in clusters, the air scented with pretzels and perfume. As "Heather," John drew glances-not suspicious, but appreciative. Men stealing looks at his ass in the jeans, women nodding at his outfit. They're checking me out. Because I'm hot. Female hot. It was a power trip, boosting his confidence as he navigated to a trendy store aimed at the 18-25 crowd-think fast fashion with edgy vibes, blasting pop music and lined with racks of crop tops and mini skirts.
Browsing the swimsuit section, he blended in at first, but soon noticed the giggles from a group of college-aged girls nearby. They're laughing at me? The 'old lady' in their store? But he ignored it, fingers trailing over fabrics until he spotted a two-piece white bikini: skimpy top with padding for extra lift, high-cut bottoms that would hug and expose his ass cheeks. This is cute. Revealing, but, why not? Summer might notice. Heart pounding, he grabbed a size that felt right-Heather's instincts again-and headed to the changing rooms.
The attendant, an 18-year-old with neon hair and a judgmental smirk, eyed him up. "Uh, can I help you? These are for, like, our demographic..."
John channeled Heather's charisma-poise he'd never had as himself. He flashed a warm smile, tilting his head flirtatiously. "Oh, honey, age is just a number. But if you insist, maybe you can help me decide if this makes me look too, youthful?" He added a wink and a light laugh, funny yet charming, disarming her completely.
The girl blinked, then grinned. "Okay, fair. Room three's open. Knock yourself out."
Inside the cramped stall, mirror-lined walls reflecting every angle, John stripped slowly. Off came the blouse, jeans pooling at his feet, bra unclasped-breasts freed, nipples perking in the cool air. The thong slipped down, revealing his smooth mound, already glistening slightly from anticipation. Time to see. He stepped into the bikini bottoms, the fabric snug against his slit, riding up to accentuate his ass. The top tied on, padding pushing his B-cups into fuller, perkier cleavage. Damn, I look, fuckable.
Letting his hair down-waves cascading-he posed: hands on hips, seductive smirk, touching himself all over. Fingers traced his collarbone, down to squeeze his enhanced boobs, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. So soft, so responsive. He turned, admiring his ass-cheeks peeking out, firm and inviting. Then, cutesy mode: innocent pout, batting lashes, imagining compliments from Jessica and Summer. "Oh, Heather, you look amazing!" he'd coo in a high pitch, giggling.
But thoughts turned to Summer: her taller frame in a bikini, bigger bust spilling out, water droplets tracing her curves. God, she'd look incredible. Wet, shiny... Arousal hit hard-his pussy throbbing, slickness soaking the bottoms. Can't ignore this anymore. He slipped a hand down, rubbing his clit through the fabric-electric sparks shooting through him. Fuck, that's intense. Boldly, he pushed the bottoms aside, fingers dipping into his wet folds, one then two sliding in. The fullness, the warmth-moans escaped, soft at first, then louder: "Oh, yes..." He pumped gently, thumb on clit, imagining Summer's body against his. The attendant might have heard-the stall walls thin-but he didn't care, stopping just short of climax. Later. Save it.
Composed again, he dressed and checked out. The cashier-a young guy-rang him up, but John scratched an itch near his crotch crudely, like a guy adjusting his balls. Oops. The cashier flushed, thinking, Hot mom, but, that was weird. Kinda unladylike.
Back home, cooking dinner was effortless: Heather's recipes ingrained, whipping up lasagna with garlic bread. When Amy and "John" returned, he roleplayed perfectly-asking about their days, laughing at stories, no suspicions raised. This is trippy. Engaging with myself.
After dinner, alone time with Amy in her room: posters of bands, clothes strewn about. She changed for bed into a provocative outfit-tiny shorts and a crop top, no bra, nipples visible through thin fabric. John stared voyeuristically, heat building. She's hot. Like Mom, but younger. Amy chatted about the spa: private massages, saunas, hot tubs. "And who knows, Mom? We might spot some hot guys. You could use a fling!" She teased, winking.
John laughed, but internally: Guys? Nah. But Summer... Excited, he headed to bed, following Heather's routine: face wash, lotion, nightgown. In the nightstand, a small vibrator-pink, discreet. Mom's got toys? Kinky.
Lying back, he buzzed it to life, pressing against his clit. Oh fuck. Imagining the spa: Jessica in a thong, bust overflowing; Summer nude, legs spread; even Amy, playful and bare. They touched, kissed-taboo fantasies blending. Orgasms crashed over him, waves of pleasure making his body arch, moans muffled into the pillow. Exhausted, he drifted to sleep, dreaming of tomorrow's possibilities.
Chapter 4: Before the Outing
The alarm on Heather's nightstand buzzed softly at 7 AM, pulling John from a deep, dreamless sleep. He stretched languidly under the sheets, his body-Heather's body-responding with a supple arch that made his breasts shift and his hips roll in a way that felt both foreign and intoxicating. The vibrator from last night lay innocently on the pillow beside him, a silent reminder of the explosive orgasm that had rocked him to his core. Holy shit, that was real, he thought, a grin spreading across Heather's full lips as he sat up. I'm still here. Still her. And today, today I get to see Summer up close. In a spa. With bikinis and massages and, God, what if things get steamy? Excitement coursed through him, mingling with a low hum of arousal that made his new pussy tingle faintly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool morning air teasing his skin through the thin nightgown. Padding to the en suite bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror-hair tousled from sleep, makeup smudged just enough to look sultry rather than sloppy. I look like a woman who's had a wild night. Fitting. Stripping off the nightgown, he stepped into the shower, turning the water to a steamy hot spray that cascaded over his curves like a lover's touch. The sensation was overwhelming: water beading on his breasts, trickling down his flat stomach, pooling between his thighs. He lathered up with Heather's body wash-a luxurious blend of vanilla and jasmine that made his skin slick and silky.
This feels incredible, he marveled internally, hands roaming as he washed. Fingers grazed his nipples, hardening them into peaks that sent jolts straight to his core. Lower, he soaped his pussy gently, the suds mixing with a fresh slickness as thoughts of Summer invaded his mind. Her body wet like this, blonde hair plastered to her big tits, laughing as she splashes Amy, Fuck, I can't wait. But the real star was the shampoo: a fruity, botanical concoction of mango and hibiscus that filled the steam with an exotic, heady aroma. He massaged it into his scalp, the long strands heavy and fragrant under his fingers. Smells like paradise. Like her-Summer always has that tropical vibe. Rinsing off, he lingered under the spray, one hand slipping between his legs to rub his clit in slow circles. A soft moan escaped-Heather's voice, husky with desire. Just a tease. Save the big one for later, maybe with her. He stopped before climax, toweling off with a fluffy robe that hugged his figure, still buzzing with anticipation.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the family routine kicked in. John, as Heather, whipped up a quick breakfast-avocado toast with eggs, fresh fruit on the side-while "John" and Amy trickled in. "Morning, everyone," he said brightly, plating the food. Time to probe. What's my old body been up to? He turned to "John," who was shoveling toast into his mouth just like he always did. "So, sweetie, what have you been up to these last couple days? Any fun plans while we're gone?"
"John" shrugged, mid-bite. "Eh, mostly gaming. Finally beat that level in Elden Ring- you know, the one with the fire giant? Took forever, but I cheesed it with the bleed build."
John's excitement spiked-That's my game! I was stuck on that boss for weeks!-and he leaned in, Heather's eyes lighting up. "Oh, really? The fire giant? Isn't that the one where you have to dodge those massive AOE attacks? And the bleed build-smart, using rivers of blood katana, right? Pairs great with the mimic tear summon."
"John" blinked, surprised but nodding. "Yeah, exactly! Wait, Mom, since when do you know about Elden Ring builds?"
Amy, overhearing from her seat, paused with her coffee mug halfway to her lips. "Whoa, Mom, you're a gamer now? That's, kinda cool, but random."
Panic flickered in John's mind-Shit, too much. Slipped into my own geek mode. But Heather's poise bubbled up, that effortless charisma saving the day. He laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, honey, I've picked up a thing or two listening to you ramble about it. Plus, I read an article the other day-something about how video games improve reflexes. Keeps me young!" He added a wink, steering the conversation smoothly to Amy's classes, and the moment passed without suspicion. Close call. But damn, it's weird hearing about my own life from the outside.
After breakfast, with "John" heading out for more chores and Amy lingering to help clean up, John retreated upstairs to pack. The closet called to him again, and rummaging through Heather's wardrobe, his eyes landed on a sexy sun dress he'd somehow overlooked before: a vibrant red number with a deep V-neck that plunged daringly between the breasts, thin straps, and a flowy skirt that hit mid-thigh, perfect for showing off legs and a hint of cleavage. This is fire. Shows off everything-boobs, ass, the works. He slipped it on, the fabric whispering against his skin, hugging his curves before flaring out. Twirling in the mirror, he admired how it accentuated his bust, the material thin enough that his nipples poked through if he got chilled. Summer's gonna love this. Wait, no- she's straight, right? But maybe...
Packing was quick: the new white bikini folded neatly into an overnight bag, along with other fun outfits-a sheer cover-up that would tease skin, lacy lingerie just in case things heated up, and casual shorts with a crop top for lounging. Prepared for anything. Massages, saunas, who knows what could happen in private? A thrill shot through him, his pussy clenching at the possibilities.
As they got ready to leave, Amy appeared in the doorway, eyeing the dress with raised eyebrows. "Damn, Mom! That dress is hot. You're gonna turn heads at the spa. Jessica might get jealous-she's usually the MILF queen."
John flushed-Heather's cheeks warming-but played it cool with a playful spin. "Thanks, sweetie. Figured why not? Life's too short for boring clothes." Amy laughed, complimenting his makeup too-the subtle smokey eyes he'd added for extra allure. They headed out together, leaving "John" with a wave and instructions to behave, the SUV purring down the driveway toward the beach spa an hour away.
---
Meanwhile, across the neighborhood at the Summers' residence-a modern ranch-style home with a sprawling backyard pool and Jessica's yoga mats scattered on the deck-preparations were in full swing. Jessica, at 46, moved with the grace of a woman who knew her power, her platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail as she packed her bag in the sunlit kitchen. She wore yoga leggings and a sports bra for the drive, her generous D-cup bust straining against the fabric, curves honed from years of downward dogs and warrior poses. Summer, her 20-year-old daughter, was upstairs in her room, a feminine haven of pastel walls, volleyball trophies, and posters of indie bands.
"Summer, honey, you almost ready?" Jessica called up the stairs, zipping her bag with swimsuits, lotions, and a bottle of wine for the evening. "Heather and Amy should be meeting us soon-don't forget your sunscreen!"
"Coming, Mom!" Summer replied, her voice light but laced with a secret excitement. She stood before her mirror, adjusting a casual tank top and shorts over her bikini, her taller frame making everything look model-esque. Blonde waves framed her face, and her E-cup breasts filled out the top perfectly, a natural bounce with each movement. God, I'm buzzing, she thought, inner monologue racing as she packed. A whole day at the spa with Amy, and Heather. Heather. A flush crept up her neck at the thought. Summer had always been the popular girl-cheerful, athletic, surrounded by friends-but deep down, she harbored a secret: a growing attraction to women that she'd never voiced. College had opened her eyes-stolen glances in the dorm showers, butterflies around pretty professors-but back home, it simmered unspoken.
Heather's always been so, elegant. Fit, brunette, that quiet sexiness. And lately, I've caught myself staring. Is it a crush? She bit her lip, imagining Heather in a swimsuit, their bodies close during a massage. Women are just, softer. Curvier. More intoxicating. Amy's hot too, but Heather-mature, experienced. What if I could, explore? The thought made her nipples harden, a warmth pooling between her legs. She shook it off, grabbing her bag. "Okay, Mom, let's go!"
Downstairs, Jessica hugged her daughter, their dialogue easy and affectionate. "You excited? It's been ages since we did a girls' trip like this."
"Totally," Summer said, grinning. "Pool time, massages-perfection. And hanging with Amy and Heather will be fun."
Jessica raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Heather, huh? You've always had a soft spot for her. She's like a second mom."
Summer laughed it off, but internally: If only you knew. "Yeah, something like that."
They loaded the car, chatting about spa details-private saunas, ocean views-and headed out, the drive filled with laughter and playlists.
---
Back to John as Heather: they arrived at the beach spa first, a luxurious resort overlooking the Gulf, with palm trees swaying and the scent of salt air mingling with essential oils. Stepping out, John smoothed the sun dress, the skirt fluttering in the breeze to reveal toned thighs. Here we go. Jessica's SUV pulled up moments later, and as she emerged-looking every bit the cougar in a wrap dress that hugged her bust-John greeted her with la bise, the European cheek kisses they always did. "Jessica, darling, you look fabulous," he purred in Heather's voice, their cheeks brushing, scents mingling.
"You too, Heather- that dress! Sexy as hell," Jessica replied with a laugh.
But then Summer stepped out, and John froze. She was stunning: a floral sundress similar to his but shorter, accentuating her long legs, bigger bust spilling slightly at the neckline, blonde hair glowing in the sun. Fuck, she's a goddess. Taller, thinner, those tits, I could stare forever. His body reacted-pussy dampening, heart racing.
Summer, meanwhile, was equally awestruck. Heather looks, different. Hotter. That makeup, the dress-cleavage for days. Is she flirting with the world today? Her cheeks pinked as they locked eyes. "Hey, Heather," she said softly, moving in for a hug.
The embrace was electric: bodies pressing close, John's breasts mashing against Summer's larger ones, soft and yielding through thin fabrics. He inhaled her scent-vanilla and sunscreen-feeling the warmth of her skin, the subtle curve of her hips. Oh God, this feels amazing. Her boobs against mine, so full, so perfect. A forbidden thrill shot through him, his nipples hardening.
Summer pulled back reluctantly, blushing deeper. That hug, her body feels so good. Soft, warm. I want more. Jessica and Amy were already chatting animatedly about the itinerary, laughing as they grabbed bags. "Come on, ladies-let's check in!" Jessica goaded, leading the way.
John followed, mind spinning with possibilities, the group entering the spa's grand lobby, ready for whatever intimacies the day held.
Chapter 5: Getting Close to Summer
The Azure Waves Beach Spa Resort sprawled along the Gulf Coast like a hidden paradise, its white stucco buildings accented with turquoise trim, palm-fringed pools shimmering under the relentless Texas sun, and the distant crash of waves providing a rhythmic soundtrack to indulgence. The lobby was a haven of luxury: marble floors cooled by ocean breezes, plush seating areas dotted with tropical plants, and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the spa diffusers. As the group checked in, the receptionist-a perky young woman with a name tag reading "Mia"-handed over key cards with a smile. "Welcome, ladies! Your suites are in the Ocean Wing. Pool's open all day, and your massages are booked for 3 PM. Enjoy!"
John, still inhabiting Heather's body, clutched his key card tightly, his manicured fingers trembling slightly with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. The hug with Summer lingered in his mind-the press of her larger breasts against his, the warmth of her breath on his neck, that telltale blush coloring her cheeks as they pulled apart. She blushed. Hard. Was that because of me? Or, Heather? Does she feel something too? He wondered internally, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. This body swap thing is nuts, but if it means getting close to her like this, I'll take it. The group dispersed to their individual suites with plans to reconvene at the main pool in an hour, Amy and Jessica chattering excitedly about cocktails and sunbathing.
John's suite was a slice of opulence: a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, a king bed draped in crisp linens, and a private balcony where the sea air whispered promises of relaxation. A mini-bar stocked with chilled wines and fruits sat invitingly by the desk, and the bathroom boasted a rainfall shower and plush robes. Alone at last, he set his bag down and faced the full-length mirror, Heather's reflection staring back-sun dress hugging curves, ponytail slightly tousled from the drive. Time to change. Make it fun. A mischievous grin spread across his lips as he decided to indulge in the moment, turning the simple act of changing into a private spectacle.
He started slow, swaying his hips to an imaginary beat, fingers tracing the thin straps of the dress. Strip tease for one. Why not? This body's made for it. He slipped one strap down, then the other, letting the fabric pool at his waist, exposing Heather's lacy bra that cradled his modest B-cup breasts. Cupping them, he squeezed gently, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked, a soft gasp escaping-Heather's voice, breathy and feminine. Feels so good. Sensitive as hell. The dress fell to the floor in a whisper, leaving him in just the thong panties, the string nestled teasingly between his ass cheeks. He turned, admiring the view: smooth skin, toned legs, the curve of his hips flaring out invitingly. Hooking thumbs into the thong, he bent forward dramatically, sliding it down slowly, ass presented to the mirror as his pussy came into view-already glistening with arousal. Look at that. Wet just from thinking about her. He stepped out of the panties, fully nude now, and struck poses: one hand on hip, the other trailing down his stomach to brush his clit, eliciting a shiver.
Grabbing the white two-piece bikini from his bag, he made the donning equally erotic. First the bottoms: stepping in exaggeratedly, pulling them up so the fabric hugged his mound, the high-cut sides framing his ass like a work of art. He adjusted the front, fingers dipping briefly into his folds for a teasing rub. Mmm, tight fit. Shows off everything. The top came next-tying it behind his back with a flourish, the padding lifting his breasts into fuller, perkier cleavage that spilled slightly at the edges. He bounced on his toes, watching them jiggle. Damn, I look hot. Summer's gonna notice. Hair down in waves, a quick touch-up of lip gloss, and he wrapped a towel around his waist like a sarong, heading out with a sway in his step that felt utterly natural.
The pool area was a tropical oasis: infinity edges blending with the ocean horizon, cabanas with billowing white curtains, and lounge chairs lined up under umbrellas. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of fruity cocktails. John spotted Jessica first, and his jaw nearly dropped. She lounged by the chairs like a predator in wait-a super sexy MILF cougar ready to pounce. Her one-piece swimsuit was a masterpiece of temptation: black with strategic cutouts along the sides and midriff, plunging neckline showcasing her generous D-cup bust, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. It looked straight off a supermodel runway, accentuating her toned legs and the subtle sway of her hips. Blonde hair cascaded freely, sunglasses perched on her nose, a knowing smile on her lips.
Holy fuck, Jessica, John thought, a droplet of drool nearly escaping as he approached. She's always been hot, but this? Lethal. "Jessica, wow-you look incredible," he said in Heather's warm voice, eyes lingering a beat too long on her cleavage.
She laughed, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her bust against his making his nipples harden instantly. "Coming from you? Please, Heather, that bikini is fire. White on your tan? Chef's kiss." She pulled back, handing him a vibrant cocktail-something pink and garnished with pineapple. "Mai Tai. Figured we'd start strong." Then, with a flirtatious grin, she offered her hand. "Shall we? Chairs are this way."
John took it, their fingers intertwining, skin warm and soft. Internally, he freaked: Hand-holding with Jessica? While she looks like that? How do I even talk without staring at her tits? But as they walked, the panic ebbed, replaced by awe as his gaze shifted to the pool. There, frolicking in the water, was Summer-splashing Amy with gleeful abandon, her laughter ringing out like music. She wore a skimpy red bikini that left little to the imagination: top straining against her E-cup breasts, bottoms tied at the sides with bows that begged to be undone. Water glistened on her taller, thinner frame, droplets tracing paths down her toned abs and long legs. Amy, in a sporty blue two-piece that hugged her perky C-cups and athletic build, laughed back, but John's eyes were glued to Summer. Oh my God. She's perfection. Bouncing in the water like that, I could watch forever.
They settled into adjacent lounge chairs, cocktails in hand, the sun warming their skin. John sipped his drink-sweet and potent, rum hitting just right-while freaking out internally about small talk. What do I say? Weather? No, too lame. But Heather's essence surged forward: that natural charisma, the ease of conversation she'd always had. "So, Jess, tell me-how's the yoga studio been? Any new hot instructors catching your eye?" he asked with a teasing lilt, leaning back to mirror her relaxed pose.
Jessica chuckled, sipping her drink. "Oh, you know me-always scouting talent. There's this one guy, mid-20s, abs for days. But honestly, I've been too busy. What about you? Dating scene treating you well since, you know." Her voice softened, referencing Heather's widowhood without dwelling.
The chat flowed effortlessly: gossip about neighborhood drama (Mrs. Wilkins' latest affair scandal), shared laughs over parenting woes (Amy's college antics mirroring Summer's), and deeper tidbits-Jessica confessing her secret love for trashy romance novels, John sharing Heather's fondness for gardening mixed with his own taste in indie films. This is wild. I'm learning stuff about her I'd never know as John. All the while, his eyes darted to Summer in the pool: her lithe body diving under, emerging with hair slicked back, breasts heaving with each breath. So close. I can hear her laugh, see every curve. This is heaven.
Summer, mid-splash with Amy, glanced over occasionally, catching "Heather" watching. She's staring. At me? Curiosity bloomed in her chest, a warm flutter between her legs. Heather's always been gorgeous, but today, that bikini, those eyes on me. Does she feel it too?
Hours melted away in glorious voyeurism-John reveling in Summer's every move, the way water beaded on her skin, her playful shrieks as Amy dunked her. But Amy eventually broke the spell, swimming to the edge. "Hey, ladies! Massage time-let's go! Don't want to be late."
Summer climbed out, water cascading off her body as she approached the chairs. Up close, John drank her in: the red bikini clinging wetly, nipples faintly visible through the fabric, her taller frame towering slightly, ass cheeks peeking from the bottoms. Fuck, she's dripping. Warm and fuzzy? I'm on fire. Summer's eyes roamed Heather's body too-the white bikini enhancing cleavage, the way it hugged her slit subtly. Heather looks, edible. That lift in her boobs, her legs, God, I'm getting wet just looking.
The group toweled off and headed to the massage suite, a serene wing with dim lighting, soft instrumental music, and the scent of lavender oil. Private rooms branched off a central changing area with lockers and robes. John decided to go with the flow-Never had a massage before. Might as well enjoy. In the changing room, privacy screens offered partial cover, but glimpses were inevitable. He stripped slowly: bikini top untied, breasts freed with a bounce; bottoms slid down, exposing his smooth pussy. Sneaking peeks, he caught Jessica's nude form-voluptuous curves, shaved mound, ass like a peach. Amy's athletic body-perky tits, trimmed bush. But Summer, Jesus. Tall and lithe, her E-cups heavy and natural, pink nipples erect from the cool air, pussy with a neat landing strip. She bent to pick up her robe, ass presented, folds peeking invitingly.
Summer stole a glance back, eyes widening at Heather's body: modest but toned, breasts pert, pussy bare and glistening slightly. She's beautiful. Smooth everywhere, I want to touch. Both flushed, slipping into thin massage gowns-paper-thin fabric that hid little.
In the massage room-four tables side by side, therapists waiting with oils-John lay face-down, the gown parting to expose his back. As hands kneaded his muscles, tension melted, and conversation sparked with Summer on the next table. "This feels amazing," he sighed in Heather's voice. "First time for a pro massage?"
Summer turned her head, smiling. "Yeah, me too. Kinda nervous, but, relaxing. How's your summer been, Heather? Amy says you've been busy."
Small talk evolved: college life (Summer's volleyball team drama), favorites (John mixing his indie rock playlists with Heather's classic jazz, movies like his sci-fi faves blended with her rom-coms). "I love those mind-bendy films," he shared. "Like, ones that twist reality."
Depth crept in: dreams, fears. Then, intimacy. "Speaking of twists," Summer ventured shyly, "have you ever, experimented? With, um, relationships?"
John's heart raced-Heather's bi-curiosity surfacing in memories. "Honestly? Yes. I've always been curious about women. Experimented in college-a few flings. It's, liberating." True for her body. And hot to admit.
Summer's eyes lit up, ecstatic. Heather? Into women? Experimented? Oh my God. Internally: This could be my chance. Make a move later?
They delved deeper-Summer confessing, "I'm curious too. About my sexuality. Not sure yet, but, girls intrigue me. Not tell Amy or Mom, okay? Secret."
"I promise," John replied, mind whirling with ideas. She's a closet lesbian? Perfect. Crazy plans brewing-could I, with her? As Heather?
Topics shifted, landing on porn anecdotes for laughs. "Weirdest kink?" Summer teased.
John feigned shyness. "Oh, God, okay, MILF stuff, mom/son or mom/daughter roleplay. And, gender transformation, body swaps. Some TG/trans stuff. Plausible for me, right?" My actual kinks. Living one now.
Summer's intrigue peaked-surprised, aroused. Body swaps? Hot. I could listen to her forever. "Tell me more sometime?"
Massages ended, leading to dinner at the resort's seaside restaurant: candlelit tables, fresh seafood, wine flowing. Gossip flew-day's highlights, spa tales. Amy probed: "So, who caught your eye today? Hot guys around?"
Jessica grinned. "That lifeguard-tall, tanned. Yum." But John and Summer blushed, stammering vague answers, eyes meeting across the table with shared heat.
Back in his suite, John unwound, reflecting. Unbelievable. Staring at Summer all day, sharing secrets. She's into girls-maybe me. Even if not as John, worth it? He pondered his kinks: Living a body swap fantasy. Porn come to life.
Chapter 6: Summer Makes Her Move
The resort's restaurant lingered in Summer's mind like a hazy afterglow as she slipped back into her suite, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality. The room was a mirror of Heather's-ocean views framed by gauzy curtains, the bed inviting with its turned-down sheets, and the faint hum of waves crashing outside like a lullaby. But sleep was the last thing on her mind. Dinner had been electric: the way Heather's eyes had met hers across the table, that shared blush when Amy teased about crushes, the wine loosening tongues and inhibitions. Heather, into women? Experimented? And those kinks-body swaps, MILF roleplay. God, it's like she read my fantasies. Summer's skin tingled with the memory, a warmth spreading from her chest downward as she kicked off her sandals and padded to the mirror.
She stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, her red bikini swapped earlier for a simple tank top and shorts that clung to her damp skin from the evening humidity. Look at you, she thought, inner monologue swirling with a mix of nerves and desire. Twenty years old, closet lesbian, crushing on your best friend's mom. Pathetic? Or, bold? Her hands moved almost of their own accord, slipping under the hem of her tank top to lift it slowly over her head. Blonde waves tumbled free, framing her face as she tossed the top aside. Her E-cup breasts bounced gently, freed from confinement, nipples already hardening in the cool air-conditioned room. She cupped them, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks, a soft sigh escaping her lips. So full, so sensitive. Imagine her hands on them-Heather's. Mature, knowing touch.
The shorts came next, shimmying down her long legs to reveal lacy panties that matched her earlier bikini-red and sheer, hinting at the neatly trimmed blonde patch beneath. She turned, admiring her reflection: taller frame lean and athletic from volleyball, ass firm and rounded, thighs toned from endless practices. I'm hot. She noticed me today-ogling at the pool, in the changing room. Those eyes on my body, Arousal built like a tide, her pussy aching with need. She slipped a hand into her panties, fingers finding her clit-swollen and slick already. Circling slowly, she moaned softly, imagining Heather's voice from the massage: I've experimented, curious about women. "Fuck," Summer whispered, her free hand pinching a nipple. What if I went to her room right now? Knocked, told her I can't stop thinking about her. Experimented, with me.
The fantasy spiraled: Heather pulling her inside, lips crashing, hands exploring. She's bi-curious. Shared those secrets. This could happen. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding into her wet folds, pumping gently as her knees weakened. Mentor me, like in those porn vids-the mom teaching the daughter. God, yes. Orgasm hovered close, but she stopped, breathing ragged. No. Not alone. Go to her. Now. Panties off, she grabbed a silk robe from the closet-thin and short, tying it loosely so it gaped at the front, hinting at her nudity beneath. Heart pounding, she slipped out into the dimly lit hallway, bare feet silent on the carpet, making her way to Heather's door. This is crazy. But if she turns me away, at least I tried. She knocked softly, pulse racing.
---
Back in Heather's suite, John paced the room, the nightgown whispering against his skin like a lover's promise. The silk fabric clung to his curves, nipples visible through the thin material, a constant reminder of his borrowed body. Dinner replayed in his mind: the gossip, the laughter, Summer's blush mirroring his own. She shared she's curious. About girls. And I-Heather-admitted to experimenting. Fuck, the ideas in my head, could I seduce her? As Mom? Taboo as hell, but, hot. He ran a hand through his brunette waves, arousal simmering from the day's sights-Summer's body, wet and glistening, her secret glances. Living my kink. Body swap porn come true. If only I could-
A knock shattered the silence. John's heart-or Heather's-leaped into his throat. Who the hell? At this hour? Peeking through the peephole, his breath caught: Summer, in a robe that barely contained her, blonde hair tousled, eyes wide with nervous determination. Oh shit. It's her. What does she want? Internally freaking: Calm down. Play it cool. But, what if this is it? He smoothed the nightgown, took a deep breath, and opened the door. "Summer? Is everything okay?"
She didn't answer with words. Stepping inside, she pushed the door shut behind her, locked it with a click, and surged forward. Her hands cupped Heather's face-John's face-and she kissed him fiercely, lips soft and urgent, tongue seeking entry. John gasped into the kiss, body responding instinctively: arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. The robe gaped, her naked breasts pressing against the nightgown, heat radiating through the fabric. Holy fuck, she's kissing me. Naked under there? This is happening. They stumbled backward, Summer guiding him toward the bed, her taller frame dominant yet gentle.
Breaking the kiss, Summer's blue eyes locked onto his, cheeks flushed. "Heather, I can't get you out of my head. All day-the pool, the changing room, the massage. You were staring. Ogling me. And what you said, about being curious, experimenting. It lit something in me."
John's mind reeled, but Heather's charisma surged: "Summer, honey, I noticed you too. Blushing, glancing back. You're beautiful. Irresistible." This is insane. My crush, making the move on me-as her. His pussy throbbed, wet and aching.
Summer's hands roamed, slipping under the nightgown to caress his hips. "I, I've never done this. With a woman. But I want to. With you." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Remember your kinks? The roleplay stuff? I have a favorite porn vid, the mom mentoring her daughter, teaching her about sex. Gentle at first, then, passionate. Will you? Roleplay that for me? Be the mom, show me?"
John's arousal spiked-One of my favorites too. The taboo mentor scene. He nodded, letting go, autopilot kicking in. Heather's sultriness blended with his knowledge, reciting lines perfectly. "Oh, sweetie," he purred in Heather's voice, seductive and maternal, "come here. Mommy's going to teach you everything. Make you feel so good." He pushed Summer gently onto the bed, climbing atop her, nightgown hiking up to reveal his thighs.
Summer moaned, robe falling open completely, exposing her nude body-breasts heaving, pussy glistening. John fondled her with grace: hands tracing her sides, cupping her E-cups softly, thumbs rolling nipples with deliberate, experienced touches. "Like this, baby? Feel how sensitive they are?" Summer arched, gasping. "Yes, Heather-Mommy-more."
But John switched to a male touch-his old instincts-groping harder, massaging her breasts roughly, pinching just enough to elicit a yelp. Summer's eyes widened. "That's, different. Rougher. Like a guy would."
He caught himself, switching back to Heather's graceful strokes, fingers trailing down her stomach. "Sorry, sweetie. Got carried away. Let Mommy show you properly." Lower now, he spread her legs, face inches from her pussy-pink and wet, scent musky and inviting. Diving in like a horny teenager-his true self-tongue lapping eagerly, sloppy and enthusiastic, sucking her clit with fervor. "Taste so good," he mumbled against her folds.
Summer writhed, hands in his hair. "Oh God, that's intense. Like a teen boy eating me out for the first time." She noticed the shift, but moaned louder. "Don't stop-switch back if you want. It's hot."
John obliged, alternating: graceful licks with Heather's precision, then teen-like enthusiasm-fingers plunging in, curling to hit her G-spot. Summer bucked, crying out. They kissed passionately next-tongues dancing, tastes mingling, bodies grinding. "Finger me," Summer begged, guiding his hand.
He did, two fingers sliding into her tightness, pumping rhythmically while his thumb worked her clit. "Like this? Feel Mommy filling you?" Summer reciprocated, hand slipping under the nightgown to find his pussy-wet and eager-fingers dipping in, exploring. "You're so wet, Heather. Taste yourself?" They ate each other out in turns: John on his back, Summer's face buried between his legs, tongue flicking his clit expertly now, drawing moans that echoed Heather's voice. "Yes, right there, baby. Lick Mommy's pussy."
Climax built, leading to scissoring: legs intertwined, pussies grinding. First position-side by side, hips rocking, clits rubbing in slick friction. "Fuck, yes," Summer gasped, breasts bouncing. They switched: Summer on top, dominant, grinding down hard; then John atop, using Heather's hips to maximize contact, juices mixing. Multiple positions-facing each other, backs arched; one on her back, the other straddling backward for deeper pressure. Orgasms crashed simultaneously: bodies shuddering, moans filling the room, waves of pleasure rippling through them.
Exhausted, they collapsed, embracing-Summer's head on Heather's chest, legs tangled, breaths syncing. "That was, incredible," Summer whispered, kissing his neck. "Thank you."
John held her, mind blissed: My dream. Intimate with Summer. Inside and out. They drifted to sleep, bodies entwined.
Morning light filtered in early, Summer stirring first. She slipped from the bed quietly, robe on, glancing back at the sleeping form. Can't get caught. But, wow. More later? She snuck out, door clicking softly.
John woke moments later, alone, sheets tangled and scented with sex. Was that, a dream? Felt so real. But the ache between his legs, the lingering taste on his lips-No. It happened. He rolled over, wondering if it was all a massive lucid fantasy, heart racing with confusion and lingering ecstasy.
Chapter 7: Back to Reality?
John's eyelids fluttered open to the familiar sight of his bedroom ceiling, the posters of video game characters and bands staring back at him like old friends. Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn blinds, casting striped patterns across his rumpled sheets. He groaned, shifting under the covers, immediately aware of the insistent throb between his legs-morning wood, tenting his boxers, and a sticky wetness that suggested a wet dream had spilled over into reality. What the hell was that? he thought, fragments of the night flashing like a fevered montage: Summer's body writhing against his-Heather's-scissoring in ecstasy, moans echoing in a spa suite. It felt so real. Too real. But, a dream? Yeah, must be. The most intense wet dream ever. Disappointment washed over him like a cold shower, his cock twitching one last time at the memory before he willed it down. Gone. All of it-the body swap, the explorations, Summer. Just my horny brain playing tricks.
He swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the cool hardwood floor of his room-a teenage mess of discarded clothes, gaming controllers, and empty soda cans. The house felt eerily quiet, no clatter from the kitchen or Amy's music blasting from her room. Weird. Usually Mom's up making breakfast. He stripped off his sticky boxers, tossing them into the hamper, and grabbed a fresh pair from his drawer along with jeans and a t-shirt. A quick cleanup in his attached bathroom-splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth-did little to shake the lingering haze. That dream, possessing Mom's body, fucking Summer as her. Taboo as hell. Hot, though. Wish it wasn't just a subconscious jerk-off session.
Dressed now, he headed downstairs, the stairs creaking under his weight. The kitchen was empty, no coffee brewing, no note on the counter. "Mom? Amy?" he called out, voice echoing in the silence. A glance at the clock-9 AM on a Sunday-confirmed they should be home. Where is everyone? Did they go out early? His stomach rumbled, but before he could raid the fridge, a car horn blared outside, sharp and insistent.
Curiosity piqued, John peered through the front window. There, in the driveway, was Heather's SUV, doors open as four women unloaded bags: Heather, Jessica, Amy, and Summer. The spa trip. They must've just gotten back. But something felt off-Heather looked radiant, her brunette hair windswept, wearing that sexy sun dress from the dream, hugging her curves. Jessica, ever the MILF, laughed with Amy as they hauled luggage, her blonde locks catching the light. Summer, oh, Summer. She stood a bit apart, slinging a duffel over her shoulder, but her eyes were locked on Heather, scanning her up and down with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Is she, ogling Mom? Like, checking her out? Nah, can't be. John's mind spun, the dream's echoes making everything feel surreal.
The group spotted him in the window, waving him out. John stepped onto the porch, the warm Texas air hitting him like a wave. Heather was first to approach, arms open wide. "John, sweetie! There you are." She pulled him into a tight hug, her body pressing against his-soft breasts against his chest, the faint scent of jasmine shampoo and something muskier, like sex and sweat. He hugged back awkwardly, hyper-aware of how good she felt, the dream's intimacies flashing unbidden.
Pulling back, Heather's warm brown eyes met his, a playful sparkle in them that wasn't quite, her. "So, what did you get up to while we were gone? Play any good games?" She tilted her head, smiling. "That Elden Ring you mentioned-is it still as interesting as you said? The fire giant boss sounds brutal."
John froze, his brain short-circuiting. What? Mom knows about Elden Ring? The fire giant? I never told her that. He'd rambled about it to friends, sure, but Heather? She barely knew Mario from Minecraft. "Uh, yeah, it's cool. Beat it finally." His voice came out strained, confusion mounting.
Heather winked-actually winked-at him, leaning in closer so her breath tickled his ear. "Good boy. We should chat later about some, RPGs and scenarios we could try out. When we have more privacy." Her hand lingered on his arm, a subtle squeeze that sent a jolt straight to his groin. RPGs? Scenarios? Like roleplay? What the fuck is going on? Is she, flirting? With me? Her son? His mind reeled, the dream's body swap theory suddenly not so dreamlike. No way. Did it actually happen? Was I really in her body? And she, in mine?
He stammered a response-"Sure, Mom, sounds fun?"-but recovered enough to glance at the others. Jessica and Amy were busy with bags, chatting animatedly about the spa's hot tubs. Summer, though, waved from afar, her taller frame stunning in shorts and a crop top that showcased her E-cup bust and toned midriff. "Bye, John! Catch you later?" she called, blowing him a kiss with a wink. Then, when Jessica and Amy turned away, she mouthed "Thank you," her lips forming the words clearly, followed by a scissoring motion with her fingers-index and middle crossing like grinding legs.
John's jaw dropped, heat flooding his face-and his pants. Scissoring? Like, what we did in the dream? Thank you? For what? Confusion crashed over him like a tidal wave. This can't be coincidence. It happened. The swap was real. And Summer, she knows? Or thinks it was Mom? Fuck, I need answers. He waved back weakly, hoping to grill Heather later for insights.
The goodbyes wrapped up quickly-Jessica and Summer heading next door, Amy disappearing inside with her bags. Heather shot John one last knowing smile before following Amy, leaving him on the porch, mind spinning like a glitchy game.
Later that day, the living room hummed with normalcy-or what passed for it. John lounged on the couch, controller in hand but game paused, his thoughts a whirlwind. Amy sprawled nearby, scrolling her phone, while Heather sat in the armchair, flipping through a magazine but stealing glances at him. She's different. More, aware? Flirty? If the swap happened, does she remember? Did she experience my body while I was in hers? The taboo implications made his cock stir uncomfortably-imagining Heather in his teenage form, maybe even jerking off, exploring.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him. An unknown number, but the message preview showed a link and a heart emoji. He pulled it out, opening the text: "Hey John, it's Summer. Hope you enjoy these pics from the trip ;) Maybe we can meet up later to explore and have some 'fun'? as she was curious about meeting the real John," Attached was a link to a private photo album.
Summer? Texting me? With a winky face? Heart pounding, he clicked the link, the album loading in his browser. First, innocent group shots: the four women in sexy outfits at the spa-Heather in that white bikini, cleavage enhanced; Summer frolicking in the pool, water glistening on her curves; Jessica posing like a model; Amy laughing in her swimsuit. Selfies galore, all playful and hot.
But scrolling deeper, the tone shifted. Sexy solos: Summer in her robe, parted to show a nipple; Heather-Mom-in the nightgown, hand cupping her breast suggestively. Then nudes: Summer sprawled on the bed, legs spread, fingers teasing her pussy; Heather mirroring, her modest breasts bared, fingers dipped into her slit. And the foreplay shots-oh God-the two together: kissing passionately, Summer's larger tits mashed against Heather's; fingers intertwined in each other's pussies; scissoring positions, bodies grinding, faces contorted in pleasure. Explicit, unfiltered-cum-slicked thighs, moaning expressions captured in selfies.
John nearly dropped his phone, his cock instantly hard, straining against his jeans. This is, from last night. The 'dream.' But real. They did this. Summer and, Mom? Or me in Mom's body? And she's sending it to me? The message's words echoed: Curious about the real John. Did she know? Suspect the swap?
Amy glanced over. "You okay, bro? Look like you saw a ghost."
"Yeah, fine," he muttered, shoving the phone into his pants-right over his bulge, the vibration from another buzz making him twitch. Confront Mom? Text Summer back? What the hell is going on? But beneath the confusion, gratitude bloomed. Whoever-whatever-made this happen, thank you. He rejoined the conversation with a dazed smile, intrigued and aroused, the album's secrets burning in his pocket like a promise of more taboo adventures to come.
Epilogue: Revelations and Resolutions
The weeks following the spa trip blurred into a haze of normalcy laced with undercurrents of the extraordinary, like a dream that refused to fully dissipate. Willow Creek simmered under the relentless Texas sun, barbecues and pool parties filling the air with laughter and the scent of grilled burgers, but for John, every glance at Heather or text from Summer carried the weight of unspoken secrets. The photo album burned a hole in his phone's hidden folder-explicit reminders of a night he both cherished and questioned. Was it really me in her body? Or did some cosmic force just, make it happen? And Mom-why does she act like she knows more than she's letting on? He'd caught her staring at him during family dinners, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, her usual modest demeanor laced with a playful edge that mirrored his own geeky humor.
It all came to a head one humid evening, about two weeks after the trip. Amy had gone out with friends for a movie night, leaving the house quiet except for the hum of the AC and the distant chirp of crickets. John found Heather in the living room, lounging on the couch in a simple tank top and shorts that hugged her fit figure, her brunette hair loose and tousled. She was scrolling through her phone, but set it aside when he entered, her warm brown eyes lighting up with that new, intriguing sparkle. "Hey, sweetie. Come sit. We haven't had a real chat since the trip."
John's heart pounded as he sank into the armchair across from her, his mind racing. Now or never. Confront her. Figure out what the hell happened. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Mom, about that wink the day you got back. And asking about my games. You never cared about that stuff before. What's going on?"
Heather's expression softened, but there was a flush to her cheeks, a mix of guilt and something, excited? She leaned forward, her modest B-cup breasts shifting under the tank top, drawing his eye involuntarily-a taboo flicker he shoved down. "John, honey, I need to confess something. That night before the trip, when you, well, I heard you in your room. Wishing aloud about Summer. It was late, and I was passing by to check on you. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but, it stirred something in me."
John's face burned, embarrassment mingling with shock. She heard me jerking off? Wishing to get closer to Summer? "Mom, I-"
She held up a hand, her voice steady but laced with vulnerability. "Let me finish. I've always felt responsible for you, especially after your dad. And hearing that wish, it unlocked memories of my own wilder days. College experiments, curiosities I buried. But that night, something shifted. Like a, spark. The next morning, I woke up feeling different. More alive. And during the trip," She trailed off, biting her lip, her eyes darting away as if reliving it. God, what did I do? With Summer-my daughter's best friend. It felt so right, so intense. But was it me? Or something else?
"What about the trip?" John pressed, leaning in, his pulse racing. She thinks she did it. With Summer. But it was me-in her body.
Heather sighed, running a hand through her hair-a gesture so like his own nervous tic that it sent a chill down his spine. "Summer and I, we got close. Intimate. She came to my room that night, and I, I went with it. Roleplayed, explored. It was like I was channeling something younger, hornier. Like parts of you, maybe? Your energy?" She laughed softly, but it was tinged with self-doubt. "I feel responsible. For crossing lines with her. She's Amy's friend, and I'm, well, me. But it happened, and now I can't stop thinking about it. The thrill, the taboo."
John's mind whirled. She wasn't in my body. No swap for her. But she felt it-my influence? My personality bleeding through? Internally, relief and arousal battled: So it was me, fully. But she thinks it was her own will. And now she's, changed? Showing my traits? "Mom, that's, intense. But why the game talk? The winks?"
She smiled, a playful glint in her eye that was unmistakably his own geeky charm. "Since that night, I've felt more, adventurous. Like I've got this new side. Your side? I've even looked up some of those videos you might like. Body swap stuff, gender transformations. Kinky, right?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, laced with a seductive lilt he'd heard in her body. "What if we roleplayed one? Just us. I could be the son, you the mom-or swap it. Explore those scenarios. It'd be our secret. Fun, taboo, intimate."
John's cock stirred at the suggestion, the taboo heat of it overwhelming. Mom wants to roleplay a body swap? With me? Fuck, that's my kink. But she's my step-mom, He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I, yeah. Maybe. We can talk about it."
Heather's eyes sparkled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Good. I love you, John. And I'm sorry if I overstepped with Summer. But it felt, right." She pulled back, the moment heavy with unspoken possibilities, leaving John dazed as she headed upstairs. She's got my personality now. Wants to play out my fantasies. This summer's just getting weirder-and hotter.
As the days stretched into the final week of summer break, the neighborhood buzzed with back-to-school prep, but John's focus narrowed to Summer. Texts had flown between them-flirty at first, then explicit: shared memories of the album pics, teasing promises of "meeting the real John." She knows something. That 'thank you' and scissor motion-it's like she suspects I was involved. Amy headed back to college early for orientation, and Heather busied herself with work, leaving John with pockets of freedom. The climax came on a sultry Friday evening, a text from Summer lighting up his phone: "Meet me at the old park trailhead. 8 PM. Alone. Got something to show you, and do to you. ;)"
The park was a secluded spot on the edge of town-winding trails through woods, a hidden clearing by a creek where teens snuck off for privacy. John arrived as the sun dipped low, fireflies flickering in the dusk, his nerves electric. Summer waited on a picnic blanket, looking ethereal in a short sundress that hugged her taller frame, her blonde waves glowing in the fading light, E-cup breasts straining the fabric. "John," she purred, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her curves against his lean form. "Finally. The real you."
They sat, the air thick with tension, a bottle of wine between them. "Summer, those pics. The trip. What happened with, Mom?" He hesitated, probing.
She smiled mysteriously, sipping wine. "Oh, I know, John. You were responsible. Somehow. That night with Heather-it was you in there, wasn't it? Your energy, your kinks spilling out. The way she switched touches, knew my favorite scenes, it was too perfect. Too you." She leaned in, her hand on his thigh. "Don't ask how I know. A girl's got her secrets. But thank you. It opened my eyes. Made me want the original."
John's breath hitched, arousal surging. She knows. Doesn't care how. Wants me. "Summer, I-"
"Shh." She kissed him, soft at first, then hungry-tongues dancing, her larger body pressing him back onto the blanket. Hands roamed: hers under his shirt, nails raking his chest; his cupping her ass, squeezing the firm cheeks. "I've wanted this since that hug when I got home. But now, after tasting a piece of you, I need the full thing."
She pushed him flat, unzipping his jeans with deft fingers, freeing his hardening cock-thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum. "Look at you. Real boy parts." She licked her lips, blue eyes locked on his as she lowered her head. Her mouth enveloped him-warm, wet, tongue swirling the head, sucking gently at first, then deeper. John groaned, hands in her blonde hair, as she bobbed-taking him halfway, then all, throat relaxing around him. Fuck, her mouth, so skilled. Bigger tits bouncing as she sucks. She hummed, vibrations sending shocks through him, one hand stroking the base while the other fondled his balls.
"Summer, God, yes," he moaned, hips bucking lightly. She popped off briefly, grinning. "Taste different. Saltier. Love it." Back down, faster now-sloppy, saliva dripping, her free hand slipping under her dress to rub her pussy. The sight pushed him close, but she sensed it, pulling off with a wet pop. "Not yet. Want you inside me first."
She straddled him, dress hiked up-no panties, her wet pussy hovering over his cock. "Condom?" he gasped.
"On the pill. Clean. You?" He nodded, and she sank down-tight, hot walls gripping him inch by inch, her E-cups bouncing as she rode. "Fuck, John, feels so good. Different from scissoring, but, perfect." She ground her hips, clit rubbing against his base, moans filling the clearing. John thrust up, hands on her breasts-squeezing, pinching nipples-then flipped her onto her back, pounding deeper. Positions shifted: missionary, her legs over his shoulders for depth; doggy, ass jiggling as he slapped it lightly; cowgirl again, her taller body dominating.
Orgasms built-hers first, pussy clenching around him, crying out as she came. He followed, pulling out to cum on her stomach-hot ropes painting her skin. Breathless, they collapsed, laughing softly. "The real John's even better," she whispered, kissing him. "More this summer? And beyond?"
"Absolutely," he replied, the gender-bending whirlwind of the break culminating in this raw, real connection. As stars emerged overhead, John thanked whatever force had twisted his wish into this taboo, erotic reality-closer to Summer than ever, inside and out.
Chapter 1: Backstory
The sun hung high over the quiet suburban neighborhood of Willow Creek, casting a golden haze over manicured lawns and white picket fences that seemed frozen in time. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business, but no one ever admitted it-secrets simmered beneath the surface like the humid Texas air in mid-July. John Thompson, an 18-year-old fresh out of high school, wiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed the old lawnmower across Jessica's expansive front yard. The machine's rumble drowned out the distant chirp of cicadas, and the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint floral perfume wafting from the nearby rose bushes Jessica so meticulously tended.
John had been helping out both families for years now-his own and the neighboring one headed by Jessica and her daughter Summer. It started as odd jobs to earn pocket money: mowing lawns, fixing fences, even helping with groceries when Heather, his step-mom, was swamped with her part-time job at the local boutique. Heather had married John's dad when John was just a kid, but after his dad passed away five years ago from a sudden heart attack, it had been just the three of them: Heather, John, and Amy-Heather's biological daughter from her first marriage. Amy was 20 now, home from college for the summer, and she treated John like the annoying little brother he sometimes felt he was.
But Summer, oh, Summer was different. She'd been Amy's best friend since middle school, the kind of girl who turned heads without even trying. John had nursed a crush on her for as long as he could remember-those stolen glances during family barbecues, the way her laughter echoed like music when she and Amy gossiped in the backyard. She was 20 now too, taller than most girls at 5'10", with a lithe, athletic build from years of volleyball, sun-kissed blonde hair that cascaded in waves down her back, and a bust that filled out her tops in a way that made John's heart race. Her mom, Jessica, was the stuff of local legend-the town's ultimate MILF at 46, with platinum blonde locks, a curvy figure boasting a generous D-cup bust, and legs that seemed to go on forever. She owned a small yoga studio downtown, which kept her toned and flexible, and her flirtatious smile had broken more than a few hearts.
John paused the mower to chug from his water bottle, his t-shirt clinging to his lean, teenage frame. He wasn't unattractive-tallish at 5'11", with messy brown hair and a boyish charm-but he felt invisible next to the likes of Summer. "Just finish this up," he muttered to himself, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. That's when he heard the car pull into the driveway.
The sleek SUV doors opened, and out stepped Summer, looking every bit the college bombshell in cutoff denim shorts that hugged her firm ass and a crop top that revealed a sliver of toned midriff. Her bigger bust-easily an E-cup-strained against the fabric, bouncing slightly as she slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. "John? Is that you?" she called out, her voice bright and melodic, waving enthusiastically.
John's heart skipped a beat. He killed the mower's engine, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and disheveled he looked-grass clippings stuck to his sneakers, beads of perspiration dripping down his neck. "Uh, hey, Summer! Welcome home!" He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked just a little.
She dropped her bag and bounded over, enveloping him in a tight hug before he could protest. Her body pressed against his-soft, warm, and smelling faintly of vanilla and sunscreen. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her hips brushing his, and for a split second, his mind blanked. "It's so good to see you! You've gotten taller or something," she laughed, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms. Her blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth.
John's face flushed crimson. "Y-yeah, maybe. Sorry, I'm all sweaty and gross. Wasn't expecting, you know." He gestured vaguely at himself, inwardly cursing his awkwardness. God, she looks incredible, he thought. Even better than I remembered. Those lips, that smile, what I wouldn't give to just...
Summer giggled, tilting her head. "Aw, don't worry about it. You're doing us a huge favor with the lawn. Mom's been raving about how helpful you've been." She glanced back at the house, where Jessica was unloading more bags, her own figure poured into yoga pants and a tank top that accentuated her ample cleavage. Jessica caught John's eye and waved with a wink, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.
John opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. Summer's proximity was overwhelming-her scent, her touch, the way her top rode up just enough to show a hint of underboob. He stood there, dumbstruck, his brain short-circuiting as he imagined what it would be like to hold her, to kiss her, to explore every inch of her perfect body. "I, uh, yeah, no problem," he finally stammered, stepping back awkwardly.
Summer smiled sympathetically, picking up her bag. "Well, catch you later? Amy and I are planning a pool day soon- you should join!" With that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying in a way that made John's knees weak.
He watched her go, his mind reeling. How does she do that? Just exist and make everything else fade away? Shaking his head, he restarted the mower, but his thoughts lingered on her-the crush that had only grown stronger over the years.
Later that afternoon, after finishing up and heading home, John bumped into Amy in the kitchen. She was perched on the counter, scrolling through her phone, her brunette hair tied back in a ponytail. Amy took after Heather-modest but attractive, with a fit body from her college track team, perky C-cup breasts, and a girl-next-door vibe. At 20, she was confident and teasing, especially with her little step-brother.
"Hey, loser," she said without looking up, popping a grape into her mouth. "Heard you were over at Jessica's. See Summer yet?"
John grabbed a soda from the fridge, trying to act nonchalant. "Yeah, she just got home. Hugged me and everything." He couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face.
Amy finally glanced at him, smirking. "Ooh, a hug? Careful, John, you might actually talk to a girl for once." She hopped down, nudging him playfully. "Seriously, though, when are you gonna get a girlfriend? You're 18 now-high school's over. You can't just mope around playing video games all summer."
John rolled his eyes, but her words stung a bit. "I'm not moping. Just, busy helping out. And who says I need a girlfriend right now?"
Amy laughed, ruffling his hair. "Come on, make some friends at least. Hit up the beach, the mall-anything. Summer's single, you know. But you'd have to actually, like, speak in full sentences around her."
If only it were that easy, John thought, his mind flashing back to the hug. She's way out of my league. But god, what I wouldn't do to be closer to her... "Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it."
The conversation fizzled as Amy headed upstairs, leaving John to ponder her advice. Dinner that evening was a typical affair-Heather had whipped up a simple pasta dish, her brunette hair pulled back, her modest blouse and jeans hugging her still-fit 45-year-old figure. Heather was classically attractive: soft curves, a B-cup bust that she carried with quiet confidence, and warm brown eyes that always seemed to know more than she let on. She was the glue holding the family together, working her boutique job while keeping the house running smoothly.
They ate at the kitchen table, chatting about mundane things-Amy's college stories, John's lawn-mowing adventures, Heather's latest customer drama. "John, sweetie, thanks for helping Jessica out today," Heather said, smiling across the table. "You're turning into quite the responsible young man."
John shrugged, blushing slightly. "No big deal, Mom." The meal wrapped up normally, with everyone retreating to their own spaces: Amy to her room for a video call with friends, Heather to the living room with a book, and John upstairs to his bedroom.
He locked the door behind him, flopping onto his bed with a sigh. The room was a typical teenage haven-posters of video games and bands on the walls, a cluttered desk with his laptop, and a faint scent of Axe body spray. But tonight, his mind was fixated on Summer. That hug, her body against mine. Fuck, she's perfect. He felt a familiar stir in his pants, his cock twitching at the memory.
Unable to resist, he grabbed his laptop, dimming the lights as he settled against the pillows. A quick incognito search brought up porn sites, and he typed in descriptors that reminded him of her: "tall blonde big tits college girl." Videos popped up-women who vaguely resembled Summer, but none captured her essence. He clicked on one: a busty blonde riding a guy reverse cowgirl, her moans filling his headphones.
John's hand slipped into his boxers, wrapping around his hardening shaft. He stroked slowly at first, imagining it was Summer on top of him, her breasts bouncing, her tight pussy gripping him. God, I wish I could get closer to her, he thought, his pace quickening. Not just know her, but be intimate. Feel her from the outside, sure, but, inside too? Like, understand her completely. The fantasy spiraled-taboo thoughts of body swaps, gender bends from the weird porn he'd stumbled upon before, where guys became girls and explored forbidden desires.
His breath hitched as the orgasm built, more intense than usual. "Fuck, I wish I could be closer to Summer, inside and out," he whispered aloud, his voice hoarse. The video played on, the actress crying out in ecstasy. John's body tensed, cum erupting in hot spurts over his hand and stomach. Waves of pleasure crashed over him, stronger than ever, his vision blurring as a strange dizziness took hold. The world spun, and suddenly-blackness. He collapsed back, unconscious, the laptop still humming softly in the dim room.
Chapter 2: Freaky Morning
The first rays of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains of Heather's bedroom, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the king-sized bed with its crisp white sheets and plush comforter. The room was a sanctuary of feminine elegance-walls painted a calming lavender, a vanity table cluttered with perfumes and jewelry, and a full-length mirror propped against the far wall, reflecting the orderly chaos of a woman's life well-lived. Heather's closet stood slightly ajar, revealing rows of neatly hung blouses, dresses, and jeans, while the faint scent of lavender sachets mingled with the subtle musk of her favorite body lotion. It was a space John had only glimpsed in passing, never truly entered, let alone woken up in.
But this morning, that's exactly where he found himself-or rather, where she found herself. John's consciousness stirred groggily, his mind foggy from what felt like the deepest sleep of his life. His body felt, off. Lighter somehow, yet weighted in unfamiliar places. He blinked against the light, rubbing his eyes with hands that seemed smaller, more delicate. What a weird dream, he thought hazily, the remnants of last night's intense orgasm flickering in his memory like a half-remembered fantasy. That blackout, must've passed out hard. A pressing urge built in his lower abdomen-the need to pee-and without much thought, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The nightgown whispered against his skin as he stood, a silky fabric that clung in ways his boxers never did. It was Heather's favorite-a simple lavender slip that reached mid-thigh, with thin straps and a lace-trimmed neckline that dipped just enough to hint at cleavage. John didn't register the difference yet; his brain was still booting up. He padded across the plush carpet, the cool hardwood of the en suite bathroom floor sending a shiver up his spine as he entered. The bathroom was pristine: marble counters, a deep soaking tub, and a rainfall showerhead that Heather loved for its spa-like feel. He lifted the toilet seat out of habit-wait, no, that felt wrong. Instinct took over, and he hiked up the nightgown, sat down on the cool porcelain, and let go.
The stream came easily, a soft trickle that felt strangely relieving but, different. No standing, no aiming-just sitting and releasing. He reached for the toilet paper without thinking, wiping front to back in a motion that came as naturally as breathing. Flush. Stand. Wash hands. It was all autopilot, muscle memory kicking in from a body that wasn't his. Huh, that was, easy, he mused internally, still half-asleep. Usually takes forever to wake up properly.
He shuffled to the vanity sink, the mirror fogged slightly from the humidity of the night. Grabbing Heather's toothbrush-pink-handled, with soft bristles-he squeezed on a dollop of minty toothpaste and began brushing. The rhythm was familiar, but as he raised his arm, it brushed against something soft and yielding. A jolt of sensation shot through him-nipples hardening under the fabric, a subtle weight shifting on his chest. What the...? He paused, toothbrush in mouth, and glanced down. Breasts. Actual breasts, modestly sized but pert, straining slightly against the nightgown. The toothbrush clattered into the sink as awareness crashed over him like a wave.
John's eyes widened in the mirror, staring back at a face that wasn't his. Heather's face: high cheekbones, full lips painted a natural pink from last night's gloss, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and a cascade of brunette hair tumbling over shoulders. "Oh my God," he whispered, but the voice that emerged was soft, feminine-Heather's voice, with its gentle Texas lilt. He gasped externally, a sharp intake of breath that echoed in the tiled room. Internally, his mind screamed: What the fuck is happening? This can't be real. Am I still dreaming? Did I die? Panic bubbled up, his new heart pounding in a chest that felt both alien and intimately responsive.
He leaned closer to the mirror, hands-slender, with manicured nails-gripping the counter. Calm down, John. Breathe. Figure this out. How had this happened? Last night, the porn, the wish whispered aloud as he came. I wish I could get closer to Summer, inside and out. Was this some cosmic joke? A body swap? Like those weird stories he'd read online, the gender bender fantasies that always got him off harder than he cared to admit. But this was real-the cool air from the AC vent brushing against his skin, making goosebumps rise, and lower, a chill teasing at exposed folds he shouldn't have. Holy shit, I have a vagina.
Curiosity edged out the panic as he calmed. If this is a dream, might as well explore. He started with the face, poking and prodding gently. Heather's skin was smooth, softer than his ever was-no stubble, just the faint peach fuzz of a woman's complexion. He stuck out his tongue-pink and agile-wagging it experimentally. Then, an UwU face: cheeks puffed, eyes wide and innocent, lips pursed in a cute pout. It looked ridiculous on Heather's mature features, but oddly endearing. A sad face next-eyebrows furrowed, lower lip trembling-as if practicing for a role in a drama. She looks, kinda hot like this, he admitted to himself, a forbidden thought creeping in.
Now, the voice. "Hello?" he tested, the word coming out smooth and melodic. He cleared his throat-her throat-and tried seductive: "Come here, big boy," drawled low and husky, with a sultry emphasis that made his new nipples tingle. Angry and authoritative: "Young man, you're grounded!" barked out, stern and commanding, the kind of tone Heather used when scolding him. Curse words for fun: "Fuck, shit, damn," he whispered, giggling at how prim and proper it sounded in her voice, then louder, "Oh, fuck me," with a moan that surprised him with its authenticity. This is insane. I sound just like her. But better? Sexier?
Satisfied for now, he ventured back into the bedroom, the nightgown swishing around his thighs. The full-body mirror beckoned, a ornate antique piece Heather had inherited from her mother. John stood before it, heart racing anew. He slipped the straps off his shoulders, letting the nightgown pool at his feet. Naked now, he stared. Heather's body-his body-was stunning in a way he'd never appreciated. At 45, she was fit from yoga classes with Jessica, her skin glowing with a natural tan. Modest B-cup breasts hung with a natural heft, nipples a dusky pink and erect from the cool air. He cupped them experimentally, feeling the weight-soft yet firm, like ripe fruit. These are, heavy. But nice. Sensitive too. A gentle squeeze sent a spark straight to his core, a warmth building between his legs.
His hands roamed lower: smooth, hairless skin everywhere except a neatly trimmed patch above his new slit. No coarse body hair, just silkiness. Legs long and dainty, toned calves leading to petite feet. He turned, admiring the curve of his ass-round and perky, not as voluptuous as Jessica's but inviting. Fingernails painted a soft nude, longer than he was used to, scratching lightly over his skin. She's gorgeous. Why didn't I notice before? Taboo, I guess. But now... The thought aroused him-her. A slickness grew between his thighs, a moist heat that made him clench involuntarily. I'm getting wet. Fuck, that's hot. But not now-gotta figure this out.
Shaking it off, he headed to the closet, an instinctive pull guiding him. Muscle memory? Heather's knowledge seeped in-he knew exactly where her lingerie drawer was, tucked in the back. He pulled out a comfortable bra: beige lace, supportive underwire. Slipping it on was effortless-arms through straps, clasp in front with a twist, adjust the cups. Whoa, that was easy. Like I've done it a thousand times. It felt amazing: the lift pushing his breasts up, creating subtle cleavage, the fabric hugging like a second skin. Panties next-a thong, black and silky, something he wouldn't have pegged for Heather's modest style. Does she wear these? Kinky, Mom. He stepped in, pulling it up; the string nestled between his ass cheeks, a constant teasing pressure, while the front panel cupped his mound, the fabric brushing his slit in a way that made him gasp. Feels, exposing. But good. Like it's right there, ready.
Clothes: tight skinny jeans that hugged his hips and ass like a glove, zipping up with a satisfying snugness. A button-up blouse in soft blue, rolling the sleeves for a casual look that accentuated his figure. This outfits screams 'hot mom.' Matches perfectly.
Drawn to the makeup vanity next-a wooden table with a lighted mirror, drawers full of palettes and brushes. He sat, brushing out the long brunette locks-silky and thick, falling to mid-back. Tying it into a loose ponytail was second nature, strands framing his face. Feels lighter now. Smells like her shampoo-floral and fresh.
The makeup array was overwhelming: foundations, blushes, eyeshadows in every shade, lipsticks from nude to bold red. So much stuff. Eyeliners, mascaras, how does she choose? But again, instinct guided him. He applied a light foundation, blending seamlessly; a touch of blush for a rosy glow; eyeliner winged just so, making his eyes pop; mascara for length; and a lipstick a shade pinker than Heather's usual, with a gloss that made his lips look fuller, kissable. Cuter, slightly seductive-eyebrows arched playfully, a hint of shimmer on the lids. Not her everyday look. More, flirty. Like I'm dolling up for something special.
Stepping back, he admired the full effect in the mirror: a vision of mature allure, jeans accentuating curves, blouse hinting at cleavage, makeup enhancing natural beauty. If this is permanent, what now? Excitement mingled with fear, but a thrill coursed through him. Summer. This could be my chance to get close. Really close. With that, he headed downstairs, ready to face whatever bizarre day awaited in his step-mom's body.
Chapter 3: "Heather"'s Day
The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the Thompson household, a cozy two-story home nestled in the heart of Willow Creek. The kitchen was Heather's domain-granite countertops gleaming under pendant lights, a farmhouse sink piled with mixing bowls, and a window overlooking the backyard where John had spent countless summers playing catch with his late dad. But this morning, it was John-or rather, "Heather"-commanding the space with an ease that surprised even him. Dressed in those tight skinny jeans that hugged his new curves like a second skin and the button-up blouse that teased just a hint of cleavage, he moved with a fluid grace, flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs as if he'd done it a thousand times. Which, in a way, he had-Heather's muscle memory was a godsend, guiding his hands through the motions without a second thought.
What the hell is going on? John pondered internally, stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. Am I stuck like this forever? Is this some kind of freaky punishment for jerking off to Summer? Or, fulfillment of that wish? The confusion gnawed at him, but a strange exhilaration bubbled underneath. No more awkward stares from afar; he could be close now, in ways he never imagined. But first, gotta play the part. Don't freak out the family. He set the table with Heather's favorite floral plates, humming a tune he didn't even know he knew-a soft melody from one of her yoga playlists.
As the first one up, John had the house to himself for a blissful half-hour, but soon enough, footsteps thudded down the stairs. His heart-or Heather's-skipped a beat as he wondered about his old body. What if Mom's in there? Trapped, screaming? Or, what if it's empty? The question was answered when "John" shuffled into the kitchen, yawning in his rumpled pajamas, hair tousled just like always. "Morning, Mom," the body said in John's own voice, wrapping arms around "Heather" in a casual hug. The embrace felt surreal-hugging himself, essentially-but there was no hint of anything amiss. "John" pulled back, sniffing the air. "Smells awesome. You making pancakes? Sweet."
"Yeah, sweetie, your favorite," John replied in Heather's warm tone, forcing a smile while his mind raced. He's acting just like me. Saying shit I'd say, moving like I do. Is it, on autopilot? Some kind of echo? Relief washed over him; at least no one was suffering in his place. Amy joined moments later, her ponytail bouncing as she plopped into a chair, phone in hand. "Morning, everyone! Ooh, bacon-thanks, Mom."
Breakfast unfolded in a haze of normalcy that bordered on the absurd. They chatted about the weather-hot and humid, as always in Texas-the latest neighborhood gossip, and Amy's excitement about her summer classes. John, as Heather, navigated it flawlessly: laughing at "John's" dumb joke about a video game boss, passing the syrup with a maternal nod, even scolding Amy gently for scrolling too much at the table. Internally, though, it was a mindfuck. This is me, eating with my family, but I'm Mom. Watching myself chew with my mouth open. Hearing Amy call me 'Mom.' It's like a VR sim gone wrong. A flicker of arousal stirred as he caught sight of Amy's tank top riding up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach-taboo thoughts he quickly shoved down. Focus, dude. You're her mom now.
As the meal wrapped up, plans emerged. "John" mentioned heading out to mow more lawns-my old job, John thought wryly-while Amy talked about meeting friends downtown. "Hey, Mom," Amy said, stacking plates, "you should hit the mall today. Get that new bathing suit we talked about. Remember, tomorrow's the double date at the beach spa with Jessica and Summer! It's gonna be so fun-sun, sand, massages..."
John's new body reacted instantly: a flush of heat between his legs, nipples tightening under the bra. Double date? With Jessica and Summer? Holy shit. Images flooded his mind-Summer in a bikini, water glistening on her curves, her laughter echoing over waves. This is it. The wish. Getting closer to her, even if it's as Mom. Bizarre, but, hot? He nodded enthusiastically, Heather's voice steady. "That sounds perfect, honey. I could use a little retail therapy."
Amy grinned. "Awesome! Pick something cute. Maybe something a bit, sexier? You're still got it, Mom." She winked, and "John" chuckled, oblivious.
Once they left-the door clicking shut behind them-John was alone, the house silent except for the hum of the fridge. Okay, game on. He grabbed Heather's purse from the hook by the door-a stylish leather satchel stuffed with wallet, keys, and lip gloss-and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping out, he felt a literal spring in his step: lighter on his feet, hips swaying naturally, the thong riding up just enough to remind him of his new anatomy. Feels, empowering? Like I'm strutting.
Heather's car-a reliable SUV-waited in the driveway. Sliding into the driver's seat, he adjusted the mirror, buckling up. The seatbelt nestled between his breasts, the strap pressing against the soft mounds, creating a valley of cleavage. Whoa, that's, distracting. Unable to resist, he glanced around-no nosy neighbors watching-and cupped his boobs through the blouse, squeezing gently. The sensation zinged straight to his core, a moist warmth building. These feel amazing. So sensitive. He admired his reflection: ponytail bouncing, makeup flawless, lips plump. Looking good, 'Heather.' A little crazy? Maybe. But fuck it. Starting the engine, he pulled out, heading to the mall with a mix of nerves and excitement.
The Willow Creek Mall was bustling mid-morning: families milling about, teens in clusters, the air scented with pretzels and perfume. As "Heather," John drew glances-not suspicious, but appreciative. Men stealing looks at his ass in the jeans, women nodding at his outfit. They're checking me out. Because I'm hot. Female hot. It was a power trip, boosting his confidence as he navigated to a trendy store aimed at the 18-25 crowd-think fast fashion with edgy vibes, blasting pop music and lined with racks of crop tops and mini skirts.
Browsing the swimsuit section, he blended in at first, but soon noticed the giggles from a group of college-aged girls nearby. They're laughing at me? The 'old lady' in their store? But he ignored it, fingers trailing over fabrics until he spotted a two-piece white bikini: skimpy top with padding for extra lift, high-cut bottoms that would hug and expose his ass cheeks. This is cute. Revealing, but, why not? Summer might notice. Heart pounding, he grabbed a size that felt right-Heather's instincts again-and headed to the changing rooms.
The attendant, an 18-year-old with neon hair and a judgmental smirk, eyed him up. "Uh, can I help you? These are for, like, our demographic..."
John channeled Heather's charisma-poise he'd never had as himself. He flashed a warm smile, tilting his head flirtatiously. "Oh, honey, age is just a number. But if you insist, maybe you can help me decide if this makes me look too, youthful?" He added a wink and a light laugh, funny yet charming, disarming her completely.
The girl blinked, then grinned. "Okay, fair. Room three's open. Knock yourself out."
Inside the cramped stall, mirror-lined walls reflecting every angle, John stripped slowly. Off came the blouse, jeans pooling at his feet, bra unclasped-breasts freed, nipples perking in the cool air. The thong slipped down, revealing his smooth mound, already glistening slightly from anticipation. Time to see. He stepped into the bikini bottoms, the fabric snug against his slit, riding up to accentuate his ass. The top tied on, padding pushing his B-cups into fuller, perkier cleavage. Damn, I look, fuckable.
Letting his hair down-waves cascading-he posed: hands on hips, seductive smirk, touching himself all over. Fingers traced his collarbone, down to squeeze his enhanced boobs, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. So soft, so responsive. He turned, admiring his ass-cheeks peeking out, firm and inviting. Then, cutesy mode: innocent pout, batting lashes, imagining compliments from Jessica and Summer. "Oh, Heather, you look amazing!" he'd coo in a high pitch, giggling.
But thoughts turned to Summer: her taller frame in a bikini, bigger bust spilling out, water droplets tracing her curves. God, she'd look incredible. Wet, shiny... Arousal hit hard-his pussy throbbing, slickness soaking the bottoms. Can't ignore this anymore. He slipped a hand down, rubbing his clit through the fabric-electric sparks shooting through him. Fuck, that's intense. Boldly, he pushed the bottoms aside, fingers dipping into his wet folds, one then two sliding in. The fullness, the warmth-moans escaped, soft at first, then louder: "Oh, yes..." He pumped gently, thumb on clit, imagining Summer's body against his. The attendant might have heard-the stall walls thin-but he didn't care, stopping just short of climax. Later. Save it.
Composed again, he dressed and checked out. The cashier-a young guy-rang him up, but John scratched an itch near his crotch crudely, like a guy adjusting his balls. Oops. The cashier flushed, thinking, Hot mom, but, that was weird. Kinda unladylike.
Back home, cooking dinner was effortless: Heather's recipes ingrained, whipping up lasagna with garlic bread. When Amy and "John" returned, he roleplayed perfectly-asking about their days, laughing at stories, no suspicions raised. This is trippy. Engaging with myself.
After dinner, alone time with Amy in her room: posters of bands, clothes strewn about. She changed for bed into a provocative outfit-tiny shorts and a crop top, no bra, nipples visible through thin fabric. John stared voyeuristically, heat building. She's hot. Like Mom, but younger. Amy chatted about the spa: private massages, saunas, hot tubs. "And who knows, Mom? We might spot some hot guys. You could use a fling!" She teased, winking.
John laughed, but internally: Guys? Nah. But Summer... Excited, he headed to bed, following Heather's routine: face wash, lotion, nightgown. In the nightstand, a small vibrator-pink, discreet. Mom's got toys? Kinky.
Lying back, he buzzed it to life, pressing against his clit. Oh fuck. Imagining the spa: Jessica in a thong, bust overflowing; Summer nude, legs spread; even Amy, playful and bare. They touched, kissed-taboo fantasies blending. Orgasms crashed over him, waves of pleasure making his body arch, moans muffled into the pillow. Exhausted, he drifted to sleep, dreaming of tomorrow's possibilities.
Chapter 4: Before the Outing
The alarm on Heather's nightstand buzzed softly at 7 AM, pulling John from a deep, dreamless sleep. He stretched languidly under the sheets, his body-Heather's body-responding with a supple arch that made his breasts shift and his hips roll in a way that felt both foreign and intoxicating. The vibrator from last night lay innocently on the pillow beside him, a silent reminder of the explosive orgasm that had rocked him to his core. Holy shit, that was real, he thought, a grin spreading across Heather's full lips as he sat up. I'm still here. Still her. And today, today I get to see Summer up close. In a spa. With bikinis and massages and, God, what if things get steamy? Excitement coursed through him, mingling with a low hum of arousal that made his new pussy tingle faintly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool morning air teasing his skin through the thin nightgown. Padding to the en suite bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror-hair tousled from sleep, makeup smudged just enough to look sultry rather than sloppy. I look like a woman who's had a wild night. Fitting. Stripping off the nightgown, he stepped into the shower, turning the water to a steamy hot spray that cascaded over his curves like a lover's touch. The sensation was overwhelming: water beading on his breasts, trickling down his flat stomach, pooling between his thighs. He lathered up with Heather's body wash-a luxurious blend of vanilla and jasmine that made his skin slick and silky.
This feels incredible, he marveled internally, hands roaming as he washed. Fingers grazed his nipples, hardening them into peaks that sent jolts straight to his core. Lower, he soaped his pussy gently, the suds mixing with a fresh slickness as thoughts of Summer invaded his mind. Her body wet like this, blonde hair plastered to her big tits, laughing as she splashes Amy, Fuck, I can't wait. But the real star was the shampoo: a fruity, botanical concoction of mango and hibiscus that filled the steam with an exotic, heady aroma. He massaged it into his scalp, the long strands heavy and fragrant under his fingers. Smells like paradise. Like her-Summer always has that tropical vibe. Rinsing off, he lingered under the spray, one hand slipping between his legs to rub his clit in slow circles. A soft moan escaped-Heather's voice, husky with desire. Just a tease. Save the big one for later, maybe with her. He stopped before climax, toweling off with a fluffy robe that hugged his figure, still buzzing with anticipation.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the family routine kicked in. John, as Heather, whipped up a quick breakfast-avocado toast with eggs, fresh fruit on the side-while "John" and Amy trickled in. "Morning, everyone," he said brightly, plating the food. Time to probe. What's my old body been up to? He turned to "John," who was shoveling toast into his mouth just like he always did. "So, sweetie, what have you been up to these last couple days? Any fun plans while we're gone?"
"John" shrugged, mid-bite. "Eh, mostly gaming. Finally beat that level in Elden Ring- you know, the one with the fire giant? Took forever, but I cheesed it with the bleed build."
John's excitement spiked-That's my game! I was stuck on that boss for weeks!-and he leaned in, Heather's eyes lighting up. "Oh, really? The fire giant? Isn't that the one where you have to dodge those massive AOE attacks? And the bleed build-smart, using rivers of blood katana, right? Pairs great with the mimic tear summon."
"John" blinked, surprised but nodding. "Yeah, exactly! Wait, Mom, since when do you know about Elden Ring builds?"
Amy, overhearing from her seat, paused with her coffee mug halfway to her lips. "Whoa, Mom, you're a gamer now? That's, kinda cool, but random."
Panic flickered in John's mind-Shit, too much. Slipped into my own geek mode. But Heather's poise bubbled up, that effortless charisma saving the day. He laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, honey, I've picked up a thing or two listening to you ramble about it. Plus, I read an article the other day-something about how video games improve reflexes. Keeps me young!" He added a wink, steering the conversation smoothly to Amy's classes, and the moment passed without suspicion. Close call. But damn, it's weird hearing about my own life from the outside.
After breakfast, with "John" heading out for more chores and Amy lingering to help clean up, John retreated upstairs to pack. The closet called to him again, and rummaging through Heather's wardrobe, his eyes landed on a sexy sun dress he'd somehow overlooked before: a vibrant red number with a deep V-neck that plunged daringly between the breasts, thin straps, and a flowy skirt that hit mid-thigh, perfect for showing off legs and a hint of cleavage. This is fire. Shows off everything-boobs, ass, the works. He slipped it on, the fabric whispering against his skin, hugging his curves before flaring out. Twirling in the mirror, he admired how it accentuated his bust, the material thin enough that his nipples poked through if he got chilled. Summer's gonna love this. Wait, no- she's straight, right? But maybe...
Packing was quick: the new white bikini folded neatly into an overnight bag, along with other fun outfits-a sheer cover-up that would tease skin, lacy lingerie just in case things heated up, and casual shorts with a crop top for lounging. Prepared for anything. Massages, saunas, who knows what could happen in private? A thrill shot through him, his pussy clenching at the possibilities.
As they got ready to leave, Amy appeared in the doorway, eyeing the dress with raised eyebrows. "Damn, Mom! That dress is hot. You're gonna turn heads at the spa. Jessica might get jealous-she's usually the MILF queen."
John flushed-Heather's cheeks warming-but played it cool with a playful spin. "Thanks, sweetie. Figured why not? Life's too short for boring clothes." Amy laughed, complimenting his makeup too-the subtle smokey eyes he'd added for extra allure. They headed out together, leaving "John" with a wave and instructions to behave, the SUV purring down the driveway toward the beach spa an hour away.
---
Meanwhile, across the neighborhood at the Summers' residence-a modern ranch-style home with a sprawling backyard pool and Jessica's yoga mats scattered on the deck-preparations were in full swing. Jessica, at 46, moved with the grace of a woman who knew her power, her platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail as she packed her bag in the sunlit kitchen. She wore yoga leggings and a sports bra for the drive, her generous D-cup bust straining against the fabric, curves honed from years of downward dogs and warrior poses. Summer, her 20-year-old daughter, was upstairs in her room, a feminine haven of pastel walls, volleyball trophies, and posters of indie bands.
"Summer, honey, you almost ready?" Jessica called up the stairs, zipping her bag with swimsuits, lotions, and a bottle of wine for the evening. "Heather and Amy should be meeting us soon-don't forget your sunscreen!"
"Coming, Mom!" Summer replied, her voice light but laced with a secret excitement. She stood before her mirror, adjusting a casual tank top and shorts over her bikini, her taller frame making everything look model-esque. Blonde waves framed her face, and her E-cup breasts filled out the top perfectly, a natural bounce with each movement. God, I'm buzzing, she thought, inner monologue racing as she packed. A whole day at the spa with Amy, and Heather. Heather. A flush crept up her neck at the thought. Summer had always been the popular girl-cheerful, athletic, surrounded by friends-but deep down, she harbored a secret: a growing attraction to women that she'd never voiced. College had opened her eyes-stolen glances in the dorm showers, butterflies around pretty professors-but back home, it simmered unspoken.
Heather's always been so, elegant. Fit, brunette, that quiet sexiness. And lately, I've caught myself staring. Is it a crush? She bit her lip, imagining Heather in a swimsuit, their bodies close during a massage. Women are just, softer. Curvier. More intoxicating. Amy's hot too, but Heather-mature, experienced. What if I could, explore? The thought made her nipples harden, a warmth pooling between her legs. She shook it off, grabbing her bag. "Okay, Mom, let's go!"
Downstairs, Jessica hugged her daughter, their dialogue easy and affectionate. "You excited? It's been ages since we did a girls' trip like this."
"Totally," Summer said, grinning. "Pool time, massages-perfection. And hanging with Amy and Heather will be fun."
Jessica raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Heather, huh? You've always had a soft spot for her. She's like a second mom."
Summer laughed it off, but internally: If only you knew. "Yeah, something like that."
They loaded the car, chatting about spa details-private saunas, ocean views-and headed out, the drive filled with laughter and playlists.
---
Back to John as Heather: they arrived at the beach spa first, a luxurious resort overlooking the Gulf, with palm trees swaying and the scent of salt air mingling with essential oils. Stepping out, John smoothed the sun dress, the skirt fluttering in the breeze to reveal toned thighs. Here we go. Jessica's SUV pulled up moments later, and as she emerged-looking every bit the cougar in a wrap dress that hugged her bust-John greeted her with la bise, the European cheek kisses they always did. "Jessica, darling, you look fabulous," he purred in Heather's voice, their cheeks brushing, scents mingling.
"You too, Heather- that dress! Sexy as hell," Jessica replied with a laugh.
But then Summer stepped out, and John froze. She was stunning: a floral sundress similar to his but shorter, accentuating her long legs, bigger bust spilling slightly at the neckline, blonde hair glowing in the sun. Fuck, she's a goddess. Taller, thinner, those tits, I could stare forever. His body reacted-pussy dampening, heart racing.
Summer, meanwhile, was equally awestruck. Heather looks, different. Hotter. That makeup, the dress-cleavage for days. Is she flirting with the world today? Her cheeks pinked as they locked eyes. "Hey, Heather," she said softly, moving in for a hug.
The embrace was electric: bodies pressing close, John's breasts mashing against Summer's larger ones, soft and yielding through thin fabrics. He inhaled her scent-vanilla and sunscreen-feeling the warmth of her skin, the subtle curve of her hips. Oh God, this feels amazing. Her boobs against mine, so full, so perfect. A forbidden thrill shot through him, his nipples hardening.
Summer pulled back reluctantly, blushing deeper. That hug, her body feels so good. Soft, warm. I want more. Jessica and Amy were already chatting animatedly about the itinerary, laughing as they grabbed bags. "Come on, ladies-let's check in!" Jessica goaded, leading the way.
John followed, mind spinning with possibilities, the group entering the spa's grand lobby, ready for whatever intimacies the day held.
Chapter 5: Getting Close to Summer
The Azure Waves Beach Spa Resort sprawled along the Gulf Coast like a hidden paradise, its white stucco buildings accented with turquoise trim, palm-fringed pools shimmering under the relentless Texas sun, and the distant crash of waves providing a rhythmic soundtrack to indulgence. The lobby was a haven of luxury: marble floors cooled by ocean breezes, plush seating areas dotted with tropical plants, and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the spa diffusers. As the group checked in, the receptionist-a perky young woman with a name tag reading "Mia"-handed over key cards with a smile. "Welcome, ladies! Your suites are in the Ocean Wing. Pool's open all day, and your massages are booked for 3 PM. Enjoy!"
John, still inhabiting Heather's body, clutched his key card tightly, his manicured fingers trembling slightly with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. The hug with Summer lingered in his mind-the press of her larger breasts against his, the warmth of her breath on his neck, that telltale blush coloring her cheeks as they pulled apart. She blushed. Hard. Was that because of me? Or, Heather? Does she feel something too? He wondered internally, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. This body swap thing is nuts, but if it means getting close to her like this, I'll take it. The group dispersed to their individual suites with plans to reconvene at the main pool in an hour, Amy and Jessica chattering excitedly about cocktails and sunbathing.
John's suite was a slice of opulence: a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, a king bed draped in crisp linens, and a private balcony where the sea air whispered promises of relaxation. A mini-bar stocked with chilled wines and fruits sat invitingly by the desk, and the bathroom boasted a rainfall shower and plush robes. Alone at last, he set his bag down and faced the full-length mirror, Heather's reflection staring back-sun dress hugging curves, ponytail slightly tousled from the drive. Time to change. Make it fun. A mischievous grin spread across his lips as he decided to indulge in the moment, turning the simple act of changing into a private spectacle.
He started slow, swaying his hips to an imaginary beat, fingers tracing the thin straps of the dress. Strip tease for one. Why not? This body's made for it. He slipped one strap down, then the other, letting the fabric pool at his waist, exposing Heather's lacy bra that cradled his modest B-cup breasts. Cupping them, he squeezed gently, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked, a soft gasp escaping-Heather's voice, breathy and feminine. Feels so good. Sensitive as hell. The dress fell to the floor in a whisper, leaving him in just the thong panties, the string nestled teasingly between his ass cheeks. He turned, admiring the view: smooth skin, toned legs, the curve of his hips flaring out invitingly. Hooking thumbs into the thong, he bent forward dramatically, sliding it down slowly, ass presented to the mirror as his pussy came into view-already glistening with arousal. Look at that. Wet just from thinking about her. He stepped out of the panties, fully nude now, and struck poses: one hand on hip, the other trailing down his stomach to brush his clit, eliciting a shiver.
Grabbing the white two-piece bikini from his bag, he made the donning equally erotic. First the bottoms: stepping in exaggeratedly, pulling them up so the fabric hugged his mound, the high-cut sides framing his ass like a work of art. He adjusted the front, fingers dipping briefly into his folds for a teasing rub. Mmm, tight fit. Shows off everything. The top came next-tying it behind his back with a flourish, the padding lifting his breasts into fuller, perkier cleavage that spilled slightly at the edges. He bounced on his toes, watching them jiggle. Damn, I look hot. Summer's gonna notice. Hair down in waves, a quick touch-up of lip gloss, and he wrapped a towel around his waist like a sarong, heading out with a sway in his step that felt utterly natural.
The pool area was a tropical oasis: infinity edges blending with the ocean horizon, cabanas with billowing white curtains, and lounge chairs lined up under umbrellas. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of fruity cocktails. John spotted Jessica first, and his jaw nearly dropped. She lounged by the chairs like a predator in wait-a super sexy MILF cougar ready to pounce. Her one-piece swimsuit was a masterpiece of temptation: black with strategic cutouts along the sides and midriff, plunging neckline showcasing her generous D-cup bust, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. It looked straight off a supermodel runway, accentuating her toned legs and the subtle sway of her hips. Blonde hair cascaded freely, sunglasses perched on her nose, a knowing smile on her lips.
Holy fuck, Jessica, John thought, a droplet of drool nearly escaping as he approached. She's always been hot, but this? Lethal. "Jessica, wow-you look incredible," he said in Heather's warm voice, eyes lingering a beat too long on her cleavage.
She laughed, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her bust against his making his nipples harden instantly. "Coming from you? Please, Heather, that bikini is fire. White on your tan? Chef's kiss." She pulled back, handing him a vibrant cocktail-something pink and garnished with pineapple. "Mai Tai. Figured we'd start strong." Then, with a flirtatious grin, she offered her hand. "Shall we? Chairs are this way."
John took it, their fingers intertwining, skin warm and soft. Internally, he freaked: Hand-holding with Jessica? While she looks like that? How do I even talk without staring at her tits? But as they walked, the panic ebbed, replaced by awe as his gaze shifted to the pool. There, frolicking in the water, was Summer-splashing Amy with gleeful abandon, her laughter ringing out like music. She wore a skimpy red bikini that left little to the imagination: top straining against her E-cup breasts, bottoms tied at the sides with bows that begged to be undone. Water glistened on her taller, thinner frame, droplets tracing paths down her toned abs and long legs. Amy, in a sporty blue two-piece that hugged her perky C-cups and athletic build, laughed back, but John's eyes were glued to Summer. Oh my God. She's perfection. Bouncing in the water like that, I could watch forever.
They settled into adjacent lounge chairs, cocktails in hand, the sun warming their skin. John sipped his drink-sweet and potent, rum hitting just right-while freaking out internally about small talk. What do I say? Weather? No, too lame. But Heather's essence surged forward: that natural charisma, the ease of conversation she'd always had. "So, Jess, tell me-how's the yoga studio been? Any new hot instructors catching your eye?" he asked with a teasing lilt, leaning back to mirror her relaxed pose.
Jessica chuckled, sipping her drink. "Oh, you know me-always scouting talent. There's this one guy, mid-20s, abs for days. But honestly, I've been too busy. What about you? Dating scene treating you well since, you know." Her voice softened, referencing Heather's widowhood without dwelling.
The chat flowed effortlessly: gossip about neighborhood drama (Mrs. Wilkins' latest affair scandal), shared laughs over parenting woes (Amy's college antics mirroring Summer's), and deeper tidbits-Jessica confessing her secret love for trashy romance novels, John sharing Heather's fondness for gardening mixed with his own taste in indie films. This is wild. I'm learning stuff about her I'd never know as John. All the while, his eyes darted to Summer in the pool: her lithe body diving under, emerging with hair slicked back, breasts heaving with each breath. So close. I can hear her laugh, see every curve. This is heaven.
Summer, mid-splash with Amy, glanced over occasionally, catching "Heather" watching. She's staring. At me? Curiosity bloomed in her chest, a warm flutter between her legs. Heather's always been gorgeous, but today, that bikini, those eyes on me. Does she feel it too?
Hours melted away in glorious voyeurism-John reveling in Summer's every move, the way water beaded on her skin, her playful shrieks as Amy dunked her. But Amy eventually broke the spell, swimming to the edge. "Hey, ladies! Massage time-let's go! Don't want to be late."
Summer climbed out, water cascading off her body as she approached the chairs. Up close, John drank her in: the red bikini clinging wetly, nipples faintly visible through the fabric, her taller frame towering slightly, ass cheeks peeking from the bottoms. Fuck, she's dripping. Warm and fuzzy? I'm on fire. Summer's eyes roamed Heather's body too-the white bikini enhancing cleavage, the way it hugged her slit subtly. Heather looks, edible. That lift in her boobs, her legs, God, I'm getting wet just looking.
The group toweled off and headed to the massage suite, a serene wing with dim lighting, soft instrumental music, and the scent of lavender oil. Private rooms branched off a central changing area with lockers and robes. John decided to go with the flow-Never had a massage before. Might as well enjoy. In the changing room, privacy screens offered partial cover, but glimpses were inevitable. He stripped slowly: bikini top untied, breasts freed with a bounce; bottoms slid down, exposing his smooth pussy. Sneaking peeks, he caught Jessica's nude form-voluptuous curves, shaved mound, ass like a peach. Amy's athletic body-perky tits, trimmed bush. But Summer, Jesus. Tall and lithe, her E-cups heavy and natural, pink nipples erect from the cool air, pussy with a neat landing strip. She bent to pick up her robe, ass presented, folds peeking invitingly.
Summer stole a glance back, eyes widening at Heather's body: modest but toned, breasts pert, pussy bare and glistening slightly. She's beautiful. Smooth everywhere, I want to touch. Both flushed, slipping into thin massage gowns-paper-thin fabric that hid little.
In the massage room-four tables side by side, therapists waiting with oils-John lay face-down, the gown parting to expose his back. As hands kneaded his muscles, tension melted, and conversation sparked with Summer on the next table. "This feels amazing," he sighed in Heather's voice. "First time for a pro massage?"
Summer turned her head, smiling. "Yeah, me too. Kinda nervous, but, relaxing. How's your summer been, Heather? Amy says you've been busy."
Small talk evolved: college life (Summer's volleyball team drama), favorites (John mixing his indie rock playlists with Heather's classic jazz, movies like his sci-fi faves blended with her rom-coms). "I love those mind-bendy films," he shared. "Like, ones that twist reality."
Depth crept in: dreams, fears. Then, intimacy. "Speaking of twists," Summer ventured shyly, "have you ever, experimented? With, um, relationships?"
John's heart raced-Heather's bi-curiosity surfacing in memories. "Honestly? Yes. I've always been curious about women. Experimented in college-a few flings. It's, liberating." True for her body. And hot to admit.
Summer's eyes lit up, ecstatic. Heather? Into women? Experimented? Oh my God. Internally: This could be my chance. Make a move later?
They delved deeper-Summer confessing, "I'm curious too. About my sexuality. Not sure yet, but, girls intrigue me. Not tell Amy or Mom, okay? Secret."
"I promise," John replied, mind whirling with ideas. She's a closet lesbian? Perfect. Crazy plans brewing-could I, with her? As Heather?
Topics shifted, landing on porn anecdotes for laughs. "Weirdest kink?" Summer teased.
John feigned shyness. "Oh, God, okay, MILF stuff, mom/son or mom/daughter roleplay. And, gender transformation, body swaps. Some TG/trans stuff. Plausible for me, right?" My actual kinks. Living one now.
Summer's intrigue peaked-surprised, aroused. Body swaps? Hot. I could listen to her forever. "Tell me more sometime?"
Massages ended, leading to dinner at the resort's seaside restaurant: candlelit tables, fresh seafood, wine flowing. Gossip flew-day's highlights, spa tales. Amy probed: "So, who caught your eye today? Hot guys around?"
Jessica grinned. "That lifeguard-tall, tanned. Yum." But John and Summer blushed, stammering vague answers, eyes meeting across the table with shared heat.
Back in his suite, John unwound, reflecting. Unbelievable. Staring at Summer all day, sharing secrets. She's into girls-maybe me. Even if not as John, worth it? He pondered his kinks: Living a body swap fantasy. Porn come to life.
Chapter 6: Summer Makes Her Move
The resort's restaurant lingered in Summer's mind like a hazy afterglow as she slipped back into her suite, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality. The room was a mirror of Heather's-ocean views framed by gauzy curtains, the bed inviting with its turned-down sheets, and the faint hum of waves crashing outside like a lullaby. But sleep was the last thing on her mind. Dinner had been electric: the way Heather's eyes had met hers across the table, that shared blush when Amy teased about crushes, the wine loosening tongues and inhibitions. Heather, into women? Experimented? And those kinks-body swaps, MILF roleplay. God, it's like she read my fantasies. Summer's skin tingled with the memory, a warmth spreading from her chest downward as she kicked off her sandals and padded to the mirror.
She stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, her red bikini swapped earlier for a simple tank top and shorts that clung to her damp skin from the evening humidity. Look at you, she thought, inner monologue swirling with a mix of nerves and desire. Twenty years old, closet lesbian, crushing on your best friend's mom. Pathetic? Or, bold? Her hands moved almost of their own accord, slipping under the hem of her tank top to lift it slowly over her head. Blonde waves tumbled free, framing her face as she tossed the top aside. Her E-cup breasts bounced gently, freed from confinement, nipples already hardening in the cool air-conditioned room. She cupped them, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks, a soft sigh escaping her lips. So full, so sensitive. Imagine her hands on them-Heather's. Mature, knowing touch.
The shorts came next, shimmying down her long legs to reveal lacy panties that matched her earlier bikini-red and sheer, hinting at the neatly trimmed blonde patch beneath. She turned, admiring her reflection: taller frame lean and athletic from volleyball, ass firm and rounded, thighs toned from endless practices. I'm hot. She noticed me today-ogling at the pool, in the changing room. Those eyes on my body, Arousal built like a tide, her pussy aching with need. She slipped a hand into her panties, fingers finding her clit-swollen and slick already. Circling slowly, she moaned softly, imagining Heather's voice from the massage: I've experimented, curious about women. "Fuck," Summer whispered, her free hand pinching a nipple. What if I went to her room right now? Knocked, told her I can't stop thinking about her. Experimented, with me.
The fantasy spiraled: Heather pulling her inside, lips crashing, hands exploring. She's bi-curious. Shared those secrets. This could happen. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding into her wet folds, pumping gently as her knees weakened. Mentor me, like in those porn vids-the mom teaching the daughter. God, yes. Orgasm hovered close, but she stopped, breathing ragged. No. Not alone. Go to her. Now. Panties off, she grabbed a silk robe from the closet-thin and short, tying it loosely so it gaped at the front, hinting at her nudity beneath. Heart pounding, she slipped out into the dimly lit hallway, bare feet silent on the carpet, making her way to Heather's door. This is crazy. But if she turns me away, at least I tried. She knocked softly, pulse racing.
---
Back in Heather's suite, John paced the room, the nightgown whispering against his skin like a lover's promise. The silk fabric clung to his curves, nipples visible through the thin material, a constant reminder of his borrowed body. Dinner replayed in his mind: the gossip, the laughter, Summer's blush mirroring his own. She shared she's curious. About girls. And I-Heather-admitted to experimenting. Fuck, the ideas in my head, could I seduce her? As Mom? Taboo as hell, but, hot. He ran a hand through his brunette waves, arousal simmering from the day's sights-Summer's body, wet and glistening, her secret glances. Living my kink. Body swap porn come true. If only I could-
A knock shattered the silence. John's heart-or Heather's-leaped into his throat. Who the hell? At this hour? Peeking through the peephole, his breath caught: Summer, in a robe that barely contained her, blonde hair tousled, eyes wide with nervous determination. Oh shit. It's her. What does she want? Internally freaking: Calm down. Play it cool. But, what if this is it? He smoothed the nightgown, took a deep breath, and opened the door. "Summer? Is everything okay?"
She didn't answer with words. Stepping inside, she pushed the door shut behind her, locked it with a click, and surged forward. Her hands cupped Heather's face-John's face-and she kissed him fiercely, lips soft and urgent, tongue seeking entry. John gasped into the kiss, body responding instinctively: arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. The robe gaped, her naked breasts pressing against the nightgown, heat radiating through the fabric. Holy fuck, she's kissing me. Naked under there? This is happening. They stumbled backward, Summer guiding him toward the bed, her taller frame dominant yet gentle.
Breaking the kiss, Summer's blue eyes locked onto his, cheeks flushed. "Heather, I can't get you out of my head. All day-the pool, the changing room, the massage. You were staring. Ogling me. And what you said, about being curious, experimenting. It lit something in me."
John's mind reeled, but Heather's charisma surged: "Summer, honey, I noticed you too. Blushing, glancing back. You're beautiful. Irresistible." This is insane. My crush, making the move on me-as her. His pussy throbbed, wet and aching.
Summer's hands roamed, slipping under the nightgown to caress his hips. "I, I've never done this. With a woman. But I want to. With you." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Remember your kinks? The roleplay stuff? I have a favorite porn vid, the mom mentoring her daughter, teaching her about sex. Gentle at first, then, passionate. Will you? Roleplay that for me? Be the mom, show me?"
John's arousal spiked-One of my favorites too. The taboo mentor scene. He nodded, letting go, autopilot kicking in. Heather's sultriness blended with his knowledge, reciting lines perfectly. "Oh, sweetie," he purred in Heather's voice, seductive and maternal, "come here. Mommy's going to teach you everything. Make you feel so good." He pushed Summer gently onto the bed, climbing atop her, nightgown hiking up to reveal his thighs.
Summer moaned, robe falling open completely, exposing her nude body-breasts heaving, pussy glistening. John fondled her with grace: hands tracing her sides, cupping her E-cups softly, thumbs rolling nipples with deliberate, experienced touches. "Like this, baby? Feel how sensitive they are?" Summer arched, gasping. "Yes, Heather-Mommy-more."
But John switched to a male touch-his old instincts-groping harder, massaging her breasts roughly, pinching just enough to elicit a yelp. Summer's eyes widened. "That's, different. Rougher. Like a guy would."
He caught himself, switching back to Heather's graceful strokes, fingers trailing down her stomach. "Sorry, sweetie. Got carried away. Let Mommy show you properly." Lower now, he spread her legs, face inches from her pussy-pink and wet, scent musky and inviting. Diving in like a horny teenager-his true self-tongue lapping eagerly, sloppy and enthusiastic, sucking her clit with fervor. "Taste so good," he mumbled against her folds.
Summer writhed, hands in his hair. "Oh God, that's intense. Like a teen boy eating me out for the first time." She noticed the shift, but moaned louder. "Don't stop-switch back if you want. It's hot."
John obliged, alternating: graceful licks with Heather's precision, then teen-like enthusiasm-fingers plunging in, curling to hit her G-spot. Summer bucked, crying out. They kissed passionately next-tongues dancing, tastes mingling, bodies grinding. "Finger me," Summer begged, guiding his hand.
He did, two fingers sliding into her tightness, pumping rhythmically while his thumb worked her clit. "Like this? Feel Mommy filling you?" Summer reciprocated, hand slipping under the nightgown to find his pussy-wet and eager-fingers dipping in, exploring. "You're so wet, Heather. Taste yourself?" They ate each other out in turns: John on his back, Summer's face buried between his legs, tongue flicking his clit expertly now, drawing moans that echoed Heather's voice. "Yes, right there, baby. Lick Mommy's pussy."
Climax built, leading to scissoring: legs intertwined, pussies grinding. First position-side by side, hips rocking, clits rubbing in slick friction. "Fuck, yes," Summer gasped, breasts bouncing. They switched: Summer on top, dominant, grinding down hard; then John atop, using Heather's hips to maximize contact, juices mixing. Multiple positions-facing each other, backs arched; one on her back, the other straddling backward for deeper pressure. Orgasms crashed simultaneously: bodies shuddering, moans filling the room, waves of pleasure rippling through them.
Exhausted, they collapsed, embracing-Summer's head on Heather's chest, legs tangled, breaths syncing. "That was, incredible," Summer whispered, kissing his neck. "Thank you."
John held her, mind blissed: My dream. Intimate with Summer. Inside and out. They drifted to sleep, bodies entwined.
Morning light filtered in early, Summer stirring first. She slipped from the bed quietly, robe on, glancing back at the sleeping form. Can't get caught. But, wow. More later? She snuck out, door clicking softly.
John woke moments later, alone, sheets tangled and scented with sex. Was that, a dream? Felt so real. But the ache between his legs, the lingering taste on his lips-No. It happened. He rolled over, wondering if it was all a massive lucid fantasy, heart racing with confusion and lingering ecstasy.
Chapter 7: Back to Reality?
John's eyelids fluttered open to the familiar sight of his bedroom ceiling, the posters of video game characters and bands staring back at him like old friends. Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn blinds, casting striped patterns across his rumpled sheets. He groaned, shifting under the covers, immediately aware of the insistent throb between his legs-morning wood, tenting his boxers, and a sticky wetness that suggested a wet dream had spilled over into reality. What the hell was that? he thought, fragments of the night flashing like a fevered montage: Summer's body writhing against his-Heather's-scissoring in ecstasy, moans echoing in a spa suite. It felt so real. Too real. But, a dream? Yeah, must be. The most intense wet dream ever. Disappointment washed over him like a cold shower, his cock twitching one last time at the memory before he willed it down. Gone. All of it-the body swap, the explorations, Summer. Just my horny brain playing tricks.
He swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the cool hardwood floor of his room-a teenage mess of discarded clothes, gaming controllers, and empty soda cans. The house felt eerily quiet, no clatter from the kitchen or Amy's music blasting from her room. Weird. Usually Mom's up making breakfast. He stripped off his sticky boxers, tossing them into the hamper, and grabbed a fresh pair from his drawer along with jeans and a t-shirt. A quick cleanup in his attached bathroom-splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth-did little to shake the lingering haze. That dream, possessing Mom's body, fucking Summer as her. Taboo as hell. Hot, though. Wish it wasn't just a subconscious jerk-off session.
Dressed now, he headed downstairs, the stairs creaking under his weight. The kitchen was empty, no coffee brewing, no note on the counter. "Mom? Amy?" he called out, voice echoing in the silence. A glance at the clock-9 AM on a Sunday-confirmed they should be home. Where is everyone? Did they go out early? His stomach rumbled, but before he could raid the fridge, a car horn blared outside, sharp and insistent.
Curiosity piqued, John peered through the front window. There, in the driveway, was Heather's SUV, doors open as four women unloaded bags: Heather, Jessica, Amy, and Summer. The spa trip. They must've just gotten back. But something felt off-Heather looked radiant, her brunette hair windswept, wearing that sexy sun dress from the dream, hugging her curves. Jessica, ever the MILF, laughed with Amy as they hauled luggage, her blonde locks catching the light. Summer, oh, Summer. She stood a bit apart, slinging a duffel over her shoulder, but her eyes were locked on Heather, scanning her up and down with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Is she, ogling Mom? Like, checking her out? Nah, can't be. John's mind spun, the dream's echoes making everything feel surreal.
The group spotted him in the window, waving him out. John stepped onto the porch, the warm Texas air hitting him like a wave. Heather was first to approach, arms open wide. "John, sweetie! There you are." She pulled him into a tight hug, her body pressing against his-soft breasts against his chest, the faint scent of jasmine shampoo and something muskier, like sex and sweat. He hugged back awkwardly, hyper-aware of how good she felt, the dream's intimacies flashing unbidden.
Pulling back, Heather's warm brown eyes met his, a playful sparkle in them that wasn't quite, her. "So, what did you get up to while we were gone? Play any good games?" She tilted her head, smiling. "That Elden Ring you mentioned-is it still as interesting as you said? The fire giant boss sounds brutal."
John froze, his brain short-circuiting. What? Mom knows about Elden Ring? The fire giant? I never told her that. He'd rambled about it to friends, sure, but Heather? She barely knew Mario from Minecraft. "Uh, yeah, it's cool. Beat it finally." His voice came out strained, confusion mounting.
Heather winked-actually winked-at him, leaning in closer so her breath tickled his ear. "Good boy. We should chat later about some, RPGs and scenarios we could try out. When we have more privacy." Her hand lingered on his arm, a subtle squeeze that sent a jolt straight to his groin. RPGs? Scenarios? Like roleplay? What the fuck is going on? Is she, flirting? With me? Her son? His mind reeled, the dream's body swap theory suddenly not so dreamlike. No way. Did it actually happen? Was I really in her body? And she, in mine?
He stammered a response-"Sure, Mom, sounds fun?"-but recovered enough to glance at the others. Jessica and Amy were busy with bags, chatting animatedly about the spa's hot tubs. Summer, though, waved from afar, her taller frame stunning in shorts and a crop top that showcased her E-cup bust and toned midriff. "Bye, John! Catch you later?" she called, blowing him a kiss with a wink. Then, when Jessica and Amy turned away, she mouthed "Thank you," her lips forming the words clearly, followed by a scissoring motion with her fingers-index and middle crossing like grinding legs.
John's jaw dropped, heat flooding his face-and his pants. Scissoring? Like, what we did in the dream? Thank you? For what? Confusion crashed over him like a tidal wave. This can't be coincidence. It happened. The swap was real. And Summer, she knows? Or thinks it was Mom? Fuck, I need answers. He waved back weakly, hoping to grill Heather later for insights.
The goodbyes wrapped up quickly-Jessica and Summer heading next door, Amy disappearing inside with her bags. Heather shot John one last knowing smile before following Amy, leaving him on the porch, mind spinning like a glitchy game.
Later that day, the living room hummed with normalcy-or what passed for it. John lounged on the couch, controller in hand but game paused, his thoughts a whirlwind. Amy sprawled nearby, scrolling her phone, while Heather sat in the armchair, flipping through a magazine but stealing glances at him. She's different. More, aware? Flirty? If the swap happened, does she remember? Did she experience my body while I was in hers? The taboo implications made his cock stir uncomfortably-imagining Heather in his teenage form, maybe even jerking off, exploring.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him. An unknown number, but the message preview showed a link and a heart emoji. He pulled it out, opening the text: "Hey John, it's Summer. Hope you enjoy these pics from the trip ;) Maybe we can meet up later to explore and have some 'fun'? as she was curious about meeting the real John," Attached was a link to a private photo album.
Summer? Texting me? With a winky face? Heart pounding, he clicked the link, the album loading in his browser. First, innocent group shots: the four women in sexy outfits at the spa-Heather in that white bikini, cleavage enhanced; Summer frolicking in the pool, water glistening on her curves; Jessica posing like a model; Amy laughing in her swimsuit. Selfies galore, all playful and hot.
But scrolling deeper, the tone shifted. Sexy solos: Summer in her robe, parted to show a nipple; Heather-Mom-in the nightgown, hand cupping her breast suggestively. Then nudes: Summer sprawled on the bed, legs spread, fingers teasing her pussy; Heather mirroring, her modest breasts bared, fingers dipped into her slit. And the foreplay shots-oh God-the two together: kissing passionately, Summer's larger tits mashed against Heather's; fingers intertwined in each other's pussies; scissoring positions, bodies grinding, faces contorted in pleasure. Explicit, unfiltered-cum-slicked thighs, moaning expressions captured in selfies.
John nearly dropped his phone, his cock instantly hard, straining against his jeans. This is, from last night. The 'dream.' But real. They did this. Summer and, Mom? Or me in Mom's body? And she's sending it to me? The message's words echoed: Curious about the real John. Did she know? Suspect the swap?
Amy glanced over. "You okay, bro? Look like you saw a ghost."
"Yeah, fine," he muttered, shoving the phone into his pants-right over his bulge, the vibration from another buzz making him twitch. Confront Mom? Text Summer back? What the hell is going on? But beneath the confusion, gratitude bloomed. Whoever-whatever-made this happen, thank you. He rejoined the conversation with a dazed smile, intrigued and aroused, the album's secrets burning in his pocket like a promise of more taboo adventures to come.
Epilogue: Revelations and Resolutions
The weeks following the spa trip blurred into a haze of normalcy laced with undercurrents of the extraordinary, like a dream that refused to fully dissipate. Willow Creek simmered under the relentless Texas sun, barbecues and pool parties filling the air with laughter and the scent of grilled burgers, but for John, every glance at Heather or text from Summer carried the weight of unspoken secrets. The photo album burned a hole in his phone's hidden folder-explicit reminders of a night he both cherished and questioned. Was it really me in her body? Or did some cosmic force just, make it happen? And Mom-why does she act like she knows more than she's letting on? He'd caught her staring at him during family dinners, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, her usual modest demeanor laced with a playful edge that mirrored his own geeky humor.
It all came to a head one humid evening, about two weeks after the trip. Amy had gone out with friends for a movie night, leaving the house quiet except for the hum of the AC and the distant chirp of crickets. John found Heather in the living room, lounging on the couch in a simple tank top and shorts that hugged her fit figure, her brunette hair loose and tousled. She was scrolling through her phone, but set it aside when he entered, her warm brown eyes lighting up with that new, intriguing sparkle. "Hey, sweetie. Come sit. We haven't had a real chat since the trip."
John's heart pounded as he sank into the armchair across from her, his mind racing. Now or never. Confront her. Figure out what the hell happened. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Mom, about that wink the day you got back. And asking about my games. You never cared about that stuff before. What's going on?"
Heather's expression softened, but there was a flush to her cheeks, a mix of guilt and something, excited? She leaned forward, her modest B-cup breasts shifting under the tank top, drawing his eye involuntarily-a taboo flicker he shoved down. "John, honey, I need to confess something. That night before the trip, when you, well, I heard you in your room. Wishing aloud about Summer. It was late, and I was passing by to check on you. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but, it stirred something in me."
John's face burned, embarrassment mingling with shock. She heard me jerking off? Wishing to get closer to Summer? "Mom, I-"
She held up a hand, her voice steady but laced with vulnerability. "Let me finish. I've always felt responsible for you, especially after your dad. And hearing that wish, it unlocked memories of my own wilder days. College experiments, curiosities I buried. But that night, something shifted. Like a, spark. The next morning, I woke up feeling different. More alive. And during the trip," She trailed off, biting her lip, her eyes darting away as if reliving it. God, what did I do? With Summer-my daughter's best friend. It felt so right, so intense. But was it me? Or something else?
"What about the trip?" John pressed, leaning in, his pulse racing. She thinks she did it. With Summer. But it was me-in her body.
Heather sighed, running a hand through her hair-a gesture so like his own nervous tic that it sent a chill down his spine. "Summer and I, we got close. Intimate. She came to my room that night, and I, I went with it. Roleplayed, explored. It was like I was channeling something younger, hornier. Like parts of you, maybe? Your energy?" She laughed softly, but it was tinged with self-doubt. "I feel responsible. For crossing lines with her. She's Amy's friend, and I'm, well, me. But it happened, and now I can't stop thinking about it. The thrill, the taboo."
John's mind whirled. She wasn't in my body. No swap for her. But she felt it-my influence? My personality bleeding through? Internally, relief and arousal battled: So it was me, fully. But she thinks it was her own will. And now she's, changed? Showing my traits? "Mom, that's, intense. But why the game talk? The winks?"
She smiled, a playful glint in her eye that was unmistakably his own geeky charm. "Since that night, I've felt more, adventurous. Like I've got this new side. Your side? I've even looked up some of those videos you might like. Body swap stuff, gender transformations. Kinky, right?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, laced with a seductive lilt he'd heard in her body. "What if we roleplayed one? Just us. I could be the son, you the mom-or swap it. Explore those scenarios. It'd be our secret. Fun, taboo, intimate."
John's cock stirred at the suggestion, the taboo heat of it overwhelming. Mom wants to roleplay a body swap? With me? Fuck, that's my kink. But she's my step-mom, He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I, yeah. Maybe. We can talk about it."
Heather's eyes sparkled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Good. I love you, John. And I'm sorry if I overstepped with Summer. But it felt, right." She pulled back, the moment heavy with unspoken possibilities, leaving John dazed as she headed upstairs. She's got my personality now. Wants to play out my fantasies. This summer's just getting weirder-and hotter.
As the days stretched into the final week of summer break, the neighborhood buzzed with back-to-school prep, but John's focus narrowed to Summer. Texts had flown between them-flirty at first, then explicit: shared memories of the album pics, teasing promises of "meeting the real John." She knows something. That 'thank you' and scissor motion-it's like she suspects I was involved. Amy headed back to college early for orientation, and Heather busied herself with work, leaving John with pockets of freedom. The climax came on a sultry Friday evening, a text from Summer lighting up his phone: "Meet me at the old park trailhead. 8 PM. Alone. Got something to show you, and do to you. ;)"
The park was a secluded spot on the edge of town-winding trails through woods, a hidden clearing by a creek where teens snuck off for privacy. John arrived as the sun dipped low, fireflies flickering in the dusk, his nerves electric. Summer waited on a picnic blanket, looking ethereal in a short sundress that hugged her taller frame, her blonde waves glowing in the fading light, E-cup breasts straining the fabric. "John," she purred, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her curves against his lean form. "Finally. The real you."
They sat, the air thick with tension, a bottle of wine between them. "Summer, those pics. The trip. What happened with, Mom?" He hesitated, probing.
She smiled mysteriously, sipping wine. "Oh, I know, John. You were responsible. Somehow. That night with Heather-it was you in there, wasn't it? Your energy, your kinks spilling out. The way she switched touches, knew my favorite scenes, it was too perfect. Too you." She leaned in, her hand on his thigh. "Don't ask how I know. A girl's got her secrets. But thank you. It opened my eyes. Made me want the original."
John's breath hitched, arousal surging. She knows. Doesn't care how. Wants me. "Summer, I-"
"Shh." She kissed him, soft at first, then hungry-tongues dancing, her larger body pressing him back onto the blanket. Hands roamed: hers under his shirt, nails raking his chest; his cupping her ass, squeezing the firm cheeks. "I've wanted this since that hug when I got home. But now, after tasting a piece of you, I need the full thing."
She pushed him flat, unzipping his jeans with deft fingers, freeing his hardening cock-thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum. "Look at you. Real boy parts." She licked her lips, blue eyes locked on his as she lowered her head. Her mouth enveloped him-warm, wet, tongue swirling the head, sucking gently at first, then deeper. John groaned, hands in her blonde hair, as she bobbed-taking him halfway, then all, throat relaxing around him. Fuck, her mouth, so skilled. Bigger tits bouncing as she sucks. She hummed, vibrations sending shocks through him, one hand stroking the base while the other fondled his balls.
"Summer, God, yes," he moaned, hips bucking lightly. She popped off briefly, grinning. "Taste different. Saltier. Love it." Back down, faster now-sloppy, saliva dripping, her free hand slipping under her dress to rub her pussy. The sight pushed him close, but she sensed it, pulling off with a wet pop. "Not yet. Want you inside me first."
She straddled him, dress hiked up-no panties, her wet pussy hovering over his cock. "Condom?" he gasped.
"On the pill. Clean. You?" He nodded, and she sank down-tight, hot walls gripping him inch by inch, her E-cups bouncing as she rode. "Fuck, John, feels so good. Different from scissoring, but, perfect." She ground her hips, clit rubbing against his base, moans filling the clearing. John thrust up, hands on her breasts-squeezing, pinching nipples-then flipped her onto her back, pounding deeper. Positions shifted: missionary, her legs over his shoulders for depth; doggy, ass jiggling as he slapped it lightly; cowgirl again, her taller body dominating.
Orgasms built-hers first, pussy clenching around him, crying out as she came. He followed, pulling out to cum on her stomach-hot ropes painting her skin. Breathless, they collapsed, laughing softly. "The real John's even better," she whispered, kissing him. "More this summer? And beyond?"
"Absolutely," he replied, the gender-bending whirlwind of the break culminating in this raw, real connection. As stars emerged overhead, John thanked whatever force had twisted his wish into this taboo, erotic reality-closer to Summer than ever, inside and out.
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A curse. Two souls. One fatal touch. Shortly before his wedding, Ethan learns of the legend of a cursed brooch – and becomes its next victim. He swaps bodies with Margarete, his wife's mother's friend, and realises that the gift of slipping into other people's skin is not a coincidence, but a test. The ceremony is only the beginning of an adventure that will lead Ethan through the lives and secrets of strangers. His goal: to regain his own identity before he loses himself in the lives of others.
I woke up to the smell of lavender and old books, which was the first wrong thing.
My alarm should have been the sharp ping of my phonesome upbeat synth track I’d set to “motivational asshole mode.” Instead there was silence, thick hotel-room silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a wall clock I didn’t remember owning. My body felt… heavy. Not gym-sore heavy. Not even post-night-out heavy. It felt like someone had poured concrete into my joints and then politely asked them to creak.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was wrong. Too high, too ornate, crown molding that belonged in a period drama. The bed was wrong toosoft in that way old mattresses are soft, like they’ve given up fighting gravity decades ago. I tried to sit up and my back immediately lodged a formal complaint. A dull ache bloomed behind my knees. My handswhen I lifted them to rub my facewere not mine.
They were smaller. Knotted at the knuckles. Liver spots scattered like spilled coffee across the backs. Thin gold wedding band on the left ring finger, worn smooth from years. Nails short, unpainted, practical.
I stared at them for what felt like ten full seconds.
Then I screamed.
It came out wrong. Higher, raspier, an older woman’s startled yelp instead of my usual baritone bark. I clapped a hand over my mouthmy new, unfamiliar mouthand tasted lipstick. Not gloss. Actual matte lipstick, the kind that feels like wax and smells faintly of roses.
I scrambled out of bed (or tried to; the knees locked halfway and I nearly face-planted into a floral rug). There was a full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway.
Margaret stared back at me.
Not some random old lady. Margaret. The Margaret. Sophie’s family friend, the retired principal who once told mein front of twenty people at the engagement partythat “youth is wasted on the young and charm is wasted on the cocky.” Gray hair pulled into a neat chignon. Wire-rimmed glasses hanging from a chain around myherneck. A silk dressing gown the color of weak tea. And behind the glasses, my own wide, panicked eyes.
I whispered, “No. No no no no.”
The voice was hers. Dry, precise, faintly British even though she was born in Ohio. I hated how authoritative it sounded even when I was the one panicking.
Phone. I needed my phone.
I lurched across the roomevery step a negotiation with joints that had apparently unionized against meand found a small clutch purse on the dresser. Inside: reading glasses, tissues, a tin of mints, a hotel keycard, andthank Godmy phone. Except it wasn’t my phone. It was hers. An iPhone 8, cracked screen protector, wallpaper of a black-and-white photo of two kids who were probably her grandchildren.
I tried Face ID anyway. It didn’t work. Obviously.
Passcode. I typed my birthday.
Nothing.
Her birthday? I had no idea.
I typed 01011958 on a guess (she’d once said she was “born the year they launched Sputnik, which explains my lifelong suspicion of bright ideas”). The phone unlocked.
First thing I did: opened the camera and switched to selfie mode.
Yeah. Still Margaret.
Second thing: checked the time. 7:42 a.m. Wedding was at 4:00 p.m. Rehearsal brunch at 10:00. Sophie was probably already in the bridal suite getting her hair done, surrounded by bridesmaids and mimosas and that calming playlist she loved.
I could text her. I could call her. I could say, “Babe, something insane happened, I’m in Margaret’s body, please don’t freak out.”
And then what?
She’d think I was drunk. Or high. Or having a psychotic break forty-eight hours before our wedding. She’d call my brother. She’d call her mom. Within twenty minutes the entire wedding party would know the groom was claiming to be trapped in a sixty-seven-year-old woman’s body. The photos would leak. TwitterXwould have a field day. “Tech bro groom swaps souls with grandma, more at 11.”
No. No way.
I wasn’t telling anyone. Not Sophie. Not James. Not even Clara, who’d probably believe me and then try to livestream it.
I had to fix this quietly. Find the broochMargaret’s stupid cursed brooch that I’d laughed at last night when she’d pinned it to her lapel and muttered something about “family nonsense.” I’d touched it. I remembered touching it when I helped her with her coat. That had to be it.
I rummaged through the purse again. No brooch. Checked the nightstand, the dresser drawers, under the bed like an idiot. Nothing.
The ceremony was in eight hours. I had to get through the morning looking like Margaret, sounding like Margaret, acting like Margaret, while Margaretsomewhere in my bodywas probably waking up in the groom’s suite wondering why she suddenly had abs and could see without glasses.
I caught my reflection again. Margaret’s stern mouth was currently twisted into something like horror.
“Okay,” I said aloud in her voice. “You built a thirty-million-dollar valuation from a dorm room. You can handle one wedding in heels.”
I opened the wardrobe.
Dresses. Cardigans. Low block heels that looked like they’d been designed by someone who hated fun.
I picked the least offensive outfita navy dress with sensible sleevesand started the longest morning of my life.
First problem: pantyhose.
Second problem: I had no idea how to walk in any of these shoes without looking like a newborn giraffe.
Third problem: in about two hours I had to sit at a table with Sophie’s entire family, smile politely, and pretend I was a retired school principal who approved of their daughter marrying me.
I took a deep breath that hurt my ribs in a brand-new way.
Then I squared Margaret’s narrow shoulders, put on her glasses, and opened the hotel-room door.
Showtime.
I stepped into the hallway, Margaret's sensible flats squeaking faintly on the carpet like they were judging me with every step. The hotel was buzzing alreadymaids pushing carts, distant laughter from the lobby, the faint clink of breakfast trays. My heartor rather, her heartwas pounding in a way that felt foreign, slower but insistent, like an old engine revving up after years in storage.
First stop: the groom's suite. My suite. Where Margaret was probably freaking out in my body right now. I needed to confront her, figure out how to reverse this, and swear her to secrecy. But walking down that hall felt like a marathon. These knees weren't built for speed; every stride sent a twinge up my thighs, and I had to fight the urge to hunch forward like she always did.
A door opened ahead, and out stepped one of the groomsmenwait, no, it was the hotel concierge, a young guy in a crisp uniform. He smiled politely. "Good morning, ma'am. Can I help you with anything?"
Ma'am. God, that stung. I forced Margaret's lips into what I hoped was her signature no-nonsense smile. "No, thank you. Just heading tofamily matters."
He nodded and moved on, but not before his eyes flicked downsubtly, professionallyto my chest. Or her chest. I felt a flush creep up my neck. These breasts were substantial, heavy in a way I'd never experienced, shifting slightly under the dress with each step. It was distracting, almost sensual, the fabric brushing against skin that felt hypersensitive. I shook it off. Focus, Ethan.
By the time I reached my suite door, I was sweating. Knocked twice, sharp and principal-like. No answer. I tried the handlelocked. Shit. My keycard was probably in my real pants pocket, wherever that body was now.
"Open up," I hissed in her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "It's me. Ethan."
The door cracked open after a beat, and there I wasmy own face staring back at me, wide-eyed and pale. Except it wasn't me. It was Margaret in my skin, her expression a mix of terror and something else. Exhilaration? She yanked me inside and slammed the door.
"What in God's name" she started in my voice, deep and resonant, but with her clipped cadence. It was weird hearing my baritone sound so proper.
"Shh!" I cut her off, pushing past into the room. My room looked the same: tux hanging on the closet door, my phone charging on the nightstand, a half-empty protein shake from last night. But seeing it from this height, this angle, made everything feel off-kilter.
Margaretin my bodypaced, running my hands through my hair in a way that'd mess up the style I'd planned. "This is the brooch. I told you it was cursed! My great-aunt swore it swapped her with a cousin on her wedding day in '32. We need to find it and"
"I know," I snapped, her voice cracking a bit. "I touched it last night. But we can't tell anyone. Not Sophie, not anyone. We'll fix this before the ceremony."
She stopped pacing, turning to face me. My own eyes raked over her bodymy body now occupied by her. It was surreal, like looking in a funhouse mirror. And then something shifted. She adjusted my stance, squaring my shoulders, and I noticed how my athletic build filled out the robe she must've thrown on. Broad chest, the faint outline of abs under the fabric. I'd always been proud of that body, but seeing it from the outside, controlled by someone else it stirred something unexpected. A heat low in my bellyher bellythat I wasn't prepared for.
"Why are you staring?" she demanded, but there was a flush on my cheeks now. Her in there.
"I nothing." I averted my eyes, but they landed on the mirror across the room. There we were: an older woman and a young man, standing too close in a hotel room. The contrast was electric. Her mind in my prime physique, my energy trapped in her seasoned form. I felt a forbidden curiosity bubble up. What did this body feel like, really? Not just the achesthe pleasures?
She seemed to sense it too. Stepped closer, towering over me now in a way that made my pulse quicken. "Ethan, this is serious. But good Lord, your body. It's like being plugged into a live wire. Everything's so responsive." Her voicemy voicedropped lower, and I saw her glance down at herself, adjusting the robe where it tented slightly. Was that arousal? In my body?
I swallowed hard, Margaret's throat dry. "Yeah, well, yours isn't exactly a slouch. It's sensitive. In ways I didn't expect." My hand, almost without thinking, brushed against the side of her hipmy hip now. The skin there was softer, warmer than I'd imagined. A shiver ran through me, electric, pooling between my legs in a unfamiliar, building ache. Women's bodies, I realized with a jolt, didn't ramp up the same way it was slower, deeper, like a wave gathering.
She inhaled sharply at the touch, my eyes darkening. "We shouldn't This is madness." But she didn't pull away. Instead, her handmy strong, callused hand from rock climbingreached out and cupped my cheek, thumb tracing Margaret's jawline. The contact was intimate, charged. I leaned into it, feeling the roughness against smooth skin, and suddenly we were kissing.
It was clumsy at firstme in her body, her in mine, lips meeting in a rush of confusion and heat. My mouth was softer, more yielding; hers firmer, insistent. I tasted my own aftershave on her tongue, mixed with her surprise. Hands roamed: mine exploring the hard planes of my chest under the robe, hers sliding down to grip Margaret's waist, pulling me closer. The friction of fabric against skin sent sparks through me, her nipplesmy nipples nowtightening under the dress.
We broke apart, breathing hard. "This is wrong," I gasped in her voice, but my body betrayed me, thighs pressing together instinctively, seeking more pressure.
"Utterly," she agreed in mine, but her grin was wicked, eyes gleaming with that secret delight she'd mentioned. "But educational. Your stamina, Ethanit's intoxicating." She flexed my arms, and I felt a rush watching the muscles shift.
We didn't go furthernot then. Time was ticking, and the brunch loomed. But the air hummed with possibility, a secret shared in swapped flesh. I straightened her dressmy dressand she helped me fix the chignon, fingers lingering a second too long on my neck.
"Find the brooch," I said firmly, stepping back. "It's probably in your things. I'll play you at brunch; you play me. Act normal."
She nodded, but as I turned to leave, her voicemy voicecalled softly, "Ethan? This body of yours it wants things. Be careful."
I shivered again, that erotic undercurrent lingering as I slipped back into the hall. The wedding was hours away, and now, on top of everything, I had to navigate Margaret's form through a sea of family and friends, all while ignoring the newfound desires humming under her skin.
I slipped out of the groom’s suite with my pulse still hammering in Margaret’s narrower chest, the memory of that kiss burning behind my eyes like a live wire. Her lipsmy lips nowstill tingled from the press of my own mouth, from the rough scrape of stubble that wasn’t there anymore. I could taste the faint salt of my skin on her tongue, could still feel the hard ridge of my erection pressing against her thigh through the robe when we’d broken apart.
Focus, Ethan. Brunch. Family. Act like a retired principal who thinks you’re marrying beneath her.
The elevator ride down was torture. Every sway of the car made Margaret’s breasts shift under the navy dress, the silk lining sliding against nipples that had hardened and stayed that way since the kiss. I crossed my arms under them instinctivelysupport, modesty, whateverand immediately regretted it. The pressure only sharpened the ache, sent a slow, liquid heat curling low in her belly. I’d spent years chasing that kind of build-up in my own body: quick, focused, explosive. This was different. Deeper. Patient. Insistent. Like her body knew exactly how long it could draw the tension out before it snapped.
When the doors opened on the second floor, the private dining room was already alive with chatter and clinking silverware. Sophie’s family, my groomsmen, a few cousins milling around the buffet. And therestanding near the mimosa station in my charcoal suit, looking unfairly goodwas me. Margaret-in-my-body, hair still mussed from my fingers, tie slightly crooked in a way I never allowed. She caught my eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod, the corner of my mouth quirking in that knowing half-smile I usually saved for closing deals.
I forced Margaret’s posture straight, smoothed the dress over hips that felt too wide and too soft, and walked in.
“Margaret, darling!” EleanorSophie’s motherswooped in first, air-kissing both cheeks. “You look positively radiant this morning. Did you do something different with your makeup?”
I blinked behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Just… slept well,” I managed in her crisp tone. “The hotel pillows are divine.”
Eleanor laughed and linked her arm through mine, steering me toward the table. Every step rubbed the lace of Margaret’s underwear against sensitive skin I’d never paid attention to before. The seam pressed right where the heat was gathering, a constant, maddening friction. I bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
Sophie was already seated, radiant in a soft white sundress, hair half-up in loose waves. When she saw “Margaret,” her face lit up.
“Aunt Margaret!” She stood and hugged mecarefully, the way you hug someone fragile. Her perfume wrapped around me, familiar and devastating. “I’m so glad you’re here early. Ethan’s been weirdly quiet this morning. Nerves, I think.”
I hugged her back, Margaret’s arms thinner than I was used to, but the embrace felt achingly real. Sophie’s breasts pressed softly against mine through the thin fabric; I could feel the warmth of her skin, the slight catch of her breath. My bodyher bodyreacted instantly: a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs, thighs that clenched without permission. I pulled back too quickly.
“He’ll be fine,” I said, patting her arm with what I hoped was maternal reassurance. “Men get peculiar before weddings. It passes.”
Sophie laughed, but her eyes searched my faceMargaret’s facea second longer than usual. “You sound so sure.”
Because I am sure, I wanted to say. Because I’m the one who’s going to marry you in eight hours and I’m currently fighting the urge to drag you into the nearest coat closet just to feel your hands on this body that suddenly wants everything.
Instead I smiled Margaret’s tight, polite smile and let Eleanor guide me to a chair.
Across the table, Margaret-in-my-body was watching. Our eyes locked again. She lifted my mimosa glass in a tiny toast, lips curving. Thendeliberatelyshe ran my tongue along the rim of the flute, slow and suggestive, before taking a sip. My stomach flipped. Her in my skin, playing with sensations I knew too well: the cold fizz on the tongue, the subtle stretch of jaw muscles, the way a single swallow could send warmth straight down.
I shifted in the seat. The chair was hard; the pressure against my clitGod, even thinking the word in her voice felt obscenewas almost too much. I pressed my thighs together under the tablecloth and tried to focus on the conversation.
Clara bounded over then, all eleven-year-old energy, clutching her tablet. “Aunt Margaret! Look, I made a TikTok edit of Uncle Ethan’s proposal video with cat filters!”
She shoved the screen in my face. There I wasmy real bodydown on one knee in the park last spring, edited so cartoon ears twitched on my head and whiskers sprouted whenever I smiled at Sophie.
“Very… creative,” I said, voice dry. Clara beamed.
Margaretacross the tableleaned forward. “Clara, sweetheart,” she said in my deeper register, “why don’t you show me how to make one of those later? I could use some modernizing.”
Clara’s eyes went wide. “You? On TikTok?”
“Desperate times,” Margaret replied, and shot me a look that said: We’re going to talk. Soon.
The brunch dragged. Every time Sophie laughed, every time her fingers brushed mine passing the fruit platter, every accidental graze of her knee against Margaret’s under the table sent another pulse of arousal through me. By the time people started drifting toward the elevators for hair and makeup appointments, I was dizzy with itwet, swollen, aching in places I’d never inhabited before. Margaret’s body didn’t rush toward release the way mine did; it simmered, built layer by layer until I felt like I might combust from sheer anticipation.
As the room emptied, Margaret caught my elbowmy arm now, strong fingers wrapping around Margaret’s thinner oneand steered me toward the quiet hallway outside the restrooms.
“Storage closet,” she muttered. “Now.”
I didn’t argue.
The door clicked shut behind us. Dim light from a single bulb. Shelves of extra linens, the faint smell of bleach and lavender.
She pushed megentlyagainst the wall. My back arched; Margaret’s breasts lifted with the motion. She loomed over me in my own body, heat radiating off skin I knew was fever-hot.
“We can’t” I started.
“We already did,” she whispered in my voice, rougher now. “And your body won’t stop thinking about it.”
Her handmy handslid up under the hem of the navy dress, callused fingertips tracing the lace edge of panties already soaked through. I gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Tell me to stop,” she said, eyes locked on mine.
I didn’t.
Instead I reached up, tangled Margaret’s fingers in my own hair, and pulled her down into another kiss. This one was hungrier. Teeth. Tongue. The rough slide of my stubble against her softer skin. Her palm cupped me through the lacefirm, knowing pressure right where I needed itand I moaned into her mouth, the sound high and feminine and utterly foreign.
She rubbed slow circles, learning the rhythm of this body the way I’d learned mine over years. I rocked against her hand, chasing the building wave, thighs trembling.
“Ethan,” she breathed against my earmy ear now“let go. Just this once.”
The orgasm hit like a slow-rolling tide instead of the sharp snap I was used to. It started deep, radiated outward in warm pulses that left me shaking, clinging to her shoulders, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from crying out loud enough for the hallway to hear.
When it finally ebbed, I sagged against her, forehead to her collarbonemy collarbonebreathing hard.
She kissed my temple, soft now. “The brooch,” she murmured. “We still need to find it.”
I nodded, dazed. “After… after the photos. Before the ceremony.”
She helped me straighten the dress, smooth the chignon, wipe smudged lipstick with her thumb. Then she opened the door a crack, checked the hall, and slipped out first.
I waited thirty seconds, heart still thundering, body still humming.
Then I followed.
Eight hours until vows.
And I had no idea how I was going to walk down that aisle pretending I hadn’t just come undone in a storage closetwearing someone else’s skin, craving someone else’s touch, while the woman who used to be me waited in mine.
The photos were next. Outdoor portraits in the hotel garden before the ceremonygolden hour light, everyone in their finery, the kind of shots that would end up framed on mantels and mocked on group chats for decades.
I stood on the lawn in Margaret’s navy dress, sensible flats sinking slightly into the damp grass, trying to look like I belonged among the younger crowd. The photographera cheerful woman named Mara with a camera the size of a small cannonkept repositioning us.
“Margaret, darling, chin up a touch! You’ve got such elegant posture.”
Elegant. Right. I lifted Margaret’s chin, felt the unfamiliar pull of skin that had lost some of its elasticity, and smiled the tight, practiced smile I’d seen her use a hundred times. Across the grouping, Margaret-in-my-body lounged against a stone pillar in the charcoal suit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking effortlessly cool in a way I usually had to work for. She caught my eye and flexed my fingersslow, deliberatethen let her hand drop to rest low on my own hip. A casual gesture to anyone watching. To me, it was a promise.
Sophie was radiant between us, laughing as Clara darted in and out of frame trying to photobomb with peace signs. Every time Sophie turned to me“Aunt Margaret, come stand closer!”and slipped an arm around my waist, the contact sent fresh sparks racing under my skin. Her fingers brushed the small of my back, just above where the dress’s zipper sat, and I had to lock Margaret’s knees to keep from swaying.
The ache from the storage closet hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled in deeper, a low, constant throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeather heartbeat. Every brush of lace against swollen flesh reminded me exactly how wet I still was, how sensitive the folds had become. I pressed my thighs together when no one was looking and nearly whimpered at the pressure.
Mara called for couple shots next. “Bride and groom first, then we’ll add family!”
Sophie tugged me forwardthinking I was Margaret, of courseand positioned me on her other side so the three of us stood together: Sophie in the middle, “Ethan” on her right, “Margaret” on her left. The irony was so thick I could taste it.
“Perfect,” Mara said. “Big smiles!”
Sophie leaned into meinto Margaret’s bodyher cheek brushing mine. Her breath was warm against my ear. “You’ve been so quiet today,” she murmured, just for me. “Everything okay?”
I turned Margaret’s head, met her eyes. So close I could see the flecks of gold in her irises, smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Just… savoring it,” I said in the older woman’s voice. “Watching you two. It’s beautiful.”
Sophie’s smile softened, genuine. “You always know what to say.”
Behind her, Margaret-in-my-body watched us with an expression I couldn’t quite readjealousy? Hunger? Pride? She stepped closer on Sophie’s other side, slid an arm around her waist, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. Sophie melted into it.
And Itrapped in Margaret’s skinfelt a sharp, unexpected twist in my chest. Not just arousal anymore. Something softer. Hotter. The sight of my own body holding the woman I loved, touching her with a gentleness I’d always been too impatient to master… it unraveled me.
The camera clicked. Again. Again.
When Mara finally called a break, Sophie excused herself to touch up lipstick. Clara ran off to chase butterflies with one of the ring bearers. The garden emptied for a moment.
Margaret stepped up behind meclose enough that I could feel the heat rolling off my own body.
“Storage closet again?” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of my earMargaret’s ear.
“No time,” I whispered back, even as my hips shifted backward instinctively, seeking contact. “Photos resume in ten.”
“Then here.” Her handmy handslipped under the hem of the dress again, hidden by the angle of our bodies and the low stone wall at our backs. Fingers found soaked lace, pushed it aside with practiced ease. Two fingers slid inside meslow, deepand I had to clamp a hand over my own mouth to muffle the sound.
She curled them, found that spot I’d never been able to reach properly in this body, and stroked. Steady. Relentless. Her thumb circled my clit at the same time, slick and sure.
I trembled against her, back arched, breasts heaving under the navy silk. The orgasm built faster this timesharperbecause she knew exactly what this body needed now. I came with a choked sob, biting down on my own palm, thighs shaking so hard I nearly buckled.
She held me through it, steady as stone, until the aftershocks faded. Then she withdrew her fingers, brought them to her lipsmy lipsand licked them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of tongue. Watching herself do it was obscene. Intimate. Mine.
“Brooch,” she said quietly, voice rough. “I think it’s in the bridal suite. Sophie mentioned Margaret’s things were brought there this morning for ‘sentimental photos.’”
I nodded, still catching my breath. “After the first look. We’ll slip in.”
She adjusted my dress for me, smoothed a stray lock of gray hair behind my ear. “You’re doing beautifully,” she saidmy voice saying it, but her warmth behind the words. “Stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”
I looked up at herat meand felt something shift again. Not just lust. Respect. Affection. A strange, mirrored tenderness.
The photographer called us back.
We rejoined the group separately, faces composed, bodies humming with shared secrets.
Sophie reappeared, lipstick perfect, eyes bright. She took my handMargaret’s handand squeezed.
“Ready for the aisle?” she asked.
I squeezed back. “More than ever.”
I woke up to the smell of lavender and old books, which was the first wrong thing.
My alarm should have been the sharp ping of my phonesome upbeat synth track I’d set to “motivational asshole mode.” Instead there was silence, thick hotel-room silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a wall clock I didn’t remember owning. My body felt… heavy. Not gym-sore heavy. Not even post-night-out heavy. It felt like someone had poured concrete into my joints and then politely asked them to creak.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was wrong. Too high, too ornate, crown molding that belonged in a period drama. The bed was wrong toosoft in that way old mattresses are soft, like they’ve given up fighting gravity decades ago. I tried to sit up and my back immediately lodged a formal complaint. A dull ache bloomed behind my knees. My handswhen I lifted them to rub my facewere not mine.
They were smaller. Knotted at the knuckles. Liver spots scattered like spilled coffee across the backs. Thin gold wedding band on the left ring finger, worn smooth from years. Nails short, unpainted, practical.
I stared at them for what felt like ten full seconds.
Then I screamed.
It came out wrong. Higher, raspier, an older woman’s startled yelp instead of my usual baritone bark. I clapped a hand over my mouthmy new, unfamiliar mouthand tasted lipstick. Not gloss. Actual matte lipstick, the kind that feels like wax and smells faintly of roses.
I scrambled out of bed (or tried to; the knees locked halfway and I nearly face-planted into a floral rug). There was a full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway.
Margaret stared back at me.
Not some random old lady. Margaret. The Margaret. Sophie’s family friend, the retired principal who once told mein front of twenty people at the engagement partythat “youth is wasted on the young and charm is wasted on the cocky.” Gray hair pulled into a neat chignon. Wire-rimmed glasses hanging from a chain around myherneck. A silk dressing gown the color of weak tea. And behind the glasses, my own wide, panicked eyes.
I whispered, “No. No no no no.”
The voice was hers. Dry, precise, faintly British even though she was born in Ohio. I hated how authoritative it sounded even when I was the one panicking.
Phone. I needed my phone.
I lurched across the roomevery step a negotiation with joints that had apparently unionized against meand found a small clutch purse on the dresser. Inside: reading glasses, tissues, a tin of mints, a hotel keycard, andthank Godmy phone. Except it wasn’t my phone. It was hers. An iPhone 8, cracked screen protector, wallpaper of a black-and-white photo of two kids who were probably her grandchildren.
I tried Face ID anyway. It didn’t work. Obviously.
Passcode. I typed my birthday.
Nothing.
Her birthday? I had no idea.
I typed 01011958 on a guess (she’d once said she was “born the year they launched Sputnik, which explains my lifelong suspicion of bright ideas”). The phone unlocked.
First thing I did: opened the camera and switched to selfie mode.
Yeah. Still Margaret.
Second thing: checked the time. 7:42 a.m. Wedding was at 4:00 p.m. Rehearsal brunch at 10:00. Sophie was probably already in the bridal suite getting her hair done, surrounded by bridesmaids and mimosas and that calming playlist she loved.
I could text her. I could call her. I could say, “Babe, something insane happened, I’m in Margaret’s body, please don’t freak out.”
And then what?
She’d think I was drunk. Or high. Or having a psychotic break forty-eight hours before our wedding. She’d call my brother. She’d call her mom. Within twenty minutes the entire wedding party would know the groom was claiming to be trapped in a sixty-seven-year-old woman’s body. The photos would leak. TwitterXwould have a field day. “Tech bro groom swaps souls with grandma, more at 11.”
No. No way.
I wasn’t telling anyone. Not Sophie. Not James. Not even Clara, who’d probably believe me and then try to livestream it.
I had to fix this quietly. Find the broochMargaret’s stupid cursed brooch that I’d laughed at last night when she’d pinned it to her lapel and muttered something about “family nonsense.” I’d touched it. I remembered touching it when I helped her with her coat. That had to be it.
I rummaged through the purse again. No brooch. Checked the nightstand, the dresser drawers, under the bed like an idiot. Nothing.
The ceremony was in eight hours. I had to get through the morning looking like Margaret, sounding like Margaret, acting like Margaret, while Margaretsomewhere in my bodywas probably waking up in the groom’s suite wondering why she suddenly had abs and could see without glasses.
I caught my reflection again. Margaret’s stern mouth was currently twisted into something like horror.
“Okay,” I said aloud in her voice. “You built a thirty-million-dollar valuation from a dorm room. You can handle one wedding in heels.”
I opened the wardrobe.
Dresses. Cardigans. Low block heels that looked like they’d been designed by someone who hated fun.
I picked the least offensive outfita navy dress with sensible sleevesand started the longest morning of my life.
First problem: pantyhose.
Second problem: I had no idea how to walk in any of these shoes without looking like a newborn giraffe.
Third problem: in about two hours I had to sit at a table with Sophie’s entire family, smile politely, and pretend I was a retired school principal who approved of their daughter marrying me.
I took a deep breath that hurt my ribs in a brand-new way.
Then I squared Margaret’s narrow shoulders, put on her glasses, and opened the hotel-room door.
Showtime.
I stepped into the hallway, Margaret's sensible flats squeaking faintly on the carpet like they were judging me with every step. The hotel was buzzing alreadymaids pushing carts, distant laughter from the lobby, the faint clink of breakfast trays. My heartor rather, her heartwas pounding in a way that felt foreign, slower but insistent, like an old engine revving up after years in storage.
First stop: the groom's suite. My suite. Where Margaret was probably freaking out in my body right now. I needed to confront her, figure out how to reverse this, and swear her to secrecy. But walking down that hall felt like a marathon. These knees weren't built for speed; every stride sent a twinge up my thighs, and I had to fight the urge to hunch forward like she always did.
A door opened ahead, and out stepped one of the groomsmenwait, no, it was the hotel concierge, a young guy in a crisp uniform. He smiled politely. "Good morning, ma'am. Can I help you with anything?"
Ma'am. God, that stung. I forced Margaret's lips into what I hoped was her signature no-nonsense smile. "No, thank you. Just heading tofamily matters."
He nodded and moved on, but not before his eyes flicked downsubtly, professionallyto my chest. Or her chest. I felt a flush creep up my neck. These breasts were substantial, heavy in a way I'd never experienced, shifting slightly under the dress with each step. It was distracting, almost sensual, the fabric brushing against skin that felt hypersensitive. I shook it off. Focus, Ethan.
By the time I reached my suite door, I was sweating. Knocked twice, sharp and principal-like. No answer. I tried the handlelocked. Shit. My keycard was probably in my real pants pocket, wherever that body was now.
"Open up," I hissed in her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "It's me. Ethan."
The door cracked open after a beat, and there I wasmy own face staring back at me, wide-eyed and pale. Except it wasn't me. It was Margaret in my skin, her expression a mix of terror and something else. Exhilaration? She yanked me inside and slammed the door.
"What in God's name" she started in my voice, deep and resonant, but with her clipped cadence. It was weird hearing my baritone sound so proper.
"Shh!" I cut her off, pushing past into the room. My room looked the same: tux hanging on the closet door, my phone charging on the nightstand, a half-empty protein shake from last night. But seeing it from this height, this angle, made everything feel off-kilter.
Margaretin my bodypaced, running my hands through my hair in a way that'd mess up the style I'd planned. "This is the brooch. I told you it was cursed! My great-aunt swore it swapped her with a cousin on her wedding day in '32. We need to find it and"
"I know," I snapped, her voice cracking a bit. "I touched it last night. But we can't tell anyone. Not Sophie, not anyone. We'll fix this before the ceremony."
She stopped pacing, turning to face me. My own eyes raked over her bodymy body now occupied by her. It was surreal, like looking in a funhouse mirror. And then something shifted. She adjusted my stance, squaring my shoulders, and I noticed how my athletic build filled out the robe she must've thrown on. Broad chest, the faint outline of abs under the fabric. I'd always been proud of that body, but seeing it from the outside, controlled by someone else it stirred something unexpected. A heat low in my bellyher bellythat I wasn't prepared for.
"Why are you staring?" she demanded, but there was a flush on my cheeks now. Her in there.
"I nothing." I averted my eyes, but they landed on the mirror across the room. There we were: an older woman and a young man, standing too close in a hotel room. The contrast was electric. Her mind in my prime physique, my energy trapped in her seasoned form. I felt a forbidden curiosity bubble up. What did this body feel like, really? Not just the achesthe pleasures?
She seemed to sense it too. Stepped closer, towering over me now in a way that made my pulse quicken. "Ethan, this is serious. But good Lord, your body. It's like being plugged into a live wire. Everything's so responsive." Her voicemy voicedropped lower, and I saw her glance down at herself, adjusting the robe where it tented slightly. Was that arousal? In my body?
I swallowed hard, Margaret's throat dry. "Yeah, well, yours isn't exactly a slouch. It's sensitive. In ways I didn't expect." My hand, almost without thinking, brushed against the side of her hipmy hip now. The skin there was softer, warmer than I'd imagined. A shiver ran through me, electric, pooling between my legs in a unfamiliar, building ache. Women's bodies, I realized with a jolt, didn't ramp up the same way it was slower, deeper, like a wave gathering.
She inhaled sharply at the touch, my eyes darkening. "We shouldn't This is madness." But she didn't pull away. Instead, her handmy strong, callused hand from rock climbingreached out and cupped my cheek, thumb tracing Margaret's jawline. The contact was intimate, charged. I leaned into it, feeling the roughness against smooth skin, and suddenly we were kissing.
It was clumsy at firstme in her body, her in mine, lips meeting in a rush of confusion and heat. My mouth was softer, more yielding; hers firmer, insistent. I tasted my own aftershave on her tongue, mixed with her surprise. Hands roamed: mine exploring the hard planes of my chest under the robe, hers sliding down to grip Margaret's waist, pulling me closer. The friction of fabric against skin sent sparks through me, her nipplesmy nipples nowtightening under the dress.
We broke apart, breathing hard. "This is wrong," I gasped in her voice, but my body betrayed me, thighs pressing together instinctively, seeking more pressure.
"Utterly," she agreed in mine, but her grin was wicked, eyes gleaming with that secret delight she'd mentioned. "But educational. Your stamina, Ethanit's intoxicating." She flexed my arms, and I felt a rush watching the muscles shift.
We didn't go furthernot then. Time was ticking, and the brunch loomed. But the air hummed with possibility, a secret shared in swapped flesh. I straightened her dressmy dressand she helped me fix the chignon, fingers lingering a second too long on my neck.
"Find the brooch," I said firmly, stepping back. "It's probably in your things. I'll play you at brunch; you play me. Act normal."
She nodded, but as I turned to leave, her voicemy voicecalled softly, "Ethan? This body of yours it wants things. Be careful."
I shivered again, that erotic undercurrent lingering as I slipped back into the hall. The wedding was hours away, and now, on top of everything, I had to navigate Margaret's form through a sea of family and friends, all while ignoring the newfound desires humming under her skin.
I slipped out of the groom’s suite with my pulse still hammering in Margaret’s narrower chest, the memory of that kiss burning behind my eyes like a live wire. Her lipsmy lips nowstill tingled from the press of my own mouth, from the rough scrape of stubble that wasn’t there anymore. I could taste the faint salt of my skin on her tongue, could still feel the hard ridge of my erection pressing against her thigh through the robe when we’d broken apart.
Focus, Ethan. Brunch. Family. Act like a retired principal who thinks you’re marrying beneath her.
The elevator ride down was torture. Every sway of the car made Margaret’s breasts shift under the navy dress, the silk lining sliding against nipples that had hardened and stayed that way since the kiss. I crossed my arms under them instinctivelysupport, modesty, whateverand immediately regretted it. The pressure only sharpened the ache, sent a slow, liquid heat curling low in her belly. I’d spent years chasing that kind of build-up in my own body: quick, focused, explosive. This was different. Deeper. Patient. Insistent. Like her body knew exactly how long it could draw the tension out before it snapped.
When the doors opened on the second floor, the private dining room was already alive with chatter and clinking silverware. Sophie’s family, my groomsmen, a few cousins milling around the buffet. And therestanding near the mimosa station in my charcoal suit, looking unfairly goodwas me. Margaret-in-my-body, hair still mussed from my fingers, tie slightly crooked in a way I never allowed. She caught my eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod, the corner of my mouth quirking in that knowing half-smile I usually saved for closing deals.
I forced Margaret’s posture straight, smoothed the dress over hips that felt too wide and too soft, and walked in.
“Margaret, darling!” EleanorSophie’s motherswooped in first, air-kissing both cheeks. “You look positively radiant this morning. Did you do something different with your makeup?”
I blinked behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Just… slept well,” I managed in her crisp tone. “The hotel pillows are divine.”
Eleanor laughed and linked her arm through mine, steering me toward the table. Every step rubbed the lace of Margaret’s underwear against sensitive skin I’d never paid attention to before. The seam pressed right where the heat was gathering, a constant, maddening friction. I bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
Sophie was already seated, radiant in a soft white sundress, hair half-up in loose waves. When she saw “Margaret,” her face lit up.
“Aunt Margaret!” She stood and hugged mecarefully, the way you hug someone fragile. Her perfume wrapped around me, familiar and devastating. “I’m so glad you’re here early. Ethan’s been weirdly quiet this morning. Nerves, I think.”
I hugged her back, Margaret’s arms thinner than I was used to, but the embrace felt achingly real. Sophie’s breasts pressed softly against mine through the thin fabric; I could feel the warmth of her skin, the slight catch of her breath. My bodyher bodyreacted instantly: a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs, thighs that clenched without permission. I pulled back too quickly.
“He’ll be fine,” I said, patting her arm with what I hoped was maternal reassurance. “Men get peculiar before weddings. It passes.”
Sophie laughed, but her eyes searched my faceMargaret’s facea second longer than usual. “You sound so sure.”
Because I am sure, I wanted to say. Because I’m the one who’s going to marry you in eight hours and I’m currently fighting the urge to drag you into the nearest coat closet just to feel your hands on this body that suddenly wants everything.
Instead I smiled Margaret’s tight, polite smile and let Eleanor guide me to a chair.
Across the table, Margaret-in-my-body was watching. Our eyes locked again. She lifted my mimosa glass in a tiny toast, lips curving. Thendeliberatelyshe ran my tongue along the rim of the flute, slow and suggestive, before taking a sip. My stomach flipped. Her in my skin, playing with sensations I knew too well: the cold fizz on the tongue, the subtle stretch of jaw muscles, the way a single swallow could send warmth straight down.
I shifted in the seat. The chair was hard; the pressure against my clitGod, even thinking the word in her voice felt obscenewas almost too much. I pressed my thighs together under the tablecloth and tried to focus on the conversation.
Clara bounded over then, all eleven-year-old energy, clutching her tablet. “Aunt Margaret! Look, I made a TikTok edit of Uncle Ethan’s proposal video with cat filters!”
She shoved the screen in my face. There I wasmy real bodydown on one knee in the park last spring, edited so cartoon ears twitched on my head and whiskers sprouted whenever I smiled at Sophie.
“Very… creative,” I said, voice dry. Clara beamed.
Margaretacross the tableleaned forward. “Clara, sweetheart,” she said in my deeper register, “why don’t you show me how to make one of those later? I could use some modernizing.”
Clara’s eyes went wide. “You? On TikTok?”
“Desperate times,” Margaret replied, and shot me a look that said: We’re going to talk. Soon.
The brunch dragged. Every time Sophie laughed, every time her fingers brushed mine passing the fruit platter, every accidental graze of her knee against Margaret’s under the table sent another pulse of arousal through me. By the time people started drifting toward the elevators for hair and makeup appointments, I was dizzy with itwet, swollen, aching in places I’d never inhabited before. Margaret’s body didn’t rush toward release the way mine did; it simmered, built layer by layer until I felt like I might combust from sheer anticipation.
As the room emptied, Margaret caught my elbowmy arm now, strong fingers wrapping around Margaret’s thinner oneand steered me toward the quiet hallway outside the restrooms.
“Storage closet,” she muttered. “Now.”
I didn’t argue.
The door clicked shut behind us. Dim light from a single bulb. Shelves of extra linens, the faint smell of bleach and lavender.
She pushed megentlyagainst the wall. My back arched; Margaret’s breasts lifted with the motion. She loomed over me in my own body, heat radiating off skin I knew was fever-hot.
“We can’t” I started.
“We already did,” she whispered in my voice, rougher now. “And your body won’t stop thinking about it.”
Her handmy handslid up under the hem of the navy dress, callused fingertips tracing the lace edge of panties already soaked through. I gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Tell me to stop,” she said, eyes locked on mine.
I didn’t.
Instead I reached up, tangled Margaret’s fingers in my own hair, and pulled her down into another kiss. This one was hungrier. Teeth. Tongue. The rough slide of my stubble against her softer skin. Her palm cupped me through the lacefirm, knowing pressure right where I needed itand I moaned into her mouth, the sound high and feminine and utterly foreign.
She rubbed slow circles, learning the rhythm of this body the way I’d learned mine over years. I rocked against her hand, chasing the building wave, thighs trembling.
“Ethan,” she breathed against my earmy ear now“let go. Just this once.”
The orgasm hit like a slow-rolling tide instead of the sharp snap I was used to. It started deep, radiated outward in warm pulses that left me shaking, clinging to her shoulders, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from crying out loud enough for the hallway to hear.
When it finally ebbed, I sagged against her, forehead to her collarbonemy collarbonebreathing hard.
She kissed my temple, soft now. “The brooch,” she murmured. “We still need to find it.”
I nodded, dazed. “After… after the photos. Before the ceremony.”
She helped me straighten the dress, smooth the chignon, wipe smudged lipstick with her thumb. Then she opened the door a crack, checked the hall, and slipped out first.
I waited thirty seconds, heart still thundering, body still humming.
Then I followed.
Eight hours until vows.
And I had no idea how I was going to walk down that aisle pretending I hadn’t just come undone in a storage closetwearing someone else’s skin, craving someone else’s touch, while the woman who used to be me waited in mine.
The photos were next. Outdoor portraits in the hotel garden before the ceremonygolden hour light, everyone in their finery, the kind of shots that would end up framed on mantels and mocked on group chats for decades.
I stood on the lawn in Margaret’s navy dress, sensible flats sinking slightly into the damp grass, trying to look like I belonged among the younger crowd. The photographera cheerful woman named Mara with a camera the size of a small cannonkept repositioning us.
“Margaret, darling, chin up a touch! You’ve got such elegant posture.”
Elegant. Right. I lifted Margaret’s chin, felt the unfamiliar pull of skin that had lost some of its elasticity, and smiled the tight, practiced smile I’d seen her use a hundred times. Across the grouping, Margaret-in-my-body lounged against a stone pillar in the charcoal suit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking effortlessly cool in a way I usually had to work for. She caught my eye and flexed my fingersslow, deliberatethen let her hand drop to rest low on my own hip. A casual gesture to anyone watching. To me, it was a promise.
Sophie was radiant between us, laughing as Clara darted in and out of frame trying to photobomb with peace signs. Every time Sophie turned to me“Aunt Margaret, come stand closer!”and slipped an arm around my waist, the contact sent fresh sparks racing under my skin. Her fingers brushed the small of my back, just above where the dress’s zipper sat, and I had to lock Margaret’s knees to keep from swaying.
The ache from the storage closet hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled in deeper, a low, constant throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeather heartbeat. Every brush of lace against swollen flesh reminded me exactly how wet I still was, how sensitive the folds had become. I pressed my thighs together when no one was looking and nearly whimpered at the pressure.
Mara called for couple shots next. “Bride and groom first, then we’ll add family!”
Sophie tugged me forwardthinking I was Margaret, of courseand positioned me on her other side so the three of us stood together: Sophie in the middle, “Ethan” on her right, “Margaret” on her left. The irony was so thick I could taste it.
“Perfect,” Mara said. “Big smiles!”
Sophie leaned into meinto Margaret’s bodyher cheek brushing mine. Her breath was warm against my ear. “You’ve been so quiet today,” she murmured, just for me. “Everything okay?”
I turned Margaret’s head, met her eyes. So close I could see the flecks of gold in her irises, smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Just… savoring it,” I said in the older woman’s voice. “Watching you two. It’s beautiful.”
Sophie’s smile softened, genuine. “You always know what to say.”
Behind her, Margaret-in-my-body watched us with an expression I couldn’t quite readjealousy? Hunger? Pride? She stepped closer on Sophie’s other side, slid an arm around her waist, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. Sophie melted into it.
And Itrapped in Margaret’s skinfelt a sharp, unexpected twist in my chest. Not just arousal anymore. Something softer. Hotter. The sight of my own body holding the woman I loved, touching her with a gentleness I’d always been too impatient to master… it unraveled me.
The camera clicked. Again. Again.
When Mara finally called a break, Sophie excused herself to touch up lipstick. Clara ran off to chase butterflies with one of the ring bearers. The garden emptied for a moment.
Margaret stepped up behind meclose enough that I could feel the heat rolling off my own body.
“Storage closet again?” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of my earMargaret’s ear.
“No time,” I whispered back, even as my hips shifted backward instinctively, seeking contact. “Photos resume in ten.”
“Then here.” Her handmy handslipped under the hem of the dress again, hidden by the angle of our bodies and the low stone wall at our backs. Fingers found soaked lace, pushed it aside with practiced ease. Two fingers slid inside meslow, deepand I had to clamp a hand over my own mouth to muffle the sound.
She curled them, found that spot I’d never been able to reach properly in this body, and stroked. Steady. Relentless. Her thumb circled my clit at the same time, slick and sure.
I trembled against her, back arched, breasts heaving under the navy silk. The orgasm built faster this timesharperbecause she knew exactly what this body needed now. I came with a choked sob, biting down on my own palm, thighs shaking so hard I nearly buckled.
She held me through it, steady as stone, until the aftershocks faded. Then she withdrew her fingers, brought them to her lipsmy lipsand licked them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of tongue. Watching herself do it was obscene. Intimate. Mine.
“Brooch,” she said quietly, voice rough. “I think it’s in the bridal suite. Sophie mentioned Margaret’s things were brought there this morning for ‘sentimental photos.’”
I nodded, still catching my breath. “After the first look. We’ll slip in.”
She adjusted my dress for me, smoothed a stray lock of gray hair behind my ear. “You’re doing beautifully,” she saidmy voice saying it, but her warmth behind the words. “Stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”
I looked up at herat meand felt something shift again. Not just lust. Respect. Affection. A strange, mirrored tenderness.
The photographer called us back.
We rejoined the group separately, faces composed, bodies humming with shared secrets.
Sophie reappeared, lipstick perfect, eyes bright. She took my handMargaret’s handand squeezed.
“Ready for the aisle?” she asked.
I squeezed back. “More than ever.”
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Home from college and stuck in his childhood bedroom, a restless young man discovers a bizarre side-effect of his meditation practice: the ability to astral project into the bodies of other people.
My breath slowed, easing into the steady rhythm I’d been practicing. The YouTube guru’s voice was a distant murmur in my earbuds. Let your consciousness expand beyond the physical form. Feel the boundaries of your body dissolve… I always felt a little silly doing this in my bedroom, the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling my only witness. But tonight, something was different. A strange, pulling sensation started behind my navel, like a gentle but insistent hook.
I tried to ignore it, to focus on my breathing, but the tug grew stronger. The feeling of my own body—the weight of my limbs on the bed, the pressure of the mattress against my back—suddenly vanished. There was a dizzying rush of color and sound, a sensation of being pulled through a narrow, dark tunnel at impossible speed.
Then, with a soft thump I felt I heard more than heard, everything stopped. A weight... A different kind of weight. My chest felt heavy, supported. My hips felt wider.
I blinked. This wasn’t my room. The air smelled of lavender and expensive perfume. I looked down.
My hands. They were not my hands. They were smaller, with slender fingers tipped with perfectly manicured, pale pink nails. A delicate silver bracelet hung from one wrist. I wore a silk robe, peach, tied loosely at the waist. My heart—no, her heart—hammered against my ribs.
A wave of vertigo hit me, followed by a flood of images that weren’t mine. Lydia. Her name is Lydia. A memory of her laughing with my step mom at the mailbox, holding a grocery bag. Another of her watering her roses in a sun dress last weekend. Before I left for college, she'd always waved at me, a kind, almost shy smile on her face.
Mrs. Henderson from next door. The hot MILF all my friends whispered about but who just seemed… nice.
I was inside Lydia Henderson.
Panic surged, a cold, sharp spike. I needed to get back. I tried to concentrate, to will myself back to my own body lying on my bed, but nothing happened. The panic subsided, replaced by a trembling, awe-filled curiosity. I was here. In her.
I turned, my movements unfamiliar and graceful, and caught my reflection in a full-length mirror mounted on the closet door.
Wow.
She was… stunning. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her green-flecked hazel eyes, were wide with an expression I knew was my own shock staring back. The silk robe hinted at the curves beneath. A lifetime of curious, stolen glances from my bedroom window hadn’t prepared me for the reality of being inside this body. A thrill, warm and forbidden, shot through me.
My gaze drifted past my—her—reflection to the rest of the walk-in closet behind me. The curiosity, always simmering just beneath the surface, roared to life. I’d always wondered. About the feel of it, the look of it, the secret world of it.
There I was surrounded by a forest of silks, satins, and soft, colorful fabrics.
Almost without conscious thought, my hands went to the tie of the robe. It fell open. She—I—was wearing matching peach lace lingerie underneath. A bra that cupped and lifted, panties that were just a delicate scrap of fabric. A heat that had nothing to do with possession flushed through me. It was awe. It was a secret, answered question.
I reached for a hanger. A slip of crimson satin and black lace. A teddy. My fingers trembled as I shimmied out of the peach set and into the red one. The cool satin whispered over my hips, the lace hugged curves I’d never had. I looked in the mirror again. A stranger, yet me. A beautiful, secret version of myself.
I spent what felt like hours, lost in a tactile wonderland. I tried on a tight pencil skirt and a cream-colored cashmere sweater, feeling the sophisticated drape. I found a pair of sky-high black heels and clomped around the carpet, her body’s balance instinctively better than mine would have been. The click-click of the heels on the hardwood floor was a powerful, feminine sound.
Then I found the vanity. An array of pots, pencils, and brushes that might as well have been alien technology. But as I picked up a tube of lipstick, a strange thing happened. A knowledge that wasn’t mine surfaced. A muscle memory. My hand steadied. I uncapped the tube, a deep rose color, and applied it to “my” lips in smooth, practiced strokes. Then eyeliner, a flick at the corner that appeared as if by magic. Blush dusted on the apples of cheeks I could now feel smiling back at me. I was using her memories, her routines. It was like riding a bike for the first time, but the bike knew the way.
When I opened my eyes and looked in the vanity mirror, a perfectly made-up Lydia Henderson looked back. It was her face, but the light in the eyes… that was all my stunned, giddy wonder.
I was awestruck. Transformed. The innocent, cookie-baking neighbor I saw from my window was also this… this goddess of satin and expertly applied liner.
I was floating on a cloud of discovery when another memory-nudge pulled me. It was stronger, more insistent than the makeup knowledge. It was a pull of routine, of duty, tinged with a secret thrill. It led me out of the bedroom, down the hall, to a door I hadn’t noticed before. It was plain, white, unlike the other decorative doors in the house.
I turned the knob and entered.
The room was an office, but unlike any office I'd ever seen before.
It was a small, soundproofed office. The dominant feature was a large desk with a ring light, a high-quality webcam, and a monitor. Plush, sexy outfits hung on a rack in the corner—things far more daring than the clothes in her main closet. Leather, lace, PVC. A shelf held… toys. Neatly arranged, clean, professional.
The cam girl setup was so blatant, so at odds with the cozy suburban mom exterior, that I just stared. Another memory-flash, not mine: the feeling of logging in, of a stage name—ScarletVelvet—of the focused, performative smile that wasn’t the same as the one she gave me when I mowed her lawn.
My heart hammered again, but with a different kind of adrenaline. This was her secret. And now it was mine. The monitor was dark, but a schedule was pinned to a corkboard. A highlighted time slot was in 15 minutes.
The idea hit me with the force of a train. It was insane. Reckless. Unforgivably invasive.
I couldn’t help it.
I sat down in the plush rolling chair. It adjusted to her—to my—body perfectly. I looked at the login screen for the streaming site. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn’t know the password. But I closed my eyes, and let her surface. Not her consciousness, but the automatic, procedural memory. Like the makeup. My fingers moved on their own, typing in a string of characters. The dashboard for ScarletVelvet loaded.
Five minutes to showtime.
I was sweating. I used one of her memories to pick an outfit—a black lace bodysuit that left very little to the imagination. I put it on, my hands fumbling more now with the nervous energy. I checked the angles of the camera using the preview on the monitor. I fluffed the auburn hair, reapplied the lipstick.
The clock hit the hour. A deep breath. I clicked “Go Live.”
The viewer count started ticking up almost immediately. 10… 25… 50. A chat window bloomed to life on the side screen.
Hey Scarlet!
Missed you last night!
You look hot.
A wave of paralyzing stage fright hit me. This wasn’t my memory, this was live. I had to perform. I swallowed, and offered a smile to the camera. It felt brittle.
“H-hey everyone,” I said, and her voice came out, smoother, sexier than my own cracking tenor. But the cadence was off. I sounded unsure.
You okay, Scarlet? You seem nervous.
I needed to act. I leaned back in the chair, another fragment of her muscle memory guiding me into a pose that was both relaxed and deliberately alluring. “Just a long day,” I purred, trying to mimic the smoky tone I’d heard in the memory-flash. It was closer. “But I’m happy to be here with you all now.”
I let my hands—her elegant, manicured hands—trail down over the lace of the bodysuit. The chat scrolled faster.
Yeah, that’s it.
So beautiful.
I was mimicking, a poor copy of the real ScarletVelvet. I was pulling from stolen glimpses, trying to project a sultry confidence I didn’t feel. I talked, my words stilted, my gestures a half-second too slow or too fast. But the viewers didn’t seem to mind too much. They were here for the visual, for the fantasy.
Then, a private message pinged. A username I didn’t recognize, with a high tipping status. The message read: Something’s different tonight. The light in your eyes. It’s… curious. Shy, almost. I like it. A lot.
The message sent a shiver down my spine—her spine. He saw it. He saw me. The clumsy, curious boy peeking out from behind this beautiful woman’s eyes. The revelation was no longer about her secret. It was about my own, reflected back at me through a stranger’s screen. The thrill was electric, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. I was seen, yet completely hidden. And for the first time since I’d tumbled into this body, I didn’t want to leave.
The stream ended with my heart trying to claw its way out of Mrs. Henderson’s—my—chest. I clicked ‘End Broadcast’ and sat in the silent, neon-lit room, the ghost of a hundred anonymous compliments buzzing in my ears. The adrenaline crash was monumental. A deep, shuddering fatigue pulled at my limbs, at my borrowed eyes. Stumbling back to the master bedroom, I peeled off the black lace bodysuit, leaving it in a heap on the plush carpet. I didn’t have the energy to be neat. In a daze, I pulled on one of her soft cotton nightgowns from a drawer and collapsed into the enormous bed.
The scent of her shampoo on the pillows was the last thing I registered before a deep, black nothingness swallowed me.
***
I woke up with a jolt, my own thin mattress hard beneath my back. Morning light, harsh and familiar, streamed through my blinds. I was in my boxers and a faded band t-shirt. I was me. Just me.
For a long minute, I just lay there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling I’d put up when I was ten. Had it been a dream? A hyper-vivid, wildly inappropriate stress-dream about my neighbor? It felt too detailed, too real. The weight of the heels. The slick texture of the lipstick. The cold thrill of the chat scrolling by.
I grabbed my laptop from my nightstand, my fingers clumsy. My search history felt like a crime scene. I typed in the site name from the memory, then, hesitantly, the username: ScarletVelvet.
There it was. A profile. A teaser image that was absolutely, unmistakably Mrs. Henderson, though with a smolder I’d never seen in daylight. My mouth went dry. With a trembling click, I navigated to her recent videos. And there, at the top, uploaded six hours ago: “Scarlet’s Shy Night – Live 10/23.”
I didn’t buy it. I couldn’t. I just hit play.
And there I was. Or rather, there she was, with me piloting. The footage was crystal clear. I saw the slight, uncharacteristic hesitation in my smile. The way my eyes kept flicking to the chat, wide with a panic I’d tried to hide. I heard my stolen voice say, “Just a long day,” with that imperfect, copied purr. I watched myself trail a hand over the lace, the movement a half-beat off from the real Scarlet’s confident flair.
It was real. Undeniable. A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat, immediately choked by a wave of gut-churning guilt. And beneath the guilt, a flicker of that same, electrifying curiosity.
I spent the day in a fog, jumping at every sound. I saw Mrs. Henderson bringing in her mail in the afternoon, wearing yoga pants and a loose sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun. She looked tired, but normal. Innocent. She gave a small, casual wave to someone across the street. The duality was mind-breaking.
As night fell, the pull became magnetic. The fear was still there, a cold stone in my stomach, but it was outweighed by the need to know, to feel that transformation again. To have an answer to a question I’d never dared ask out loud.
I sat on my bedroom floor again. No guided meditation this time. Just silence, and a focused, desperate intention. Take me back. Let me in.
The lurch was less violent this time, more like a swift, sinking drift. The lavender scent hit my nostrils. Weight. Softness. Curve.
I opened my eyes in her dark bedroom. Success.
This time, the panic was a minor tremor, quickly subdued by a sense of purpose. I went to her closet, but bypassed the crimson teddies and silk robes. I picked out a pair of dark, well-fitting jeans, a simple black long-sleeved tee, and a comfortable cardigan. I found sensible flats. I looked in the mirror: suburban mom ready for errands. Perfect.
Driving her car was another surge of alien-yet-familiar memory. My hands on the wheel were smaller, my perspective different. The weird feeling of a tight seat-belt resting in the valley of my chest. I made it to the mall, a nervous excitement humming in my veins. This was the test. To be in this body, in the world.
I went to a department store area I’d never dared enter before: the women’s lingerie section. Surrounded by racks of lace and satin, my face flushed. But no one looked twice at a woman browsing bras. The freedom was dizzying. I selected a few sets—a delicate sky blue, a bold leopard print—using her sense of size and fit. I held them up, imagining them on this body. It was a shopping trip from a dream.
Then, emboldened, I went to the trendy clothing stores. I tried on flowy dresses that swirled around my knees, a tight leather skirt that made my heart race, and a ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater that felt like a cloud. In the fitting room, under the fluorescent lights, I just stared. I turned, examining the lines of her—my—body from every angle. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was a kind of reverence.
The final stop took every ounce of my courage. A sex shop, discreetly located on the outskirts of the mall. A bell chimed as I walked in.
The girl behind the counter looked up. She was probably in her early twenties, with dyed black hair, a septum piercing, and an impressive array of tattoos snaking up her arms. Goth, cool, and utterly intimidating.
“Help you find anything?” she asked, her voice not unfriendly.
“Just… browsing,” I said, Mrs. Henderson’s voice coming out as a shy squeak. I wandered the aisles, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of it all. I felt the Goth girl’s eyes on me, the conservative cardigan-clad mom in a den of iniquity.
Eventually, curiosity overcoming shame, I picked up a small, sleek vibrator, examining it like it was an artifact from another planet.
“Good choice,” the girl said, appearing at the end of the aisle with a knowing smile. “That one’s discreet but powerful. Popular with… beginners. But definitely something you could handle.”
Our eyes met. Hers were sharp, kohl-rimmed, and saw way too much. A faint, amused smile played on her lips. “You seem different today, Mrs. Henderson.”
I nearly dropped the vibrator. She knew her? Of course she did. Small town. My blood ran cold, then hot. I managed a weak smile, channeling every ounce of innocent-neighbor energy I’d observed. “Just… exploring,” I whispered.
“Well, have fun,” she said, her smile turning into a full-blown grin. “Exploration is good for the soul.”
I paid in cash, my face burning, and fled.
Back in the sanctuary of her house, the adrenaline shifted into something slower, warmer, more insistent. The purchases were spread on her bed. The new lingerie. The sleek little toy from the shop.
I put on the sky blue set. It was even prettier on. The contrast against her skin was beautiful. I lay back on the bed, the memories of her own solo routines blending with my own frantic, curiosity. My touch was clumsy at first, then, guided by her body’s own innate knowledge, more sure. It was a bizarre, out-of-body experience that was intensely, overwhelmingly in-body. I was both the explorer and the territory. The pleasure, when it crested, was a shocking, all-consuming wave that left me gasping, shuddering, utterly spent in a way I’d never been in my own body.
In the heavy, satisfied silence that followed, lulled by the fading echoes of sensation and the soft cotton sheets, my borrowed eyes grew heavy. The last coherent thought I had was that this was the deepest, most content sleep I’d ever known.
***
I awoke to the sound of my own alarm blaring, sunlight once again piercing my own familiar, boring blinds. I was back in my scrawny body, tangled in my own sheets, home for the holiday break. For a moment, I just breathed, the phantom sensations of silk and release still tingling at the edges of my awareness. It was real. It had happened again.
And I already knew, with a certainty that scared and thrilled me, that I would be trying to go back as soon as I could.
The weekend stretched before me, a blank canvas of time. The two previous nights had been fleeting infiltrations. Today, I wanted more. I wanted a full day in her skin.
I sat on my floor as the first pale light of Saturday crept into my room. I focused, not on white light or my heart center, but on the memory of lavender and the feeling of satin against skin. The transition was smoother this time, less a lurch and more a conscious step through a door.
I arrived to the sound of running water and the humid, steamy scent of jasmine body wash. I was standing in her master bathroom, the glass shower door fogged, the silhouette of her body—my body—moving behind it. She was humming. I could feel the warm spray hitting my skin, the water sluicing over curves that were now mine. The sensation was immediate and intensely vivid. My hands—her hands—lifted almost of their own accord, slick with soap, gliding over the swell of breasts, the dip of a waist, the smooth plane of a stomach. It was a ritual washing, but for me, it was a breathtaking exploration.
The heat, the steam, the sheer physicality of it coiled a tight, urgent need low in my belly. As the water rained down, I let my hands wander with purpose, no longer just washing, but seeking. I leaned back against the cool tile, my breath hitching as my fingers found their way, guided by a knowledge both borrowed and innate. The climax in the shower was swift and shocking, a white-hot burst that made my knees weak, my stolen cries swallowed by the drumming water. I slumped, panting, the pleasure still echoing through nerve endings that weren't originally mine. It was incredible.
After, wrapped in a plush towel, I felt a strange, powerful confidence. I took my time. I blow-dried her auburn hair into the soft, shiny waves she usually wore. I applied makeup with the practiced ease her memories provided, creating that public-facing mask of friendly, approachable prettiness. I dressed in one of her nice casual outfits—dark jeans, a cream-colored V-neck sweater that clung in a flattering way, knee-high boots. I looked in the mirror and saw the perfect image of the neighbor my step mom would happily invite in for coffee.
The bold idea struck me then, sparkling with risk and a perverse curiosity. I would visit my house.
I walked the familiar short path, her heels clicking a confident rhythm on the sidewalk my own sneakers usually scuffed. Ringing my own doorbell was surreal.
My step mom answered, her face lighting up in a warm smile. “Lydia! What a nice surprise. Come in, come in! I was just about to have some coffee.”
“I was just out for a walk and thought I’d say hi,” I said, sliding effortlessly into Mrs. Henderson’s—Lydia’s—warm, slightly musical tone. It was eerie how easily it came, like putting on a well-worn coat from her memories of countless similar chats.
I followed my step mom into the kitchen, the familiar space looking different from this vantage point. She poured coffee, chattering about her plans to re-organize the garage. I nodded and smiled, sipping from the mug, the coffee tasting subtly different with her palate. I was leveraging her memories constantly: the way she held a mug, her opinion on the new neighborhood landscaping, her polite laugh. I was a puppet, and Lydia’s life was the set of strings.
"My son's back from college and could use something to do" my step mom asked with a conspiratorial wink. “Want me to send him over to help with some house work?”
“Oh that'd be perfect,” I heard myself say, and had to suppress a hysterical giggle. “He's a real sweet boy.”
After about twenty minutes of this bizarre charade, I saw my chance. “Would you mind if I excused myself to use your powder room?” I asked.
“Of course, you know where it is!”
I didn’t go to the downstairs powder room. With a thief’s heart, I padded quietly up the stairs, past the framed family photos that now seemed like artifacts from another life. My bedroom door was ajar. I peeked in.
There, sprawled on my bed, fully dressed and snoring softly, was me. Or rather, my empty body. It was the strangest sight of all—seeing my own lanky form from the outside, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over my forehead. A profound sense of dislocation washed over me, followed by a sharp, devious thrill.
I slipped inside and closed the door silently. I stared at my own sleeping face. Then, moving quickly, I pulled out the phone from my borrowed purse—Lydia’s phone. I propped it up on my desk, angled perfectly toward the bed, and hit record.
Then I approached the bed. My own body smelled like my cheap deodorant and the fabric of my old comforter. Gently, I unbuckled my own jeans. My hands, small and soft, worked with a clinical curiosity that was also deeply erotic. I gave my unconscious self a handjob, watching the physiological reaction with a detached, fascinated awe. My shaft thick and hard between my hands. Leaning down, I then took myself into my mouth—her mouth. The sensations were a confusing feedback loop: the physical act, the visual of my own body, the knowledge of who was doing it. It was narcissistic, invasive, and unbearably hot. My body gave in, shooting a small load that covered my face and I made sure the phone captured it all.
I quickly cleaned everything up with a tissue from my nightstand, redid my jeans, and grabbed the phone. I stopped the recording. With shaky fingers, I airdropped the video file to my own phone, which was lying on the nightstand next to my sleeping head. I then meticulously deleted the video from Lydia’s phone and cleared the ‘recently deleted’ folder. The evidence was now only in my possession.
Taking a steadying breath, I smoothed down my sweater and left my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I rejoined my mom in the kitchen, my cheeks flushed.
“Everything alright? You look a little flushed,” my mom said.
“Fine! Just a bit warm,” I said, forcing another smile. I snuck glances at my mom as we talked, seeing the familiar lines of her face from this new, feminine perspective. I was hyper-aware of the body I inhabited, the sway of Lydia’s hair, the brush of her sweater against her breasts—my breasts—as I moved.
The afternoon wore on in a surreal bubble. I was trying to decide what to do next with this borrowed life. Go shopping again? Experiment more at her cam setup? The possibilities were a dizzying array in my mind.
And then, without warning, it happened. A sudden, tugging sensation behind my navel, like a rubber band stretched too far and snapping back.
***
I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was on my back in my own bed, the afternoon sun now at a different angle. My body felt instantly familiar and was overcome with a feeling of afterglow. The phantom sensations of the shower, of my own touch, still buzzed on my skin like a fading sunburn.
The memory of the video jolted me into action. I scrambled for my phone. There it was. A file received from Lydia Henderson’s device. I didn’t open it. I just stared at the filename, a cold sweat breaking out. It was real. All of it.
I changed my clothes in a frenzy, pulling on a fresh shirt and jeans, my mind reeling. I had to see. I had to know if she was still there.
I practically flew down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the doorway to the living room. My step mom was still there, on the sofa.
And sitting across from her, sipping the last of her coffee, was Mrs. Henderson—Lydia. She looked perfectly composed, her makeup fresh, her smile easy.
My step mom turned. “Oh, speak of the devil! Lydia was just telling me about her new rose bushes.”
Lydia’s eyes met mine. Those green-flecked hazel eyes held mine for a long, deliberate second. Then, as my step mom glanced down to pick up her own mug, Lydia’s expression shifted. The pleasant neighborly mask dissolved into something else—something knowing, sharp, and utterly mischievous. She gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
Then, her hand resting casually on her knee, hidden from my step mom’s view by the coffee table, she made a quick, unmistakable motion: her fist pumping up and down in the universal sign for a jerk-off.
My blood turned to ice. My stomach dropped through the floor.
She knew. Somehow she knew.
Before I could react, even to breathe, she smiled sweetly at my step mom, stood up, and said, “Well, I should let you two get on with your weekend. Thanks for the coffee, Ellen!”
She walked past me to the door, her perfume trailing behind her. As she reached for the knob, she paused, looked back over her shoulder directly at me, and mouthed silent words with a smirk that was anything but innocent:
“I hope you had fun.”
***
The meditation was a failure. For three nights straight, I sat on my floor until my legs cramped, focusing every ounce of my will on the memory of lavender and silk. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of my own thoughts and the growing dread that my window into Lydia’s world had slammed shut forever.
So when my step-mom Ellen cheerfully announced on Tuesday that she’d “volunteered” me to help Mrs. Henderson haul some old boxes to her attic, my blood ran cold. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a reckoning.
I stood on Lydia’s porch, my heart trying to batter its way through my ribs. I rang the bell.
She answered almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting. She wore simple leggings and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. No makeup. She looked like the mom next door, but her eyes held a storm.
“Come in,” she said, her voice flat. I shuffled inside, the familiar scent of her home now feeling like a crime scene.
The door closed behind me with a soft, final click. We stood in her foyer. The air was thick with unspoken things.
She crossed her arms, fixing me with a hard stare. “So. You want to tell me what the hell that was? Snooping through my things? Wearing my clothes? Going on my stream?” Her tone was sharp, accusatory. “That is some seriously messed up, perverted shit.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My face burned with shame and terror. I was going to be arrested. My life was over. I managed a strangled, “I… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Henderson, I don’t know what—”
She burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a cruel laugh, but a rich, genuine sound that filled the hallway. The angry mask melted away, replaced by sparkling amusement. “Oh, god, look at your face!” she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Priceless. I’m just messing with you, kid. Everything’s fine.”
I sagged against the wall, lightheaded with relief. “W-what?”
“Everything’s fine,” she repeated, grinning. “Well, as fine as it can be when you find out your neighbor’s been borrowing your body like a rental car.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “C’mon. I made iced tea.”
In a daze, I followed her. She poured two glasses, leaning against the counter. “So,” she began, her tone now conspiratorial. “That goth chick at Sinister Delights? Cute, right? She texted me after you left, said I seemed ‘different.’ More fun.”
I could only stare, my mind struggling to catch up.
“And the mall,” she continued, sipping her drink. “Good choices. The leopard print? Bold. I’d have never picked it for myself, but I kinda love it.”
I just held the cold glass, unable to process her words.
“And the cam show,” she continued, leaning against the counter, a sly smile on her lips. “Shy Girl Next Door? That was a brilliant angle. The nervous glances, the slightly clumsy moves… it was authentic. Viewers ate it up. My tips were 30% higher than usual.”
Her expression softened, turning serious for a moment. “That, you do have to keep to yourself. My… professional life. That’s a non-negotiable secret.”
“Of course,” I blurted. “Never. I swear.”
“I believe you,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. “And the video? Of me… you know, with you?” She shook her head, a faint blush on her cheeks that wasn’t entirely from amusement. “You can keep that. Consider it a… weird souvenir.”
The casual way she said it was staggering. “Why… why are you being so cool about this?” I finally managed to whisper.
Lydia sighed, setting her glass down. She looked at me, her gaze turning inward and serious. “Because it wasn’t just you in my head. When you left… something stayed. A little echo. A feeling. I can’t access your memories, but I can feel… a presence. A younger, curious, kinda horny male presence. It’s faint, like a radio playing in another room, but it’s there. It’s why I knew it was you at the door. I felt the echo… resonate.”
She walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. It was a strangely companionable gesture. “I don’t feel violated. I feel… like I owe you a favor. You left a piece of yourself here, and I feel like I should treat you like a new found brother. So.” She shrugged, a new, determined glint in her eye. “I’m going to do you a solid. One for the road, since you're about to go back to college and can’t seem to get back in on your own.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she took my hand. “Come on.”
She led me, stunned and silent, to her bedroom. She pointed to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”
I sat. She went to her dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out the leopard print lingerie I’d bought. She gave me a wink, then disappeared into the walk-in closet to change.
When she emerged, my breath caught. The leopard print was even more stunning on her when she wore it with intention. The bralette pushed her breasts up, the high-cut briefs accentuating the curve of her hips. She looked like a predator, confident and sleek.
“Lie back,” she instructed softly.
I did. She knelt on the floor between my knees, her hands deftly undoing my jeans. This was nothing like the frantic, secretive act in my bedroom. This was slow, deliberate, and performed with a masterful skill that had me trembling in seconds. Her mouth was hot and knowing, her hands roaming my thighs and stomach. She took her time, bringing me to the edge twice with torturous skill before pulling back with a soft laugh. “Not yet.”
Then she stood up, shimmied out of the briefs, and climbed onto the bed, straddling me. She guided me inside her, sinking down with a slow, deep sigh that was part pleasure, part relief.
The sex was nothing I had ever experienced. It was passionate but controlled, intense but deeply communicative. She rode me with a powerful, rolling rhythm, her eyes locked on mine. She leaned down, her breasts brushing my chest, and kissed me—a deep, searching kiss that tasted of iced tea and mint. The leopard print lace scraped deliciously against my skin.
“You feel that?” she murmured against my lips, her hips never stopping their movement. “That’s all you. That echo. It’s like I know what you like before you do.”
She was right. Every shift, every touch, was perfectly aligned with my building pleasure. It was as if she was reading the ghost I’d left inside her. The climax, when it hit me, was a cataclysmic wave that tore a raw, guttural shout from my throat. She followed me over a moment later, clenching around me, her own cry muffled in the crook of my neck.
We lay together for a long time, tangled and sweating, the scent of sex and her perfume filling the air. She eventually slipped off me and curled against my side. “A proper goodbye,” she whispered, before her breathing evened out into sleep.
***
I woke up alone in my own bed. The gray light of dawn filtered in. The sheets smelled of my own laundry detergent. For a dizzying moment, I was sure it had all been another impossibly vivid dream.
Then I felt the pleasant ache in my muscles. I saw the faint, smudged trace of lipstick—a peachy nude, Morning Kiss—on my collar.
And I remembered her words. You left a piece of yourself here.
That evening, restless and haunted, I sat on my bedroom floor once more. Not trying to reach for Lydia. Just trying to quiet the echo. My consciousness drifted, untethered, through the familiar walls of my house.
I floated into the master bedroom. My step mom, Ellen, was there, sitting at her vanity in a robe, carefully applying night cream. I hovered, a silent, invisible observer. She hummed a tune from some old musical, her face relaxed and kind in the soft light.
The thought, sudden and unbidden, shimmered in my non-corporeal mind. A new door. A different set of strings to pull. The curiosity, now awakened and fed, was a hungry thing.
I floated closer, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed.
The question hung in the ether, heavy with possibility.
Do I want to?
My breath slowed, easing into the steady rhythm I’d been practicing. The YouTube guru’s voice was a distant murmur in my earbuds. Let your consciousness expand beyond the physical form. Feel the boundaries of your body dissolve… I always felt a little silly doing this in my bedroom, the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling my only witness. But tonight, something was different. A strange, pulling sensation started behind my navel, like a gentle but insistent hook.
I tried to ignore it, to focus on my breathing, but the tug grew stronger. The feeling of my own body—the weight of my limbs on the bed, the pressure of the mattress against my back—suddenly vanished. There was a dizzying rush of color and sound, a sensation of being pulled through a narrow, dark tunnel at impossible speed.
Then, with a soft thump I felt I heard more than heard, everything stopped. A weight... A different kind of weight. My chest felt heavy, supported. My hips felt wider.
I blinked. This wasn’t my room. The air smelled of lavender and expensive perfume. I looked down.
My hands. They were not my hands. They were smaller, with slender fingers tipped with perfectly manicured, pale pink nails. A delicate silver bracelet hung from one wrist. I wore a silk robe, peach, tied loosely at the waist. My heart—no, her heart—hammered against my ribs.
A wave of vertigo hit me, followed by a flood of images that weren’t mine. Lydia. Her name is Lydia. A memory of her laughing with my step mom at the mailbox, holding a grocery bag. Another of her watering her roses in a sun dress last weekend. Before I left for college, she'd always waved at me, a kind, almost shy smile on her face.
Mrs. Henderson from next door. The hot MILF all my friends whispered about but who just seemed… nice.
I was inside Lydia Henderson.
Panic surged, a cold, sharp spike. I needed to get back. I tried to concentrate, to will myself back to my own body lying on my bed, but nothing happened. The panic subsided, replaced by a trembling, awe-filled curiosity. I was here. In her.
I turned, my movements unfamiliar and graceful, and caught my reflection in a full-length mirror mounted on the closet door.
Wow.
She was… stunning. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her green-flecked hazel eyes, were wide with an expression I knew was my own shock staring back. The silk robe hinted at the curves beneath. A lifetime of curious, stolen glances from my bedroom window hadn’t prepared me for the reality of being inside this body. A thrill, warm and forbidden, shot through me.
My gaze drifted past my—her—reflection to the rest of the walk-in closet behind me. The curiosity, always simmering just beneath the surface, roared to life. I’d always wondered. About the feel of it, the look of it, the secret world of it.
There I was surrounded by a forest of silks, satins, and soft, colorful fabrics.
Almost without conscious thought, my hands went to the tie of the robe. It fell open. She—I—was wearing matching peach lace lingerie underneath. A bra that cupped and lifted, panties that were just a delicate scrap of fabric. A heat that had nothing to do with possession flushed through me. It was awe. It was a secret, answered question.
I reached for a hanger. A slip of crimson satin and black lace. A teddy. My fingers trembled as I shimmied out of the peach set and into the red one. The cool satin whispered over my hips, the lace hugged curves I’d never had. I looked in the mirror again. A stranger, yet me. A beautiful, secret version of myself.
I spent what felt like hours, lost in a tactile wonderland. I tried on a tight pencil skirt and a cream-colored cashmere sweater, feeling the sophisticated drape. I found a pair of sky-high black heels and clomped around the carpet, her body’s balance instinctively better than mine would have been. The click-click of the heels on the hardwood floor was a powerful, feminine sound.
Then I found the vanity. An array of pots, pencils, and brushes that might as well have been alien technology. But as I picked up a tube of lipstick, a strange thing happened. A knowledge that wasn’t mine surfaced. A muscle memory. My hand steadied. I uncapped the tube, a deep rose color, and applied it to “my” lips in smooth, practiced strokes. Then eyeliner, a flick at the corner that appeared as if by magic. Blush dusted on the apples of cheeks I could now feel smiling back at me. I was using her memories, her routines. It was like riding a bike for the first time, but the bike knew the way.
When I opened my eyes and looked in the vanity mirror, a perfectly made-up Lydia Henderson looked back. It was her face, but the light in the eyes… that was all my stunned, giddy wonder.
I was awestruck. Transformed. The innocent, cookie-baking neighbor I saw from my window was also this… this goddess of satin and expertly applied liner.
I was floating on a cloud of discovery when another memory-nudge pulled me. It was stronger, more insistent than the makeup knowledge. It was a pull of routine, of duty, tinged with a secret thrill. It led me out of the bedroom, down the hall, to a door I hadn’t noticed before. It was plain, white, unlike the other decorative doors in the house.
I turned the knob and entered.
The room was an office, but unlike any office I'd ever seen before.
It was a small, soundproofed office. The dominant feature was a large desk with a ring light, a high-quality webcam, and a monitor. Plush, sexy outfits hung on a rack in the corner—things far more daring than the clothes in her main closet. Leather, lace, PVC. A shelf held… toys. Neatly arranged, clean, professional.
The cam girl setup was so blatant, so at odds with the cozy suburban mom exterior, that I just stared. Another memory-flash, not mine: the feeling of logging in, of a stage name—ScarletVelvet—of the focused, performative smile that wasn’t the same as the one she gave me when I mowed her lawn.
My heart hammered again, but with a different kind of adrenaline. This was her secret. And now it was mine. The monitor was dark, but a schedule was pinned to a corkboard. A highlighted time slot was in 15 minutes.
The idea hit me with the force of a train. It was insane. Reckless. Unforgivably invasive.
I couldn’t help it.
I sat down in the plush rolling chair. It adjusted to her—to my—body perfectly. I looked at the login screen for the streaming site. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn’t know the password. But I closed my eyes, and let her surface. Not her consciousness, but the automatic, procedural memory. Like the makeup. My fingers moved on their own, typing in a string of characters. The dashboard for ScarletVelvet loaded.
Five minutes to showtime.
I was sweating. I used one of her memories to pick an outfit—a black lace bodysuit that left very little to the imagination. I put it on, my hands fumbling more now with the nervous energy. I checked the angles of the camera using the preview on the monitor. I fluffed the auburn hair, reapplied the lipstick.
The clock hit the hour. A deep breath. I clicked “Go Live.”
The viewer count started ticking up almost immediately. 10… 25… 50. A chat window bloomed to life on the side screen.
Hey Scarlet!
Missed you last night!
You look hot.
A wave of paralyzing stage fright hit me. This wasn’t my memory, this was live. I had to perform. I swallowed, and offered a smile to the camera. It felt brittle.
“H-hey everyone,” I said, and her voice came out, smoother, sexier than my own cracking tenor. But the cadence was off. I sounded unsure.
You okay, Scarlet? You seem nervous.
I needed to act. I leaned back in the chair, another fragment of her muscle memory guiding me into a pose that was both relaxed and deliberately alluring. “Just a long day,” I purred, trying to mimic the smoky tone I’d heard in the memory-flash. It was closer. “But I’m happy to be here with you all now.”
I let my hands—her elegant, manicured hands—trail down over the lace of the bodysuit. The chat scrolled faster.
Yeah, that’s it.
So beautiful.
I was mimicking, a poor copy of the real ScarletVelvet. I was pulling from stolen glimpses, trying to project a sultry confidence I didn’t feel. I talked, my words stilted, my gestures a half-second too slow or too fast. But the viewers didn’t seem to mind too much. They were here for the visual, for the fantasy.
Then, a private message pinged. A username I didn’t recognize, with a high tipping status. The message read: Something’s different tonight. The light in your eyes. It’s… curious. Shy, almost. I like it. A lot.
The message sent a shiver down my spine—her spine. He saw it. He saw me. The clumsy, curious boy peeking out from behind this beautiful woman’s eyes. The revelation was no longer about her secret. It was about my own, reflected back at me through a stranger’s screen. The thrill was electric, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. I was seen, yet completely hidden. And for the first time since I’d tumbled into this body, I didn’t want to leave.
The stream ended with my heart trying to claw its way out of Mrs. Henderson’s—my—chest. I clicked ‘End Broadcast’ and sat in the silent, neon-lit room, the ghost of a hundred anonymous compliments buzzing in my ears. The adrenaline crash was monumental. A deep, shuddering fatigue pulled at my limbs, at my borrowed eyes. Stumbling back to the master bedroom, I peeled off the black lace bodysuit, leaving it in a heap on the plush carpet. I didn’t have the energy to be neat. In a daze, I pulled on one of her soft cotton nightgowns from a drawer and collapsed into the enormous bed.
The scent of her shampoo on the pillows was the last thing I registered before a deep, black nothingness swallowed me.
***
I woke up with a jolt, my own thin mattress hard beneath my back. Morning light, harsh and familiar, streamed through my blinds. I was in my boxers and a faded band t-shirt. I was me. Just me.
For a long minute, I just lay there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling I’d put up when I was ten. Had it been a dream? A hyper-vivid, wildly inappropriate stress-dream about my neighbor? It felt too detailed, too real. The weight of the heels. The slick texture of the lipstick. The cold thrill of the chat scrolling by.
I grabbed my laptop from my nightstand, my fingers clumsy. My search history felt like a crime scene. I typed in the site name from the memory, then, hesitantly, the username: ScarletVelvet.
There it was. A profile. A teaser image that was absolutely, unmistakably Mrs. Henderson, though with a smolder I’d never seen in daylight. My mouth went dry. With a trembling click, I navigated to her recent videos. And there, at the top, uploaded six hours ago: “Scarlet’s Shy Night – Live 10/23.”
I didn’t buy it. I couldn’t. I just hit play.
And there I was. Or rather, there she was, with me piloting. The footage was crystal clear. I saw the slight, uncharacteristic hesitation in my smile. The way my eyes kept flicking to the chat, wide with a panic I’d tried to hide. I heard my stolen voice say, “Just a long day,” with that imperfect, copied purr. I watched myself trail a hand over the lace, the movement a half-beat off from the real Scarlet’s confident flair.
It was real. Undeniable. A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat, immediately choked by a wave of gut-churning guilt. And beneath the guilt, a flicker of that same, electrifying curiosity.
I spent the day in a fog, jumping at every sound. I saw Mrs. Henderson bringing in her mail in the afternoon, wearing yoga pants and a loose sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun. She looked tired, but normal. Innocent. She gave a small, casual wave to someone across the street. The duality was mind-breaking.
As night fell, the pull became magnetic. The fear was still there, a cold stone in my stomach, but it was outweighed by the need to know, to feel that transformation again. To have an answer to a question I’d never dared ask out loud.
I sat on my bedroom floor again. No guided meditation this time. Just silence, and a focused, desperate intention. Take me back. Let me in.
The lurch was less violent this time, more like a swift, sinking drift. The lavender scent hit my nostrils. Weight. Softness. Curve.
I opened my eyes in her dark bedroom. Success.
This time, the panic was a minor tremor, quickly subdued by a sense of purpose. I went to her closet, but bypassed the crimson teddies and silk robes. I picked out a pair of dark, well-fitting jeans, a simple black long-sleeved tee, and a comfortable cardigan. I found sensible flats. I looked in the mirror: suburban mom ready for errands. Perfect.
Driving her car was another surge of alien-yet-familiar memory. My hands on the wheel were smaller, my perspective different. The weird feeling of a tight seat-belt resting in the valley of my chest. I made it to the mall, a nervous excitement humming in my veins. This was the test. To be in this body, in the world.
I went to a department store area I’d never dared enter before: the women’s lingerie section. Surrounded by racks of lace and satin, my face flushed. But no one looked twice at a woman browsing bras. The freedom was dizzying. I selected a few sets—a delicate sky blue, a bold leopard print—using her sense of size and fit. I held them up, imagining them on this body. It was a shopping trip from a dream.
Then, emboldened, I went to the trendy clothing stores. I tried on flowy dresses that swirled around my knees, a tight leather skirt that made my heart race, and a ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater that felt like a cloud. In the fitting room, under the fluorescent lights, I just stared. I turned, examining the lines of her—my—body from every angle. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was a kind of reverence.
The final stop took every ounce of my courage. A sex shop, discreetly located on the outskirts of the mall. A bell chimed as I walked in.
The girl behind the counter looked up. She was probably in her early twenties, with dyed black hair, a septum piercing, and an impressive array of tattoos snaking up her arms. Goth, cool, and utterly intimidating.
“Help you find anything?” she asked, her voice not unfriendly.
“Just… browsing,” I said, Mrs. Henderson’s voice coming out as a shy squeak. I wandered the aisles, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of it all. I felt the Goth girl’s eyes on me, the conservative cardigan-clad mom in a den of iniquity.
Eventually, curiosity overcoming shame, I picked up a small, sleek vibrator, examining it like it was an artifact from another planet.
“Good choice,” the girl said, appearing at the end of the aisle with a knowing smile. “That one’s discreet but powerful. Popular with… beginners. But definitely something you could handle.”
Our eyes met. Hers were sharp, kohl-rimmed, and saw way too much. A faint, amused smile played on her lips. “You seem different today, Mrs. Henderson.”
I nearly dropped the vibrator. She knew her? Of course she did. Small town. My blood ran cold, then hot. I managed a weak smile, channeling every ounce of innocent-neighbor energy I’d observed. “Just… exploring,” I whispered.
“Well, have fun,” she said, her smile turning into a full-blown grin. “Exploration is good for the soul.”
I paid in cash, my face burning, and fled.
Back in the sanctuary of her house, the adrenaline shifted into something slower, warmer, more insistent. The purchases were spread on her bed. The new lingerie. The sleek little toy from the shop.
I put on the sky blue set. It was even prettier on. The contrast against her skin was beautiful. I lay back on the bed, the memories of her own solo routines blending with my own frantic, curiosity. My touch was clumsy at first, then, guided by her body’s own innate knowledge, more sure. It was a bizarre, out-of-body experience that was intensely, overwhelmingly in-body. I was both the explorer and the territory. The pleasure, when it crested, was a shocking, all-consuming wave that left me gasping, shuddering, utterly spent in a way I’d never been in my own body.
In the heavy, satisfied silence that followed, lulled by the fading echoes of sensation and the soft cotton sheets, my borrowed eyes grew heavy. The last coherent thought I had was that this was the deepest, most content sleep I’d ever known.
***
I awoke to the sound of my own alarm blaring, sunlight once again piercing my own familiar, boring blinds. I was back in my scrawny body, tangled in my own sheets, home for the holiday break. For a moment, I just breathed, the phantom sensations of silk and release still tingling at the edges of my awareness. It was real. It had happened again.
And I already knew, with a certainty that scared and thrilled me, that I would be trying to go back as soon as I could.
The weekend stretched before me, a blank canvas of time. The two previous nights had been fleeting infiltrations. Today, I wanted more. I wanted a full day in her skin.
I sat on my floor as the first pale light of Saturday crept into my room. I focused, not on white light or my heart center, but on the memory of lavender and the feeling of satin against skin. The transition was smoother this time, less a lurch and more a conscious step through a door.
I arrived to the sound of running water and the humid, steamy scent of jasmine body wash. I was standing in her master bathroom, the glass shower door fogged, the silhouette of her body—my body—moving behind it. She was humming. I could feel the warm spray hitting my skin, the water sluicing over curves that were now mine. The sensation was immediate and intensely vivid. My hands—her hands—lifted almost of their own accord, slick with soap, gliding over the swell of breasts, the dip of a waist, the smooth plane of a stomach. It was a ritual washing, but for me, it was a breathtaking exploration.
The heat, the steam, the sheer physicality of it coiled a tight, urgent need low in my belly. As the water rained down, I let my hands wander with purpose, no longer just washing, but seeking. I leaned back against the cool tile, my breath hitching as my fingers found their way, guided by a knowledge both borrowed and innate. The climax in the shower was swift and shocking, a white-hot burst that made my knees weak, my stolen cries swallowed by the drumming water. I slumped, panting, the pleasure still echoing through nerve endings that weren't originally mine. It was incredible.
After, wrapped in a plush towel, I felt a strange, powerful confidence. I took my time. I blow-dried her auburn hair into the soft, shiny waves she usually wore. I applied makeup with the practiced ease her memories provided, creating that public-facing mask of friendly, approachable prettiness. I dressed in one of her nice casual outfits—dark jeans, a cream-colored V-neck sweater that clung in a flattering way, knee-high boots. I looked in the mirror and saw the perfect image of the neighbor my step mom would happily invite in for coffee.
The bold idea struck me then, sparkling with risk and a perverse curiosity. I would visit my house.
I walked the familiar short path, her heels clicking a confident rhythm on the sidewalk my own sneakers usually scuffed. Ringing my own doorbell was surreal.
My step mom answered, her face lighting up in a warm smile. “Lydia! What a nice surprise. Come in, come in! I was just about to have some coffee.”
“I was just out for a walk and thought I’d say hi,” I said, sliding effortlessly into Mrs. Henderson’s—Lydia’s—warm, slightly musical tone. It was eerie how easily it came, like putting on a well-worn coat from her memories of countless similar chats.
I followed my step mom into the kitchen, the familiar space looking different from this vantage point. She poured coffee, chattering about her plans to re-organize the garage. I nodded and smiled, sipping from the mug, the coffee tasting subtly different with her palate. I was leveraging her memories constantly: the way she held a mug, her opinion on the new neighborhood landscaping, her polite laugh. I was a puppet, and Lydia’s life was the set of strings.
"My son's back from college and could use something to do" my step mom asked with a conspiratorial wink. “Want me to send him over to help with some house work?”
“Oh that'd be perfect,” I heard myself say, and had to suppress a hysterical giggle. “He's a real sweet boy.”
After about twenty minutes of this bizarre charade, I saw my chance. “Would you mind if I excused myself to use your powder room?” I asked.
“Of course, you know where it is!”
I didn’t go to the downstairs powder room. With a thief’s heart, I padded quietly up the stairs, past the framed family photos that now seemed like artifacts from another life. My bedroom door was ajar. I peeked in.
There, sprawled on my bed, fully dressed and snoring softly, was me. Or rather, my empty body. It was the strangest sight of all—seeing my own lanky form from the outside, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over my forehead. A profound sense of dislocation washed over me, followed by a sharp, devious thrill.
I slipped inside and closed the door silently. I stared at my own sleeping face. Then, moving quickly, I pulled out the phone from my borrowed purse—Lydia’s phone. I propped it up on my desk, angled perfectly toward the bed, and hit record.
Then I approached the bed. My own body smelled like my cheap deodorant and the fabric of my old comforter. Gently, I unbuckled my own jeans. My hands, small and soft, worked with a clinical curiosity that was also deeply erotic. I gave my unconscious self a handjob, watching the physiological reaction with a detached, fascinated awe. My shaft thick and hard between my hands. Leaning down, I then took myself into my mouth—her mouth. The sensations were a confusing feedback loop: the physical act, the visual of my own body, the knowledge of who was doing it. It was narcissistic, invasive, and unbearably hot. My body gave in, shooting a small load that covered my face and I made sure the phone captured it all.
I quickly cleaned everything up with a tissue from my nightstand, redid my jeans, and grabbed the phone. I stopped the recording. With shaky fingers, I airdropped the video file to my own phone, which was lying on the nightstand next to my sleeping head. I then meticulously deleted the video from Lydia’s phone and cleared the ‘recently deleted’ folder. The evidence was now only in my possession.
Taking a steadying breath, I smoothed down my sweater and left my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I rejoined my mom in the kitchen, my cheeks flushed.
“Everything alright? You look a little flushed,” my mom said.
“Fine! Just a bit warm,” I said, forcing another smile. I snuck glances at my mom as we talked, seeing the familiar lines of her face from this new, feminine perspective. I was hyper-aware of the body I inhabited, the sway of Lydia’s hair, the brush of her sweater against her breasts—my breasts—as I moved.
The afternoon wore on in a surreal bubble. I was trying to decide what to do next with this borrowed life. Go shopping again? Experiment more at her cam setup? The possibilities were a dizzying array in my mind.
And then, without warning, it happened. A sudden, tugging sensation behind my navel, like a rubber band stretched too far and snapping back.
***
I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was on my back in my own bed, the afternoon sun now at a different angle. My body felt instantly familiar and was overcome with a feeling of afterglow. The phantom sensations of the shower, of my own touch, still buzzed on my skin like a fading sunburn.
The memory of the video jolted me into action. I scrambled for my phone. There it was. A file received from Lydia Henderson’s device. I didn’t open it. I just stared at the filename, a cold sweat breaking out. It was real. All of it.
I changed my clothes in a frenzy, pulling on a fresh shirt and jeans, my mind reeling. I had to see. I had to know if she was still there.
I practically flew down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the doorway to the living room. My step mom was still there, on the sofa.
And sitting across from her, sipping the last of her coffee, was Mrs. Henderson—Lydia. She looked perfectly composed, her makeup fresh, her smile easy.
My step mom turned. “Oh, speak of the devil! Lydia was just telling me about her new rose bushes.”
Lydia’s eyes met mine. Those green-flecked hazel eyes held mine for a long, deliberate second. Then, as my step mom glanced down to pick up her own mug, Lydia’s expression shifted. The pleasant neighborly mask dissolved into something else—something knowing, sharp, and utterly mischievous. She gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
Then, her hand resting casually on her knee, hidden from my step mom’s view by the coffee table, she made a quick, unmistakable motion: her fist pumping up and down in the universal sign for a jerk-off.
My blood turned to ice. My stomach dropped through the floor.
She knew. Somehow she knew.
Before I could react, even to breathe, she smiled sweetly at my step mom, stood up, and said, “Well, I should let you two get on with your weekend. Thanks for the coffee, Ellen!”
She walked past me to the door, her perfume trailing behind her. As she reached for the knob, she paused, looked back over her shoulder directly at me, and mouthed silent words with a smirk that was anything but innocent:
“I hope you had fun.”
***
The meditation was a failure. For three nights straight, I sat on my floor until my legs cramped, focusing every ounce of my will on the memory of lavender and silk. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of my own thoughts and the growing dread that my window into Lydia’s world had slammed shut forever.
So when my step-mom Ellen cheerfully announced on Tuesday that she’d “volunteered” me to help Mrs. Henderson haul some old boxes to her attic, my blood ran cold. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a reckoning.
I stood on Lydia’s porch, my heart trying to batter its way through my ribs. I rang the bell.
She answered almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting. She wore simple leggings and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. No makeup. She looked like the mom next door, but her eyes held a storm.
“Come in,” she said, her voice flat. I shuffled inside, the familiar scent of her home now feeling like a crime scene.
The door closed behind me with a soft, final click. We stood in her foyer. The air was thick with unspoken things.
She crossed her arms, fixing me with a hard stare. “So. You want to tell me what the hell that was? Snooping through my things? Wearing my clothes? Going on my stream?” Her tone was sharp, accusatory. “That is some seriously messed up, perverted shit.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My face burned with shame and terror. I was going to be arrested. My life was over. I managed a strangled, “I… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Henderson, I don’t know what—”
She burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a cruel laugh, but a rich, genuine sound that filled the hallway. The angry mask melted away, replaced by sparkling amusement. “Oh, god, look at your face!” she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Priceless. I’m just messing with you, kid. Everything’s fine.”
I sagged against the wall, lightheaded with relief. “W-what?”
“Everything’s fine,” she repeated, grinning. “Well, as fine as it can be when you find out your neighbor’s been borrowing your body like a rental car.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “C’mon. I made iced tea.”
In a daze, I followed her. She poured two glasses, leaning against the counter. “So,” she began, her tone now conspiratorial. “That goth chick at Sinister Delights? Cute, right? She texted me after you left, said I seemed ‘different.’ More fun.”
I could only stare, my mind struggling to catch up.
“And the mall,” she continued, sipping her drink. “Good choices. The leopard print? Bold. I’d have never picked it for myself, but I kinda love it.”
I just held the cold glass, unable to process her words.
“And the cam show,” she continued, leaning against the counter, a sly smile on her lips. “Shy Girl Next Door? That was a brilliant angle. The nervous glances, the slightly clumsy moves… it was authentic. Viewers ate it up. My tips were 30% higher than usual.”
Her expression softened, turning serious for a moment. “That, you do have to keep to yourself. My… professional life. That’s a non-negotiable secret.”
“Of course,” I blurted. “Never. I swear.”
“I believe you,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. “And the video? Of me… you know, with you?” She shook her head, a faint blush on her cheeks that wasn’t entirely from amusement. “You can keep that. Consider it a… weird souvenir.”
The casual way she said it was staggering. “Why… why are you being so cool about this?” I finally managed to whisper.
Lydia sighed, setting her glass down. She looked at me, her gaze turning inward and serious. “Because it wasn’t just you in my head. When you left… something stayed. A little echo. A feeling. I can’t access your memories, but I can feel… a presence. A younger, curious, kinda horny male presence. It’s faint, like a radio playing in another room, but it’s there. It’s why I knew it was you at the door. I felt the echo… resonate.”
She walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. It was a strangely companionable gesture. “I don’t feel violated. I feel… like I owe you a favor. You left a piece of yourself here, and I feel like I should treat you like a new found brother. So.” She shrugged, a new, determined glint in her eye. “I’m going to do you a solid. One for the road, since you're about to go back to college and can’t seem to get back in on your own.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she took my hand. “Come on.”
She led me, stunned and silent, to her bedroom. She pointed to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”
I sat. She went to her dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out the leopard print lingerie I’d bought. She gave me a wink, then disappeared into the walk-in closet to change.
When she emerged, my breath caught. The leopard print was even more stunning on her when she wore it with intention. The bralette pushed her breasts up, the high-cut briefs accentuating the curve of her hips. She looked like a predator, confident and sleek.
“Lie back,” she instructed softly.
I did. She knelt on the floor between my knees, her hands deftly undoing my jeans. This was nothing like the frantic, secretive act in my bedroom. This was slow, deliberate, and performed with a masterful skill that had me trembling in seconds. Her mouth was hot and knowing, her hands roaming my thighs and stomach. She took her time, bringing me to the edge twice with torturous skill before pulling back with a soft laugh. “Not yet.”
Then she stood up, shimmied out of the briefs, and climbed onto the bed, straddling me. She guided me inside her, sinking down with a slow, deep sigh that was part pleasure, part relief.
The sex was nothing I had ever experienced. It was passionate but controlled, intense but deeply communicative. She rode me with a powerful, rolling rhythm, her eyes locked on mine. She leaned down, her breasts brushing my chest, and kissed me—a deep, searching kiss that tasted of iced tea and mint. The leopard print lace scraped deliciously against my skin.
“You feel that?” she murmured against my lips, her hips never stopping their movement. “That’s all you. That echo. It’s like I know what you like before you do.”
She was right. Every shift, every touch, was perfectly aligned with my building pleasure. It was as if she was reading the ghost I’d left inside her. The climax, when it hit me, was a cataclysmic wave that tore a raw, guttural shout from my throat. She followed me over a moment later, clenching around me, her own cry muffled in the crook of my neck.
We lay together for a long time, tangled and sweating, the scent of sex and her perfume filling the air. She eventually slipped off me and curled against my side. “A proper goodbye,” she whispered, before her breathing evened out into sleep.
***
I woke up alone in my own bed. The gray light of dawn filtered in. The sheets smelled of my own laundry detergent. For a dizzying moment, I was sure it had all been another impossibly vivid dream.
Then I felt the pleasant ache in my muscles. I saw the faint, smudged trace of lipstick—a peachy nude, Morning Kiss—on my collar.
And I remembered her words. You left a piece of yourself here.
That evening, restless and haunted, I sat on my bedroom floor once more. Not trying to reach for Lydia. Just trying to quiet the echo. My consciousness drifted, untethered, through the familiar walls of my house.
I floated into the master bedroom. My step mom, Ellen, was there, sitting at her vanity in a robe, carefully applying night cream. I hovered, a silent, invisible observer. She hummed a tune from some old musical, her face relaxed and kind in the soft light.
The thought, sudden and unbidden, shimmered in my non-corporeal mind. A new door. A different set of strings to pull. The curiosity, now awakened and fed, was a hungry thing.
I floated closer, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed.
The question hung in the ether, heavy with possibility.
Do I want to?
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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.
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Your friend Michelle discovers that she can astral project, but you don't believe her at first. To prove it to you, she decides to swap spirits with her cat, and the proof is pretty convincing! However, when Michelle leaves to explore the world for an hour in the cat's body, things take an unexpected twist with the cat in her body....
body swap Astral Projection Cat
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Selimf18
· 02 Jan 2026
Your friend Michelle discovers that she can astral project, but you don't believe her at first. To prove it to you, she decides to swap spirits with her cat, and the proof is pretty convincing! However, when Michelle leaves to explore the world for an hour in the cat's body, things take an unexpected twist with the cat in her body....
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Short story about a man who moves to Miami and has his life body stolen by a maintenance man when they accidentally swap bodies after a head collision.
The humid Miami air clung to my skin as I adjusted to my new life in the city. My one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy, with a view of palm trees swaying outside my window. At 25, I was young, single, and—according to my friends—lucky enough to turn heads. But none of that mattered when I locked eyes with her at a café near Little Havana.
May.
Her name tasted like honey on my tongue. A stunning Cuban woman with curves that defied gravity, dark eyes that smoldered, and a smile that could melt steel. The moment I saw her, I knew I had to ask her out. And when she said yes, my heart nearly exploded.
There was just one problem: my Spanish was nonexistent.
The night before our date, I was pacing my apartment, rehearsing the few phrases I’d Googled—“Hola, guapa. ¿Quieres bailar?”—when the ceiling fan sputtered and died.
Great.
I called maintenance, and within an hour, a gruff, heavyset Mexican man named Ernesto showed up at my door. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and resentment, his white tank top straining over his gut as he grumbled about his wife under his breath.
“Fan’s broken,” he muttered, climbing the ladder with the grace of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.
I nodded, distracted, when my phone buzzed.
A text from May.
A picture.
My breath hitched. She’d sent a selfie in the dress she was wearing tomorrow—tight, red, and sinful. My fingers hovered over the screen, my pulse racing, when—
CRASH.
Ernesto lost his balance. The ladder wobbled. His arms flailed.
And then—impact.
Our skulls collided with a sickening crack, and everything went black.
---
I woke up disoriented.
The room was different. The clothes were different. And—wait—why was the calendar three weeks ahead?
Before I could process it, the bedroom door swung open.
May.
She stood there in a sundress so short it was practically a suggestion, her hips swaying as she sauntered toward me. A slow, knowing smirk curled her lips as she purred something in Spanish—words I didn’t understand but felt deep in my gut.
My confusion must’ve been obvious because she laughed, a rich, throaty sound, before dropping to her knees.
And then—
Oh. My. God.
The best. Blowjob. Of my life.
When she finally pulled away, licking her lips, she whispered in perfect English, “Tomorrow, we go meet my parents, okay?” Then she winked and strutted out, leaving me dazed, confused, and very satisfied.
But the moment she left, the door swung open again.
Ernesto.
His eyes locked onto mine, and his face drained of color.
“No… no, no, no,” he gasped before bolting like a man possessed.
May poked her head back in. “Who was that?”
I shrugged, my mind racing.
But I needed answers.
---
I tracked Ernesto down at his shitty apartment complex, cornering him in the dimly lit hallway.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
He looked like a man who’d seen a ghost. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he whispered.
“Wake up?!”He swallowed hard. “When we hit heads… I woke up in your body. My body was just… empty. Like a shell.” His voice dropped. “I saw the text from May. The date. I—I went. I speak Spanish. She loved it. We… we’ve been together since.”
My stomach twisted. “You’ve been what?”
“Fucking her,” he admitted, shame and excitement warring in his eyes. “I’d swap back and forth—your body, mine—so I could escape my wife and still be with her. But now you’re here, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
I stared at him, my blood boiling.
This bastard had been living my life.
Touching my woman.
And now?
Now I had a choice to make.
The air between Ernesto and me crackled with tension. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my mind racing with the implications of what he’d just confessed.
He’d been inside my body.
He’d touched May.
He’d lived my life.
A surge of possessive fury burned through me, but beneath it, something else flickered—curiosity.
“So,” I said slowly, stepping closer, “you’re telling me that when we hit heads, you swapped into my body? And you’ve been… switching back and forth?”
Ernesto nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Sí. Your body—it’s like a car. I get in, I drive, then I go back to mine when I’m done.”
I scoffed. “And my body just… waits for you?”
“Exactamente.” He shrugged. “When I’m not in it, it’s just… empty. Like a puppet with no strings.”
My jaw tightened. The idea of my body being used—violated—without my consent made my skin crawl. But then, another thought slithered into my mind.
What if I could do the same?
I crossed my arms. “Show me.”
Ernesto blinked. “¿Qué?”
“Show me how it works,” I demanded. “If you can jump into my body, then I should be able to jump into yours.”
His face paled. “No, no, hombre—it’s not that simple—”
“Bullshit.” I grabbed his wrist, my grip iron-tight. “You stole my life. The least you can do is teach me how to do the same.”
For a long moment, Ernesto just stared at me, his dark eyes flickering with fear… and something else. Resignation.
Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But you’re not gonna like it.”
---
Back in my apartment, Ernesto paced nervously. “It only works when we’re close,” he muttered. “And it hurts.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”
He hesitated, then pointed at the couch. “Sit. And… brace yourself.”
I sat, my heart pounding. Ernesto stood in front of me, his thick fingers flexing like he was preparing for a fight.
Then—
He slammed his forehead into mine.
CRACK.
White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision swam, the room tilting violently—
And then…
Darkness.
---
I woke up with a gasp—but something was wrong.
My hands were thicker, rougher. My gut heavy.
I looked down.
White tank top. Jeans. A gold chain around my neck.
Ernesto’s body.
“Holy shit,” I breathed—but the voice that came out was his. Deep, accented.
Across from me, my body stirred.
Ernesto—now in me—groaned, rubbing his (my?) forehead. Then he looked up, and our eyes met.
A slow, wicked grin spread across my face.
“See?” he said, flexing my fingers. “Now you know.”
Disgust twisted in my gut—but so did something else. Power.
If he could do it…
So could I.
I stood, testing the weight of Ernesto’s body. It was strange—like wearing a suit two sizes too big. But the strength was undeniable.
And then—
The door opened.
May.
Her eyes lit up when she saw me—or rather, my body—sitting there.
“Hola, papi,” she purred, strutting over to him like I wasn’t even there.
My blood boiled.
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to my lips—his lips—her fingers tangling in my hair.
And I was just… standing there.
Invisible.
Forgotten.
A growl ripped from my throat.
May pulled back, frowning at me. “Ernesto? What’s wrong with you?”
Wrong?
Everything was wrong.
But now…
Now I knew how to fix it.
I lunged.
May screamed as I tackled my own body to the ground, our skulls colliding with another sickening CRACK—
And the world went black again.
---
When I opened my eyes, I was back.
My hands. My body.
And May beneath me, her lips swollen from kissing me—the real me.
Her eyes widened. “James?”
The moment May stepped out of the apartment, the air between Ernesto and me grew thick with tension. I ran a hand through my hair—my hair again—and exhaled sharply.
"Alright," I said, turning to Ernesto, who was still rubbing his temple from the last headbutt. "We need to talk."
He scowled but didn't argue.
"I need you to do something for me," I said, keeping my voice low. "Tonight—May wants me to meet her parents. But I can't speak Spanish, and I don’t want to embarrass her."
Ernesto’s eyebrows shot up. "¿En serio? You want me to go?"
I nodded. "Just for the dinner. You go as me, charm them, then we swap back after."
A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. "And what do I get out of it?"
My jaw tightened. "You get to keep using my body whenever you want—within reason. But there’s one condition."
He waited.
"You don’t sleep with May."
Ernesto barked a laugh. "Cabrón, you think I can resist that?" He gestured toward the door where May had just left.
I grabbed his collar, shoving him against the wall. "Yes. Because if you don’t, I swear to God, I’ll make sure your wife finds out exactly where you’ve been disappearing to."
His smirk faltered.
After a tense silence, he finally relented. "Está bien. Fine. No sex. Just dinner."
I released him, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt. "Good. Now get ready. You’ve got a date."
---
The swap was easier this time—just a quick, brutal knock of our foreheads, and suddenly, I was staring at myself again.
Ernesto—now in my body—adjusted my shirt, flashing me a cocky grin.
Ernesto—now wearing my body—with a low, dangerous growl.
“Listen carefully,” I hissed, jabbing a finger into my own chest. “You will be on your best behavior tonight. You will charm her parents. And you will not touch her after.”Ernesto smirked, running my hands down my torso in a way that made my skin crawl. “Relax, güey. I got this.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I snapped. “You think this is some kind of game? You ruin this for me—”
“And what?” He laughed. “You’ll tell her the truth? ‘Oh hey, May, by the way, your novio is really a baldy maintenance man in a stolen body!’” His voice dripped with mocking. “Face it, hermano. You need me.”
I wanted to strangle him. Instead, I took a deep breath.
“One date,” I said through gritted teeth. “Then we swap back. No funny business.”
Ernesto rolled my eyes but nodded. “Sí, sí. No funny business.”---
From the window of my apartment, I watched them leave. May looped her arm through mine, laughing at something he said—something in perfect Spanish, no doubt. The way she looked at him—no, at me—sent a vicious pang of jealousy through my gut.
That should’ve been me walking her to the car.
That smile should’ve been for me.
I clenched the windowsill until my knuckles turned white.
Just get through tonight, I told myself. Then you get your life back.
---
Three hours later, the sound of the front door opening jolted me from my pacing.
“We’re back!” May’s musical voice called.
I rushed into the living room—and froze.
May was pressed against my body—Ernesto—her hips grinding into him as his hands roamed shamelessly over her curves. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her dark eyes hooded with lust.
“Ay, papi,” she purred, biting his—my—ear. “Take me to bed.”
Ernesto smirked—smirked—right at me over her shoulder.
You promised, I mouthed, fury burning in my chest.
His grin widened. Then he hoisted May over his shoulder like a prize, her giggles bouncing off the walls as they disappeared into the bedroom.
A second later, the first moan cut through the air.
Hers.
Then his.
I stood there, shaking.
Traitor. Liar.
I could’ve barged in. I could’ve screamed.
But what would I say?
That’s not me in there!
She’d think I was insane.
So I did the only thing I could.
I sat on the couch.
And I listened.
Every gasp. Every groan. Every filthy, throaty cry May made for him—for my body.
It should’ve been me.
My fists clenched.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, but the sounds—those goddamn sounds—continued to seep through the thin walls. May's breathy moans. The creak of the bedframe. Ernesto's gruff voice, my voice, whispering things in Spanish I couldn't understand but knew were filthy.
I gripped the armrest of the couch, my nails digging into the fabric. Every muscle in my body was tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
I wanted to kick down the door. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was sit there—trapped in Ernesto’s body, stuck on the sidelines of my own fucking life.
A particularly loud cry from May sent a jolt of white-hot anger through me. That was supposed to be mine.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stormed out onto the balcony, gulping the humid Miami air like it could cleanse my rage. The city lights blurred in front of me, my thoughts spinning.
How the hell was I going to fix this?
→ I could try to force another swap—but Ernesto was in my body now. Stronger. Younger. If I charged in there and we fought... May would see. She'd think I was attacking her.
→ I could wait. Let him finish. Maybe he'd keep his word and swap back after. Yeah, right.
→ Or… I could take matters into my own hands. Permanently.
The balcony railing groaned as I leaned against it. Below, the pool shimmered under ultraviolet lights. A dark fantasy flickered in my mind—Ernesto, my body, slipping on wet tiles. Hitting his head. Another accident.
Before I could follow that thought further, the bedroom door creaked open.
I turned.
May stood there in the doorway, draped in nothing but one of my old T-shirts—just long enough to tease the bare skin of her thighs. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were red and swollen.
She looked satisfied.
My stomach turned.
"Ernesto?" Her brow furrowed. "What are you doing out here?"
Ernesto. The name was a punch to the gut.
"Just... needed some air," I muttered, hating the gravel in his voice.
May bit her lip, glancing back toward the bedroom. "James is, uh... resting." A blush crept up her neck, and I knew exactly what kind of 'rest' he was getting.
I swallowed hard. "You two had a good night?"
She smiled—that smile. The one I'd been dreaming about since the day we met. "The best. His parents loved him. And then..." She trailed off, eyes glazing over with memory. My chest ached.
Before she could say more, my voice called from inside.
"Mi vidaaaaa, where'd you go?"
May grinned. "Gotta go." She turned, then hesitated. "Hey... you okay? You seem... off."
I forced a laugh. "Just tired."
She nodded and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
A second later, laughter spilled out. His.
That was it.
I wasn't playing this game anymore.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found her number—Ernesto's wife.
One ring. Two.
"¿Hola?"
I took a deep breath.
"Señora Rodriguez? You might want to come to my apartment. Your husband is here... and you won't believe what he's been doing with my body."
I hung up before she could reply.
Back inside, the sounds of passion had started up again.
But not for long.
The knock at the door came less than twenty minutes later - hard and impatient. I'd know that knock anywhere.
Marisol Rodriguez.
I rubbed my hands together (Ernesto's thick, calloused hands) and hurried to answer. The moment I opened the door, I was nearly knocked backward by the force of Marisol's fury.
"¿DÓNDE ESTÁ?" she demanded, dark eyes blazing. She was a beautiful woman - all dangerous curves and fire - but right now, she looked ready to kill.
I stepped aside. "Master bedroom."
She stormed past me in a whirlwind of floral perfume and righteous anger, platform sandals slapping against the tile. I followed closely behind, my heart pounding with equal parts guilt and anticipation.
The moans grew louder as we approached.
Marisol froze outside my bedroom door, her face twisting in fury. Without hesitation, she swung the door open with a violent crash.
The sight that greeted us was exactly what I expected. May on her back, legs wrapped around my body, sheets tangled around their waists. They froze mid-thrust, identical looks of horror dawning on their faces.
"MARISOL?!" Ernesto's voice cracked.
May scrambled backwards, clutching the sheets to her chest. "James? What the hell? Who is-?"
Marisol didn't say a word. She just smiled - slow and venomous. Then she reached into her designer purse and pulled out a glass bottle of holy water.
Ernesto's eyes went wide. "No, mujer, wait-"
She uncorked it with her teeth and flung the contents straight at his face.
The effect was instantaneous. Ernesto - in my body - screamed as the water hit his skin and began sizzling. His arms flailed as his back arched unnaturally, my body spasming against the mattress.
May screamed, falling off the bed in her scramble to escape. "WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
Marisol crossed herself. "Demonio. I knew it wasn't really my husband."
Smoke began rising from my body's pores as Ernesto thrashed, his screams taking on an unnatural, echoing quality.
And then - with one final, guttural wail - he separated.
A translucent, ghostly version of Ernesto was ejected from my body, hovering mid-air before collapsing into a shimmering puddle on the floor that slowly dissolved into nothing.
My body slumped onto the bed, unmoving.
Complete silence.
Then May scrambled to her feet, naked and terrified, grabbing for her clothes. "What the FUCK was that?!"
Marisol calmly recorked her now-empty bottle. "El Diablo takes many forms, mija." She turned to me - still in Ernesto's body - and tilted her head. "Now. About you..."
I held up my hands. "Marisol, I promise, I'm-"
She reached into her purse again.
I dove for my motionless body on the bed just as she flung another spray of holy water.
CRACK.
Pain exploded through my skull as my forehead connected with my body's.
Darkness.
Then - the feeling of fitting again.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my body - my real body. Down on the floor, Ernesto groaned, back in his own form.
Marisol grabbed her husband by the ear and yanked him upright. "We're leaving. Now."
As she dragged a groggy Ernesto toward the door, she turned back to me and May with a smirk. "You're welcome."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Silence again.
May slowly turned to me, clutching her dress to her chest. "James... what the actual fuck just happened?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Somehow "my maintenance man possessed my body to date you because he was in a bad marriage and now we might both be cursed" didn't seem like the right answer.
So I went with:
"...Miami is weird?"
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then smacked me hard across the face.
"You're goddamn right," she muttered, stalking toward the bathroom. "And you're never sleeping with me again."
The bathroom door slammed.
Alone again.
I rubbed my stinging cheek and sighed.
Worth it.
→ Epilogue →
Three Months Later
The apartment AC hummed as I adjusted my tie in the mirror. First day at my new job - no more staring at Ernesto's ugly mug in the maintenance hallways.
A knock at the door.
I checked the peephole.
And nearly swallowed my tongue.
May stood there in a tight pink dress, arms crossed, looking pissed.
I opened the door slowly. "Uh. Hey?"
She glared. "You owe me dinner."
"...I do?"
"Correct." She shoved a stack of papers into my chest. Every single one was a Spanish workbook. "And you're going to learn real Spanish. Not whatever that pendejo was speaking."
I blinked. Then grinned so wide my cheeks hurt.
"Si, mi amor."
She rolled her eyes. "Dios mío. That's not even the right context." But she was smiling as she pushed past me into the apartment.
Life was good.
And Miami?
Miami was still very weird.
The humid Miami air clung to my skin as I adjusted to my new life in the city. My one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy, with a view of palm trees swaying outside my window. At 25, I was young, single, and—according to my friends—lucky enough to turn heads. But none of that mattered when I locked eyes with her at a café near Little Havana.
May.
Her name tasted like honey on my tongue. A stunning Cuban woman with curves that defied gravity, dark eyes that smoldered, and a smile that could melt steel. The moment I saw her, I knew I had to ask her out. And when she said yes, my heart nearly exploded.
There was just one problem: my Spanish was nonexistent.
The night before our date, I was pacing my apartment, rehearsing the few phrases I’d Googled—“Hola, guapa. ¿Quieres bailar?”—when the ceiling fan sputtered and died.
Great.
I called maintenance, and within an hour, a gruff, heavyset Mexican man named Ernesto showed up at my door. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and resentment, his white tank top straining over his gut as he grumbled about his wife under his breath.
“Fan’s broken,” he muttered, climbing the ladder with the grace of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.
I nodded, distracted, when my phone buzzed.
A text from May.
A picture.
My breath hitched. She’d sent a selfie in the dress she was wearing tomorrow—tight, red, and sinful. My fingers hovered over the screen, my pulse racing, when—
CRASH.
Ernesto lost his balance. The ladder wobbled. His arms flailed.
And then—impact.
Our skulls collided with a sickening crack, and everything went black.
---
I woke up disoriented.
The room was different. The clothes were different. And—wait—why was the calendar three weeks ahead?
Before I could process it, the bedroom door swung open.
May.
She stood there in a sundress so short it was practically a suggestion, her hips swaying as she sauntered toward me. A slow, knowing smirk curled her lips as she purred something in Spanish—words I didn’t understand but felt deep in my gut.
My confusion must’ve been obvious because she laughed, a rich, throaty sound, before dropping to her knees.
And then—
Oh. My. God.
The best. Blowjob. Of my life.
When she finally pulled away, licking her lips, she whispered in perfect English, “Tomorrow, we go meet my parents, okay?” Then she winked and strutted out, leaving me dazed, confused, and very satisfied.
But the moment she left, the door swung open again.
Ernesto.
His eyes locked onto mine, and his face drained of color.
“No… no, no, no,” he gasped before bolting like a man possessed.
May poked her head back in. “Who was that?”
I shrugged, my mind racing.
But I needed answers.
---
I tracked Ernesto down at his shitty apartment complex, cornering him in the dimly lit hallway.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
He looked like a man who’d seen a ghost. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he whispered.
“Wake up?!”He swallowed hard. “When we hit heads… I woke up in your body. My body was just… empty. Like a shell.” His voice dropped. “I saw the text from May. The date. I—I went. I speak Spanish. She loved it. We… we’ve been together since.”
My stomach twisted. “You’ve been what?”
“Fucking her,” he admitted, shame and excitement warring in his eyes. “I’d swap back and forth—your body, mine—so I could escape my wife and still be with her. But now you’re here, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
I stared at him, my blood boiling.
This bastard had been living my life.
Touching my woman.
And now?
Now I had a choice to make.
The air between Ernesto and me crackled with tension. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my mind racing with the implications of what he’d just confessed.
He’d been inside my body.
He’d touched May.
He’d lived my life.
A surge of possessive fury burned through me, but beneath it, something else flickered—curiosity.
“So,” I said slowly, stepping closer, “you’re telling me that when we hit heads, you swapped into my body? And you’ve been… switching back and forth?”
Ernesto nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Sí. Your body—it’s like a car. I get in, I drive, then I go back to mine when I’m done.”
I scoffed. “And my body just… waits for you?”
“Exactamente.” He shrugged. “When I’m not in it, it’s just… empty. Like a puppet with no strings.”
My jaw tightened. The idea of my body being used—violated—without my consent made my skin crawl. But then, another thought slithered into my mind.
What if I could do the same?
I crossed my arms. “Show me.”
Ernesto blinked. “¿Qué?”
“Show me how it works,” I demanded. “If you can jump into my body, then I should be able to jump into yours.”
His face paled. “No, no, hombre—it’s not that simple—”
“Bullshit.” I grabbed his wrist, my grip iron-tight. “You stole my life. The least you can do is teach me how to do the same.”
For a long moment, Ernesto just stared at me, his dark eyes flickering with fear… and something else. Resignation.
Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But you’re not gonna like it.”
---
Back in my apartment, Ernesto paced nervously. “It only works when we’re close,” he muttered. “And it hurts.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”
He hesitated, then pointed at the couch. “Sit. And… brace yourself.”
I sat, my heart pounding. Ernesto stood in front of me, his thick fingers flexing like he was preparing for a fight.
Then—
He slammed his forehead into mine.
CRACK.
White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision swam, the room tilting violently—
And then…
Darkness.
---
I woke up with a gasp—but something was wrong.
My hands were thicker, rougher. My gut heavy.
I looked down.
White tank top. Jeans. A gold chain around my neck.
Ernesto’s body.
“Holy shit,” I breathed—but the voice that came out was his. Deep, accented.
Across from me, my body stirred.
Ernesto—now in me—groaned, rubbing his (my?) forehead. Then he looked up, and our eyes met.
A slow, wicked grin spread across my face.
“See?” he said, flexing my fingers. “Now you know.”
Disgust twisted in my gut—but so did something else. Power.
If he could do it…
So could I.
I stood, testing the weight of Ernesto’s body. It was strange—like wearing a suit two sizes too big. But the strength was undeniable.
And then—
The door opened.
May.
Her eyes lit up when she saw me—or rather, my body—sitting there.
“Hola, papi,” she purred, strutting over to him like I wasn’t even there.
My blood boiled.
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to my lips—his lips—her fingers tangling in my hair.
And I was just… standing there.
Invisible.
Forgotten.
A growl ripped from my throat.
May pulled back, frowning at me. “Ernesto? What’s wrong with you?”
Wrong?
Everything was wrong.
But now…
Now I knew how to fix it.
I lunged.
May screamed as I tackled my own body to the ground, our skulls colliding with another sickening CRACK—
And the world went black again.
---
When I opened my eyes, I was back.
My hands. My body.
And May beneath me, her lips swollen from kissing me—the real me.
Her eyes widened. “James?”
The moment May stepped out of the apartment, the air between Ernesto and me grew thick with tension. I ran a hand through my hair—my hair again—and exhaled sharply.
"Alright," I said, turning to Ernesto, who was still rubbing his temple from the last headbutt. "We need to talk."
He scowled but didn't argue.
"I need you to do something for me," I said, keeping my voice low. "Tonight—May wants me to meet her parents. But I can't speak Spanish, and I don’t want to embarrass her."
Ernesto’s eyebrows shot up. "¿En serio? You want me to go?"
I nodded. "Just for the dinner. You go as me, charm them, then we swap back after."
A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. "And what do I get out of it?"
My jaw tightened. "You get to keep using my body whenever you want—within reason. But there’s one condition."
He waited.
"You don’t sleep with May."
Ernesto barked a laugh. "Cabrón, you think I can resist that?" He gestured toward the door where May had just left.
I grabbed his collar, shoving him against the wall. "Yes. Because if you don’t, I swear to God, I’ll make sure your wife finds out exactly where you’ve been disappearing to."
His smirk faltered.
After a tense silence, he finally relented. "Está bien. Fine. No sex. Just dinner."
I released him, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt. "Good. Now get ready. You’ve got a date."
---
The swap was easier this time—just a quick, brutal knock of our foreheads, and suddenly, I was staring at myself again.
Ernesto—now in my body—adjusted my shirt, flashing me a cocky grin.
Ernesto—now wearing my body—with a low, dangerous growl.
“Listen carefully,” I hissed, jabbing a finger into my own chest. “You will be on your best behavior tonight. You will charm her parents. And you will not touch her after.”Ernesto smirked, running my hands down my torso in a way that made my skin crawl. “Relax, güey. I got this.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I snapped. “You think this is some kind of game? You ruin this for me—”
“And what?” He laughed. “You’ll tell her the truth? ‘Oh hey, May, by the way, your novio is really a baldy maintenance man in a stolen body!’” His voice dripped with mocking. “Face it, hermano. You need me.”
I wanted to strangle him. Instead, I took a deep breath.
“One date,” I said through gritted teeth. “Then we swap back. No funny business.”
Ernesto rolled my eyes but nodded. “Sí, sí. No funny business.”---
From the window of my apartment, I watched them leave. May looped her arm through mine, laughing at something he said—something in perfect Spanish, no doubt. The way she looked at him—no, at me—sent a vicious pang of jealousy through my gut.
That should’ve been me walking her to the car.
That smile should’ve been for me.
I clenched the windowsill until my knuckles turned white.
Just get through tonight, I told myself. Then you get your life back.
---
Three hours later, the sound of the front door opening jolted me from my pacing.
“We’re back!” May’s musical voice called.
I rushed into the living room—and froze.
May was pressed against my body—Ernesto—her hips grinding into him as his hands roamed shamelessly over her curves. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her dark eyes hooded with lust.
“Ay, papi,” she purred, biting his—my—ear. “Take me to bed.”
Ernesto smirked—smirked—right at me over her shoulder.
You promised, I mouthed, fury burning in my chest.
His grin widened. Then he hoisted May over his shoulder like a prize, her giggles bouncing off the walls as they disappeared into the bedroom.
A second later, the first moan cut through the air.
Hers.
Then his.
I stood there, shaking.
Traitor. Liar.
I could’ve barged in. I could’ve screamed.
But what would I say?
That’s not me in there!
She’d think I was insane.
So I did the only thing I could.
I sat on the couch.
And I listened.
Every gasp. Every groan. Every filthy, throaty cry May made for him—for my body.
It should’ve been me.
My fists clenched.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, but the sounds—those goddamn sounds—continued to seep through the thin walls. May's breathy moans. The creak of the bedframe. Ernesto's gruff voice, my voice, whispering things in Spanish I couldn't understand but knew were filthy.
I gripped the armrest of the couch, my nails digging into the fabric. Every muscle in my body was tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
I wanted to kick down the door. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was sit there—trapped in Ernesto’s body, stuck on the sidelines of my own fucking life.
A particularly loud cry from May sent a jolt of white-hot anger through me. That was supposed to be mine.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stormed out onto the balcony, gulping the humid Miami air like it could cleanse my rage. The city lights blurred in front of me, my thoughts spinning.
How the hell was I going to fix this?
→ I could try to force another swap—but Ernesto was in my body now. Stronger. Younger. If I charged in there and we fought... May would see. She'd think I was attacking her.
→ I could wait. Let him finish. Maybe he'd keep his word and swap back after. Yeah, right.
→ Or… I could take matters into my own hands. Permanently.
The balcony railing groaned as I leaned against it. Below, the pool shimmered under ultraviolet lights. A dark fantasy flickered in my mind—Ernesto, my body, slipping on wet tiles. Hitting his head. Another accident.
Before I could follow that thought further, the bedroom door creaked open.
I turned.
May stood there in the doorway, draped in nothing but one of my old T-shirts—just long enough to tease the bare skin of her thighs. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were red and swollen.
She looked satisfied.
My stomach turned.
"Ernesto?" Her brow furrowed. "What are you doing out here?"
Ernesto. The name was a punch to the gut.
"Just... needed some air," I muttered, hating the gravel in his voice.
May bit her lip, glancing back toward the bedroom. "James is, uh... resting." A blush crept up her neck, and I knew exactly what kind of 'rest' he was getting.
I swallowed hard. "You two had a good night?"
She smiled—that smile. The one I'd been dreaming about since the day we met. "The best. His parents loved him. And then..." She trailed off, eyes glazing over with memory. My chest ached.
Before she could say more, my voice called from inside.
"Mi vidaaaaa, where'd you go?"
May grinned. "Gotta go." She turned, then hesitated. "Hey... you okay? You seem... off."
I forced a laugh. "Just tired."
She nodded and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
A second later, laughter spilled out. His.
That was it.
I wasn't playing this game anymore.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found her number—Ernesto's wife.
One ring. Two.
"¿Hola?"
I took a deep breath.
"Señora Rodriguez? You might want to come to my apartment. Your husband is here... and you won't believe what he's been doing with my body."
I hung up before she could reply.
Back inside, the sounds of passion had started up again.
But not for long.
The knock at the door came less than twenty minutes later - hard and impatient. I'd know that knock anywhere.
Marisol Rodriguez.
I rubbed my hands together (Ernesto's thick, calloused hands) and hurried to answer. The moment I opened the door, I was nearly knocked backward by the force of Marisol's fury.
"¿DÓNDE ESTÁ?" she demanded, dark eyes blazing. She was a beautiful woman - all dangerous curves and fire - but right now, she looked ready to kill.
I stepped aside. "Master bedroom."
She stormed past me in a whirlwind of floral perfume and righteous anger, platform sandals slapping against the tile. I followed closely behind, my heart pounding with equal parts guilt and anticipation.
The moans grew louder as we approached.
Marisol froze outside my bedroom door, her face twisting in fury. Without hesitation, she swung the door open with a violent crash.
The sight that greeted us was exactly what I expected. May on her back, legs wrapped around my body, sheets tangled around their waists. They froze mid-thrust, identical looks of horror dawning on their faces.
"MARISOL?!" Ernesto's voice cracked.
May scrambled backwards, clutching the sheets to her chest. "James? What the hell? Who is-?"
Marisol didn't say a word. She just smiled - slow and venomous. Then she reached into her designer purse and pulled out a glass bottle of holy water.
Ernesto's eyes went wide. "No, mujer, wait-"
She uncorked it with her teeth and flung the contents straight at his face.
The effect was instantaneous. Ernesto - in my body - screamed as the water hit his skin and began sizzling. His arms flailed as his back arched unnaturally, my body spasming against the mattress.
May screamed, falling off the bed in her scramble to escape. "WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
Marisol crossed herself. "Demonio. I knew it wasn't really my husband."
Smoke began rising from my body's pores as Ernesto thrashed, his screams taking on an unnatural, echoing quality.
And then - with one final, guttural wail - he separated.
A translucent, ghostly version of Ernesto was ejected from my body, hovering mid-air before collapsing into a shimmering puddle on the floor that slowly dissolved into nothing.
My body slumped onto the bed, unmoving.
Complete silence.
Then May scrambled to her feet, naked and terrified, grabbing for her clothes. "What the FUCK was that?!"
Marisol calmly recorked her now-empty bottle. "El Diablo takes many forms, mija." She turned to me - still in Ernesto's body - and tilted her head. "Now. About you..."
I held up my hands. "Marisol, I promise, I'm-"
She reached into her purse again.
I dove for my motionless body on the bed just as she flung another spray of holy water.
CRACK.
Pain exploded through my skull as my forehead connected with my body's.
Darkness.
Then - the feeling of fitting again.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my body - my real body. Down on the floor, Ernesto groaned, back in his own form.
Marisol grabbed her husband by the ear and yanked him upright. "We're leaving. Now."
As she dragged a groggy Ernesto toward the door, she turned back to me and May with a smirk. "You're welcome."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Silence again.
May slowly turned to me, clutching her dress to her chest. "James... what the actual fuck just happened?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Somehow "my maintenance man possessed my body to date you because he was in a bad marriage and now we might both be cursed" didn't seem like the right answer.
So I went with:
"...Miami is weird?"
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then smacked me hard across the face.
"You're goddamn right," she muttered, stalking toward the bathroom. "And you're never sleeping with me again."
The bathroom door slammed.
Alone again.
I rubbed my stinging cheek and sighed.
Worth it.
→ Epilogue →
Three Months Later
The apartment AC hummed as I adjusted my tie in the mirror. First day at my new job - no more staring at Ernesto's ugly mug in the maintenance hallways.
A knock at the door.
I checked the peephole.
And nearly swallowed my tongue.
May stood there in a tight pink dress, arms crossed, looking pissed.
I opened the door slowly. "Uh. Hey?"
She glared. "You owe me dinner."
"...I do?"
"Correct." She shoved a stack of papers into my chest. Every single one was a Spanish workbook. "And you're going to learn real Spanish. Not whatever that pendejo was speaking."
I blinked. Then grinned so wide my cheeks hurt.
"Si, mi amor."
She rolled her eyes. "Dios mío. That's not even the right context." But she was smiling as she pushed past me into the apartment.
Life was good.
And Miami?
Miami was still very weird.
body swap
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A man joins a yoga studio and its not exactly what he was expecting...
The moving truck groaned as it rolled down the gravel driveway of Jon’s new home—a small rental house on the edge of Laredo, Texas. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to his skin even as the sun dipped low in the sky. He wiped his forehead and glanced around. Quiet. Empty. Just him, his gym bag, and a whole lot of loneliness.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath.
The first week was brutal. Work was fine—some IT gig at a local firm—but the silence at home was deafening. So, naturally, Jon did what any single guy with no social life would do: he practically lived at the gym.
Iron Haven was the kind of place where beefed-up ranchers and college athletes clashed over bench press real estate, but Jon didn’t care. The grind kept him sane.
And then, on day five, he saw her.
She was mid-rep on the squat rack, legs flexed, her dark ponytail swaying with each controlled descent. Half-Filipina, half-Latina, and all trouble for his concentration. When she stood up, racking the bar with effortless strength, she caught him staring. Instead of scowling, she grinned.
"Could use a spot," she called over.
Jon blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Sure."
Her name was Mariah. Twenty-four, worked as a physical therapist, and had a laugh that hit like a shot of whiskey—smooth and dangerous. She teased him about his form, he joked about her terrible taste in gym music (seriously, reggaeton mixed with 90s hip-hop?), and just like that, they were friends.
Mariah was the kind of girl who made Jon forget how to breathe. Not because she was flawless—though the way her leggings hugged those curves didn’t hurt—but because she was real. Quick to poke fun, quicker to check in if she sensed something was off.
"Helloooo? Earth to Jon." She waved a hand in front of his face during cooldown stretches.
"Sorry," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Zoned out."
"Bullshit," she grinned. "You were staring at my ass."
Jon’s face burned. "I was not—"
"—Don’t lie, I saw you." She stretched her arms overhead, flashing a sliver of toned stomach. "It’s cool. I get it. My glutes are legendary."
Jon groaned, but damn if she wasn’t right.
Weeks slipped by. They spotted each other, grabbed post-workout smoothies, and even binged bad action movies sprawled on her couch. Every time she leaned in to steal a fry or playfully shoved him, his pulse spiked. But then she’d mention him.
"Jackson’s flying in next weekend."
Jackson. The long-distance boyfriend. Seattle-based finance guy. Polite, handsome, and—according to Mariah—"super understanding."
Which meant Jon was screwed.
One night, post-deadlifts, Mariah twisted the cap off her water bottle and sighed. "You ever feel like life’s got this weird way of dangling what you want just outta reach?"
Jon swallowed. "Yeah."
She glanced at him, eyes searching. "Jon…"
The air between them thickened. His chest ached.
Then her phone buzzed. She checked it, and just like that, the moment shattered.
"Jackson," she said softly, smiling at the screen.
Jon forced a grin. "Better answer it."
She did. And Jon swallowed his feelings like chalky protein powder—gritty, tasteless, and necessary.
But Texas heat has a way of making fools out of careful men. And Jon was starting to wonder how long he could keep pretending. The weights felt heavier that day.
Not physically—his deadlifts were the same as always—but mentally, his focus was shot. He’d spent the previous night scrolling through Mariah’s Instagram, stalking Jackson’s perfect teeth and vacation pics in Seattle, feeling like an idiot. His grip slipped on the third rep.
Then—pop.
A white-hot bolt of pain ripped through Jon’s lower back. His vision blurred. The barbell hit the floor with a thunderous crash, and suddenly, he was on his knees, gasping.
"Jon?!"
Mariah was at his side in seconds, hands on his shoulders before he could even blink away the sweat burning his eyes. Her touch sent a different kind of electric current through him—not pain, just warmth.
"I’m fine," he lied through clenched teeth.
She gave him that don’t-bullshit-me look—the one that made men stronger than him crumble. "You’re not fine. You just folded like a lawn chair."
The doctor’s verdict later that evening was grim: herniated disc. No lifting. No heavy exertion. For at least three months.
"Try yoga," the doc suggested, scribbling on his clipboard.
Yoga.
Jon wanted to scream.
Day 4 of No Gym
Jon lasted four days before he caved.
The second he walked into Iron Haven, he spotted her—mid-conversation with some beefy guy in a tank top, laughing at something he said. His gut twisted.
Then she saw him. Her smile vanished.
"Jon." She marched over, arms crossed. "What are you doing here?"
"Just... needed to move." He shrugged, trying to play it off. "Light stuff. Maybe just the bike or—"
"No." She poked his chest. "Doctor’s orders. You leave. Now."
The guy she’d been talking to raised an eyebrow.
Embarrassment burned Jon’s neck. "Mariah, c’mon—"
"—I’ll drive you home." She snatched his gym bag off his shoulder.
Jon groaned. "You’re relentless."
"And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you wreck yourself."
That should’ve been sweet. But all it did was remind Jon that she cared—just not the way he wanted her to.
Week 3: The Slow Decline
No gym meant no Mariah.
Sure, she texted. Sent dumb memes. Even dropped by once with soup, which was so disgustingly thoughtful it made Jon’s chest hurt. But without the routine of spotting each other, their interactions dwindled.
Meanwhile, Jackson was in town.
Her Instagram was a barrage of them—brunch, some hipster brewery, his arm slung around her waist in that I-own-this-space way guys like him had.
Jon should’ve stopped looking.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he lay on his couch, ice pack on his back, binge-watching terrible TV and wondering if Mariah ever thought about him when she wasn’t obligated to.
Pathetic. Three months.
Three goddamn months.
Jon stood outside the only yoga studio in Laredo—"Sunrise Yoga & Wellness"—staring at the lavender-scented hellscape beyond the glass door. Inside, a handful of women in stretchy outfits moved in slow, graceful unison. This was a mistake.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His back still ached, despite the epidural shot last week. And his doctor’s smug "told you so" echoed in his skull.
"Try yoga, Jon."
Bullshit.
The studio door chimed as Jon pushed it open.
Instantly, every head turned.
A woman near the front—mid-50s, sipping from a stainless-steel water bottle—gave him a slow once-over. Jon stood there awkwardly, feeling like a linebacker who’d wandered into a ballet rehearsal.
"First time?" a voice chirped.
A petite blonde instructor bounced over, her neon yoga pants practically glowing under the studio lights.
"Yeah," Jon muttered, rubbing his neck. "My doctor said—"
"—Ahhh, the doctor recommended crowd." She grinned. "I get it. You’re skeptical. You think yoga’s just stretching and incense. But trust me—" She poked his bicep. "—you’ll be humiliated by how hard this is."
Great fucking pep talk.
"I'm Marisa, by the way! Class starts in five!" she announced to the room before leaving Jon to grab a mat.
Jon shuffled toward the back corner—least visibility possible—and tried to just hide and observe.
The scent of lavender and jasmine settled over the studio like a warm, cloying blanket. Jon stood frozen at the edge of the room, gripping his rented yoga mat like it might sprout legs and run for the door.
The class was packed—mostly women. Not just any women. Beautiful ones. Laughing, stretching, their toned limbs effortlessly folding into pretzel-like shapes that made his lower back ache in sympathy. At the center of it all was an older woman—maybe late fifties—with silver-streaked dark hair and an easy confidence. She held court among a circle of girls wrapped in expensive athleisure, all giggling at something she said with the familiarity of people who had known each other for years.
Then, in the far corner, her.
A lone figure sitting cross-legged on her mat, deep brown hair spilling over one shoulder. She was younger than the others—early twenties, maybe. Her eyes darted nervously around the room before settling on the ground in front of her. She had that fresh-faced, untouched beauty—soft lips, faint freckles dusting her cheeks—but her posture screamed stay away.
Jon hesitated for half a second before shuffling over and dropping his mat beside hers.
"Hey," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "First time?"
She flinched—actually flinched—as if she hadn’t expected anyone to acknowledge her. Then she nodded, barely lifting her chin.
"Yeah. You?"
"My doctor forced me into this," he admitted with a lopsided grin. "Said I had to 'embrace the healing process' or some shit."
A flicker of a smile. So tiny he almost missed it.
"Me too," she said. "Car accident. My physical therapist recommended it."
"Jon." He held out a hand.
She blinked at it, then placed her hand in his—delicate fingers, cold to the touch.
"Elena," she whispered.
For a second, it felt nice. Just two lost people in a room full of strangers, clinging to the briefest moment of connection.
Then Elena pulled her hand back too quickly, her gaze darting past him. Her expression flattened, her walls slamming up again.
Jon frowned. "Uh—"
"Class is starting," she muttered, turning her body away from him.
And just like that—dismissed.
Confused, he glanced around the room and froze.
The older woman was staring. And so were the others. All of them. Unmistakably. Eyes locked onto Elena with unsettling intensity.
Jon’s skin prickled.
The teacher clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone! Let’s begin!"
But no one moved.
For one bizarre, suspended moment, the air in the room felt wrong.
Then Elena exhaled sharply.
And the older woman smiled.
As they began, it dawned on Jon that he was terrible at yoga.
Like, tragically bad.
Downward Dog? More like Collapsed Mutt. Warrior Pose? More like "Wobbling Toddler." Every time he attempted to mirror the instructor’s graceful movements, his body protested with crackling joints and awkward tremors.
At one point, he caught sight of Elena—effortlessly balanced in a perfect Tree Pose, her slender arms lifted toward the ceiling—and nearly toppled over in distraction. That’s when he noticed the odd little detail: a paper wristband looped around her wrist, stark white with faint black lettering.
Even stranger? The only other people wearing them: the older silver-haired woman and Marisa, the instructor.
Jon waited until they transitioned into Child’s Pose (which, mercifully, mostly involved kneeling and not moving) before leaning toward Elena.
"Hey," he whispered. "Where’d you get the wristband?"
Elena blinked at him, then at her own wrist. "I don't know," she murmured, voice barely audible. "They just gave it to me after I checked in. Did you get one?"
Before Jon could answer—
"Shhhh."
Marisa shot them a pointed look from the front of the room. Elena immediately folded in on herself again, and Jon bit back a frustrated sigh. So much for conversation.
--
Then came meditation.
Lights dimmed, soft music hummed through the speakers, and Jon lay flat on his back, surrendering to the plush mat beneath him. The room sank into silence.
Around him, the others drifted effortlessly into serenity—breaths slow, bodies slack. Even Jon, despite himself, began to relax.
Then—
A scent.
Sweet, floral, intoxicating. Not overpowering—just… there. Like someone had spritzed the air with perfume, subtle but all-encompassing. Jon inhaled deeply, and suddenly, his limbs felt lighter. His thoughts mellowed. A slow, warm buzz settled over him, as if he’d sipped a shot of something strong.
What the hell…?
Then—commotion.
A hushed rustling, a sharp inhale followed by an audible "No."
Jon cracked open an eye.
The older woman sat bolt upright, fists clenched in her lap. Her face was twisted—not in pain, but in... frustration? Anger?
Marisa swooped in instantly, murmuring something soothing before gently guiding her out of the room. The woman didn’t resist, but as the door shut behind them, the air in the studio shifted.
Jon exhaled. Probably nothing.
He closed his eyes again.
And promptly dozed off.
--
When he stirred, the lights were up, and the music had faded. Around him, people stretched, sighed, smiled—blissed-out expressions plastered on every face.
Including Elena’s.
Except now, Elena wasn’t avoiding eye contact.
She wasn’t shy.She was beaming.
Jon barely had time to process before she bounced up to him, rolling up her mat with effortless fluidity.
"Hey," she chirped, "what was your name again?"
"Uh—Jon?"
She laughed—bright, loud. "Right! Sorry!" Then she stuck out her hand. "I’m Elena."
But the way she said it was… off. Over-enunciated. "I’M EL-EEEE-NA." As if she was announcing it to the room.
And then—she winked.
Jon stared.
Five minutes ago, this girl wouldn’t look at him. Now she was grinning, tossing her hair, radiating energy like she’d chugged three espressos.
"Nice to officially meet you," she said—flirty, playful—before sashaying toward the door. "See you next week!"
Then she was gone.
Jon stood frozen, mat half-rolled, brain working overtime.
--
The parking lot was empty, save for one figure.
The older woman slumped on a bench near the exit, face in her hands. Silent sobs wracked her shoulders.
Jon hesitated.
Then he climbed into his car.
And drove away.
---
A week passed before Jon mustered the willpower to return to Sunrise Yoga & Wellness.
This time, the door gave a cheerful ding as he walked in, and Marisa—grinning from ear to ear—welcomed him like an old friend.
"Jon! You actually came back!" she teased, clasping her hands together. "I was sure we scared you off for good."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, doc’s orders."
"Uh-huh, sure." She winked. "Whatever gets you here, handsome."
Jon felt his face warm. The attention was nice—too nice—and for a second, he almost forgot why he’d been weirded out last time.
Then he saw her.
Elena.
She wasn’t hiding in the corner this time. She was thriving.
Surrounded by that same circle of beautiful women, she laughed loudly at some unheard joke, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. She looked different. Confident. Radiant. Entirely at home.
And then—her eyes flicked up.
She saw him.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips before she excused herself and sauntered toward him.
"Jon," she purred, stopping just a little too close, one hand resting lightly on his bicep. "You made it."
He stiffened—partly from surprise, partly because she was touching him like they’d known each other for years.
"Uh, yeah," he managed. "How’s… uh…?" He swallowed. "How’s the physical therapy going?"
A flicker of confusion passed over her face.
Then—just like that—it smoothed into recognition.
"Right! The accident." She laughed, brushing it off. "It’s going great. Thanks for asking."
Jon frowned. Last week, she’d acted like stepping out of her shell was impossible. Now she was making him the nervous one?
Before he could press, another woman walked in—young, gorgeous, glancing around the room with the cautious energy of a first-timer.
Elena immediately lit up.
"Ooooh, fresh meat," she whispered playfully—then shot Jon an apologetic smirk. "Duty calls. Catch you later?"
And just like that, she glided toward the newcomer, all sunshine and charm.
Jon watched as Elena greeted the woman—a hand on her arm, a warm laugh, a little tilt of her head that said you’re safe here.
Then… she slid a white wristband onto the woman’s wrist.
Jon stiffened.
The same exact kind he’d never been given.
He scanned the room.
Only three people had them.
—The new girl.
—Marisa.
—And some unfamiliar older lady, chatting animatedly with the same group of young, polished women as last time.
What the hell is going on?
Jon rolled out his mat, his skin prickling with unease as Elena’s laughter—bright, confident, uncharacteristic—filled the room.
Something was wrong.
And he was starting to think it wasn’t just his imagination.
The class unfolded like a broken-record replay of last week.
Jon struggled through the poses, his muscles protesting as he tried—and failed—to bend his body into shapes it clearly wasn’t meant to hold. Downward Dog still felt less like yoga and more like an uncoordinated stretch before faceplanting. Elena, meanwhile, had become disturbingly good overnight—her movements fluid, effortless, like she’d been doing this for years.
Which was impossible. She was new. Just like me.
Then came the wristbands.
Jon stole glances whenever he could, watching as the new girl—Emma, was it?—kept touching hers, running her fingers over the black lettering Jon still couldn’t read.
Elena noticed him looking and grinned. "whatcha lookin at hon?" she teased, swaying close during a water break.
"Those wristbands. You said last week they gave you one when you walked in. And then you have that new girl Emma one today. What are they for?" Jon hedged.
"Mmmmm, darling those are just for new people. You don't need one." she giggled, popping her hip. Jon wanted to investigate further so he asked "but I was new last week and I never got one. Why is that?" She looked nervous for about a nano second and then replied with "well you're not new anymore sweetheart! So I wouldn't worry your handsome head about it now." she said winking and then she was off again, leaving him standing there like an idiot.
——
Meditation.
Lights dimmed. Music hummed. The same cloying floral scent from last time curled through the air—thick, honey-sweet, with a weight to it that made Jon’s limbs feel like they were floating.
The high crept in slow, a warm, dizzying sensation that smoothed the edges of his thoughts.
Then—
A rustle. A sharp inhale.
Jon slitted his eyes open just in time to see the older woman—the new one this time—jerk upright, her breath ragged.
"What the fu-," she hissed under her breath. Looking at her hands with confusion and touching her face.
Marisa was on her instantly, murmuring soft words, gently steering her toward the door.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
Just like last week.
He wanted to follow. To ask questions. But his body ignored him, melting further into the mat, the scent wrapping around him like a drug.
His eyes closed.
——
Aftermath.
The lights came up. People stretched, sighed, exchanged soft smiles. Jon blinked back to reality, disoriented, an odd languidness clinging to his limbs.
Beside him, the new girl—Emma—sat up, her expression transformed.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
She turned to Elena, beaming. "I get what you meant now," she whispered, touching her wristband.
"Told you," Elena smirked back at her new friend.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Across the room, Marisa stretched her arms overhead, sighing in contentment. "Another amazing session, everyone! See you next week!"
Jon gathered his mat, mind racing.
Same scents. Same meditative shift. Same wristbands.
And now—same people?
He glanced over his shoulder just as Elena caught his eye. She winked, slow, deliberate.
"I think the gals are getting together this weekend for drinks, Jon," she sang. "You should join us, right EMMA?"
Emma was looking down at herself and not paying attention, but then looked back up and looked Jon up and down nodding playfully.
Marisa echoed the invitation for drinks Friday night and Jon politely agreed.
He barely made it to his car before he noticed.
The older woman sat slumped against the wheel of her parked SUV.
Crying.
---
Later that week, Jon found himself harassed and eventually coerced into going out with his new yoga "friends".
The Lone Star Saloon was the kind of small-town bar where the neon sign buzzed, the jukebox played a mix of classic country and top-40 hits no one asked for, and everybody knew everybody—or at least pretended to.
Jon pushed through the scarred wooden door, the chatter of voices and twang of steel guitar hitting him in a wall of sound. He spotted them immediately—the Sunrise Yoga crew clustered around a long table in the back, drinks gleaming under the dim amber lights.
Marisa waved him over, her smile luminous. "Jon! You came!"
He forced a grin, sliding into the booth beside her. "Wouldn’t miss it."
The table was packed—Elena, Emma, the other regulars from class—all polished and glowing like they’d stepped out of some sleek magazine ad for "Small-Town Goddesses." But what caught Jon’s attention were the men—because nearly a third of the girls weren’t alone.
They were with older men.
Much older.
Silver-haired gentlemen in pressed button-downs laughing intimately with girls young enough to be their daughters. One man—late 50s, tan, with the crisp confidence of money—had his hand possessively on the thigh of a yoga regular Jon recognized from class. Another, balding and thick around the middle, leaned in to whisper something that made his dark-haired companion giggle into her cocktail.
Jon frowned, swirling his beer.
A sharp elbow nudged his ribs.
"See something you like?" Marisa murmured, leaning in so close her perfume—something expensive, fruity—tickled his nose.
"Just… surprised," Jon admitted quietly, gesturing subtly toward one of the older couples. "Didn’t realize this was a date night."
Marisa’s laugh was bright, deliberate. "Oh, sweetie, age is just a number. Love doesn’t clock out at forty."
Jon wanted to press—but Elena suddenly appeared at his other side, draping herself halfway over his shoulders. Her touch was warm, her voice whiskey-smooth.
"Don’t worry, Jon," she teased, her breath sweet with gin. "Plenty of us aren’t taken yet."
Emma giggled across the table, twirling her straw. "Speak for yourself."
Elena gasped—mock-offended—and launched into some dramatic retort Jon barely heard.
His attention snagged on the older couple again.
The way the girl—Tiffany?—traced her fingers over her boyfriend’s wrist.
The same white wristband peeked out from under her sleeve.
Just like the others.
Jon’s pulse hitched.
Before he could react, Marisa clinked her glass against his bottle, pulling his focus back.
"To new friends," she toasted, smiling.
Around the table, glasses lifted.
Jon hesitated—then drank.
The beer tasted bitter.
Or maybe that was just the dread creeping up his throat.
The night should’ve been weird.
Elena was trashed—giggling so hard she almost knocked over Emma’s cosmo, her voice sharp and loud in that way drunk people never realize is obnoxious. Emma wasn’t far behind, slurring compliments like "Jon, you’re actually, like, soo funny when you’re not just, like… working out or whatever."
But despite the strangeness hanging over the yoga crew, Jon was surprised to find himself… having fun.
Mostly thanks to Marisa.
She was effortlessly engaging—switching between sarcastic wit and warm wisdom like it was nothing. Every joke landed, every story pulled him in. She teased him about his stiff posture ("Even in a bar booth, you sit like you’re about to deadlift it") but listened intently when he told her about his job, his move to Texas, even his stupid back injury.
At one point, after refilling his beer without him noticing, she smirked and said, "You know, I was worried you’d be the broody, silent type forever. But you’re kinda charming when you’re not scowling."
Jon snorted. "Thanks, I think."
"Oh, it’s a compliment," she laughed, flicking her dark braid over her shoulder. "Most guys in this town peak in high school and never recover."
And yeah—she was older. Easily mid-40s. Not someone he’d look at twice in that way. But damn if she wasn’t the most interesting person in the room.
Then the door swung open.
And all the warmth in Jon’s chest evaporated.
Mariah.
Dressed in jeans that hugged her just right and a soft sweater that made her skin glow under the bar lights. And beside her—Jackson. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of guy who looked like he spent more time on his skincare routine than Jon did on meal prep.
Jon’s grip tightened around his bottle.
He shouldn’t care.
But fuck.
Mariah’s eyes swept the room—paused on him—widened slightly. Then she smiled, small but genuine, and lifted her fingers in a little wave.
Jon managed a stiff nod.
Elena, drunk and oblivious, followed his gaze and gasped. "Oh! Omigod, it’s—" She shot up, wobbling. "—Time for shots! Right, Jon? Right?"
Marisa’s gaze flicked between Jon and Mariah, sharp with understanding.
"Well well," she murmured, lips curving. "This night just got interesting."
And Jon—
Jon really wished he wasn’t trapped in this booth.
Marisa leaned in, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh? Nobody important?" she echoed, watching as Mariah and her boyfriend wound their way toward them through the crowd.
Jon stiffened. "I mean—we’re just friends."
"Mhmm," Marisa hummed, smirking. "The way you just said that tells me everything."
Before Jon could protest, Mariah was there—smiling warmly, her dark eyes bright.
"Jon! Hey!" she said, reaching out to briefly squeeze his shoulder. Her touch sent a jolt through him. "I didn’t expect to see you here."
Jon forced an easy smile—or what he hoped looked like one. "Yeah, uh. Yoga class outing." He gestured vaguely at the table.
Mariah’s boyfriend, Jackson, extended a hand with perfect polite-guy charm. "Hey man, nice to finally meet you. Maria’s told me a lot about you."
Maria.
Not Mariah.
The nickname grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Jon shook his hand—too tight, probably—and muttered, "All good things, I hope."
Jackson laughed, oblivious. "Of course. Says you spot her on squats."
Mariah rolled her eyes playfully. "Jon’s saved my life multiple times from being squashed by a barbell."
Jon swallowed hard.
She was glowing. Happy. Relaxed. Everything about her body language screamed comfortable with this guy.
It stung.
The small talk lasted another painful minute before Mariah excused them both. "We’re meeting some of Jackson’s coworkers, but it was nice seeing you!" She hesitated, then added, "You should come to the gym next week. I’ve missed my lifting buddy."
Missed.
The word dangled between them like bait.
"Yeah," Jon rasped. "Maybe."
And just like that, she was gone again—Jackson’s hand sliding naturally to the small of her back as they walked away.
Jon exhaled slowly.
Marisa didn’t wait.
"Ohhhh honey," she drawled, swirling her drink. "That was painful to watch."
Jon groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up."
"That wasn’t just nobody important." She nudged him. "Tell me the truth—you’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?"
He debated lying.
But the alcohol loosened his tongue.
"Yeah," he muttered. "And it’s fucking stupid."
Marisa arched a brow, sipping her whiskey. "Why?"
Jon huffed a bitter laugh. "Because she’s with him! Because I wait all week just to spot her on bench press like some lovesick puppy. Because—" He cut himself off, frustrated.
Marisa studied him for a long moment. Then, softly: "She doesn’t look at you the way she looks at him?"
Jon froze.
"It's Bullshit," he said automatically.
But Marisa didn’t push. Just shrugged and leaned back, her expression knowing.
"You know, Jon," she said simply. "You should invite her—to Yoga. You never know...your luck might turn around."
Jon didn’t answer.
Just swallowed the rest of his drink whole.
---
The following Monday, the studio was quieter than usual when Jon stepped in—soft murmurs, hushed laughter, the faint sound of bare feet on mats.
And then he saw her.
Mariah.
Standing near the front of the room in black leggings and a fitted tank, talking animatedly with Marisa.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
What the hell is she doing here?
As if sensing his stare, Mariah turned. Her face lit up, and she gave him a little wave. "Hey! Surprise!"
Jon forced his legs to move forward. "You’re—uh—doing yoga now?"
Before she could answer, Marisa slipped an arm around Mariah’s shoulders, grinning. "I invited her after you left the bar. Everyone needs a little spiritual detox, right?" She winked—definitely not subtle.
Mariah laughed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, don’t look so nervous. I won’t completely embarrass myself."
Her ease helped. A little. Jon exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Just—don’t expect me to be any help. I still can’t touch my toes."
Mariah smirked. "For a guy who lifts like you do, that’s kinda pathetic."
It was such a Mariah thing to say—playful, teasing, effortlessly slipping back into the rhythm of their gym banter—that Jon’s chest loosened.
But then—
His gaze snagged on her wrist.
A thin white band.
The wristband.
His blood went cold.
He looked around the room, counting.
Marisa had one.
No one else did.
Not Elena. Not Emma. No one but…
Mariah.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Marisa invited her. Marisa gave her the wristband.
Was this planned?
Before he could think too much about it, the music shifted—soothing chimes, low and melodic.
Marisa clapped her hands. "Alright, lovelies! Let’s begin."
Mariah shot Jon one last grin before unfolding her mat beside him.
Jon unrolled his own, hands just a little unsteady.
He had a very bad feeling about this.
As it happens...Mariah was bad at yoga as well—but in the most endearing way possible.
She was flexible—no shock given how nimble she was with weights—but graceful? Not even close. Every transition was a half-second too slow, her balance tipping like a newborn deer on ice. At one point, halfway through Warrior Three, she wobbled so violently she windmilled her arms and nearly face-planted into Jon’s chest.
He caught her reflexively, grinning. "Maybe ease into it, Rocky."
Mariah clutched his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. "I swear this pose didn’t look this hard from the sidelines."
Jon couldn’t help it—he laughed. Really laughed. For the first time all night, the weird tension evaporated. This was just Mariah: clumsy, determined, utterly herself.
The rest of the class passed smoothly—until meditation.
As usual, the lights dimmed, slow music humming through the speakers. Marisa stretched her arms theatrically. "Alright, everyone, settle in. Deep breaths. I’ll be back in a few."
Jon frowned as she slipped out the door. Strange—she never left during meditation.
But before he could dwell on it, the room sank into silence. Ten minutes passed in a drowsy haze until—
Lights flicked on.
Elena stood at the front, smiling. "Hey guys, Marisa isn’t feeling great. She asked me to finish up. So… namaste, or whatever."
Jon sat up, blinking.
Beside him, Mariah was staring at her hands—turning them over, flexing her fingers. Almost like she was… checking them.
She caught him looking and immediately smirked. "Like what you see?"
Jon flushed. "Just—uh—making sure you didn’t pull anything."
Mariah rolled her eyes. "Relax, tough guy. I’m kidding." But her tone was different—sharper, smoother. Off.
The class dispersed quickly after that. Jon lingered, watching as Mariah gathered her things with uncharacteristic imprecision—dropping her keys, fumbling her water bottle.
Outside, the night air was thick with humidity.
"Walk me to my car?" Mariah asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah. Sure."
They crossed the darkened parking lot in silence. Mariah’s steps were confident now—almost swaggering—where earlier she’d been all stiff concentration.
Then—she stopped at a silver Honda.
Jon hesitated. "...That’s not your car."
Mariah froze.
For half a second, her face went utterly blank. Then she laughed, loud and careless. "Whoops! Wrong rental." She spun and marched three cars down to her actual Toyota.
Jon’s stomach knotted.
Rental? Mariah had owned that car for years.
She tossed her bag inside, flashing him a smirk. "See you at the gym tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Jon lied.
She drove off.
Jon stared after her, pulse humming uneasily.
Same voice. Same face.
But was that Mariah?
---
The next morning, Jon spotted her the second he walked into Iron Haven.
"Mariah".
Perched on the edge of a bench, stretching in sleek black yoga pants and a cropped athletic top—clothes he'd never seen her wear to lift before.
She caught his eye immediately, grinning as she unfolded herself in a fluid, feline motion. "There you are," she said, voice warm and teasing. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."
Jon frowned. Her cadence was different—smoother, almost calculated. Even the way she stood seemed unnaturally poised, like someone who'd studied confidence rather than lived it.
"...You're in yoga gear," he blurted.
She glanced down, running her hands over her hips as if appreciating the fabric. "Mm. Felt like a change. Cute, right?"
Jon swallowed hard. Every alarm in his head was screaming.
Then came the real red flags.
She couldn't remember their usual push-pull split. She kept asking about muscle groups like the terms were foreign. And when she loaded up the bar for squats—
"Mariah, your knees—they're caving in. Big time," Jon warned, hovering behind her.
She just giggled. "Oops. Guess I need you to really spot me today."
Her wink was deliberate, her hips shifting invitingly as she started her descent with terrifying instability. Jon had to brace both hands on her waist to keep her from wobbling sideways—too close, too intimate.
When they switched to bench press, she abandoned form entirely, arching in a way that was less about power and more about giving him an obstructed view down her tank top.
Jon's face burned.
Then—
"So, big news," she announced between sets, twirling a lock of hair. "Me and Jackson? Done." She popped the p playfully. "Thought you'd be happy to hear that."
Jon froze mid-reach for his water bottle.
"You... broke up?"
"Mhmm." She stretched her arms overhead, watching his reaction like a cat eyeing a trapped mouse. "Long-distance sucked anyway. But now I'm single... lonely... could really use a friend tonight." Her foot nudged his calf. "Maybe you?"
Jon felt like he'd been dunked in ice water.
This wasn't Mariah.
The real Mariah would never ditch form like this. Would never flirt this blatantly. And if—some impossible fantasy—she'd actually broken up with Jackson, she'd be hurting. Drinking sad-girl wine, venting to friends, not propositioning him mid-workout.
Yet here this not-Mariah stood, smirking, waiting.
Jon forced a stiff smile. "Yeah. Maybe."
She beamed, like he'd confirmed some secret she already knew. "Great. Come by my place at 8. Don't bring beer—I've got better drinks."
She sauntered away to the water fountain, her stride too smooth, too practiced.
Jon stared after her.
He had no intention of showing up.
But he was going to figure out what the hell was happening.
---
Jon stood on Mariah’s porch at 8:03 PM, fist raised to knock, heart hammering like he was about to step into a trap.
Because he was.
But he had to know.
The door swung open before his knuckles even touched wood.
Mariah leaned against the frame, bathed in warm lamplight—barefoot, in a silky slip of a dress that clung to every curve. A far cry from her usual gym shorts and oversized tees.
"You came," she purred, stepping aside to let him in.
Jon forced himself to move. "Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it."
The apartment smelled like vanilla and red wine. Candles flickered on the coffee table beside an already half-empty bottle.
Mariah snatched it up, pouring him a glass without asking. "Relax," she laughed, pressing it into his hand. "You look like you’re about to bolt."
Jon took a sip. "Just… surprised, I guess."
"About?" She flopped onto the couch, patting the space beside her.
"This. You. Us hanging out like…" He gestured vaguely at the wine, the dim lighting, her.
Mariah’s smile turned sly. "Like a date?"
Jon choked on his drink.
She just giggled, leaning in to swipe a thumb over the corner of his lips, catching the spilled wine. Then—slow, deliberate—she sucked it off her own finger, watching him.
Jon’s pulse roared in his ears.
This was wrong.
The real Mariah would’ve teased him, sure. Would’ve maybe flirted after one too many drinks. But not like this. Not with this calculated, predatory heat.
Yet here she was, closing the distance between them, her knee brushing his.
"You’ve always been so careful with me," she murmured, fingers tracing idle circles on his thigh. "But you don’t have to be. Not anymore."
Jon’s grip tightened on his glass. "Mariah—"
"Shhh." Her hand slid up to cradle his jaw. "Just kiss me."
And then she did.
Her mouth was warm, insistent—wrong. The way she moved, the taste of her, the pressure—it was like kissing a stranger wearing Mariah’s skin. Little did he know how right he was.
Jon pulled back, breath ragged.
Mariah just smirked, licking her lips. "See? Not so hard."
Mariah didn’t just kiss him—she consumed him.
One second, Jon was reeling from the wrongness of it all—the next, her hands were fisted in his shirt, yanking him forward until his back hit the couch. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan, and suddenly any semblance of hesitation shattered.
Her tongue swiped against his, tasting of rich red wine and something else—something darkly intoxicating. She climbed onto his lap in one smooth motion, her silky dress riding up as she straddled him.
“You’ve wanted this,” she breathed, grinding down against the painful hardness in his jeans. “For so long.”
Jon’s hands found her hips on instinct, gripping tight as she rocked against him. He should’ve stopped. Should’ve asked what the hell was happening.
But then her mouth was on his neck, nipping, sucking, marking him like she was staking a claim—and logic dissolved.
She pulled back just enough to smirk at the mess she’d made of him.
“Pathetic,” she teased, dragging her nails down his chest. “All this time pretending you didn’t want me.”
Before he could respond, she slid off his lap and onto her knees between his legs.
Her fingers made quick work of his belt, his zipper, his straining boxers. When she freed him, hot and heavy in her grip, she licked her lips—slow, deliberate, savoring the moment.
Then, without warning, she took him deep.
Jon’s back arched off the couch, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat.
Fuck.
Her mouth was perfect—hot, wet, relentless. No hesitation, no teasing buildup. Just ruthless skill. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips tightened on the upstroke, her nails dug into his thighs when he tried to buck deeper. “Don’t,” she warned, smirking up at him before swallowing him down again.
Jon’s vision blurred.
She was too good. Knew exactly how to hollow her cheeks, when to hum, when to drag her teeth just enough to make him see stars. It wasn’t just the best head of his life—it was like she’d mapped out every desperate fantasy he’d ever had and cranked it to eleven.
When he growled, “I’m close,” she didn’t pull away.
She laughed around him—laughed—and doubled down, taking him to the hilt.
Jon came with a curse, fingers tangled in her hair as she milked him through it, swallowing every drop.
He barely had time to recover before she climbed back into his lap, yanking her dress down over her shoulders in one motion. No bra. Just smooth, golden skin and perfect curves.
Jon crushed her against him, hands roaming, mouth claiming hers again—but she was the one in control.
She pushed him back onto the couch, guiding him inside her with a slow, torturous roll of her hips. He hissed at the slick, blazing heat of her.
Then she moved.
No sweet, tentative rhythm. Just pure, unrelenting dominance. She rode him like she was punishing him for every second he’d spent pining—hard, fast, her nails scoring down his chest as she chased her own pleasure.
“Look at you,” she taunted, grinding down, clenching around him. “Mr. Self-Control.”
Jon didn’t last. Couldn’t. Not with her above him—eyes dark, body arching, her breath coming in sharp, needy gasps.
He flipped her beneath him in one rough motion, driving into her deep enough to wrench a sharp cry from her lips.
“Jon—!”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Their coupling turned savage—skin slapping, teeth clashing, her thighs trembling around his waist as she clawed at his back. When she came, it was with a scream, her body locking around him like a vice.
Jon followed, burying himself inside her with a groan.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths.
Then she laughed.
Low. Triumphant.
Jon tensed.
Because that laugh—
It didn’t belong to Mariah.
Jon froze as Mariah's laugh - too deep, too smug, too knowing - echoed through the bedroom. That wasn't Mariah's giggle. That wasn't Mariah's playful tone.
He recognized it only a nanosecond later...That was Marisa.
"Enjoy yourself, big boy?" the woman in Mariah's body purred, stretching like a satisfied cat as she rolled away from him. When she turned back, there was something terrifyingly wrong about the way she moved - the familiar curves now inhabited by something alien. "I knew you'd be fun."
Jon sat up sharply, the post-coital haze evaporating. "What the fuck are you?"
Mariah's lips - no, not Mariah's lips - curved into a smile Jon had only ever seen on one person before.
"Smart boy," Marisa chuckled from Mariah's mouth, running Mariah's hands down Mariah's body in a way that made Jon's stomach lurch. "I was wondering when you'd notice."
Jon scrambled off the bed, grabbing for his pants. "Where's Mariah? What did you do to her?"
Marisa sighed dramatically, rolling Mariah's eyes - but the gesture was all wrong, like watching a bad actor play a part. "God, fine. Since you're so clever..." She sat up, tossing Mariah's hair. "I suppose you've earned the whole sordid story."
She spread Mariah's hands like she was giving a presentation.
"Astral projection. Soul transference. A little aromatherapy magic in the yoga studio. Basically..." She smirked. "I help older women trade up. Give some lonely grandma a chance to be young and beautiful again by hopping into a fresh new body. All it takes is a willing participant on each side - well, 'willing' in the loosest sense."
Jon's blood went cold as he remembered the wristbands. The older woman crying in the parking lot. The way Elena had changed so suddenly.
"You give them the bands," he breathed.
"Bingo." Marisa clapped Mariah's hands. "The wristband marks the donors. The incense during meditation loosens their soul's grip on their body just enough for me to... help them let go." She smiled. "Most of them don't even realize what's happening until it's too late."
Jon felt sick. "And the older women? You just... convince them to give up their bodies?"
Marisa shrugged. "They want to. At first they're confused, sure. But then they look in the mirror and realize what they've gained. A tight little body, smooth skin, all the time in the world..." She ran Mariah's hands over Mariah's breasts. "Would you give that up?"
Jon's stomach churned. This was worse than any nightmare his mind could come up with.
Jon felt dizzy, the room spinning as the horrific truth sank in. The yoga studio wasn't just a business - it was a hunting ground. And Mariah had walked right into the trap.
"I knew you had a thing for her," Marisa cooed, crawling toward him on the bed with Mariah's body. "So when I saw my chance to finally upgrade from my 46-year-old vessel... well, who better than your beautiful gym crush?" She laughed - that same rich, throaty laugh Jon now realized had never belonged to Mariah at all.
Jon backed away, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone. "I'm calling the cops. This stops now."
Marisa rolled Mariah's eyes. "And say what? That your crush's body got possessed by a yoga instructor?" She smirked. "They'll lock you in the psych ward before you finish speaking."
Panic clawed at Jon's throat. She was right. No one would believe this. But he couldn't just walk away - not while the real Mariah was...
"Where is she?" Jon demanded. "Where's Mariah's soul right now?"
Marisa stretched luxuriously. "Oh, she's fine. Currently occupying my old body locked in a dark room back at the studio and tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth so nobody has to hear her scream. A little trade we made during meditation today." Her smile turned cruel. "Though I did warn her - if she tries telling anyone, no one will believe the crazy old lady claiming to be a 24-year-old."
Jon's mind raced. The crying woman in the parking lot. The way Mariah had stumbled getting into the wrong car. The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity.
"So all of then are actually old women...," he realized. "Elena, Emma, now Mariah...all those girls."
"Very good!" Marisa applauded. "Honestly, Mariah put up more fight than most. But they all give in eventually." She sauntered closer. "Now, you've got two choices. Either accept this sexy new version of your gym buddy..." She trailed Mariah's fingers down his chest. "Or go charging off to 'save the day' and look like a goddamn fool."
Jon's fists clenched. He knew Marisa was right about one thing - no cop would ever believe his story. He was out of options.
The moving truck groaned as it rolled down the gravel driveway of Jon’s new home—a small rental house on the edge of Laredo, Texas. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to his skin even as the sun dipped low in the sky. He wiped his forehead and glanced around. Quiet. Empty. Just him, his gym bag, and a whole lot of loneliness.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath.
The first week was brutal. Work was fine—some IT gig at a local firm—but the silence at home was deafening. So, naturally, Jon did what any single guy with no social life would do: he practically lived at the gym.
Iron Haven was the kind of place where beefed-up ranchers and college athletes clashed over bench press real estate, but Jon didn’t care. The grind kept him sane.
And then, on day five, he saw her.
She was mid-rep on the squat rack, legs flexed, her dark ponytail swaying with each controlled descent. Half-Filipina, half-Latina, and all trouble for his concentration. When she stood up, racking the bar with effortless strength, she caught him staring. Instead of scowling, she grinned.
"Could use a spot," she called over.
Jon blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Sure."
Her name was Mariah. Twenty-four, worked as a physical therapist, and had a laugh that hit like a shot of whiskey—smooth and dangerous. She teased him about his form, he joked about her terrible taste in gym music (seriously, reggaeton mixed with 90s hip-hop?), and just like that, they were friends.
Mariah was the kind of girl who made Jon forget how to breathe. Not because she was flawless—though the way her leggings hugged those curves didn’t hurt—but because she was real. Quick to poke fun, quicker to check in if she sensed something was off.
"Helloooo? Earth to Jon." She waved a hand in front of his face during cooldown stretches.
"Sorry," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Zoned out."
"Bullshit," she grinned. "You were staring at my ass."
Jon’s face burned. "I was not—"
"—Don’t lie, I saw you." She stretched her arms overhead, flashing a sliver of toned stomach. "It’s cool. I get it. My glutes are legendary."
Jon groaned, but damn if she wasn’t right.
Weeks slipped by. They spotted each other, grabbed post-workout smoothies, and even binged bad action movies sprawled on her couch. Every time she leaned in to steal a fry or playfully shoved him, his pulse spiked. But then she’d mention him.
"Jackson’s flying in next weekend."
Jackson. The long-distance boyfriend. Seattle-based finance guy. Polite, handsome, and—according to Mariah—"super understanding."
Which meant Jon was screwed.
One night, post-deadlifts, Mariah twisted the cap off her water bottle and sighed. "You ever feel like life’s got this weird way of dangling what you want just outta reach?"
Jon swallowed. "Yeah."
She glanced at him, eyes searching. "Jon…"
The air between them thickened. His chest ached.
Then her phone buzzed. She checked it, and just like that, the moment shattered.
"Jackson," she said softly, smiling at the screen.
Jon forced a grin. "Better answer it."
She did. And Jon swallowed his feelings like chalky protein powder—gritty, tasteless, and necessary.
But Texas heat has a way of making fools out of careful men. And Jon was starting to wonder how long he could keep pretending. The weights felt heavier that day.
Not physically—his deadlifts were the same as always—but mentally, his focus was shot. He’d spent the previous night scrolling through Mariah’s Instagram, stalking Jackson’s perfect teeth and vacation pics in Seattle, feeling like an idiot. His grip slipped on the third rep.
Then—pop.
A white-hot bolt of pain ripped through Jon’s lower back. His vision blurred. The barbell hit the floor with a thunderous crash, and suddenly, he was on his knees, gasping.
"Jon?!"
Mariah was at his side in seconds, hands on his shoulders before he could even blink away the sweat burning his eyes. Her touch sent a different kind of electric current through him—not pain, just warmth.
"I’m fine," he lied through clenched teeth.
She gave him that don’t-bullshit-me look—the one that made men stronger than him crumble. "You’re not fine. You just folded like a lawn chair."
The doctor’s verdict later that evening was grim: herniated disc. No lifting. No heavy exertion. For at least three months.
"Try yoga," the doc suggested, scribbling on his clipboard.
Yoga.
Jon wanted to scream.
Day 4 of No Gym
Jon lasted four days before he caved.
The second he walked into Iron Haven, he spotted her—mid-conversation with some beefy guy in a tank top, laughing at something he said. His gut twisted.
Then she saw him. Her smile vanished.
"Jon." She marched over, arms crossed. "What are you doing here?"
"Just... needed to move." He shrugged, trying to play it off. "Light stuff. Maybe just the bike or—"
"No." She poked his chest. "Doctor’s orders. You leave. Now."
The guy she’d been talking to raised an eyebrow.
Embarrassment burned Jon’s neck. "Mariah, c’mon—"
"—I’ll drive you home." She snatched his gym bag off his shoulder.
Jon groaned. "You’re relentless."
"And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you wreck yourself."
That should’ve been sweet. But all it did was remind Jon that she cared—just not the way he wanted her to.
Week 3: The Slow Decline
No gym meant no Mariah.
Sure, she texted. Sent dumb memes. Even dropped by once with soup, which was so disgustingly thoughtful it made Jon’s chest hurt. But without the routine of spotting each other, their interactions dwindled.
Meanwhile, Jackson was in town.
Her Instagram was a barrage of them—brunch, some hipster brewery, his arm slung around her waist in that I-own-this-space way guys like him had.
Jon should’ve stopped looking.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he lay on his couch, ice pack on his back, binge-watching terrible TV and wondering if Mariah ever thought about him when she wasn’t obligated to.
Pathetic. Three months.
Three goddamn months.
Jon stood outside the only yoga studio in Laredo—"Sunrise Yoga & Wellness"—staring at the lavender-scented hellscape beyond the glass door. Inside, a handful of women in stretchy outfits moved in slow, graceful unison. This was a mistake.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His back still ached, despite the epidural shot last week. And his doctor’s smug "told you so" echoed in his skull.
"Try yoga, Jon."
Bullshit.
The studio door chimed as Jon pushed it open.
Instantly, every head turned.
A woman near the front—mid-50s, sipping from a stainless-steel water bottle—gave him a slow once-over. Jon stood there awkwardly, feeling like a linebacker who’d wandered into a ballet rehearsal.
"First time?" a voice chirped.
A petite blonde instructor bounced over, her neon yoga pants practically glowing under the studio lights.
"Yeah," Jon muttered, rubbing his neck. "My doctor said—"
"—Ahhh, the doctor recommended crowd." She grinned. "I get it. You’re skeptical. You think yoga’s just stretching and incense. But trust me—" She poked his bicep. "—you’ll be humiliated by how hard this is."
Great fucking pep talk.
"I'm Marisa, by the way! Class starts in five!" she announced to the room before leaving Jon to grab a mat.
Jon shuffled toward the back corner—least visibility possible—and tried to just hide and observe.
The scent of lavender and jasmine settled over the studio like a warm, cloying blanket. Jon stood frozen at the edge of the room, gripping his rented yoga mat like it might sprout legs and run for the door.
The class was packed—mostly women. Not just any women. Beautiful ones. Laughing, stretching, their toned limbs effortlessly folding into pretzel-like shapes that made his lower back ache in sympathy. At the center of it all was an older woman—maybe late fifties—with silver-streaked dark hair and an easy confidence. She held court among a circle of girls wrapped in expensive athleisure, all giggling at something she said with the familiarity of people who had known each other for years.
Then, in the far corner, her.
A lone figure sitting cross-legged on her mat, deep brown hair spilling over one shoulder. She was younger than the others—early twenties, maybe. Her eyes darted nervously around the room before settling on the ground in front of her. She had that fresh-faced, untouched beauty—soft lips, faint freckles dusting her cheeks—but her posture screamed stay away.
Jon hesitated for half a second before shuffling over and dropping his mat beside hers.
"Hey," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "First time?"
She flinched—actually flinched—as if she hadn’t expected anyone to acknowledge her. Then she nodded, barely lifting her chin.
"Yeah. You?"
"My doctor forced me into this," he admitted with a lopsided grin. "Said I had to 'embrace the healing process' or some shit."
A flicker of a smile. So tiny he almost missed it.
"Me too," she said. "Car accident. My physical therapist recommended it."
"Jon." He held out a hand.
She blinked at it, then placed her hand in his—delicate fingers, cold to the touch.
"Elena," she whispered.
For a second, it felt nice. Just two lost people in a room full of strangers, clinging to the briefest moment of connection.
Then Elena pulled her hand back too quickly, her gaze darting past him. Her expression flattened, her walls slamming up again.
Jon frowned. "Uh—"
"Class is starting," she muttered, turning her body away from him.
And just like that—dismissed.
Confused, he glanced around the room and froze.
The older woman was staring. And so were the others. All of them. Unmistakably. Eyes locked onto Elena with unsettling intensity.
Jon’s skin prickled.
The teacher clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone! Let’s begin!"
But no one moved.
For one bizarre, suspended moment, the air in the room felt wrong.
Then Elena exhaled sharply.
And the older woman smiled.
As they began, it dawned on Jon that he was terrible at yoga.
Like, tragically bad.
Downward Dog? More like Collapsed Mutt. Warrior Pose? More like "Wobbling Toddler." Every time he attempted to mirror the instructor’s graceful movements, his body protested with crackling joints and awkward tremors.
At one point, he caught sight of Elena—effortlessly balanced in a perfect Tree Pose, her slender arms lifted toward the ceiling—and nearly toppled over in distraction. That’s when he noticed the odd little detail: a paper wristband looped around her wrist, stark white with faint black lettering.
Even stranger? The only other people wearing them: the older silver-haired woman and Marisa, the instructor.
Jon waited until they transitioned into Child’s Pose (which, mercifully, mostly involved kneeling and not moving) before leaning toward Elena.
"Hey," he whispered. "Where’d you get the wristband?"
Elena blinked at him, then at her own wrist. "I don't know," she murmured, voice barely audible. "They just gave it to me after I checked in. Did you get one?"
Before Jon could answer—
"Shhhh."
Marisa shot them a pointed look from the front of the room. Elena immediately folded in on herself again, and Jon bit back a frustrated sigh. So much for conversation.
--
Then came meditation.
Lights dimmed, soft music hummed through the speakers, and Jon lay flat on his back, surrendering to the plush mat beneath him. The room sank into silence.
Around him, the others drifted effortlessly into serenity—breaths slow, bodies slack. Even Jon, despite himself, began to relax.
Then—
A scent.
Sweet, floral, intoxicating. Not overpowering—just… there. Like someone had spritzed the air with perfume, subtle but all-encompassing. Jon inhaled deeply, and suddenly, his limbs felt lighter. His thoughts mellowed. A slow, warm buzz settled over him, as if he’d sipped a shot of something strong.
What the hell…?
Then—commotion.
A hushed rustling, a sharp inhale followed by an audible "No."
Jon cracked open an eye.
The older woman sat bolt upright, fists clenched in her lap. Her face was twisted—not in pain, but in... frustration? Anger?
Marisa swooped in instantly, murmuring something soothing before gently guiding her out of the room. The woman didn’t resist, but as the door shut behind them, the air in the studio shifted.
Jon exhaled. Probably nothing.
He closed his eyes again.
And promptly dozed off.
--
When he stirred, the lights were up, and the music had faded. Around him, people stretched, sighed, smiled—blissed-out expressions plastered on every face.
Including Elena’s.
Except now, Elena wasn’t avoiding eye contact.
She wasn’t shy.She was beaming.
Jon barely had time to process before she bounced up to him, rolling up her mat with effortless fluidity.
"Hey," she chirped, "what was your name again?"
"Uh—Jon?"
She laughed—bright, loud. "Right! Sorry!" Then she stuck out her hand. "I’m Elena."
But the way she said it was… off. Over-enunciated. "I’M EL-EEEE-NA." As if she was announcing it to the room.
And then—she winked.
Jon stared.
Five minutes ago, this girl wouldn’t look at him. Now she was grinning, tossing her hair, radiating energy like she’d chugged three espressos.
"Nice to officially meet you," she said—flirty, playful—before sashaying toward the door. "See you next week!"
Then she was gone.
Jon stood frozen, mat half-rolled, brain working overtime.
--
The parking lot was empty, save for one figure.
The older woman slumped on a bench near the exit, face in her hands. Silent sobs wracked her shoulders.
Jon hesitated.
Then he climbed into his car.
And drove away.
---
A week passed before Jon mustered the willpower to return to Sunrise Yoga & Wellness.
This time, the door gave a cheerful ding as he walked in, and Marisa—grinning from ear to ear—welcomed him like an old friend.
"Jon! You actually came back!" she teased, clasping her hands together. "I was sure we scared you off for good."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, doc’s orders."
"Uh-huh, sure." She winked. "Whatever gets you here, handsome."
Jon felt his face warm. The attention was nice—too nice—and for a second, he almost forgot why he’d been weirded out last time.
Then he saw her.
Elena.
She wasn’t hiding in the corner this time. She was thriving.
Surrounded by that same circle of beautiful women, she laughed loudly at some unheard joke, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. She looked different. Confident. Radiant. Entirely at home.
And then—her eyes flicked up.
She saw him.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips before she excused herself and sauntered toward him.
"Jon," she purred, stopping just a little too close, one hand resting lightly on his bicep. "You made it."
He stiffened—partly from surprise, partly because she was touching him like they’d known each other for years.
"Uh, yeah," he managed. "How’s… uh…?" He swallowed. "How’s the physical therapy going?"
A flicker of confusion passed over her face.
Then—just like that—it smoothed into recognition.
"Right! The accident." She laughed, brushing it off. "It’s going great. Thanks for asking."
Jon frowned. Last week, she’d acted like stepping out of her shell was impossible. Now she was making him the nervous one?
Before he could press, another woman walked in—young, gorgeous, glancing around the room with the cautious energy of a first-timer.
Elena immediately lit up.
"Ooooh, fresh meat," she whispered playfully—then shot Jon an apologetic smirk. "Duty calls. Catch you later?"
And just like that, she glided toward the newcomer, all sunshine and charm.
Jon watched as Elena greeted the woman—a hand on her arm, a warm laugh, a little tilt of her head that said you’re safe here.
Then… she slid a white wristband onto the woman’s wrist.
Jon stiffened.
The same exact kind he’d never been given.
He scanned the room.
Only three people had them.
—The new girl.
—Marisa.
—And some unfamiliar older lady, chatting animatedly with the same group of young, polished women as last time.
What the hell is going on?
Jon rolled out his mat, his skin prickling with unease as Elena’s laughter—bright, confident, uncharacteristic—filled the room.
Something was wrong.
And he was starting to think it wasn’t just his imagination.
The class unfolded like a broken-record replay of last week.
Jon struggled through the poses, his muscles protesting as he tried—and failed—to bend his body into shapes it clearly wasn’t meant to hold. Downward Dog still felt less like yoga and more like an uncoordinated stretch before faceplanting. Elena, meanwhile, had become disturbingly good overnight—her movements fluid, effortless, like she’d been doing this for years.
Which was impossible. She was new. Just like me.
Then came the wristbands.
Jon stole glances whenever he could, watching as the new girl—Emma, was it?—kept touching hers, running her fingers over the black lettering Jon still couldn’t read.
Elena noticed him looking and grinned. "whatcha lookin at hon?" she teased, swaying close during a water break.
"Those wristbands. You said last week they gave you one when you walked in. And then you have that new girl Emma one today. What are they for?" Jon hedged.
"Mmmmm, darling those are just for new people. You don't need one." she giggled, popping her hip. Jon wanted to investigate further so he asked "but I was new last week and I never got one. Why is that?" She looked nervous for about a nano second and then replied with "well you're not new anymore sweetheart! So I wouldn't worry your handsome head about it now." she said winking and then she was off again, leaving him standing there like an idiot.
——
Meditation.
Lights dimmed. Music hummed. The same cloying floral scent from last time curled through the air—thick, honey-sweet, with a weight to it that made Jon’s limbs feel like they were floating.
The high crept in slow, a warm, dizzying sensation that smoothed the edges of his thoughts.
Then—
A rustle. A sharp inhale.
Jon slitted his eyes open just in time to see the older woman—the new one this time—jerk upright, her breath ragged.
"What the fu-," she hissed under her breath. Looking at her hands with confusion and touching her face.
Marisa was on her instantly, murmuring soft words, gently steering her toward the door.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
Just like last week.
He wanted to follow. To ask questions. But his body ignored him, melting further into the mat, the scent wrapping around him like a drug.
His eyes closed.
——
Aftermath.
The lights came up. People stretched, sighed, exchanged soft smiles. Jon blinked back to reality, disoriented, an odd languidness clinging to his limbs.
Beside him, the new girl—Emma—sat up, her expression transformed.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
She turned to Elena, beaming. "I get what you meant now," she whispered, touching her wristband.
"Told you," Elena smirked back at her new friend.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Across the room, Marisa stretched her arms overhead, sighing in contentment. "Another amazing session, everyone! See you next week!"
Jon gathered his mat, mind racing.
Same scents. Same meditative shift. Same wristbands.
And now—same people?
He glanced over his shoulder just as Elena caught his eye. She winked, slow, deliberate.
"I think the gals are getting together this weekend for drinks, Jon," she sang. "You should join us, right EMMA?"
Emma was looking down at herself and not paying attention, but then looked back up and looked Jon up and down nodding playfully.
Marisa echoed the invitation for drinks Friday night and Jon politely agreed.
He barely made it to his car before he noticed.
The older woman sat slumped against the wheel of her parked SUV.
Crying.
---
Later that week, Jon found himself harassed and eventually coerced into going out with his new yoga "friends".
The Lone Star Saloon was the kind of small-town bar where the neon sign buzzed, the jukebox played a mix of classic country and top-40 hits no one asked for, and everybody knew everybody—or at least pretended to.
Jon pushed through the scarred wooden door, the chatter of voices and twang of steel guitar hitting him in a wall of sound. He spotted them immediately—the Sunrise Yoga crew clustered around a long table in the back, drinks gleaming under the dim amber lights.
Marisa waved him over, her smile luminous. "Jon! You came!"
He forced a grin, sliding into the booth beside her. "Wouldn’t miss it."
The table was packed—Elena, Emma, the other regulars from class—all polished and glowing like they’d stepped out of some sleek magazine ad for "Small-Town Goddesses." But what caught Jon’s attention were the men—because nearly a third of the girls weren’t alone.
They were with older men.
Much older.
Silver-haired gentlemen in pressed button-downs laughing intimately with girls young enough to be their daughters. One man—late 50s, tan, with the crisp confidence of money—had his hand possessively on the thigh of a yoga regular Jon recognized from class. Another, balding and thick around the middle, leaned in to whisper something that made his dark-haired companion giggle into her cocktail.
Jon frowned, swirling his beer.
A sharp elbow nudged his ribs.
"See something you like?" Marisa murmured, leaning in so close her perfume—something expensive, fruity—tickled his nose.
"Just… surprised," Jon admitted quietly, gesturing subtly toward one of the older couples. "Didn’t realize this was a date night."
Marisa’s laugh was bright, deliberate. "Oh, sweetie, age is just a number. Love doesn’t clock out at forty."
Jon wanted to press—but Elena suddenly appeared at his other side, draping herself halfway over his shoulders. Her touch was warm, her voice whiskey-smooth.
"Don’t worry, Jon," she teased, her breath sweet with gin. "Plenty of us aren’t taken yet."
Emma giggled across the table, twirling her straw. "Speak for yourself."
Elena gasped—mock-offended—and launched into some dramatic retort Jon barely heard.
His attention snagged on the older couple again.
The way the girl—Tiffany?—traced her fingers over her boyfriend’s wrist.
The same white wristband peeked out from under her sleeve.
Just like the others.
Jon’s pulse hitched.
Before he could react, Marisa clinked her glass against his bottle, pulling his focus back.
"To new friends," she toasted, smiling.
Around the table, glasses lifted.
Jon hesitated—then drank.
The beer tasted bitter.
Or maybe that was just the dread creeping up his throat.
The night should’ve been weird.
Elena was trashed—giggling so hard she almost knocked over Emma’s cosmo, her voice sharp and loud in that way drunk people never realize is obnoxious. Emma wasn’t far behind, slurring compliments like "Jon, you’re actually, like, soo funny when you’re not just, like… working out or whatever."
But despite the strangeness hanging over the yoga crew, Jon was surprised to find himself… having fun.
Mostly thanks to Marisa.
She was effortlessly engaging—switching between sarcastic wit and warm wisdom like it was nothing. Every joke landed, every story pulled him in. She teased him about his stiff posture ("Even in a bar booth, you sit like you’re about to deadlift it") but listened intently when he told her about his job, his move to Texas, even his stupid back injury.
At one point, after refilling his beer without him noticing, she smirked and said, "You know, I was worried you’d be the broody, silent type forever. But you’re kinda charming when you’re not scowling."
Jon snorted. "Thanks, I think."
"Oh, it’s a compliment," she laughed, flicking her dark braid over her shoulder. "Most guys in this town peak in high school and never recover."
And yeah—she was older. Easily mid-40s. Not someone he’d look at twice in that way. But damn if she wasn’t the most interesting person in the room.
Then the door swung open.
And all the warmth in Jon’s chest evaporated.
Mariah.
Dressed in jeans that hugged her just right and a soft sweater that made her skin glow under the bar lights. And beside her—Jackson. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of guy who looked like he spent more time on his skincare routine than Jon did on meal prep.
Jon’s grip tightened around his bottle.
He shouldn’t care.
But fuck.
Mariah’s eyes swept the room—paused on him—widened slightly. Then she smiled, small but genuine, and lifted her fingers in a little wave.
Jon managed a stiff nod.
Elena, drunk and oblivious, followed his gaze and gasped. "Oh! Omigod, it’s—" She shot up, wobbling. "—Time for shots! Right, Jon? Right?"
Marisa’s gaze flicked between Jon and Mariah, sharp with understanding.
"Well well," she murmured, lips curving. "This night just got interesting."
And Jon—
Jon really wished he wasn’t trapped in this booth.
Marisa leaned in, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh? Nobody important?" she echoed, watching as Mariah and her boyfriend wound their way toward them through the crowd.
Jon stiffened. "I mean—we’re just friends."
"Mhmm," Marisa hummed, smirking. "The way you just said that tells me everything."
Before Jon could protest, Mariah was there—smiling warmly, her dark eyes bright.
"Jon! Hey!" she said, reaching out to briefly squeeze his shoulder. Her touch sent a jolt through him. "I didn’t expect to see you here."
Jon forced an easy smile—or what he hoped looked like one. "Yeah, uh. Yoga class outing." He gestured vaguely at the table.
Mariah’s boyfriend, Jackson, extended a hand with perfect polite-guy charm. "Hey man, nice to finally meet you. Maria’s told me a lot about you."
Maria.
Not Mariah.
The nickname grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Jon shook his hand—too tight, probably—and muttered, "All good things, I hope."
Jackson laughed, oblivious. "Of course. Says you spot her on squats."
Mariah rolled her eyes playfully. "Jon’s saved my life multiple times from being squashed by a barbell."
Jon swallowed hard.
She was glowing. Happy. Relaxed. Everything about her body language screamed comfortable with this guy.
It stung.
The small talk lasted another painful minute before Mariah excused them both. "We’re meeting some of Jackson’s coworkers, but it was nice seeing you!" She hesitated, then added, "You should come to the gym next week. I’ve missed my lifting buddy."
Missed.
The word dangled between them like bait.
"Yeah," Jon rasped. "Maybe."
And just like that, she was gone again—Jackson’s hand sliding naturally to the small of her back as they walked away.
Jon exhaled slowly.
Marisa didn’t wait.
"Ohhhh honey," she drawled, swirling her drink. "That was painful to watch."
Jon groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up."
"That wasn’t just nobody important." She nudged him. "Tell me the truth—you’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?"
He debated lying.
But the alcohol loosened his tongue.
"Yeah," he muttered. "And it’s fucking stupid."
Marisa arched a brow, sipping her whiskey. "Why?"
Jon huffed a bitter laugh. "Because she’s with him! Because I wait all week just to spot her on bench press like some lovesick puppy. Because—" He cut himself off, frustrated.
Marisa studied him for a long moment. Then, softly: "She doesn’t look at you the way she looks at him?"
Jon froze.
"It's Bullshit," he said automatically.
But Marisa didn’t push. Just shrugged and leaned back, her expression knowing.
"You know, Jon," she said simply. "You should invite her—to Yoga. You never know...your luck might turn around."
Jon didn’t answer.
Just swallowed the rest of his drink whole.
---
The following Monday, the studio was quieter than usual when Jon stepped in—soft murmurs, hushed laughter, the faint sound of bare feet on mats.
And then he saw her.
Mariah.
Standing near the front of the room in black leggings and a fitted tank, talking animatedly with Marisa.
Jon’s pulse kicked.
What the hell is she doing here?
As if sensing his stare, Mariah turned. Her face lit up, and she gave him a little wave. "Hey! Surprise!"
Jon forced his legs to move forward. "You’re—uh—doing yoga now?"
Before she could answer, Marisa slipped an arm around Mariah’s shoulders, grinning. "I invited her after you left the bar. Everyone needs a little spiritual detox, right?" She winked—definitely not subtle.
Mariah laughed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, don’t look so nervous. I won’t completely embarrass myself."
Her ease helped. A little. Jon exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Just—don’t expect me to be any help. I still can’t touch my toes."
Mariah smirked. "For a guy who lifts like you do, that’s kinda pathetic."
It was such a Mariah thing to say—playful, teasing, effortlessly slipping back into the rhythm of their gym banter—that Jon’s chest loosened.
But then—
His gaze snagged on her wrist.
A thin white band.
The wristband.
His blood went cold.
He looked around the room, counting.
Marisa had one.
No one else did.
Not Elena. Not Emma. No one but…
Mariah.
Jon’s stomach twisted.
Marisa invited her. Marisa gave her the wristband.
Was this planned?
Before he could think too much about it, the music shifted—soothing chimes, low and melodic.
Marisa clapped her hands. "Alright, lovelies! Let’s begin."
Mariah shot Jon one last grin before unfolding her mat beside him.
Jon unrolled his own, hands just a little unsteady.
He had a very bad feeling about this.
As it happens...Mariah was bad at yoga as well—but in the most endearing way possible.
She was flexible—no shock given how nimble she was with weights—but graceful? Not even close. Every transition was a half-second too slow, her balance tipping like a newborn deer on ice. At one point, halfway through Warrior Three, she wobbled so violently she windmilled her arms and nearly face-planted into Jon’s chest.
He caught her reflexively, grinning. "Maybe ease into it, Rocky."
Mariah clutched his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. "I swear this pose didn’t look this hard from the sidelines."
Jon couldn’t help it—he laughed. Really laughed. For the first time all night, the weird tension evaporated. This was just Mariah: clumsy, determined, utterly herself.
The rest of the class passed smoothly—until meditation.
As usual, the lights dimmed, slow music humming through the speakers. Marisa stretched her arms theatrically. "Alright, everyone, settle in. Deep breaths. I’ll be back in a few."
Jon frowned as she slipped out the door. Strange—she never left during meditation.
But before he could dwell on it, the room sank into silence. Ten minutes passed in a drowsy haze until—
Lights flicked on.
Elena stood at the front, smiling. "Hey guys, Marisa isn’t feeling great. She asked me to finish up. So… namaste, or whatever."
Jon sat up, blinking.
Beside him, Mariah was staring at her hands—turning them over, flexing her fingers. Almost like she was… checking them.
She caught him looking and immediately smirked. "Like what you see?"
Jon flushed. "Just—uh—making sure you didn’t pull anything."
Mariah rolled her eyes. "Relax, tough guy. I’m kidding." But her tone was different—sharper, smoother. Off.
The class dispersed quickly after that. Jon lingered, watching as Mariah gathered her things with uncharacteristic imprecision—dropping her keys, fumbling her water bottle.
Outside, the night air was thick with humidity.
"Walk me to my car?" Mariah asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah. Sure."
They crossed the darkened parking lot in silence. Mariah’s steps were confident now—almost swaggering—where earlier she’d been all stiff concentration.
Then—she stopped at a silver Honda.
Jon hesitated. "...That’s not your car."
Mariah froze.
For half a second, her face went utterly blank. Then she laughed, loud and careless. "Whoops! Wrong rental." She spun and marched three cars down to her actual Toyota.
Jon’s stomach knotted.
Rental? Mariah had owned that car for years.
She tossed her bag inside, flashing him a smirk. "See you at the gym tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Jon lied.
She drove off.
Jon stared after her, pulse humming uneasily.
Same voice. Same face.
But was that Mariah?
---
The next morning, Jon spotted her the second he walked into Iron Haven.
"Mariah".
Perched on the edge of a bench, stretching in sleek black yoga pants and a cropped athletic top—clothes he'd never seen her wear to lift before.
She caught his eye immediately, grinning as she unfolded herself in a fluid, feline motion. "There you are," she said, voice warm and teasing. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."
Jon frowned. Her cadence was different—smoother, almost calculated. Even the way she stood seemed unnaturally poised, like someone who'd studied confidence rather than lived it.
"...You're in yoga gear," he blurted.
She glanced down, running her hands over her hips as if appreciating the fabric. "Mm. Felt like a change. Cute, right?"
Jon swallowed hard. Every alarm in his head was screaming.
Then came the real red flags.
She couldn't remember their usual push-pull split. She kept asking about muscle groups like the terms were foreign. And when she loaded up the bar for squats—
"Mariah, your knees—they're caving in. Big time," Jon warned, hovering behind her.
She just giggled. "Oops. Guess I need you to really spot me today."
Her wink was deliberate, her hips shifting invitingly as she started her descent with terrifying instability. Jon had to brace both hands on her waist to keep her from wobbling sideways—too close, too intimate.
When they switched to bench press, she abandoned form entirely, arching in a way that was less about power and more about giving him an obstructed view down her tank top.
Jon's face burned.
Then—
"So, big news," she announced between sets, twirling a lock of hair. "Me and Jackson? Done." She popped the p playfully. "Thought you'd be happy to hear that."
Jon froze mid-reach for his water bottle.
"You... broke up?"
"Mhmm." She stretched her arms overhead, watching his reaction like a cat eyeing a trapped mouse. "Long-distance sucked anyway. But now I'm single... lonely... could really use a friend tonight." Her foot nudged his calf. "Maybe you?"
Jon felt like he'd been dunked in ice water.
This wasn't Mariah.
The real Mariah would never ditch form like this. Would never flirt this blatantly. And if—some impossible fantasy—she'd actually broken up with Jackson, she'd be hurting. Drinking sad-girl wine, venting to friends, not propositioning him mid-workout.
Yet here this not-Mariah stood, smirking, waiting.
Jon forced a stiff smile. "Yeah. Maybe."
She beamed, like he'd confirmed some secret she already knew. "Great. Come by my place at 8. Don't bring beer—I've got better drinks."
She sauntered away to the water fountain, her stride too smooth, too practiced.
Jon stared after her.
He had no intention of showing up.
But he was going to figure out what the hell was happening.
---
Jon stood on Mariah’s porch at 8:03 PM, fist raised to knock, heart hammering like he was about to step into a trap.
Because he was.
But he had to know.
The door swung open before his knuckles even touched wood.
Mariah leaned against the frame, bathed in warm lamplight—barefoot, in a silky slip of a dress that clung to every curve. A far cry from her usual gym shorts and oversized tees.
"You came," she purred, stepping aside to let him in.
Jon forced himself to move. "Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it."
The apartment smelled like vanilla and red wine. Candles flickered on the coffee table beside an already half-empty bottle.
Mariah snatched it up, pouring him a glass without asking. "Relax," she laughed, pressing it into his hand. "You look like you’re about to bolt."
Jon took a sip. "Just… surprised, I guess."
"About?" She flopped onto the couch, patting the space beside her.
"This. You. Us hanging out like…" He gestured vaguely at the wine, the dim lighting, her.
Mariah’s smile turned sly. "Like a date?"
Jon choked on his drink.
She just giggled, leaning in to swipe a thumb over the corner of his lips, catching the spilled wine. Then—slow, deliberate—she sucked it off her own finger, watching him.
Jon’s pulse roared in his ears.
This was wrong.
The real Mariah would’ve teased him, sure. Would’ve maybe flirted after one too many drinks. But not like this. Not with this calculated, predatory heat.
Yet here she was, closing the distance between them, her knee brushing his.
"You’ve always been so careful with me," she murmured, fingers tracing idle circles on his thigh. "But you don’t have to be. Not anymore."
Jon’s grip tightened on his glass. "Mariah—"
"Shhh." Her hand slid up to cradle his jaw. "Just kiss me."
And then she did.
Her mouth was warm, insistent—wrong. The way she moved, the taste of her, the pressure—it was like kissing a stranger wearing Mariah’s skin. Little did he know how right he was.
Jon pulled back, breath ragged.
Mariah just smirked, licking her lips. "See? Not so hard."
Mariah didn’t just kiss him—she consumed him.
One second, Jon was reeling from the wrongness of it all—the next, her hands were fisted in his shirt, yanking him forward until his back hit the couch. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan, and suddenly any semblance of hesitation shattered.
Her tongue swiped against his, tasting of rich red wine and something else—something darkly intoxicating. She climbed onto his lap in one smooth motion, her silky dress riding up as she straddled him.
“You’ve wanted this,” she breathed, grinding down against the painful hardness in his jeans. “For so long.”
Jon’s hands found her hips on instinct, gripping tight as she rocked against him. He should’ve stopped. Should’ve asked what the hell was happening.
But then her mouth was on his neck, nipping, sucking, marking him like she was staking a claim—and logic dissolved.
She pulled back just enough to smirk at the mess she’d made of him.
“Pathetic,” she teased, dragging her nails down his chest. “All this time pretending you didn’t want me.”
Before he could respond, she slid off his lap and onto her knees between his legs.
Her fingers made quick work of his belt, his zipper, his straining boxers. When she freed him, hot and heavy in her grip, she licked her lips—slow, deliberate, savoring the moment.
Then, without warning, she took him deep.
Jon’s back arched off the couch, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat.
Fuck.
Her mouth was perfect—hot, wet, relentless. No hesitation, no teasing buildup. Just ruthless skill. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips tightened on the upstroke, her nails dug into his thighs when he tried to buck deeper. “Don’t,” she warned, smirking up at him before swallowing him down again.
Jon’s vision blurred.
She was too good. Knew exactly how to hollow her cheeks, when to hum, when to drag her teeth just enough to make him see stars. It wasn’t just the best head of his life—it was like she’d mapped out every desperate fantasy he’d ever had and cranked it to eleven.
When he growled, “I’m close,” she didn’t pull away.
She laughed around him—laughed—and doubled down, taking him to the hilt.
Jon came with a curse, fingers tangled in her hair as she milked him through it, swallowing every drop.
He barely had time to recover before she climbed back into his lap, yanking her dress down over her shoulders in one motion. No bra. Just smooth, golden skin and perfect curves.
Jon crushed her against him, hands roaming, mouth claiming hers again—but she was the one in control.
She pushed him back onto the couch, guiding him inside her with a slow, torturous roll of her hips. He hissed at the slick, blazing heat of her.
Then she moved.
No sweet, tentative rhythm. Just pure, unrelenting dominance. She rode him like she was punishing him for every second he’d spent pining—hard, fast, her nails scoring down his chest as she chased her own pleasure.
“Look at you,” she taunted, grinding down, clenching around him. “Mr. Self-Control.”
Jon didn’t last. Couldn’t. Not with her above him—eyes dark, body arching, her breath coming in sharp, needy gasps.
He flipped her beneath him in one rough motion, driving into her deep enough to wrench a sharp cry from her lips.
“Jon—!”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Their coupling turned savage—skin slapping, teeth clashing, her thighs trembling around his waist as she clawed at his back. When she came, it was with a scream, her body locking around him like a vice.
Jon followed, burying himself inside her with a groan.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths.
Then she laughed.
Low. Triumphant.
Jon tensed.
Because that laugh—
It didn’t belong to Mariah.
Jon froze as Mariah's laugh - too deep, too smug, too knowing - echoed through the bedroom. That wasn't Mariah's giggle. That wasn't Mariah's playful tone.
He recognized it only a nanosecond later...That was Marisa.
"Enjoy yourself, big boy?" the woman in Mariah's body purred, stretching like a satisfied cat as she rolled away from him. When she turned back, there was something terrifyingly wrong about the way she moved - the familiar curves now inhabited by something alien. "I knew you'd be fun."
Jon sat up sharply, the post-coital haze evaporating. "What the fuck are you?"
Mariah's lips - no, not Mariah's lips - curved into a smile Jon had only ever seen on one person before.
"Smart boy," Marisa chuckled from Mariah's mouth, running Mariah's hands down Mariah's body in a way that made Jon's stomach lurch. "I was wondering when you'd notice."
Jon scrambled off the bed, grabbing for his pants. "Where's Mariah? What did you do to her?"
Marisa sighed dramatically, rolling Mariah's eyes - but the gesture was all wrong, like watching a bad actor play a part. "God, fine. Since you're so clever..." She sat up, tossing Mariah's hair. "I suppose you've earned the whole sordid story."
She spread Mariah's hands like she was giving a presentation.
"Astral projection. Soul transference. A little aromatherapy magic in the yoga studio. Basically..." She smirked. "I help older women trade up. Give some lonely grandma a chance to be young and beautiful again by hopping into a fresh new body. All it takes is a willing participant on each side - well, 'willing' in the loosest sense."
Jon's blood went cold as he remembered the wristbands. The older woman crying in the parking lot. The way Elena had changed so suddenly.
"You give them the bands," he breathed.
"Bingo." Marisa clapped Mariah's hands. "The wristband marks the donors. The incense during meditation loosens their soul's grip on their body just enough for me to... help them let go." She smiled. "Most of them don't even realize what's happening until it's too late."
Jon felt sick. "And the older women? You just... convince them to give up their bodies?"
Marisa shrugged. "They want to. At first they're confused, sure. But then they look in the mirror and realize what they've gained. A tight little body, smooth skin, all the time in the world..." She ran Mariah's hands over Mariah's breasts. "Would you give that up?"
Jon's stomach churned. This was worse than any nightmare his mind could come up with.
Jon felt dizzy, the room spinning as the horrific truth sank in. The yoga studio wasn't just a business - it was a hunting ground. And Mariah had walked right into the trap.
"I knew you had a thing for her," Marisa cooed, crawling toward him on the bed with Mariah's body. "So when I saw my chance to finally upgrade from my 46-year-old vessel... well, who better than your beautiful gym crush?" She laughed - that same rich, throaty laugh Jon now realized had never belonged to Mariah at all.
Jon backed away, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone. "I'm calling the cops. This stops now."
Marisa rolled Mariah's eyes. "And say what? That your crush's body got possessed by a yoga instructor?" She smirked. "They'll lock you in the psych ward before you finish speaking."
Panic clawed at Jon's throat. She was right. No one would believe this. But he couldn't just walk away - not while the real Mariah was...
"Where is she?" Jon demanded. "Where's Mariah's soul right now?"
Marisa stretched luxuriously. "Oh, she's fine. Currently occupying my old body locked in a dark room back at the studio and tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth so nobody has to hear her scream. A little trade we made during meditation today." Her smile turned cruel. "Though I did warn her - if she tries telling anyone, no one will believe the crazy old lady claiming to be a 24-year-old."
Jon's mind raced. The crying woman in the parking lot. The way Mariah had stumbled getting into the wrong car. The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity.
"So all of then are actually old women...," he realized. "Elena, Emma, now Mariah...all those girls."
"Very good!" Marisa applauded. "Honestly, Mariah put up more fight than most. But they all give in eventually." She sauntered closer. "Now, you've got two choices. Either accept this sexy new version of your gym buddy..." She trailed Mariah's fingers down his chest. "Or go charging off to 'save the day' and look like a goddamn fool."
Jon's fists clenched. He knew Marisa was right about one thing - no cop would ever believe his story. He was out of options.
body swap
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John makes a wish one fateful night to be able to get closer to his crush and gets more than he'd bargained for with via a gender bending trip in the body of his attractive step-mom.
Chapter 1: Backstory
The sun hung high over the quiet suburban neighborhood of Willow Creek, casting a golden haze over manicured lawns and white picket fences that seemed frozen in time. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business, but no one ever admitted it-secrets simmered beneath the surface like the humid Texas air in mid-July. John Thompson, an 18-year-old fresh out of high school, wiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed the old lawnmower across Jessica's expansive front yard. The machine's rumble drowned out the distant chirp of cicadas, and the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint floral perfume wafting from the nearby rose bushes Jessica so meticulously tended.
John had been helping out both families for years now-his own and the neighboring one headed by Jessica and her daughter Summer. It started as odd jobs to earn pocket money: mowing lawns, fixing fences, even helping with groceries when Heather, his step-mom, was swamped with her part-time job at the local boutique. Heather had married John's dad when John was just a kid, but after his dad passed away five years ago from a sudden heart attack, it had been just the three of them: Heather, John, and Amy-Heather's biological daughter from her first marriage. Amy was 20 now, home from college for the summer, and she treated John like the annoying little brother he sometimes felt he was.
But Summer, oh, Summer was different. She'd been Amy's best friend since middle school, the kind of girl who turned heads without even trying. John had nursed a crush on her for as long as he could remember-those stolen glances during family barbecues, the way her laughter echoed like music when she and Amy gossiped in the backyard. She was 20 now too, taller than most girls at 5'10", with a lithe, athletic build from years of volleyball, sun-kissed blonde hair that cascaded in waves down her back, and a bust that filled out her tops in a way that made John's heart race. Her mom, Jessica, was the stuff of local legend-the town's ultimate MILF at 46, with platinum blonde locks, a curvy figure boasting a generous D-cup bust, and legs that seemed to go on forever. She owned a small yoga studio downtown, which kept her toned and flexible, and her flirtatious smile had broken more than a few hearts.
John paused the mower to chug from his water bottle, his t-shirt clinging to his lean, teenage frame. He wasn't unattractive-tallish at 5'11", with messy brown hair and a boyish charm-but he felt invisible next to the likes of Summer. "Just finish this up," he muttered to himself, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. That's when he heard the car pull into the driveway.
The sleek SUV doors opened, and out stepped Summer, looking every bit the college bombshell in cutoff denim shorts that hugged her firm ass and a crop top that revealed a sliver of toned midriff. Her bigger bust-easily an E-cup-strained against the fabric, bouncing slightly as she slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. "John? Is that you?" she called out, her voice bright and melodic, waving enthusiastically.
John's heart skipped a beat. He killed the mower's engine, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and disheveled he looked-grass clippings stuck to his sneakers, beads of perspiration dripping down his neck. "Uh, hey, Summer! Welcome home!" He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked just a little.
She dropped her bag and bounded over, enveloping him in a tight hug before he could protest. Her body pressed against his-soft, warm, and smelling faintly of vanilla and sunscreen. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her hips brushing his, and for a split second, his mind blanked. "It's so good to see you! You've gotten taller or something," she laughed, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms. Her blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth.
John's face flushed crimson. "Y-yeah, maybe. Sorry, I'm all sweaty and gross. Wasn't expecting, you know." He gestured vaguely at himself, inwardly cursing his awkwardness. God, she looks incredible, he thought. Even better than I remembered. Those lips, that smile, what I wouldn't give to just...
Summer giggled, tilting her head. "Aw, don't worry about it. You're doing us a huge favor with the lawn. Mom's been raving about how helpful you've been." She glanced back at the house, where Jessica was unloading more bags, her own figure poured into yoga pants and a tank top that accentuated her ample cleavage. Jessica caught John's eye and waved with a wink, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.
John opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. Summer's proximity was overwhelming-her scent, her touch, the way her top rode up just enough to show a hint of underboob. He stood there, dumbstruck, his brain short-circuiting as he imagined what it would be like to hold her, to kiss her, to explore every inch of her perfect body. "I, uh, yeah, no problem," he finally stammered, stepping back awkwardly.
Summer smiled sympathetically, picking up her bag. "Well, catch you later? Amy and I are planning a pool day soon- you should join!" With that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying in a way that made John's knees weak.
He watched her go, his mind reeling. How does she do that? Just exist and make everything else fade away? Shaking his head, he restarted the mower, but his thoughts lingered on her-the crush that had only grown stronger over the years.
Later that afternoon, after finishing up and heading home, John bumped into Amy in the kitchen. She was perched on the counter, scrolling through her phone, her brunette hair tied back in a ponytail. Amy took after Heather-modest but attractive, with a fit body from her college track team, perky C-cup breasts, and a girl-next-door vibe. At 20, she was confident and teasing, especially with her little step-brother.
"Hey, loser," she said without looking up, popping a grape into her mouth. "Heard you were over at Jessica's. See Summer yet?"
John grabbed a soda from the fridge, trying to act nonchalant. "Yeah, she just got home. Hugged me and everything." He couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face.
Amy finally glanced at him, smirking. "Ooh, a hug? Careful, John, you might actually talk to a girl for once." She hopped down, nudging him playfully. "Seriously, though, when are you gonna get a girlfriend? You're 18 now-high school's over. You can't just mope around playing video games all summer."
John rolled his eyes, but her words stung a bit. "I'm not moping. Just, busy helping out. And who says I need a girlfriend right now?"
Amy laughed, ruffling his hair. "Come on, make some friends at least. Hit up the beach, the mall-anything. Summer's single, you know. But you'd have to actually, like, speak in full sentences around her."
If only it were that easy, John thought, his mind flashing back to the hug. She's way out of my league. But god, what I wouldn't do to be closer to her... "Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it."
The conversation fizzled as Amy headed upstairs, leaving John to ponder her advice. Dinner that evening was a typical affair-Heather had whipped up a simple pasta dish, her brunette hair pulled back, her modest blouse and jeans hugging her still-fit 45-year-old figure. Heather was classically attractive: soft curves, a B-cup bust that she carried with quiet confidence, and warm brown eyes that always seemed to know more than she let on. She was the glue holding the family together, working her boutique job while keeping the house running smoothly.
They ate at the kitchen table, chatting about mundane things-Amy's college stories, John's lawn-mowing adventures, Heather's latest customer drama. "John, sweetie, thanks for helping Jessica out today," Heather said, smiling across the table. "You're turning into quite the responsible young man."
John shrugged, blushing slightly. "No big deal, Mom." The meal wrapped up normally, with everyone retreating to their own spaces: Amy to her room for a video call with friends, Heather to the living room with a book, and John upstairs to his bedroom.
He locked the door behind him, flopping onto his bed with a sigh. The room was a typical teenage haven-posters of video games and bands on the walls, a cluttered desk with his laptop, and a faint scent of Axe body spray. But tonight, his mind was fixated on Summer. That hug, her body against mine. Fuck, she's perfect. He felt a familiar stir in his pants, his cock twitching at the memory.
Unable to resist, he grabbed his laptop, dimming the lights as he settled against the pillows. A quick incognito search brought up porn sites, and he typed in descriptors that reminded him of her: "tall blonde big tits college girl." Videos popped up-women who vaguely resembled Summer, but none captured her essence. He clicked on one: a busty blonde riding a guy reverse cowgirl, her moans filling his headphones.
John's hand slipped into his boxers, wrapping around his hardening shaft. He stroked slowly at first, imagining it was Summer on top of him, her breasts bouncing, her tight pussy gripping him. God, I wish I could get closer to her, he thought, his pace quickening. Not just know her, but be intimate. Feel her from the outside, sure, but, inside too? Like, understand her completely. The fantasy spiraled-taboo thoughts of body swaps, gender bends from the weird porn he'd stumbled upon before, where guys became girls and explored forbidden desires.
His breath hitched as the orgasm built, more intense than usual. "Fuck, I wish I could be closer to Summer, inside and out," he whispered aloud, his voice hoarse. The video played on, the actress crying out in ecstasy. John's body tensed, cum erupting in hot spurts over his hand and stomach. Waves of pleasure crashed over him, stronger than ever, his vision blurring as a strange dizziness took hold. The world spun, and suddenly-blackness. He collapsed back, unconscious, the laptop still humming softly in the dim room.
Chapter 2: Freaky Morning
The first rays of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains of Heather's bedroom, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the king-sized bed with its crisp white sheets and plush comforter. The room was a sanctuary of feminine elegance-walls painted a calming lavender, a vanity table cluttered with perfumes and jewelry, and a full-length mirror propped against the far wall, reflecting the orderly chaos of a woman's life well-lived. Heather's closet stood slightly ajar, revealing rows of neatly hung blouses, dresses, and jeans, while the faint scent of lavender sachets mingled with the subtle musk of her favorite body lotion. It was a space John had only glimpsed in passing, never truly entered, let alone woken up in.
But this morning, that's exactly where he found himself-or rather, where she found herself. John's consciousness stirred groggily, his mind foggy from what felt like the deepest sleep of his life. His body felt, off. Lighter somehow, yet weighted in unfamiliar places. He blinked against the light, rubbing his eyes with hands that seemed smaller, more delicate. What a weird dream, he thought hazily, the remnants of last night's intense orgasm flickering in his memory like a half-remembered fantasy. That blackout, must've passed out hard. A pressing urge built in his lower abdomen-the need to pee-and without much thought, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The nightgown whispered against his skin as he stood, a silky fabric that clung in ways his boxers never did. It was Heather's favorite-a simple lavender slip that reached mid-thigh, with thin straps and a lace-trimmed neckline that dipped just enough to hint at cleavage. John didn't register the difference yet; his brain was still booting up. He padded across the plush carpet, the cool hardwood of the en suite bathroom floor sending a shiver up his spine as he entered. The bathroom was pristine: marble counters, a deep soaking tub, and a rainfall showerhead that Heather loved for its spa-like feel. He lifted the toilet seat out of habit-wait, no, that felt wrong. Instinct took over, and he hiked up the nightgown, sat down on the cool porcelain, and let go.
The stream came easily, a soft trickle that felt strangely relieving but, different. No standing, no aiming-just sitting and releasing. He reached for the toilet paper without thinking, wiping front to back in a motion that came as naturally as breathing. Flush. Stand. Wash hands. It was all autopilot, muscle memory kicking in from a body that wasn't his. Huh, that was, easy, he mused internally, still half-asleep. Usually takes forever to wake up properly.
He shuffled to the vanity sink, the mirror fogged slightly from the humidity of the night. Grabbing Heather's toothbrush-pink-handled, with soft bristles-he squeezed on a dollop of minty toothpaste and began brushing. The rhythm was familiar, but as he raised his arm, it brushed against something soft and yielding. A jolt of sensation shot through him-nipples hardening under the fabric, a subtle weight shifting on his chest. What the...? He paused, toothbrush in mouth, and glanced down. Breasts. Actual breasts, modestly sized but pert, straining slightly against the nightgown. The toothbrush clattered into the sink as awareness crashed over him like a wave.
John's eyes widened in the mirror, staring back at a face that wasn't his. Heather's face: high cheekbones, full lips painted a natural pink from last night's gloss, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and a cascade of brunette hair tumbling over shoulders. "Oh my God," he whispered, but the voice that emerged was soft, feminine-Heather's voice, with its gentle Texas lilt. He gasped externally, a sharp intake of breath that echoed in the tiled room. Internally, his mind screamed: What the fuck is happening? This can't be real. Am I still dreaming? Did I die? Panic bubbled up, his new heart pounding in a chest that felt both alien and intimately responsive.
He leaned closer to the mirror, hands-slender, with manicured nails-gripping the counter. Calm down, John. Breathe. Figure this out. How had this happened? Last night, the porn, the wish whispered aloud as he came. I wish I could get closer to Summer, inside and out. Was this some cosmic joke? A body swap? Like those weird stories he'd read online, the gender bender fantasies that always got him off harder than he cared to admit. But this was real-the cool air from the AC vent brushing against his skin, making goosebumps rise, and lower, a chill teasing at exposed folds he shouldn't have. Holy shit, I have a vagina.
Curiosity edged out the panic as he calmed. If this is a dream, might as well explore. He started with the face, poking and prodding gently. Heather's skin was smooth, softer than his ever was-no stubble, just the faint peach fuzz of a woman's complexion. He stuck out his tongue-pink and agile-wagging it experimentally. Then, an UwU face: cheeks puffed, eyes wide and innocent, lips pursed in a cute pout. It looked ridiculous on Heather's mature features, but oddly endearing. A sad face next-eyebrows furrowed, lower lip trembling-as if practicing for a role in a drama. She looks, kinda hot like this, he admitted to himself, a forbidden thought creeping in.
Now, the voice. "Hello?" he tested, the word coming out smooth and melodic. He cleared his throat-her throat-and tried seductive: "Come here, big boy," drawled low and husky, with a sultry emphasis that made his new nipples tingle. Angry and authoritative: "Young man, you're grounded!" barked out, stern and commanding, the kind of tone Heather used when scolding him. Curse words for fun: "Fuck, shit, damn," he whispered, giggling at how prim and proper it sounded in her voice, then louder, "Oh, fuck me," with a moan that surprised him with its authenticity. This is insane. I sound just like her. But better? Sexier?
Satisfied for now, he ventured back into the bedroom, the nightgown swishing around his thighs. The full-body mirror beckoned, a ornate antique piece Heather had inherited from her mother. John stood before it, heart racing anew. He slipped the straps off his shoulders, letting the nightgown pool at his feet. Naked now, he stared. Heather's body-his body-was stunning in a way he'd never appreciated. At 45, she was fit from yoga classes with Jessica, her skin glowing with a natural tan. Modest B-cup breasts hung with a natural heft, nipples a dusky pink and erect from the cool air. He cupped them experimentally, feeling the weight-soft yet firm, like ripe fruit. These are, heavy. But nice. Sensitive too. A gentle squeeze sent a spark straight to his core, a warmth building between his legs.
His hands roamed lower: smooth, hairless skin everywhere except a neatly trimmed patch above his new slit. No coarse body hair, just silkiness. Legs long and dainty, toned calves leading to petite feet. He turned, admiring the curve of his ass-round and perky, not as voluptuous as Jessica's but inviting. Fingernails painted a soft nude, longer than he was used to, scratching lightly over his skin. She's gorgeous. Why didn't I notice before? Taboo, I guess. But now... The thought aroused him-her. A slickness grew between his thighs, a moist heat that made him clench involuntarily. I'm getting wet. Fuck, that's hot. But not now-gotta figure this out.
Shaking it off, he headed to the closet, an instinctive pull guiding him. Muscle memory? Heather's knowledge seeped in-he knew exactly where her lingerie drawer was, tucked in the back. He pulled out a comfortable bra: beige lace, supportive underwire. Slipping it on was effortless-arms through straps, clasp in front with a twist, adjust the cups. Whoa, that was easy. Like I've done it a thousand times. It felt amazing: the lift pushing his breasts up, creating subtle cleavage, the fabric hugging like a second skin. Panties next-a thong, black and silky, something he wouldn't have pegged for Heather's modest style. Does she wear these? Kinky, Mom. He stepped in, pulling it up; the string nestled between his ass cheeks, a constant teasing pressure, while the front panel cupped his mound, the fabric brushing his slit in a way that made him gasp. Feels, exposing. But good. Like it's right there, ready.
Clothes: tight skinny jeans that hugged his hips and ass like a glove, zipping up with a satisfying snugness. A button-up blouse in soft blue, rolling the sleeves for a casual look that accentuated his figure. This outfits screams 'hot mom.' Matches perfectly.
Drawn to the makeup vanity next-a wooden table with a lighted mirror, drawers full of palettes and brushes. He sat, brushing out the long brunette locks-silky and thick, falling to mid-back. Tying it into a loose ponytail was second nature, strands framing his face. Feels lighter now. Smells like her shampoo-floral and fresh.
The makeup array was overwhelming: foundations, blushes, eyeshadows in every shade, lipsticks from nude to bold red. So much stuff. Eyeliners, mascaras, how does she choose? But again, instinct guided him. He applied a light foundation, blending seamlessly; a touch of blush for a rosy glow; eyeliner winged just so, making his eyes pop; mascara for length; and a lipstick a shade pinker than Heather's usual, with a gloss that made his lips look fuller, kissable. Cuter, slightly seductive-eyebrows arched playfully, a hint of shimmer on the lids. Not her everyday look. More, flirty. Like I'm dolling up for something special.
Stepping back, he admired the full effect in the mirror: a vision of mature allure, jeans accentuating curves, blouse hinting at cleavage, makeup enhancing natural beauty. If this is permanent, what now? Excitement mingled with fear, but a thrill coursed through him. Summer. This could be my chance to get close. Really close. With that, he headed downstairs, ready to face whatever bizarre day awaited in his step-mom's body.
Chapter 3: "Heather"'s Day
The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the Thompson household, a cozy two-story home nestled in the heart of Willow Creek. The kitchen was Heather's domain-granite countertops gleaming under pendant lights, a farmhouse sink piled with mixing bowls, and a window overlooking the backyard where John had spent countless summers playing catch with his late dad. But this morning, it was John-or rather, "Heather"-commanding the space with an ease that surprised even him. Dressed in those tight skinny jeans that hugged his new curves like a second skin and the button-up blouse that teased just a hint of cleavage, he moved with a fluid grace, flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs as if he'd done it a thousand times. Which, in a way, he had-Heather's muscle memory was a godsend, guiding his hands through the motions without a second thought.
What the hell is going on? John pondered internally, stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. Am I stuck like this forever? Is this some kind of freaky punishment for jerking off to Summer? Or, fulfillment of that wish? The confusion gnawed at him, but a strange exhilaration bubbled underneath. No more awkward stares from afar; he could be close now, in ways he never imagined. But first, gotta play the part. Don't freak out the family. He set the table with Heather's favorite floral plates, humming a tune he didn't even know he knew-a soft melody from one of her yoga playlists.
As the first one up, John had the house to himself for a blissful half-hour, but soon enough, footsteps thudded down the stairs. His heart-or Heather's-skipped a beat as he wondered about his old body. What if Mom's in there? Trapped, screaming? Or, what if it's empty? The question was answered when "John" shuffled into the kitchen, yawning in his rumpled pajamas, hair tousled just like always. "Morning, Mom," the body said in John's own voice, wrapping arms around "Heather" in a casual hug. The embrace felt surreal-hugging himself, essentially-but there was no hint of anything amiss. "John" pulled back, sniffing the air. "Smells awesome. You making pancakes? Sweet."
"Yeah, sweetie, your favorite," John replied in Heather's warm tone, forcing a smile while his mind raced. He's acting just like me. Saying shit I'd say, moving like I do. Is it, on autopilot? Some kind of echo? Relief washed over him; at least no one was suffering in his place. Amy joined moments later, her ponytail bouncing as she plopped into a chair, phone in hand. "Morning, everyone! Ooh, bacon-thanks, Mom."
Breakfast unfolded in a haze of normalcy that bordered on the absurd. They chatted about the weather-hot and humid, as always in Texas-the latest neighborhood gossip, and Amy's excitement about her summer classes. John, as Heather, navigated it flawlessly: laughing at "John's" dumb joke about a video game boss, passing the syrup with a maternal nod, even scolding Amy gently for scrolling too much at the table. Internally, though, it was a mindfuck. This is me, eating with my family, but I'm Mom. Watching myself chew with my mouth open. Hearing Amy call me 'Mom.' It's like a VR sim gone wrong. A flicker of arousal stirred as he caught sight of Amy's tank top riding up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach-taboo thoughts he quickly shoved down. Focus, dude. You're her mom now.
As the meal wrapped up, plans emerged. "John" mentioned heading out to mow more lawns-my old job, John thought wryly-while Amy talked about meeting friends downtown. "Hey, Mom," Amy said, stacking plates, "you should hit the mall today. Get that new bathing suit we talked about. Remember, tomorrow's the double date at the beach spa with Jessica and Summer! It's gonna be so fun-sun, sand, massages..."
John's new body reacted instantly: a flush of heat between his legs, nipples tightening under the bra. Double date? With Jessica and Summer? Holy shit. Images flooded his mind-Summer in a bikini, water glistening on her curves, her laughter echoing over waves. This is it. The wish. Getting closer to her, even if it's as Mom. Bizarre, but, hot? He nodded enthusiastically, Heather's voice steady. "That sounds perfect, honey. I could use a little retail therapy."
Amy grinned. "Awesome! Pick something cute. Maybe something a bit, sexier? You're still got it, Mom." She winked, and "John" chuckled, oblivious.
Once they left-the door clicking shut behind them-John was alone, the house silent except for the hum of the fridge. Okay, game on. He grabbed Heather's purse from the hook by the door-a stylish leather satchel stuffed with wallet, keys, and lip gloss-and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping out, he felt a literal spring in his step: lighter on his feet, hips swaying naturally, the thong riding up just enough to remind him of his new anatomy. Feels, empowering? Like I'm strutting.
Heather's car-a reliable SUV-waited in the driveway. Sliding into the driver's seat, he adjusted the mirror, buckling up. The seatbelt nestled between his breasts, the strap pressing against the soft mounds, creating a valley of cleavage. Whoa, that's, distracting. Unable to resist, he glanced around-no nosy neighbors watching-and cupped his boobs through the blouse, squeezing gently. The sensation zinged straight to his core, a moist warmth building. These feel amazing. So sensitive. He admired his reflection: ponytail bouncing, makeup flawless, lips plump. Looking good, 'Heather.' A little crazy? Maybe. But fuck it. Starting the engine, he pulled out, heading to the mall with a mix of nerves and excitement.
The Willow Creek Mall was bustling mid-morning: families milling about, teens in clusters, the air scented with pretzels and perfume. As "Heather," John drew glances-not suspicious, but appreciative. Men stealing looks at his ass in the jeans, women nodding at his outfit. They're checking me out. Because I'm hot. Female hot. It was a power trip, boosting his confidence as he navigated to a trendy store aimed at the 18-25 crowd-think fast fashion with edgy vibes, blasting pop music and lined with racks of crop tops and mini skirts.
Browsing the swimsuit section, he blended in at first, but soon noticed the giggles from a group of college-aged girls nearby. They're laughing at me? The 'old lady' in their store? But he ignored it, fingers trailing over fabrics until he spotted a two-piece white bikini: skimpy top with padding for extra lift, high-cut bottoms that would hug and expose his ass cheeks. This is cute. Revealing, but, why not? Summer might notice. Heart pounding, he grabbed a size that felt right-Heather's instincts again-and headed to the changing rooms.
The attendant, an 18-year-old with neon hair and a judgmental smirk, eyed him up. "Uh, can I help you? These are for, like, our demographic..."
John channeled Heather's charisma-poise he'd never had as himself. He flashed a warm smile, tilting his head flirtatiously. "Oh, honey, age is just a number. But if you insist, maybe you can help me decide if this makes me look too, youthful?" He added a wink and a light laugh, funny yet charming, disarming her completely.
The girl blinked, then grinned. "Okay, fair. Room three's open. Knock yourself out."
Inside the cramped stall, mirror-lined walls reflecting every angle, John stripped slowly. Off came the blouse, jeans pooling at his feet, bra unclasped-breasts freed, nipples perking in the cool air. The thong slipped down, revealing his smooth mound, already glistening slightly from anticipation. Time to see. He stepped into the bikini bottoms, the fabric snug against his slit, riding up to accentuate his ass. The top tied on, padding pushing his B-cups into fuller, perkier cleavage. Damn, I look, fuckable.
Letting his hair down-waves cascading-he posed: hands on hips, seductive smirk, touching himself all over. Fingers traced his collarbone, down to squeeze his enhanced boobs, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. So soft, so responsive. He turned, admiring his ass-cheeks peeking out, firm and inviting. Then, cutesy mode: innocent pout, batting lashes, imagining compliments from Jessica and Summer. "Oh, Heather, you look amazing!" he'd coo in a high pitch, giggling.
But thoughts turned to Summer: her taller frame in a bikini, bigger bust spilling out, water droplets tracing her curves. God, she'd look incredible. Wet, shiny... Arousal hit hard-his pussy throbbing, slickness soaking the bottoms. Can't ignore this anymore. He slipped a hand down, rubbing his clit through the fabric-electric sparks shooting through him. Fuck, that's intense. Boldly, he pushed the bottoms aside, fingers dipping into his wet folds, one then two sliding in. The fullness, the warmth-moans escaped, soft at first, then louder: "Oh, yes..." He pumped gently, thumb on clit, imagining Summer's body against his. The attendant might have heard-the stall walls thin-but he didn't care, stopping just short of climax. Later. Save it.
Composed again, he dressed and checked out. The cashier-a young guy-rang him up, but John scratched an itch near his crotch crudely, like a guy adjusting his balls. Oops. The cashier flushed, thinking, Hot mom, but, that was weird. Kinda unladylike.
Back home, cooking dinner was effortless: Heather's recipes ingrained, whipping up lasagna with garlic bread. When Amy and "John" returned, he roleplayed perfectly-asking about their days, laughing at stories, no suspicions raised. This is trippy. Engaging with myself.
After dinner, alone time with Amy in her room: posters of bands, clothes strewn about. She changed for bed into a provocative outfit-tiny shorts and a crop top, no bra, nipples visible through thin fabric. John stared voyeuristically, heat building. She's hot. Like Mom, but younger. Amy chatted about the spa: private massages, saunas, hot tubs. "And who knows, Mom? We might spot some hot guys. You could use a fling!" She teased, winking.
John laughed, but internally: Guys? Nah. But Summer... Excited, he headed to bed, following Heather's routine: face wash, lotion, nightgown. In the nightstand, a small vibrator-pink, discreet. Mom's got toys? Kinky.
Lying back, he buzzed it to life, pressing against his clit. Oh fuck. Imagining the spa: Jessica in a thong, bust overflowing; Summer nude, legs spread; even Amy, playful and bare. They touched, kissed-taboo fantasies blending. Orgasms crashed over him, waves of pleasure making his body arch, moans muffled into the pillow. Exhausted, he drifted to sleep, dreaming of tomorrow's possibilities.
Chapter 4: Before the Outing
The alarm on Heather's nightstand buzzed softly at 7 AM, pulling John from a deep, dreamless sleep. He stretched languidly under the sheets, his body-Heather's body-responding with a supple arch that made his breasts shift and his hips roll in a way that felt both foreign and intoxicating. The vibrator from last night lay innocently on the pillow beside him, a silent reminder of the explosive orgasm that had rocked him to his core. Holy shit, that was real, he thought, a grin spreading across Heather's full lips as he sat up. I'm still here. Still her. And today, today I get to see Summer up close. In a spa. With bikinis and massages and, God, what if things get steamy? Excitement coursed through him, mingling with a low hum of arousal that made his new pussy tingle faintly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool morning air teasing his skin through the thin nightgown. Padding to the en suite bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror-hair tousled from sleep, makeup smudged just enough to look sultry rather than sloppy. I look like a woman who's had a wild night. Fitting. Stripping off the nightgown, he stepped into the shower, turning the water to a steamy hot spray that cascaded over his curves like a lover's touch. The sensation was overwhelming: water beading on his breasts, trickling down his flat stomach, pooling between his thighs. He lathered up with Heather's body wash-a luxurious blend of vanilla and jasmine that made his skin slick and silky.
This feels incredible, he marveled internally, hands roaming as he washed. Fingers grazed his nipples, hardening them into peaks that sent jolts straight to his core. Lower, he soaped his pussy gently, the suds mixing with a fresh slickness as thoughts of Summer invaded his mind. Her body wet like this, blonde hair plastered to her big tits, laughing as she splashes Amy, Fuck, I can't wait. But the real star was the shampoo: a fruity, botanical concoction of mango and hibiscus that filled the steam with an exotic, heady aroma. He massaged it into his scalp, the long strands heavy and fragrant under his fingers. Smells like paradise. Like her-Summer always has that tropical vibe. Rinsing off, he lingered under the spray, one hand slipping between his legs to rub his clit in slow circles. A soft moan escaped-Heather's voice, husky with desire. Just a tease. Save the big one for later, maybe with her. He stopped before climax, toweling off with a fluffy robe that hugged his figure, still buzzing with anticipation.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the family routine kicked in. John, as Heather, whipped up a quick breakfast-avocado toast with eggs, fresh fruit on the side-while "John" and Amy trickled in. "Morning, everyone," he said brightly, plating the food. Time to probe. What's my old body been up to? He turned to "John," who was shoveling toast into his mouth just like he always did. "So, sweetie, what have you been up to these last couple days? Any fun plans while we're gone?"
"John" shrugged, mid-bite. "Eh, mostly gaming. Finally beat that level in Elden Ring- you know, the one with the fire giant? Took forever, but I cheesed it with the bleed build."
John's excitement spiked-That's my game! I was stuck on that boss for weeks!-and he leaned in, Heather's eyes lighting up. "Oh, really? The fire giant? Isn't that the one where you have to dodge those massive AOE attacks? And the bleed build-smart, using rivers of blood katana, right? Pairs great with the mimic tear summon."
"John" blinked, surprised but nodding. "Yeah, exactly! Wait, Mom, since when do you know about Elden Ring builds?"
Amy, overhearing from her seat, paused with her coffee mug halfway to her lips. "Whoa, Mom, you're a gamer now? That's, kinda cool, but random."
Panic flickered in John's mind-Shit, too much. Slipped into my own geek mode. But Heather's poise bubbled up, that effortless charisma saving the day. He laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, honey, I've picked up a thing or two listening to you ramble about it. Plus, I read an article the other day-something about how video games improve reflexes. Keeps me young!" He added a wink, steering the conversation smoothly to Amy's classes, and the moment passed without suspicion. Close call. But damn, it's weird hearing about my own life from the outside.
After breakfast, with "John" heading out for more chores and Amy lingering to help clean up, John retreated upstairs to pack. The closet called to him again, and rummaging through Heather's wardrobe, his eyes landed on a sexy sun dress he'd somehow overlooked before: a vibrant red number with a deep V-neck that plunged daringly between the breasts, thin straps, and a flowy skirt that hit mid-thigh, perfect for showing off legs and a hint of cleavage. This is fire. Shows off everything-boobs, ass, the works. He slipped it on, the fabric whispering against his skin, hugging his curves before flaring out. Twirling in the mirror, he admired how it accentuated his bust, the material thin enough that his nipples poked through if he got chilled. Summer's gonna love this. Wait, no- she's straight, right? But maybe...
Packing was quick: the new white bikini folded neatly into an overnight bag, along with other fun outfits-a sheer cover-up that would tease skin, lacy lingerie just in case things heated up, and casual shorts with a crop top for lounging. Prepared for anything. Massages, saunas, who knows what could happen in private? A thrill shot through him, his pussy clenching at the possibilities.
As they got ready to leave, Amy appeared in the doorway, eyeing the dress with raised eyebrows. "Damn, Mom! That dress is hot. You're gonna turn heads at the spa. Jessica might get jealous-she's usually the MILF queen."
John flushed-Heather's cheeks warming-but played it cool with a playful spin. "Thanks, sweetie. Figured why not? Life's too short for boring clothes." Amy laughed, complimenting his makeup too-the subtle smokey eyes he'd added for extra allure. They headed out together, leaving "John" with a wave and instructions to behave, the SUV purring down the driveway toward the beach spa an hour away.
---
Meanwhile, across the neighborhood at the Summers' residence-a modern ranch-style home with a sprawling backyard pool and Jessica's yoga mats scattered on the deck-preparations were in full swing. Jessica, at 46, moved with the grace of a woman who knew her power, her platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail as she packed her bag in the sunlit kitchen. She wore yoga leggings and a sports bra for the drive, her generous D-cup bust straining against the fabric, curves honed from years of downward dogs and warrior poses. Summer, her 20-year-old daughter, was upstairs in her room, a feminine haven of pastel walls, volleyball trophies, and posters of indie bands.
"Summer, honey, you almost ready?" Jessica called up the stairs, zipping her bag with swimsuits, lotions, and a bottle of wine for the evening. "Heather and Amy should be meeting us soon-don't forget your sunscreen!"
"Coming, Mom!" Summer replied, her voice light but laced with a secret excitement. She stood before her mirror, adjusting a casual tank top and shorts over her bikini, her taller frame making everything look model-esque. Blonde waves framed her face, and her E-cup breasts filled out the top perfectly, a natural bounce with each movement. God, I'm buzzing, she thought, inner monologue racing as she packed. A whole day at the spa with Amy, and Heather. Heather. A flush crept up her neck at the thought. Summer had always been the popular girl-cheerful, athletic, surrounded by friends-but deep down, she harbored a secret: a growing attraction to women that she'd never voiced. College had opened her eyes-stolen glances in the dorm showers, butterflies around pretty professors-but back home, it simmered unspoken.
Heather's always been so, elegant. Fit, brunette, that quiet sexiness. And lately, I've caught myself staring. Is it a crush? She bit her lip, imagining Heather in a swimsuit, their bodies close during a massage. Women are just, softer. Curvier. More intoxicating. Amy's hot too, but Heather-mature, experienced. What if I could, explore? The thought made her nipples harden, a warmth pooling between her legs. She shook it off, grabbing her bag. "Okay, Mom, let's go!"
Downstairs, Jessica hugged her daughter, their dialogue easy and affectionate. "You excited? It's been ages since we did a girls' trip like this."
"Totally," Summer said, grinning. "Pool time, massages-perfection. And hanging with Amy and Heather will be fun."
Jessica raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Heather, huh? You've always had a soft spot for her. She's like a second mom."
Summer laughed it off, but internally: If only you knew. "Yeah, something like that."
They loaded the car, chatting about spa details-private saunas, ocean views-and headed out, the drive filled with laughter and playlists.
---
Back to John as Heather: they arrived at the beach spa first, a luxurious resort overlooking the Gulf, with palm trees swaying and the scent of salt air mingling with essential oils. Stepping out, John smoothed the sun dress, the skirt fluttering in the breeze to reveal toned thighs. Here we go. Jessica's SUV pulled up moments later, and as she emerged-looking every bit the cougar in a wrap dress that hugged her bust-John greeted her with la bise, the European cheek kisses they always did. "Jessica, darling, you look fabulous," he purred in Heather's voice, their cheeks brushing, scents mingling.
"You too, Heather- that dress! Sexy as hell," Jessica replied with a laugh.
But then Summer stepped out, and John froze. She was stunning: a floral sundress similar to his but shorter, accentuating her long legs, bigger bust spilling slightly at the neckline, blonde hair glowing in the sun. Fuck, she's a goddess. Taller, thinner, those tits, I could stare forever. His body reacted-pussy dampening, heart racing.
Summer, meanwhile, was equally awestruck. Heather looks, different. Hotter. That makeup, the dress-cleavage for days. Is she flirting with the world today? Her cheeks pinked as they locked eyes. "Hey, Heather," she said softly, moving in for a hug.
The embrace was electric: bodies pressing close, John's breasts mashing against Summer's larger ones, soft and yielding through thin fabrics. He inhaled her scent-vanilla and sunscreen-feeling the warmth of her skin, the subtle curve of her hips. Oh God, this feels amazing. Her boobs against mine, so full, so perfect. A forbidden thrill shot through him, his nipples hardening.
Summer pulled back reluctantly, blushing deeper. That hug, her body feels so good. Soft, warm. I want more. Jessica and Amy were already chatting animatedly about the itinerary, laughing as they grabbed bags. "Come on, ladies-let's check in!" Jessica goaded, leading the way.
John followed, mind spinning with possibilities, the group entering the spa's grand lobby, ready for whatever intimacies the day held.
Chapter 5: Getting Close to Summer
The Azure Waves Beach Spa Resort sprawled along the Gulf Coast like a hidden paradise, its white stucco buildings accented with turquoise trim, palm-fringed pools shimmering under the relentless Texas sun, and the distant crash of waves providing a rhythmic soundtrack to indulgence. The lobby was a haven of luxury: marble floors cooled by ocean breezes, plush seating areas dotted with tropical plants, and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the spa diffusers. As the group checked in, the receptionist-a perky young woman with a name tag reading "Mia"-handed over key cards with a smile. "Welcome, ladies! Your suites are in the Ocean Wing. Pool's open all day, and your massages are booked for 3 PM. Enjoy!"
John, still inhabiting Heather's body, clutched his key card tightly, his manicured fingers trembling slightly with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. The hug with Summer lingered in his mind-the press of her larger breasts against his, the warmth of her breath on his neck, that telltale blush coloring her cheeks as they pulled apart. She blushed. Hard. Was that because of me? Or, Heather? Does she feel something too? He wondered internally, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. This body swap thing is nuts, but if it means getting close to her like this, I'll take it. The group dispersed to their individual suites with plans to reconvene at the main pool in an hour, Amy and Jessica chattering excitedly about cocktails and sunbathing.
John's suite was a slice of opulence: a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, a king bed draped in crisp linens, and a private balcony where the sea air whispered promises of relaxation. A mini-bar stocked with chilled wines and fruits sat invitingly by the desk, and the bathroom boasted a rainfall shower and plush robes. Alone at last, he set his bag down and faced the full-length mirror, Heather's reflection staring back-sun dress hugging curves, ponytail slightly tousled from the drive. Time to change. Make it fun. A mischievous grin spread across his lips as he decided to indulge in the moment, turning the simple act of changing into a private spectacle.
He started slow, swaying his hips to an imaginary beat, fingers tracing the thin straps of the dress. Strip tease for one. Why not? This body's made for it. He slipped one strap down, then the other, letting the fabric pool at his waist, exposing Heather's lacy bra that cradled his modest B-cup breasts. Cupping them, he squeezed gently, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked, a soft gasp escaping-Heather's voice, breathy and feminine. Feels so good. Sensitive as hell. The dress fell to the floor in a whisper, leaving him in just the thong panties, the string nestled teasingly between his ass cheeks. He turned, admiring the view: smooth skin, toned legs, the curve of his hips flaring out invitingly. Hooking thumbs into the thong, he bent forward dramatically, sliding it down slowly, ass presented to the mirror as his pussy came into view-already glistening with arousal. Look at that. Wet just from thinking about her. He stepped out of the panties, fully nude now, and struck poses: one hand on hip, the other trailing down his stomach to brush his clit, eliciting a shiver.
Grabbing the white two-piece bikini from his bag, he made the donning equally erotic. First the bottoms: stepping in exaggeratedly, pulling them up so the fabric hugged his mound, the high-cut sides framing his ass like a work of art. He adjusted the front, fingers dipping briefly into his folds for a teasing rub. Mmm, tight fit. Shows off everything. The top came next-tying it behind his back with a flourish, the padding lifting his breasts into fuller, perkier cleavage that spilled slightly at the edges. He bounced on his toes, watching them jiggle. Damn, I look hot. Summer's gonna notice. Hair down in waves, a quick touch-up of lip gloss, and he wrapped a towel around his waist like a sarong, heading out with a sway in his step that felt utterly natural.
The pool area was a tropical oasis: infinity edges blending with the ocean horizon, cabanas with billowing white curtains, and lounge chairs lined up under umbrellas. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of fruity cocktails. John spotted Jessica first, and his jaw nearly dropped. She lounged by the chairs like a predator in wait-a super sexy MILF cougar ready to pounce. Her one-piece swimsuit was a masterpiece of temptation: black with strategic cutouts along the sides and midriff, plunging neckline showcasing her generous D-cup bust, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. It looked straight off a supermodel runway, accentuating her toned legs and the subtle sway of her hips. Blonde hair cascaded freely, sunglasses perched on her nose, a knowing smile on her lips.
Holy fuck, Jessica, John thought, a droplet of drool nearly escaping as he approached. She's always been hot, but this? Lethal. "Jessica, wow-you look incredible," he said in Heather's warm voice, eyes lingering a beat too long on her cleavage.
She laughed, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her bust against his making his nipples harden instantly. "Coming from you? Please, Heather, that bikini is fire. White on your tan? Chef's kiss." She pulled back, handing him a vibrant cocktail-something pink and garnished with pineapple. "Mai Tai. Figured we'd start strong." Then, with a flirtatious grin, she offered her hand. "Shall we? Chairs are this way."
John took it, their fingers intertwining, skin warm and soft. Internally, he freaked: Hand-holding with Jessica? While she looks like that? How do I even talk without staring at her tits? But as they walked, the panic ebbed, replaced by awe as his gaze shifted to the pool. There, frolicking in the water, was Summer-splashing Amy with gleeful abandon, her laughter ringing out like music. She wore a skimpy red bikini that left little to the imagination: top straining against her E-cup breasts, bottoms tied at the sides with bows that begged to be undone. Water glistened on her taller, thinner frame, droplets tracing paths down her toned abs and long legs. Amy, in a sporty blue two-piece that hugged her perky C-cups and athletic build, laughed back, but John's eyes were glued to Summer. Oh my God. She's perfection. Bouncing in the water like that, I could watch forever.
They settled into adjacent lounge chairs, cocktails in hand, the sun warming their skin. John sipped his drink-sweet and potent, rum hitting just right-while freaking out internally about small talk. What do I say? Weather? No, too lame. But Heather's essence surged forward: that natural charisma, the ease of conversation she'd always had. "So, Jess, tell me-how's the yoga studio been? Any new hot instructors catching your eye?" he asked with a teasing lilt, leaning back to mirror her relaxed pose.
Jessica chuckled, sipping her drink. "Oh, you know me-always scouting talent. There's this one guy, mid-20s, abs for days. But honestly, I've been too busy. What about you? Dating scene treating you well since, you know." Her voice softened, referencing Heather's widowhood without dwelling.
The chat flowed effortlessly: gossip about neighborhood drama (Mrs. Wilkins' latest affair scandal), shared laughs over parenting woes (Amy's college antics mirroring Summer's), and deeper tidbits-Jessica confessing her secret love for trashy romance novels, John sharing Heather's fondness for gardening mixed with his own taste in indie films. This is wild. I'm learning stuff about her I'd never know as John. All the while, his eyes darted to Summer in the pool: her lithe body diving under, emerging with hair slicked back, breasts heaving with each breath. So close. I can hear her laugh, see every curve. This is heaven.
Summer, mid-splash with Amy, glanced over occasionally, catching "Heather" watching. She's staring. At me? Curiosity bloomed in her chest, a warm flutter between her legs. Heather's always been gorgeous, but today, that bikini, those eyes on me. Does she feel it too?
Hours melted away in glorious voyeurism-John reveling in Summer's every move, the way water beaded on her skin, her playful shrieks as Amy dunked her. But Amy eventually broke the spell, swimming to the edge. "Hey, ladies! Massage time-let's go! Don't want to be late."
Summer climbed out, water cascading off her body as she approached the chairs. Up close, John drank her in: the red bikini clinging wetly, nipples faintly visible through the fabric, her taller frame towering slightly, ass cheeks peeking from the bottoms. Fuck, she's dripping. Warm and fuzzy? I'm on fire. Summer's eyes roamed Heather's body too-the white bikini enhancing cleavage, the way it hugged her slit subtly. Heather looks, edible. That lift in her boobs, her legs, God, I'm getting wet just looking.
The group toweled off and headed to the massage suite, a serene wing with dim lighting, soft instrumental music, and the scent of lavender oil. Private rooms branched off a central changing area with lockers and robes. John decided to go with the flow-Never had a massage before. Might as well enjoy. In the changing room, privacy screens offered partial cover, but glimpses were inevitable. He stripped slowly: bikini top untied, breasts freed with a bounce; bottoms slid down, exposing his smooth pussy. Sneaking peeks, he caught Jessica's nude form-voluptuous curves, shaved mound, ass like a peach. Amy's athletic body-perky tits, trimmed bush. But Summer, Jesus. Tall and lithe, her E-cups heavy and natural, pink nipples erect from the cool air, pussy with a neat landing strip. She bent to pick up her robe, ass presented, folds peeking invitingly.
Summer stole a glance back, eyes widening at Heather's body: modest but toned, breasts pert, pussy bare and glistening slightly. She's beautiful. Smooth everywhere, I want to touch. Both flushed, slipping into thin massage gowns-paper-thin fabric that hid little.
In the massage room-four tables side by side, therapists waiting with oils-John lay face-down, the gown parting to expose his back. As hands kneaded his muscles, tension melted, and conversation sparked with Summer on the next table. "This feels amazing," he sighed in Heather's voice. "First time for a pro massage?"
Summer turned her head, smiling. "Yeah, me too. Kinda nervous, but, relaxing. How's your summer been, Heather? Amy says you've been busy."
Small talk evolved: college life (Summer's volleyball team drama), favorites (John mixing his indie rock playlists with Heather's classic jazz, movies like his sci-fi faves blended with her rom-coms). "I love those mind-bendy films," he shared. "Like, ones that twist reality."
Depth crept in: dreams, fears. Then, intimacy. "Speaking of twists," Summer ventured shyly, "have you ever, experimented? With, um, relationships?"
John's heart raced-Heather's bi-curiosity surfacing in memories. "Honestly? Yes. I've always been curious about women. Experimented in college-a few flings. It's, liberating." True for her body. And hot to admit.
Summer's eyes lit up, ecstatic. Heather? Into women? Experimented? Oh my God. Internally: This could be my chance. Make a move later?
They delved deeper-Summer confessing, "I'm curious too. About my sexuality. Not sure yet, but, girls intrigue me. Not tell Amy or Mom, okay? Secret."
"I promise," John replied, mind whirling with ideas. She's a closet lesbian? Perfect. Crazy plans brewing-could I, with her? As Heather?
Topics shifted, landing on porn anecdotes for laughs. "Weirdest kink?" Summer teased.
John feigned shyness. "Oh, God, okay, MILF stuff, mom/son or mom/daughter roleplay. And, gender transformation, body swaps. Some TG/trans stuff. Plausible for me, right?" My actual kinks. Living one now.
Summer's intrigue peaked-surprised, aroused. Body swaps? Hot. I could listen to her forever. "Tell me more sometime?"
Massages ended, leading to dinner at the resort's seaside restaurant: candlelit tables, fresh seafood, wine flowing. Gossip flew-day's highlights, spa tales. Amy probed: "So, who caught your eye today? Hot guys around?"
Jessica grinned. "That lifeguard-tall, tanned. Yum." But John and Summer blushed, stammering vague answers, eyes meeting across the table with shared heat.
Back in his suite, John unwound, reflecting. Unbelievable. Staring at Summer all day, sharing secrets. She's into girls-maybe me. Even if not as John, worth it? He pondered his kinks: Living a body swap fantasy. Porn come to life.
Chapter 6: Summer Makes Her Move
The resort's restaurant lingered in Summer's mind like a hazy afterglow as she slipped back into her suite, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality. The room was a mirror of Heather's-ocean views framed by gauzy curtains, the bed inviting with its turned-down sheets, and the faint hum of waves crashing outside like a lullaby. But sleep was the last thing on her mind. Dinner had been electric: the way Heather's eyes had met hers across the table, that shared blush when Amy teased about crushes, the wine loosening tongues and inhibitions. Heather, into women? Experimented? And those kinks-body swaps, MILF roleplay. God, it's like she read my fantasies. Summer's skin tingled with the memory, a warmth spreading from her chest downward as she kicked off her sandals and padded to the mirror.
She stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, her red bikini swapped earlier for a simple tank top and shorts that clung to her damp skin from the evening humidity. Look at you, she thought, inner monologue swirling with a mix of nerves and desire. Twenty years old, closet lesbian, crushing on your best friend's mom. Pathetic? Or, bold? Her hands moved almost of their own accord, slipping under the hem of her tank top to lift it slowly over her head. Blonde waves tumbled free, framing her face as she tossed the top aside. Her E-cup breasts bounced gently, freed from confinement, nipples already hardening in the cool air-conditioned room. She cupped them, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks, a soft sigh escaping her lips. So full, so sensitive. Imagine her hands on them-Heather's. Mature, knowing touch.
The shorts came next, shimmying down her long legs to reveal lacy panties that matched her earlier bikini-red and sheer, hinting at the neatly trimmed blonde patch beneath. She turned, admiring her reflection: taller frame lean and athletic from volleyball, ass firm and rounded, thighs toned from endless practices. I'm hot. She noticed me today-ogling at the pool, in the changing room. Those eyes on my body, Arousal built like a tide, her pussy aching with need. She slipped a hand into her panties, fingers finding her clit-swollen and slick already. Circling slowly, she moaned softly, imagining Heather's voice from the massage: I've experimented, curious about women. "Fuck," Summer whispered, her free hand pinching a nipple. What if I went to her room right now? Knocked, told her I can't stop thinking about her. Experimented, with me.
The fantasy spiraled: Heather pulling her inside, lips crashing, hands exploring. She's bi-curious. Shared those secrets. This could happen. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding into her wet folds, pumping gently as her knees weakened. Mentor me, like in those porn vids-the mom teaching the daughter. God, yes. Orgasm hovered close, but she stopped, breathing ragged. No. Not alone. Go to her. Now. Panties off, she grabbed a silk robe from the closet-thin and short, tying it loosely so it gaped at the front, hinting at her nudity beneath. Heart pounding, she slipped out into the dimly lit hallway, bare feet silent on the carpet, making her way to Heather's door. This is crazy. But if she turns me away, at least I tried. She knocked softly, pulse racing.
---
Back in Heather's suite, John paced the room, the nightgown whispering against his skin like a lover's promise. The silk fabric clung to his curves, nipples visible through the thin material, a constant reminder of his borrowed body. Dinner replayed in his mind: the gossip, the laughter, Summer's blush mirroring his own. She shared she's curious. About girls. And I-Heather-admitted to experimenting. Fuck, the ideas in my head, could I seduce her? As Mom? Taboo as hell, but, hot. He ran a hand through his brunette waves, arousal simmering from the day's sights-Summer's body, wet and glistening, her secret glances. Living my kink. Body swap porn come true. If only I could-
A knock shattered the silence. John's heart-or Heather's-leaped into his throat. Who the hell? At this hour? Peeking through the peephole, his breath caught: Summer, in a robe that barely contained her, blonde hair tousled, eyes wide with nervous determination. Oh shit. It's her. What does she want? Internally freaking: Calm down. Play it cool. But, what if this is it? He smoothed the nightgown, took a deep breath, and opened the door. "Summer? Is everything okay?"
She didn't answer with words. Stepping inside, she pushed the door shut behind her, locked it with a click, and surged forward. Her hands cupped Heather's face-John's face-and she kissed him fiercely, lips soft and urgent, tongue seeking entry. John gasped into the kiss, body responding instinctively: arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. The robe gaped, her naked breasts pressing against the nightgown, heat radiating through the fabric. Holy fuck, she's kissing me. Naked under there? This is happening. They stumbled backward, Summer guiding him toward the bed, her taller frame dominant yet gentle.
Breaking the kiss, Summer's blue eyes locked onto his, cheeks flushed. "Heather, I can't get you out of my head. All day-the pool, the changing room, the massage. You were staring. Ogling me. And what you said, about being curious, experimenting. It lit something in me."
John's mind reeled, but Heather's charisma surged: "Summer, honey, I noticed you too. Blushing, glancing back. You're beautiful. Irresistible." This is insane. My crush, making the move on me-as her. His pussy throbbed, wet and aching.
Summer's hands roamed, slipping under the nightgown to caress his hips. "I, I've never done this. With a woman. But I want to. With you." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Remember your kinks? The roleplay stuff? I have a favorite porn vid, the mom mentoring her daughter, teaching her about sex. Gentle at first, then, passionate. Will you? Roleplay that for me? Be the mom, show me?"
John's arousal spiked-One of my favorites too. The taboo mentor scene. He nodded, letting go, autopilot kicking in. Heather's sultriness blended with his knowledge, reciting lines perfectly. "Oh, sweetie," he purred in Heather's voice, seductive and maternal, "come here. Mommy's going to teach you everything. Make you feel so good." He pushed Summer gently onto the bed, climbing atop her, nightgown hiking up to reveal his thighs.
Summer moaned, robe falling open completely, exposing her nude body-breasts heaving, pussy glistening. John fondled her with grace: hands tracing her sides, cupping her E-cups softly, thumbs rolling nipples with deliberate, experienced touches. "Like this, baby? Feel how sensitive they are?" Summer arched, gasping. "Yes, Heather-Mommy-more."
But John switched to a male touch-his old instincts-groping harder, massaging her breasts roughly, pinching just enough to elicit a yelp. Summer's eyes widened. "That's, different. Rougher. Like a guy would."
He caught himself, switching back to Heather's graceful strokes, fingers trailing down her stomach. "Sorry, sweetie. Got carried away. Let Mommy show you properly." Lower now, he spread her legs, face inches from her pussy-pink and wet, scent musky and inviting. Diving in like a horny teenager-his true self-tongue lapping eagerly, sloppy and enthusiastic, sucking her clit with fervor. "Taste so good," he mumbled against her folds.
Summer writhed, hands in his hair. "Oh God, that's intense. Like a teen boy eating me out for the first time." She noticed the shift, but moaned louder. "Don't stop-switch back if you want. It's hot."
John obliged, alternating: graceful licks with Heather's precision, then teen-like enthusiasm-fingers plunging in, curling to hit her G-spot. Summer bucked, crying out. They kissed passionately next-tongues dancing, tastes mingling, bodies grinding. "Finger me," Summer begged, guiding his hand.
He did, two fingers sliding into her tightness, pumping rhythmically while his thumb worked her clit. "Like this? Feel Mommy filling you?" Summer reciprocated, hand slipping under the nightgown to find his pussy-wet and eager-fingers dipping in, exploring. "You're so wet, Heather. Taste yourself?" They ate each other out in turns: John on his back, Summer's face buried between his legs, tongue flicking his clit expertly now, drawing moans that echoed Heather's voice. "Yes, right there, baby. Lick Mommy's pussy."
Climax built, leading to scissoring: legs intertwined, pussies grinding. First position-side by side, hips rocking, clits rubbing in slick friction. "Fuck, yes," Summer gasped, breasts bouncing. They switched: Summer on top, dominant, grinding down hard; then John atop, using Heather's hips to maximize contact, juices mixing. Multiple positions-facing each other, backs arched; one on her back, the other straddling backward for deeper pressure. Orgasms crashed simultaneously: bodies shuddering, moans filling the room, waves of pleasure rippling through them.
Exhausted, they collapsed, embracing-Summer's head on Heather's chest, legs tangled, breaths syncing. "That was, incredible," Summer whispered, kissing his neck. "Thank you."
John held her, mind blissed: My dream. Intimate with Summer. Inside and out. They drifted to sleep, bodies entwined.
Morning light filtered in early, Summer stirring first. She slipped from the bed quietly, robe on, glancing back at the sleeping form. Can't get caught. But, wow. More later? She snuck out, door clicking softly.
John woke moments later, alone, sheets tangled and scented with sex. Was that, a dream? Felt so real. But the ache between his legs, the lingering taste on his lips-No. It happened. He rolled over, wondering if it was all a massive lucid fantasy, heart racing with confusion and lingering ecstasy.
Chapter 7: Back to Reality?
John's eyelids fluttered open to the familiar sight of his bedroom ceiling, the posters of video game characters and bands staring back at him like old friends. Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn blinds, casting striped patterns across his rumpled sheets. He groaned, shifting under the covers, immediately aware of the insistent throb between his legs-morning wood, tenting his boxers, and a sticky wetness that suggested a wet dream had spilled over into reality. What the hell was that? he thought, fragments of the night flashing like a fevered montage: Summer's body writhing against his-Heather's-scissoring in ecstasy, moans echoing in a spa suite. It felt so real. Too real. But, a dream? Yeah, must be. The most intense wet dream ever. Disappointment washed over him like a cold shower, his cock twitching one last time at the memory before he willed it down. Gone. All of it-the body swap, the explorations, Summer. Just my horny brain playing tricks.
He swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the cool hardwood floor of his room-a teenage mess of discarded clothes, gaming controllers, and empty soda cans. The house felt eerily quiet, no clatter from the kitchen or Amy's music blasting from her room. Weird. Usually Mom's up making breakfast. He stripped off his sticky boxers, tossing them into the hamper, and grabbed a fresh pair from his drawer along with jeans and a t-shirt. A quick cleanup in his attached bathroom-splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth-did little to shake the lingering haze. That dream, possessing Mom's body, fucking Summer as her. Taboo as hell. Hot, though. Wish it wasn't just a subconscious jerk-off session.
Dressed now, he headed downstairs, the stairs creaking under his weight. The kitchen was empty, no coffee brewing, no note on the counter. "Mom? Amy?" he called out, voice echoing in the silence. A glance at the clock-9 AM on a Sunday-confirmed they should be home. Where is everyone? Did they go out early? His stomach rumbled, but before he could raid the fridge, a car horn blared outside, sharp and insistent.
Curiosity piqued, John peered through the front window. There, in the driveway, was Heather's SUV, doors open as four women unloaded bags: Heather, Jessica, Amy, and Summer. The spa trip. They must've just gotten back. But something felt off-Heather looked radiant, her brunette hair windswept, wearing that sexy sun dress from the dream, hugging her curves. Jessica, ever the MILF, laughed with Amy as they hauled luggage, her blonde locks catching the light. Summer, oh, Summer. She stood a bit apart, slinging a duffel over her shoulder, but her eyes were locked on Heather, scanning her up and down with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Is she, ogling Mom? Like, checking her out? Nah, can't be. John's mind spun, the dream's echoes making everything feel surreal.
The group spotted him in the window, waving him out. John stepped onto the porch, the warm Texas air hitting him like a wave. Heather was first to approach, arms open wide. "John, sweetie! There you are." She pulled him into a tight hug, her body pressing against his-soft breasts against his chest, the faint scent of jasmine shampoo and something muskier, like sex and sweat. He hugged back awkwardly, hyper-aware of how good she felt, the dream's intimacies flashing unbidden.
Pulling back, Heather's warm brown eyes met his, a playful sparkle in them that wasn't quite, her. "So, what did you get up to while we were gone? Play any good games?" She tilted her head, smiling. "That Elden Ring you mentioned-is it still as interesting as you said? The fire giant boss sounds brutal."
John froze, his brain short-circuiting. What? Mom knows about Elden Ring? The fire giant? I never told her that. He'd rambled about it to friends, sure, but Heather? She barely knew Mario from Minecraft. "Uh, yeah, it's cool. Beat it finally." His voice came out strained, confusion mounting.
Heather winked-actually winked-at him, leaning in closer so her breath tickled his ear. "Good boy. We should chat later about some, RPGs and scenarios we could try out. When we have more privacy." Her hand lingered on his arm, a subtle squeeze that sent a jolt straight to his groin. RPGs? Scenarios? Like roleplay? What the fuck is going on? Is she, flirting? With me? Her son? His mind reeled, the dream's body swap theory suddenly not so dreamlike. No way. Did it actually happen? Was I really in her body? And she, in mine?
He stammered a response-"Sure, Mom, sounds fun?"-but recovered enough to glance at the others. Jessica and Amy were busy with bags, chatting animatedly about the spa's hot tubs. Summer, though, waved from afar, her taller frame stunning in shorts and a crop top that showcased her E-cup bust and toned midriff. "Bye, John! Catch you later?" she called, blowing him a kiss with a wink. Then, when Jessica and Amy turned away, she mouthed "Thank you," her lips forming the words clearly, followed by a scissoring motion with her fingers-index and middle crossing like grinding legs.
John's jaw dropped, heat flooding his face-and his pants. Scissoring? Like, what we did in the dream? Thank you? For what? Confusion crashed over him like a tidal wave. This can't be coincidence. It happened. The swap was real. And Summer, she knows? Or thinks it was Mom? Fuck, I need answers. He waved back weakly, hoping to grill Heather later for insights.
The goodbyes wrapped up quickly-Jessica and Summer heading next door, Amy disappearing inside with her bags. Heather shot John one last knowing smile before following Amy, leaving him on the porch, mind spinning like a glitchy game.
Later that day, the living room hummed with normalcy-or what passed for it. John lounged on the couch, controller in hand but game paused, his thoughts a whirlwind. Amy sprawled nearby, scrolling her phone, while Heather sat in the armchair, flipping through a magazine but stealing glances at him. She's different. More, aware? Flirty? If the swap happened, does she remember? Did she experience my body while I was in hers? The taboo implications made his cock stir uncomfortably-imagining Heather in his teenage form, maybe even jerking off, exploring.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him. An unknown number, but the message preview showed a link and a heart emoji. He pulled it out, opening the text: "Hey John, it's Summer. Hope you enjoy these pics from the trip ;) Maybe we can meet up later to explore and have some 'fun'? as she was curious about meeting the real John," Attached was a link to a private photo album.
Summer? Texting me? With a winky face? Heart pounding, he clicked the link, the album loading in his browser. First, innocent group shots: the four women in sexy outfits at the spa-Heather in that white bikini, cleavage enhanced; Summer frolicking in the pool, water glistening on her curves; Jessica posing like a model; Amy laughing in her swimsuit. Selfies galore, all playful and hot.
But scrolling deeper, the tone shifted. Sexy solos: Summer in her robe, parted to show a nipple; Heather-Mom-in the nightgown, hand cupping her breast suggestively. Then nudes: Summer sprawled on the bed, legs spread, fingers teasing her pussy; Heather mirroring, her modest breasts bared, fingers dipped into her slit. And the foreplay shots-oh God-the two together: kissing passionately, Summer's larger tits mashed against Heather's; fingers intertwined in each other's pussies; scissoring positions, bodies grinding, faces contorted in pleasure. Explicit, unfiltered-cum-slicked thighs, moaning expressions captured in selfies.
John nearly dropped his phone, his cock instantly hard, straining against his jeans. This is, from last night. The 'dream.' But real. They did this. Summer and, Mom? Or me in Mom's body? And she's sending it to me? The message's words echoed: Curious about the real John. Did she know? Suspect the swap?
Amy glanced over. "You okay, bro? Look like you saw a ghost."
"Yeah, fine," he muttered, shoving the phone into his pants-right over his bulge, the vibration from another buzz making him twitch. Confront Mom? Text Summer back? What the hell is going on? But beneath the confusion, gratitude bloomed. Whoever-whatever-made this happen, thank you. He rejoined the conversation with a dazed smile, intrigued and aroused, the album's secrets burning in his pocket like a promise of more taboo adventures to come.
Epilogue: Revelations and Resolutions
The weeks following the spa trip blurred into a haze of normalcy laced with undercurrents of the extraordinary, like a dream that refused to fully dissipate. Willow Creek simmered under the relentless Texas sun, barbecues and pool parties filling the air with laughter and the scent of grilled burgers, but for John, every glance at Heather or text from Summer carried the weight of unspoken secrets. The photo album burned a hole in his phone's hidden folder-explicit reminders of a night he both cherished and questioned. Was it really me in her body? Or did some cosmic force just, make it happen? And Mom-why does she act like she knows more than she's letting on? He'd caught her staring at him during family dinners, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, her usual modest demeanor laced with a playful edge that mirrored his own geeky humor.
It all came to a head one humid evening, about two weeks after the trip. Amy had gone out with friends for a movie night, leaving the house quiet except for the hum of the AC and the distant chirp of crickets. John found Heather in the living room, lounging on the couch in a simple tank top and shorts that hugged her fit figure, her brunette hair loose and tousled. She was scrolling through her phone, but set it aside when he entered, her warm brown eyes lighting up with that new, intriguing sparkle. "Hey, sweetie. Come sit. We haven't had a real chat since the trip."
John's heart pounded as he sank into the armchair across from her, his mind racing. Now or never. Confront her. Figure out what the hell happened. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Mom, about that wink the day you got back. And asking about my games. You never cared about that stuff before. What's going on?"
Heather's expression softened, but there was a flush to her cheeks, a mix of guilt and something, excited? She leaned forward, her modest B-cup breasts shifting under the tank top, drawing his eye involuntarily-a taboo flicker he shoved down. "John, honey, I need to confess something. That night before the trip, when you, well, I heard you in your room. Wishing aloud about Summer. It was late, and I was passing by to check on you. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but, it stirred something in me."
John's face burned, embarrassment mingling with shock. She heard me jerking off? Wishing to get closer to Summer? "Mom, I-"
She held up a hand, her voice steady but laced with vulnerability. "Let me finish. I've always felt responsible for you, especially after your dad. And hearing that wish, it unlocked memories of my own wilder days. College experiments, curiosities I buried. But that night, something shifted. Like a, spark. The next morning, I woke up feeling different. More alive. And during the trip," She trailed off, biting her lip, her eyes darting away as if reliving it. God, what did I do? With Summer-my daughter's best friend. It felt so right, so intense. But was it me? Or something else?
"What about the trip?" John pressed, leaning in, his pulse racing. She thinks she did it. With Summer. But it was me-in her body.
Heather sighed, running a hand through her hair-a gesture so like his own nervous tic that it sent a chill down his spine. "Summer and I, we got close. Intimate. She came to my room that night, and I, I went with it. Roleplayed, explored. It was like I was channeling something younger, hornier. Like parts of you, maybe? Your energy?" She laughed softly, but it was tinged with self-doubt. "I feel responsible. For crossing lines with her. She's Amy's friend, and I'm, well, me. But it happened, and now I can't stop thinking about it. The thrill, the taboo."
John's mind whirled. She wasn't in my body. No swap for her. But she felt it-my influence? My personality bleeding through? Internally, relief and arousal battled: So it was me, fully. But she thinks it was her own will. And now she's, changed? Showing my traits? "Mom, that's, intense. But why the game talk? The winks?"
She smiled, a playful glint in her eye that was unmistakably his own geeky charm. "Since that night, I've felt more, adventurous. Like I've got this new side. Your side? I've even looked up some of those videos you might like. Body swap stuff, gender transformations. Kinky, right?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, laced with a seductive lilt he'd heard in her body. "What if we roleplayed one? Just us. I could be the son, you the mom-or swap it. Explore those scenarios. It'd be our secret. Fun, taboo, intimate."
John's cock stirred at the suggestion, the taboo heat of it overwhelming. Mom wants to roleplay a body swap? With me? Fuck, that's my kink. But she's my step-mom, He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I, yeah. Maybe. We can talk about it."
Heather's eyes sparkled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Good. I love you, John. And I'm sorry if I overstepped with Summer. But it felt, right." She pulled back, the moment heavy with unspoken possibilities, leaving John dazed as she headed upstairs. She's got my personality now. Wants to play out my fantasies. This summer's just getting weirder-and hotter.
As the days stretched into the final week of summer break, the neighborhood buzzed with back-to-school prep, but John's focus narrowed to Summer. Texts had flown between them-flirty at first, then explicit: shared memories of the album pics, teasing promises of "meeting the real John." She knows something. That 'thank you' and scissor motion-it's like she suspects I was involved. Amy headed back to college early for orientation, and Heather busied herself with work, leaving John with pockets of freedom. The climax came on a sultry Friday evening, a text from Summer lighting up his phone: "Meet me at the old park trailhead. 8 PM. Alone. Got something to show you, and do to you. ;)"
The park was a secluded spot on the edge of town-winding trails through woods, a hidden clearing by a creek where teens snuck off for privacy. John arrived as the sun dipped low, fireflies flickering in the dusk, his nerves electric. Summer waited on a picnic blanket, looking ethereal in a short sundress that hugged her taller frame, her blonde waves glowing in the fading light, E-cup breasts straining the fabric. "John," she purred, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her curves against his lean form. "Finally. The real you."
They sat, the air thick with tension, a bottle of wine between them. "Summer, those pics. The trip. What happened with, Mom?" He hesitated, probing.
She smiled mysteriously, sipping wine. "Oh, I know, John. You were responsible. Somehow. That night with Heather-it was you in there, wasn't it? Your energy, your kinks spilling out. The way she switched touches, knew my favorite scenes, it was too perfect. Too you." She leaned in, her hand on his thigh. "Don't ask how I know. A girl's got her secrets. But thank you. It opened my eyes. Made me want the original."
John's breath hitched, arousal surging. She knows. Doesn't care how. Wants me. "Summer, I-"
"Shh." She kissed him, soft at first, then hungry-tongues dancing, her larger body pressing him back onto the blanket. Hands roamed: hers under his shirt, nails raking his chest; his cupping her ass, squeezing the firm cheeks. "I've wanted this since that hug when I got home. But now, after tasting a piece of you, I need the full thing."
She pushed him flat, unzipping his jeans with deft fingers, freeing his hardening cock-thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum. "Look at you. Real boy parts." She licked her lips, blue eyes locked on his as she lowered her head. Her mouth enveloped him-warm, wet, tongue swirling the head, sucking gently at first, then deeper. John groaned, hands in her blonde hair, as she bobbed-taking him halfway, then all, throat relaxing around him. Fuck, her mouth, so skilled. Bigger tits bouncing as she sucks. She hummed, vibrations sending shocks through him, one hand stroking the base while the other fondled his balls.
"Summer, God, yes," he moaned, hips bucking lightly. She popped off briefly, grinning. "Taste different. Saltier. Love it." Back down, faster now-sloppy, saliva dripping, her free hand slipping under her dress to rub her pussy. The sight pushed him close, but she sensed it, pulling off with a wet pop. "Not yet. Want you inside me first."
She straddled him, dress hiked up-no panties, her wet pussy hovering over his cock. "Condom?" he gasped.
"On the pill. Clean. You?" He nodded, and she sank down-tight, hot walls gripping him inch by inch, her E-cups bouncing as she rode. "Fuck, John, feels so good. Different from scissoring, but, perfect." She ground her hips, clit rubbing against his base, moans filling the clearing. John thrust up, hands on her breasts-squeezing, pinching nipples-then flipped her onto her back, pounding deeper. Positions shifted: missionary, her legs over his shoulders for depth; doggy, ass jiggling as he slapped it lightly; cowgirl again, her taller body dominating.
Orgasms built-hers first, pussy clenching around him, crying out as she came. He followed, pulling out to cum on her stomach-hot ropes painting her skin. Breathless, they collapsed, laughing softly. "The real John's even better," she whispered, kissing him. "More this summer? And beyond?"
"Absolutely," he replied, the gender-bending whirlwind of the break culminating in this raw, real connection. As stars emerged overhead, John thanked whatever force had twisted his wish into this taboo, erotic reality-closer to Summer than ever, inside and out.
Chapter 1: Backstory
The sun hung high over the quiet suburban neighborhood of Willow Creek, casting a golden haze over manicured lawns and white picket fences that seemed frozen in time. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business, but no one ever admitted it-secrets simmered beneath the surface like the humid Texas air in mid-July. John Thompson, an 18-year-old fresh out of high school, wiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed the old lawnmower across Jessica's expansive front yard. The machine's rumble drowned out the distant chirp of cicadas, and the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint floral perfume wafting from the nearby rose bushes Jessica so meticulously tended.
John had been helping out both families for years now-his own and the neighboring one headed by Jessica and her daughter Summer. It started as odd jobs to earn pocket money: mowing lawns, fixing fences, even helping with groceries when Heather, his step-mom, was swamped with her part-time job at the local boutique. Heather had married John's dad when John was just a kid, but after his dad passed away five years ago from a sudden heart attack, it had been just the three of them: Heather, John, and Amy-Heather's biological daughter from her first marriage. Amy was 20 now, home from college for the summer, and she treated John like the annoying little brother he sometimes felt he was.
But Summer, oh, Summer was different. She'd been Amy's best friend since middle school, the kind of girl who turned heads without even trying. John had nursed a crush on her for as long as he could remember-those stolen glances during family barbecues, the way her laughter echoed like music when she and Amy gossiped in the backyard. She was 20 now too, taller than most girls at 5'10", with a lithe, athletic build from years of volleyball, sun-kissed blonde hair that cascaded in waves down her back, and a bust that filled out her tops in a way that made John's heart race. Her mom, Jessica, was the stuff of local legend-the town's ultimate MILF at 46, with platinum blonde locks, a curvy figure boasting a generous D-cup bust, and legs that seemed to go on forever. She owned a small yoga studio downtown, which kept her toned and flexible, and her flirtatious smile had broken more than a few hearts.
John paused the mower to chug from his water bottle, his t-shirt clinging to his lean, teenage frame. He wasn't unattractive-tallish at 5'11", with messy brown hair and a boyish charm-but he felt invisible next to the likes of Summer. "Just finish this up," he muttered to himself, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. That's when he heard the car pull into the driveway.
The sleek SUV doors opened, and out stepped Summer, looking every bit the college bombshell in cutoff denim shorts that hugged her firm ass and a crop top that revealed a sliver of toned midriff. Her bigger bust-easily an E-cup-strained against the fabric, bouncing slightly as she slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. "John? Is that you?" she called out, her voice bright and melodic, waving enthusiastically.
John's heart skipped a beat. He killed the mower's engine, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and disheveled he looked-grass clippings stuck to his sneakers, beads of perspiration dripping down his neck. "Uh, hey, Summer! Welcome home!" He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked just a little.
She dropped her bag and bounded over, enveloping him in a tight hug before he could protest. Her body pressed against his-soft, warm, and smelling faintly of vanilla and sunscreen. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her hips brushing his, and for a split second, his mind blanked. "It's so good to see you! You've gotten taller or something," she laughed, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms. Her blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth.
John's face flushed crimson. "Y-yeah, maybe. Sorry, I'm all sweaty and gross. Wasn't expecting, you know." He gestured vaguely at himself, inwardly cursing his awkwardness. God, she looks incredible, he thought. Even better than I remembered. Those lips, that smile, what I wouldn't give to just...
Summer giggled, tilting her head. "Aw, don't worry about it. You're doing us a huge favor with the lawn. Mom's been raving about how helpful you've been." She glanced back at the house, where Jessica was unloading more bags, her own figure poured into yoga pants and a tank top that accentuated her ample cleavage. Jessica caught John's eye and waved with a wink, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.
John opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. Summer's proximity was overwhelming-her scent, her touch, the way her top rode up just enough to show a hint of underboob. He stood there, dumbstruck, his brain short-circuiting as he imagined what it would be like to hold her, to kiss her, to explore every inch of her perfect body. "I, uh, yeah, no problem," he finally stammered, stepping back awkwardly.
Summer smiled sympathetically, picking up her bag. "Well, catch you later? Amy and I are planning a pool day soon- you should join!" With that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying in a way that made John's knees weak.
He watched her go, his mind reeling. How does she do that? Just exist and make everything else fade away? Shaking his head, he restarted the mower, but his thoughts lingered on her-the crush that had only grown stronger over the years.
Later that afternoon, after finishing up and heading home, John bumped into Amy in the kitchen. She was perched on the counter, scrolling through her phone, her brunette hair tied back in a ponytail. Amy took after Heather-modest but attractive, with a fit body from her college track team, perky C-cup breasts, and a girl-next-door vibe. At 20, she was confident and teasing, especially with her little step-brother.
"Hey, loser," she said without looking up, popping a grape into her mouth. "Heard you were over at Jessica's. See Summer yet?"
John grabbed a soda from the fridge, trying to act nonchalant. "Yeah, she just got home. Hugged me and everything." He couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face.
Amy finally glanced at him, smirking. "Ooh, a hug? Careful, John, you might actually talk to a girl for once." She hopped down, nudging him playfully. "Seriously, though, when are you gonna get a girlfriend? You're 18 now-high school's over. You can't just mope around playing video games all summer."
John rolled his eyes, but her words stung a bit. "I'm not moping. Just, busy helping out. And who says I need a girlfriend right now?"
Amy laughed, ruffling his hair. "Come on, make some friends at least. Hit up the beach, the mall-anything. Summer's single, you know. But you'd have to actually, like, speak in full sentences around her."
If only it were that easy, John thought, his mind flashing back to the hug. She's way out of my league. But god, what I wouldn't do to be closer to her... "Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it."
The conversation fizzled as Amy headed upstairs, leaving John to ponder her advice. Dinner that evening was a typical affair-Heather had whipped up a simple pasta dish, her brunette hair pulled back, her modest blouse and jeans hugging her still-fit 45-year-old figure. Heather was classically attractive: soft curves, a B-cup bust that she carried with quiet confidence, and warm brown eyes that always seemed to know more than she let on. She was the glue holding the family together, working her boutique job while keeping the house running smoothly.
They ate at the kitchen table, chatting about mundane things-Amy's college stories, John's lawn-mowing adventures, Heather's latest customer drama. "John, sweetie, thanks for helping Jessica out today," Heather said, smiling across the table. "You're turning into quite the responsible young man."
John shrugged, blushing slightly. "No big deal, Mom." The meal wrapped up normally, with everyone retreating to their own spaces: Amy to her room for a video call with friends, Heather to the living room with a book, and John upstairs to his bedroom.
He locked the door behind him, flopping onto his bed with a sigh. The room was a typical teenage haven-posters of video games and bands on the walls, a cluttered desk with his laptop, and a faint scent of Axe body spray. But tonight, his mind was fixated on Summer. That hug, her body against mine. Fuck, she's perfect. He felt a familiar stir in his pants, his cock twitching at the memory.
Unable to resist, he grabbed his laptop, dimming the lights as he settled against the pillows. A quick incognito search brought up porn sites, and he typed in descriptors that reminded him of her: "tall blonde big tits college girl." Videos popped up-women who vaguely resembled Summer, but none captured her essence. He clicked on one: a busty blonde riding a guy reverse cowgirl, her moans filling his headphones.
John's hand slipped into his boxers, wrapping around his hardening shaft. He stroked slowly at first, imagining it was Summer on top of him, her breasts bouncing, her tight pussy gripping him. God, I wish I could get closer to her, he thought, his pace quickening. Not just know her, but be intimate. Feel her from the outside, sure, but, inside too? Like, understand her completely. The fantasy spiraled-taboo thoughts of body swaps, gender bends from the weird porn he'd stumbled upon before, where guys became girls and explored forbidden desires.
His breath hitched as the orgasm built, more intense than usual. "Fuck, I wish I could be closer to Summer, inside and out," he whispered aloud, his voice hoarse. The video played on, the actress crying out in ecstasy. John's body tensed, cum erupting in hot spurts over his hand and stomach. Waves of pleasure crashed over him, stronger than ever, his vision blurring as a strange dizziness took hold. The world spun, and suddenly-blackness. He collapsed back, unconscious, the laptop still humming softly in the dim room.
Chapter 2: Freaky Morning
The first rays of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains of Heather's bedroom, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the king-sized bed with its crisp white sheets and plush comforter. The room was a sanctuary of feminine elegance-walls painted a calming lavender, a vanity table cluttered with perfumes and jewelry, and a full-length mirror propped against the far wall, reflecting the orderly chaos of a woman's life well-lived. Heather's closet stood slightly ajar, revealing rows of neatly hung blouses, dresses, and jeans, while the faint scent of lavender sachets mingled with the subtle musk of her favorite body lotion. It was a space John had only glimpsed in passing, never truly entered, let alone woken up in.
But this morning, that's exactly where he found himself-or rather, where she found herself. John's consciousness stirred groggily, his mind foggy from what felt like the deepest sleep of his life. His body felt, off. Lighter somehow, yet weighted in unfamiliar places. He blinked against the light, rubbing his eyes with hands that seemed smaller, more delicate. What a weird dream, he thought hazily, the remnants of last night's intense orgasm flickering in his memory like a half-remembered fantasy. That blackout, must've passed out hard. A pressing urge built in his lower abdomen-the need to pee-and without much thought, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The nightgown whispered against his skin as he stood, a silky fabric that clung in ways his boxers never did. It was Heather's favorite-a simple lavender slip that reached mid-thigh, with thin straps and a lace-trimmed neckline that dipped just enough to hint at cleavage. John didn't register the difference yet; his brain was still booting up. He padded across the plush carpet, the cool hardwood of the en suite bathroom floor sending a shiver up his spine as he entered. The bathroom was pristine: marble counters, a deep soaking tub, and a rainfall showerhead that Heather loved for its spa-like feel. He lifted the toilet seat out of habit-wait, no, that felt wrong. Instinct took over, and he hiked up the nightgown, sat down on the cool porcelain, and let go.
The stream came easily, a soft trickle that felt strangely relieving but, different. No standing, no aiming-just sitting and releasing. He reached for the toilet paper without thinking, wiping front to back in a motion that came as naturally as breathing. Flush. Stand. Wash hands. It was all autopilot, muscle memory kicking in from a body that wasn't his. Huh, that was, easy, he mused internally, still half-asleep. Usually takes forever to wake up properly.
He shuffled to the vanity sink, the mirror fogged slightly from the humidity of the night. Grabbing Heather's toothbrush-pink-handled, with soft bristles-he squeezed on a dollop of minty toothpaste and began brushing. The rhythm was familiar, but as he raised his arm, it brushed against something soft and yielding. A jolt of sensation shot through him-nipples hardening under the fabric, a subtle weight shifting on his chest. What the...? He paused, toothbrush in mouth, and glanced down. Breasts. Actual breasts, modestly sized but pert, straining slightly against the nightgown. The toothbrush clattered into the sink as awareness crashed over him like a wave.
John's eyes widened in the mirror, staring back at a face that wasn't his. Heather's face: high cheekbones, full lips painted a natural pink from last night's gloss, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and a cascade of brunette hair tumbling over shoulders. "Oh my God," he whispered, but the voice that emerged was soft, feminine-Heather's voice, with its gentle Texas lilt. He gasped externally, a sharp intake of breath that echoed in the tiled room. Internally, his mind screamed: What the fuck is happening? This can't be real. Am I still dreaming? Did I die? Panic bubbled up, his new heart pounding in a chest that felt both alien and intimately responsive.
He leaned closer to the mirror, hands-slender, with manicured nails-gripping the counter. Calm down, John. Breathe. Figure this out. How had this happened? Last night, the porn, the wish whispered aloud as he came. I wish I could get closer to Summer, inside and out. Was this some cosmic joke? A body swap? Like those weird stories he'd read online, the gender bender fantasies that always got him off harder than he cared to admit. But this was real-the cool air from the AC vent brushing against his skin, making goosebumps rise, and lower, a chill teasing at exposed folds he shouldn't have. Holy shit, I have a vagina.
Curiosity edged out the panic as he calmed. If this is a dream, might as well explore. He started with the face, poking and prodding gently. Heather's skin was smooth, softer than his ever was-no stubble, just the faint peach fuzz of a woman's complexion. He stuck out his tongue-pink and agile-wagging it experimentally. Then, an UwU face: cheeks puffed, eyes wide and innocent, lips pursed in a cute pout. It looked ridiculous on Heather's mature features, but oddly endearing. A sad face next-eyebrows furrowed, lower lip trembling-as if practicing for a role in a drama. She looks, kinda hot like this, he admitted to himself, a forbidden thought creeping in.
Now, the voice. "Hello?" he tested, the word coming out smooth and melodic. He cleared his throat-her throat-and tried seductive: "Come here, big boy," drawled low and husky, with a sultry emphasis that made his new nipples tingle. Angry and authoritative: "Young man, you're grounded!" barked out, stern and commanding, the kind of tone Heather used when scolding him. Curse words for fun: "Fuck, shit, damn," he whispered, giggling at how prim and proper it sounded in her voice, then louder, "Oh, fuck me," with a moan that surprised him with its authenticity. This is insane. I sound just like her. But better? Sexier?
Satisfied for now, he ventured back into the bedroom, the nightgown swishing around his thighs. The full-body mirror beckoned, a ornate antique piece Heather had inherited from her mother. John stood before it, heart racing anew. He slipped the straps off his shoulders, letting the nightgown pool at his feet. Naked now, he stared. Heather's body-his body-was stunning in a way he'd never appreciated. At 45, she was fit from yoga classes with Jessica, her skin glowing with a natural tan. Modest B-cup breasts hung with a natural heft, nipples a dusky pink and erect from the cool air. He cupped them experimentally, feeling the weight-soft yet firm, like ripe fruit. These are, heavy. But nice. Sensitive too. A gentle squeeze sent a spark straight to his core, a warmth building between his legs.
His hands roamed lower: smooth, hairless skin everywhere except a neatly trimmed patch above his new slit. No coarse body hair, just silkiness. Legs long and dainty, toned calves leading to petite feet. He turned, admiring the curve of his ass-round and perky, not as voluptuous as Jessica's but inviting. Fingernails painted a soft nude, longer than he was used to, scratching lightly over his skin. She's gorgeous. Why didn't I notice before? Taboo, I guess. But now... The thought aroused him-her. A slickness grew between his thighs, a moist heat that made him clench involuntarily. I'm getting wet. Fuck, that's hot. But not now-gotta figure this out.
Shaking it off, he headed to the closet, an instinctive pull guiding him. Muscle memory? Heather's knowledge seeped in-he knew exactly where her lingerie drawer was, tucked in the back. He pulled out a comfortable bra: beige lace, supportive underwire. Slipping it on was effortless-arms through straps, clasp in front with a twist, adjust the cups. Whoa, that was easy. Like I've done it a thousand times. It felt amazing: the lift pushing his breasts up, creating subtle cleavage, the fabric hugging like a second skin. Panties next-a thong, black and silky, something he wouldn't have pegged for Heather's modest style. Does she wear these? Kinky, Mom. He stepped in, pulling it up; the string nestled between his ass cheeks, a constant teasing pressure, while the front panel cupped his mound, the fabric brushing his slit in a way that made him gasp. Feels, exposing. But good. Like it's right there, ready.
Clothes: tight skinny jeans that hugged his hips and ass like a glove, zipping up with a satisfying snugness. A button-up blouse in soft blue, rolling the sleeves for a casual look that accentuated his figure. This outfits screams 'hot mom.' Matches perfectly.
Drawn to the makeup vanity next-a wooden table with a lighted mirror, drawers full of palettes and brushes. He sat, brushing out the long brunette locks-silky and thick, falling to mid-back. Tying it into a loose ponytail was second nature, strands framing his face. Feels lighter now. Smells like her shampoo-floral and fresh.
The makeup array was overwhelming: foundations, blushes, eyeshadows in every shade, lipsticks from nude to bold red. So much stuff. Eyeliners, mascaras, how does she choose? But again, instinct guided him. He applied a light foundation, blending seamlessly; a touch of blush for a rosy glow; eyeliner winged just so, making his eyes pop; mascara for length; and a lipstick a shade pinker than Heather's usual, with a gloss that made his lips look fuller, kissable. Cuter, slightly seductive-eyebrows arched playfully, a hint of shimmer on the lids. Not her everyday look. More, flirty. Like I'm dolling up for something special.
Stepping back, he admired the full effect in the mirror: a vision of mature allure, jeans accentuating curves, blouse hinting at cleavage, makeup enhancing natural beauty. If this is permanent, what now? Excitement mingled with fear, but a thrill coursed through him. Summer. This could be my chance to get close. Really close. With that, he headed downstairs, ready to face whatever bizarre day awaited in his step-mom's body.
Chapter 3: "Heather"'s Day
The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the Thompson household, a cozy two-story home nestled in the heart of Willow Creek. The kitchen was Heather's domain-granite countertops gleaming under pendant lights, a farmhouse sink piled with mixing bowls, and a window overlooking the backyard where John had spent countless summers playing catch with his late dad. But this morning, it was John-or rather, "Heather"-commanding the space with an ease that surprised even him. Dressed in those tight skinny jeans that hugged his new curves like a second skin and the button-up blouse that teased just a hint of cleavage, he moved with a fluid grace, flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs as if he'd done it a thousand times. Which, in a way, he had-Heather's muscle memory was a godsend, guiding his hands through the motions without a second thought.
What the hell is going on? John pondered internally, stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. Am I stuck like this forever? Is this some kind of freaky punishment for jerking off to Summer? Or, fulfillment of that wish? The confusion gnawed at him, but a strange exhilaration bubbled underneath. No more awkward stares from afar; he could be close now, in ways he never imagined. But first, gotta play the part. Don't freak out the family. He set the table with Heather's favorite floral plates, humming a tune he didn't even know he knew-a soft melody from one of her yoga playlists.
As the first one up, John had the house to himself for a blissful half-hour, but soon enough, footsteps thudded down the stairs. His heart-or Heather's-skipped a beat as he wondered about his old body. What if Mom's in there? Trapped, screaming? Or, what if it's empty? The question was answered when "John" shuffled into the kitchen, yawning in his rumpled pajamas, hair tousled just like always. "Morning, Mom," the body said in John's own voice, wrapping arms around "Heather" in a casual hug. The embrace felt surreal-hugging himself, essentially-but there was no hint of anything amiss. "John" pulled back, sniffing the air. "Smells awesome. You making pancakes? Sweet."
"Yeah, sweetie, your favorite," John replied in Heather's warm tone, forcing a smile while his mind raced. He's acting just like me. Saying shit I'd say, moving like I do. Is it, on autopilot? Some kind of echo? Relief washed over him; at least no one was suffering in his place. Amy joined moments later, her ponytail bouncing as she plopped into a chair, phone in hand. "Morning, everyone! Ooh, bacon-thanks, Mom."
Breakfast unfolded in a haze of normalcy that bordered on the absurd. They chatted about the weather-hot and humid, as always in Texas-the latest neighborhood gossip, and Amy's excitement about her summer classes. John, as Heather, navigated it flawlessly: laughing at "John's" dumb joke about a video game boss, passing the syrup with a maternal nod, even scolding Amy gently for scrolling too much at the table. Internally, though, it was a mindfuck. This is me, eating with my family, but I'm Mom. Watching myself chew with my mouth open. Hearing Amy call me 'Mom.' It's like a VR sim gone wrong. A flicker of arousal stirred as he caught sight of Amy's tank top riding up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach-taboo thoughts he quickly shoved down. Focus, dude. You're her mom now.
As the meal wrapped up, plans emerged. "John" mentioned heading out to mow more lawns-my old job, John thought wryly-while Amy talked about meeting friends downtown. "Hey, Mom," Amy said, stacking plates, "you should hit the mall today. Get that new bathing suit we talked about. Remember, tomorrow's the double date at the beach spa with Jessica and Summer! It's gonna be so fun-sun, sand, massages..."
John's new body reacted instantly: a flush of heat between his legs, nipples tightening under the bra. Double date? With Jessica and Summer? Holy shit. Images flooded his mind-Summer in a bikini, water glistening on her curves, her laughter echoing over waves. This is it. The wish. Getting closer to her, even if it's as Mom. Bizarre, but, hot? He nodded enthusiastically, Heather's voice steady. "That sounds perfect, honey. I could use a little retail therapy."
Amy grinned. "Awesome! Pick something cute. Maybe something a bit, sexier? You're still got it, Mom." She winked, and "John" chuckled, oblivious.
Once they left-the door clicking shut behind them-John was alone, the house silent except for the hum of the fridge. Okay, game on. He grabbed Heather's purse from the hook by the door-a stylish leather satchel stuffed with wallet, keys, and lip gloss-and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping out, he felt a literal spring in his step: lighter on his feet, hips swaying naturally, the thong riding up just enough to remind him of his new anatomy. Feels, empowering? Like I'm strutting.
Heather's car-a reliable SUV-waited in the driveway. Sliding into the driver's seat, he adjusted the mirror, buckling up. The seatbelt nestled between his breasts, the strap pressing against the soft mounds, creating a valley of cleavage. Whoa, that's, distracting. Unable to resist, he glanced around-no nosy neighbors watching-and cupped his boobs through the blouse, squeezing gently. The sensation zinged straight to his core, a moist warmth building. These feel amazing. So sensitive. He admired his reflection: ponytail bouncing, makeup flawless, lips plump. Looking good, 'Heather.' A little crazy? Maybe. But fuck it. Starting the engine, he pulled out, heading to the mall with a mix of nerves and excitement.
The Willow Creek Mall was bustling mid-morning: families milling about, teens in clusters, the air scented with pretzels and perfume. As "Heather," John drew glances-not suspicious, but appreciative. Men stealing looks at his ass in the jeans, women nodding at his outfit. They're checking me out. Because I'm hot. Female hot. It was a power trip, boosting his confidence as he navigated to a trendy store aimed at the 18-25 crowd-think fast fashion with edgy vibes, blasting pop music and lined with racks of crop tops and mini skirts.
Browsing the swimsuit section, he blended in at first, but soon noticed the giggles from a group of college-aged girls nearby. They're laughing at me? The 'old lady' in their store? But he ignored it, fingers trailing over fabrics until he spotted a two-piece white bikini: skimpy top with padding for extra lift, high-cut bottoms that would hug and expose his ass cheeks. This is cute. Revealing, but, why not? Summer might notice. Heart pounding, he grabbed a size that felt right-Heather's instincts again-and headed to the changing rooms.
The attendant, an 18-year-old with neon hair and a judgmental smirk, eyed him up. "Uh, can I help you? These are for, like, our demographic..."
John channeled Heather's charisma-poise he'd never had as himself. He flashed a warm smile, tilting his head flirtatiously. "Oh, honey, age is just a number. But if you insist, maybe you can help me decide if this makes me look too, youthful?" He added a wink and a light laugh, funny yet charming, disarming her completely.
The girl blinked, then grinned. "Okay, fair. Room three's open. Knock yourself out."
Inside the cramped stall, mirror-lined walls reflecting every angle, John stripped slowly. Off came the blouse, jeans pooling at his feet, bra unclasped-breasts freed, nipples perking in the cool air. The thong slipped down, revealing his smooth mound, already glistening slightly from anticipation. Time to see. He stepped into the bikini bottoms, the fabric snug against his slit, riding up to accentuate his ass. The top tied on, padding pushing his B-cups into fuller, perkier cleavage. Damn, I look, fuckable.
Letting his hair down-waves cascading-he posed: hands on hips, seductive smirk, touching himself all over. Fingers traced his collarbone, down to squeeze his enhanced boobs, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. So soft, so responsive. He turned, admiring his ass-cheeks peeking out, firm and inviting. Then, cutesy mode: innocent pout, batting lashes, imagining compliments from Jessica and Summer. "Oh, Heather, you look amazing!" he'd coo in a high pitch, giggling.
But thoughts turned to Summer: her taller frame in a bikini, bigger bust spilling out, water droplets tracing her curves. God, she'd look incredible. Wet, shiny... Arousal hit hard-his pussy throbbing, slickness soaking the bottoms. Can't ignore this anymore. He slipped a hand down, rubbing his clit through the fabric-electric sparks shooting through him. Fuck, that's intense. Boldly, he pushed the bottoms aside, fingers dipping into his wet folds, one then two sliding in. The fullness, the warmth-moans escaped, soft at first, then louder: "Oh, yes..." He pumped gently, thumb on clit, imagining Summer's body against his. The attendant might have heard-the stall walls thin-but he didn't care, stopping just short of climax. Later. Save it.
Composed again, he dressed and checked out. The cashier-a young guy-rang him up, but John scratched an itch near his crotch crudely, like a guy adjusting his balls. Oops. The cashier flushed, thinking, Hot mom, but, that was weird. Kinda unladylike.
Back home, cooking dinner was effortless: Heather's recipes ingrained, whipping up lasagna with garlic bread. When Amy and "John" returned, he roleplayed perfectly-asking about their days, laughing at stories, no suspicions raised. This is trippy. Engaging with myself.
After dinner, alone time with Amy in her room: posters of bands, clothes strewn about. She changed for bed into a provocative outfit-tiny shorts and a crop top, no bra, nipples visible through thin fabric. John stared voyeuristically, heat building. She's hot. Like Mom, but younger. Amy chatted about the spa: private massages, saunas, hot tubs. "And who knows, Mom? We might spot some hot guys. You could use a fling!" She teased, winking.
John laughed, but internally: Guys? Nah. But Summer... Excited, he headed to bed, following Heather's routine: face wash, lotion, nightgown. In the nightstand, a small vibrator-pink, discreet. Mom's got toys? Kinky.
Lying back, he buzzed it to life, pressing against his clit. Oh fuck. Imagining the spa: Jessica in a thong, bust overflowing; Summer nude, legs spread; even Amy, playful and bare. They touched, kissed-taboo fantasies blending. Orgasms crashed over him, waves of pleasure making his body arch, moans muffled into the pillow. Exhausted, he drifted to sleep, dreaming of tomorrow's possibilities.
Chapter 4: Before the Outing
The alarm on Heather's nightstand buzzed softly at 7 AM, pulling John from a deep, dreamless sleep. He stretched languidly under the sheets, his body-Heather's body-responding with a supple arch that made his breasts shift and his hips roll in a way that felt both foreign and intoxicating. The vibrator from last night lay innocently on the pillow beside him, a silent reminder of the explosive orgasm that had rocked him to his core. Holy shit, that was real, he thought, a grin spreading across Heather's full lips as he sat up. I'm still here. Still her. And today, today I get to see Summer up close. In a spa. With bikinis and massages and, God, what if things get steamy? Excitement coursed through him, mingling with a low hum of arousal that made his new pussy tingle faintly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool morning air teasing his skin through the thin nightgown. Padding to the en suite bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror-hair tousled from sleep, makeup smudged just enough to look sultry rather than sloppy. I look like a woman who's had a wild night. Fitting. Stripping off the nightgown, he stepped into the shower, turning the water to a steamy hot spray that cascaded over his curves like a lover's touch. The sensation was overwhelming: water beading on his breasts, trickling down his flat stomach, pooling between his thighs. He lathered up with Heather's body wash-a luxurious blend of vanilla and jasmine that made his skin slick and silky.
This feels incredible, he marveled internally, hands roaming as he washed. Fingers grazed his nipples, hardening them into peaks that sent jolts straight to his core. Lower, he soaped his pussy gently, the suds mixing with a fresh slickness as thoughts of Summer invaded his mind. Her body wet like this, blonde hair plastered to her big tits, laughing as she splashes Amy, Fuck, I can't wait. But the real star was the shampoo: a fruity, botanical concoction of mango and hibiscus that filled the steam with an exotic, heady aroma. He massaged it into his scalp, the long strands heavy and fragrant under his fingers. Smells like paradise. Like her-Summer always has that tropical vibe. Rinsing off, he lingered under the spray, one hand slipping between his legs to rub his clit in slow circles. A soft moan escaped-Heather's voice, husky with desire. Just a tease. Save the big one for later, maybe with her. He stopped before climax, toweling off with a fluffy robe that hugged his figure, still buzzing with anticipation.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the family routine kicked in. John, as Heather, whipped up a quick breakfast-avocado toast with eggs, fresh fruit on the side-while "John" and Amy trickled in. "Morning, everyone," he said brightly, plating the food. Time to probe. What's my old body been up to? He turned to "John," who was shoveling toast into his mouth just like he always did. "So, sweetie, what have you been up to these last couple days? Any fun plans while we're gone?"
"John" shrugged, mid-bite. "Eh, mostly gaming. Finally beat that level in Elden Ring- you know, the one with the fire giant? Took forever, but I cheesed it with the bleed build."
John's excitement spiked-That's my game! I was stuck on that boss for weeks!-and he leaned in, Heather's eyes lighting up. "Oh, really? The fire giant? Isn't that the one where you have to dodge those massive AOE attacks? And the bleed build-smart, using rivers of blood katana, right? Pairs great with the mimic tear summon."
"John" blinked, surprised but nodding. "Yeah, exactly! Wait, Mom, since when do you know about Elden Ring builds?"
Amy, overhearing from her seat, paused with her coffee mug halfway to her lips. "Whoa, Mom, you're a gamer now? That's, kinda cool, but random."
Panic flickered in John's mind-Shit, too much. Slipped into my own geek mode. But Heather's poise bubbled up, that effortless charisma saving the day. He laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, honey, I've picked up a thing or two listening to you ramble about it. Plus, I read an article the other day-something about how video games improve reflexes. Keeps me young!" He added a wink, steering the conversation smoothly to Amy's classes, and the moment passed without suspicion. Close call. But damn, it's weird hearing about my own life from the outside.
After breakfast, with "John" heading out for more chores and Amy lingering to help clean up, John retreated upstairs to pack. The closet called to him again, and rummaging through Heather's wardrobe, his eyes landed on a sexy sun dress he'd somehow overlooked before: a vibrant red number with a deep V-neck that plunged daringly between the breasts, thin straps, and a flowy skirt that hit mid-thigh, perfect for showing off legs and a hint of cleavage. This is fire. Shows off everything-boobs, ass, the works. He slipped it on, the fabric whispering against his skin, hugging his curves before flaring out. Twirling in the mirror, he admired how it accentuated his bust, the material thin enough that his nipples poked through if he got chilled. Summer's gonna love this. Wait, no- she's straight, right? But maybe...
Packing was quick: the new white bikini folded neatly into an overnight bag, along with other fun outfits-a sheer cover-up that would tease skin, lacy lingerie just in case things heated up, and casual shorts with a crop top for lounging. Prepared for anything. Massages, saunas, who knows what could happen in private? A thrill shot through him, his pussy clenching at the possibilities.
As they got ready to leave, Amy appeared in the doorway, eyeing the dress with raised eyebrows. "Damn, Mom! That dress is hot. You're gonna turn heads at the spa. Jessica might get jealous-she's usually the MILF queen."
John flushed-Heather's cheeks warming-but played it cool with a playful spin. "Thanks, sweetie. Figured why not? Life's too short for boring clothes." Amy laughed, complimenting his makeup too-the subtle smokey eyes he'd added for extra allure. They headed out together, leaving "John" with a wave and instructions to behave, the SUV purring down the driveway toward the beach spa an hour away.
---
Meanwhile, across the neighborhood at the Summers' residence-a modern ranch-style home with a sprawling backyard pool and Jessica's yoga mats scattered on the deck-preparations were in full swing. Jessica, at 46, moved with the grace of a woman who knew her power, her platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail as she packed her bag in the sunlit kitchen. She wore yoga leggings and a sports bra for the drive, her generous D-cup bust straining against the fabric, curves honed from years of downward dogs and warrior poses. Summer, her 20-year-old daughter, was upstairs in her room, a feminine haven of pastel walls, volleyball trophies, and posters of indie bands.
"Summer, honey, you almost ready?" Jessica called up the stairs, zipping her bag with swimsuits, lotions, and a bottle of wine for the evening. "Heather and Amy should be meeting us soon-don't forget your sunscreen!"
"Coming, Mom!" Summer replied, her voice light but laced with a secret excitement. She stood before her mirror, adjusting a casual tank top and shorts over her bikini, her taller frame making everything look model-esque. Blonde waves framed her face, and her E-cup breasts filled out the top perfectly, a natural bounce with each movement. God, I'm buzzing, she thought, inner monologue racing as she packed. A whole day at the spa with Amy, and Heather. Heather. A flush crept up her neck at the thought. Summer had always been the popular girl-cheerful, athletic, surrounded by friends-but deep down, she harbored a secret: a growing attraction to women that she'd never voiced. College had opened her eyes-stolen glances in the dorm showers, butterflies around pretty professors-but back home, it simmered unspoken.
Heather's always been so, elegant. Fit, brunette, that quiet sexiness. And lately, I've caught myself staring. Is it a crush? She bit her lip, imagining Heather in a swimsuit, their bodies close during a massage. Women are just, softer. Curvier. More intoxicating. Amy's hot too, but Heather-mature, experienced. What if I could, explore? The thought made her nipples harden, a warmth pooling between her legs. She shook it off, grabbing her bag. "Okay, Mom, let's go!"
Downstairs, Jessica hugged her daughter, their dialogue easy and affectionate. "You excited? It's been ages since we did a girls' trip like this."
"Totally," Summer said, grinning. "Pool time, massages-perfection. And hanging with Amy and Heather will be fun."
Jessica raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Heather, huh? You've always had a soft spot for her. She's like a second mom."
Summer laughed it off, but internally: If only you knew. "Yeah, something like that."
They loaded the car, chatting about spa details-private saunas, ocean views-and headed out, the drive filled with laughter and playlists.
---
Back to John as Heather: they arrived at the beach spa first, a luxurious resort overlooking the Gulf, with palm trees swaying and the scent of salt air mingling with essential oils. Stepping out, John smoothed the sun dress, the skirt fluttering in the breeze to reveal toned thighs. Here we go. Jessica's SUV pulled up moments later, and as she emerged-looking every bit the cougar in a wrap dress that hugged her bust-John greeted her with la bise, the European cheek kisses they always did. "Jessica, darling, you look fabulous," he purred in Heather's voice, their cheeks brushing, scents mingling.
"You too, Heather- that dress! Sexy as hell," Jessica replied with a laugh.
But then Summer stepped out, and John froze. She was stunning: a floral sundress similar to his but shorter, accentuating her long legs, bigger bust spilling slightly at the neckline, blonde hair glowing in the sun. Fuck, she's a goddess. Taller, thinner, those tits, I could stare forever. His body reacted-pussy dampening, heart racing.
Summer, meanwhile, was equally awestruck. Heather looks, different. Hotter. That makeup, the dress-cleavage for days. Is she flirting with the world today? Her cheeks pinked as they locked eyes. "Hey, Heather," she said softly, moving in for a hug.
The embrace was electric: bodies pressing close, John's breasts mashing against Summer's larger ones, soft and yielding through thin fabrics. He inhaled her scent-vanilla and sunscreen-feeling the warmth of her skin, the subtle curve of her hips. Oh God, this feels amazing. Her boobs against mine, so full, so perfect. A forbidden thrill shot through him, his nipples hardening.
Summer pulled back reluctantly, blushing deeper. That hug, her body feels so good. Soft, warm. I want more. Jessica and Amy were already chatting animatedly about the itinerary, laughing as they grabbed bags. "Come on, ladies-let's check in!" Jessica goaded, leading the way.
John followed, mind spinning with possibilities, the group entering the spa's grand lobby, ready for whatever intimacies the day held.
Chapter 5: Getting Close to Summer
The Azure Waves Beach Spa Resort sprawled along the Gulf Coast like a hidden paradise, its white stucco buildings accented with turquoise trim, palm-fringed pools shimmering under the relentless Texas sun, and the distant crash of waves providing a rhythmic soundtrack to indulgence. The lobby was a haven of luxury: marble floors cooled by ocean breezes, plush seating areas dotted with tropical plants, and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the spa diffusers. As the group checked in, the receptionist-a perky young woman with a name tag reading "Mia"-handed over key cards with a smile. "Welcome, ladies! Your suites are in the Ocean Wing. Pool's open all day, and your massages are booked for 3 PM. Enjoy!"
John, still inhabiting Heather's body, clutched his key card tightly, his manicured fingers trembling slightly with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. The hug with Summer lingered in his mind-the press of her larger breasts against his, the warmth of her breath on his neck, that telltale blush coloring her cheeks as they pulled apart. She blushed. Hard. Was that because of me? Or, Heather? Does she feel something too? He wondered internally, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. This body swap thing is nuts, but if it means getting close to her like this, I'll take it. The group dispersed to their individual suites with plans to reconvene at the main pool in an hour, Amy and Jessica chattering excitedly about cocktails and sunbathing.
John's suite was a slice of opulence: a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, a king bed draped in crisp linens, and a private balcony where the sea air whispered promises of relaxation. A mini-bar stocked with chilled wines and fruits sat invitingly by the desk, and the bathroom boasted a rainfall shower and plush robes. Alone at last, he set his bag down and faced the full-length mirror, Heather's reflection staring back-sun dress hugging curves, ponytail slightly tousled from the drive. Time to change. Make it fun. A mischievous grin spread across his lips as he decided to indulge in the moment, turning the simple act of changing into a private spectacle.
He started slow, swaying his hips to an imaginary beat, fingers tracing the thin straps of the dress. Strip tease for one. Why not? This body's made for it. He slipped one strap down, then the other, letting the fabric pool at his waist, exposing Heather's lacy bra that cradled his modest B-cup breasts. Cupping them, he squeezed gently, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked, a soft gasp escaping-Heather's voice, breathy and feminine. Feels so good. Sensitive as hell. The dress fell to the floor in a whisper, leaving him in just the thong panties, the string nestled teasingly between his ass cheeks. He turned, admiring the view: smooth skin, toned legs, the curve of his hips flaring out invitingly. Hooking thumbs into the thong, he bent forward dramatically, sliding it down slowly, ass presented to the mirror as his pussy came into view-already glistening with arousal. Look at that. Wet just from thinking about her. He stepped out of the panties, fully nude now, and struck poses: one hand on hip, the other trailing down his stomach to brush his clit, eliciting a shiver.
Grabbing the white two-piece bikini from his bag, he made the donning equally erotic. First the bottoms: stepping in exaggeratedly, pulling them up so the fabric hugged his mound, the high-cut sides framing his ass like a work of art. He adjusted the front, fingers dipping briefly into his folds for a teasing rub. Mmm, tight fit. Shows off everything. The top came next-tying it behind his back with a flourish, the padding lifting his breasts into fuller, perkier cleavage that spilled slightly at the edges. He bounced on his toes, watching them jiggle. Damn, I look hot. Summer's gonna notice. Hair down in waves, a quick touch-up of lip gloss, and he wrapped a towel around his waist like a sarong, heading out with a sway in his step that felt utterly natural.
The pool area was a tropical oasis: infinity edges blending with the ocean horizon, cabanas with billowing white curtains, and lounge chairs lined up under umbrellas. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of fruity cocktails. John spotted Jessica first, and his jaw nearly dropped. She lounged by the chairs like a predator in wait-a super sexy MILF cougar ready to pounce. Her one-piece swimsuit was a masterpiece of temptation: black with strategic cutouts along the sides and midriff, plunging neckline showcasing her generous D-cup bust, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. It looked straight off a supermodel runway, accentuating her toned legs and the subtle sway of her hips. Blonde hair cascaded freely, sunglasses perched on her nose, a knowing smile on her lips.
Holy fuck, Jessica, John thought, a droplet of drool nearly escaping as he approached. She's always been hot, but this? Lethal. "Jessica, wow-you look incredible," he said in Heather's warm voice, eyes lingering a beat too long on her cleavage.
She laughed, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her bust against his making his nipples harden instantly. "Coming from you? Please, Heather, that bikini is fire. White on your tan? Chef's kiss." She pulled back, handing him a vibrant cocktail-something pink and garnished with pineapple. "Mai Tai. Figured we'd start strong." Then, with a flirtatious grin, she offered her hand. "Shall we? Chairs are this way."
John took it, their fingers intertwining, skin warm and soft. Internally, he freaked: Hand-holding with Jessica? While she looks like that? How do I even talk without staring at her tits? But as they walked, the panic ebbed, replaced by awe as his gaze shifted to the pool. There, frolicking in the water, was Summer-splashing Amy with gleeful abandon, her laughter ringing out like music. She wore a skimpy red bikini that left little to the imagination: top straining against her E-cup breasts, bottoms tied at the sides with bows that begged to be undone. Water glistened on her taller, thinner frame, droplets tracing paths down her toned abs and long legs. Amy, in a sporty blue two-piece that hugged her perky C-cups and athletic build, laughed back, but John's eyes were glued to Summer. Oh my God. She's perfection. Bouncing in the water like that, I could watch forever.
They settled into adjacent lounge chairs, cocktails in hand, the sun warming their skin. John sipped his drink-sweet and potent, rum hitting just right-while freaking out internally about small talk. What do I say? Weather? No, too lame. But Heather's essence surged forward: that natural charisma, the ease of conversation she'd always had. "So, Jess, tell me-how's the yoga studio been? Any new hot instructors catching your eye?" he asked with a teasing lilt, leaning back to mirror her relaxed pose.
Jessica chuckled, sipping her drink. "Oh, you know me-always scouting talent. There's this one guy, mid-20s, abs for days. But honestly, I've been too busy. What about you? Dating scene treating you well since, you know." Her voice softened, referencing Heather's widowhood without dwelling.
The chat flowed effortlessly: gossip about neighborhood drama (Mrs. Wilkins' latest affair scandal), shared laughs over parenting woes (Amy's college antics mirroring Summer's), and deeper tidbits-Jessica confessing her secret love for trashy romance novels, John sharing Heather's fondness for gardening mixed with his own taste in indie films. This is wild. I'm learning stuff about her I'd never know as John. All the while, his eyes darted to Summer in the pool: her lithe body diving under, emerging with hair slicked back, breasts heaving with each breath. So close. I can hear her laugh, see every curve. This is heaven.
Summer, mid-splash with Amy, glanced over occasionally, catching "Heather" watching. She's staring. At me? Curiosity bloomed in her chest, a warm flutter between her legs. Heather's always been gorgeous, but today, that bikini, those eyes on me. Does she feel it too?
Hours melted away in glorious voyeurism-John reveling in Summer's every move, the way water beaded on her skin, her playful shrieks as Amy dunked her. But Amy eventually broke the spell, swimming to the edge. "Hey, ladies! Massage time-let's go! Don't want to be late."
Summer climbed out, water cascading off her body as she approached the chairs. Up close, John drank her in: the red bikini clinging wetly, nipples faintly visible through the fabric, her taller frame towering slightly, ass cheeks peeking from the bottoms. Fuck, she's dripping. Warm and fuzzy? I'm on fire. Summer's eyes roamed Heather's body too-the white bikini enhancing cleavage, the way it hugged her slit subtly. Heather looks, edible. That lift in her boobs, her legs, God, I'm getting wet just looking.
The group toweled off and headed to the massage suite, a serene wing with dim lighting, soft instrumental music, and the scent of lavender oil. Private rooms branched off a central changing area with lockers and robes. John decided to go with the flow-Never had a massage before. Might as well enjoy. In the changing room, privacy screens offered partial cover, but glimpses were inevitable. He stripped slowly: bikini top untied, breasts freed with a bounce; bottoms slid down, exposing his smooth pussy. Sneaking peeks, he caught Jessica's nude form-voluptuous curves, shaved mound, ass like a peach. Amy's athletic body-perky tits, trimmed bush. But Summer, Jesus. Tall and lithe, her E-cups heavy and natural, pink nipples erect from the cool air, pussy with a neat landing strip. She bent to pick up her robe, ass presented, folds peeking invitingly.
Summer stole a glance back, eyes widening at Heather's body: modest but toned, breasts pert, pussy bare and glistening slightly. She's beautiful. Smooth everywhere, I want to touch. Both flushed, slipping into thin massage gowns-paper-thin fabric that hid little.
In the massage room-four tables side by side, therapists waiting with oils-John lay face-down, the gown parting to expose his back. As hands kneaded his muscles, tension melted, and conversation sparked with Summer on the next table. "This feels amazing," he sighed in Heather's voice. "First time for a pro massage?"
Summer turned her head, smiling. "Yeah, me too. Kinda nervous, but, relaxing. How's your summer been, Heather? Amy says you've been busy."
Small talk evolved: college life (Summer's volleyball team drama), favorites (John mixing his indie rock playlists with Heather's classic jazz, movies like his sci-fi faves blended with her rom-coms). "I love those mind-bendy films," he shared. "Like, ones that twist reality."
Depth crept in: dreams, fears. Then, intimacy. "Speaking of twists," Summer ventured shyly, "have you ever, experimented? With, um, relationships?"
John's heart raced-Heather's bi-curiosity surfacing in memories. "Honestly? Yes. I've always been curious about women. Experimented in college-a few flings. It's, liberating." True for her body. And hot to admit.
Summer's eyes lit up, ecstatic. Heather? Into women? Experimented? Oh my God. Internally: This could be my chance. Make a move later?
They delved deeper-Summer confessing, "I'm curious too. About my sexuality. Not sure yet, but, girls intrigue me. Not tell Amy or Mom, okay? Secret."
"I promise," John replied, mind whirling with ideas. She's a closet lesbian? Perfect. Crazy plans brewing-could I, with her? As Heather?
Topics shifted, landing on porn anecdotes for laughs. "Weirdest kink?" Summer teased.
John feigned shyness. "Oh, God, okay, MILF stuff, mom/son or mom/daughter roleplay. And, gender transformation, body swaps. Some TG/trans stuff. Plausible for me, right?" My actual kinks. Living one now.
Summer's intrigue peaked-surprised, aroused. Body swaps? Hot. I could listen to her forever. "Tell me more sometime?"
Massages ended, leading to dinner at the resort's seaside restaurant: candlelit tables, fresh seafood, wine flowing. Gossip flew-day's highlights, spa tales. Amy probed: "So, who caught your eye today? Hot guys around?"
Jessica grinned. "That lifeguard-tall, tanned. Yum." But John and Summer blushed, stammering vague answers, eyes meeting across the table with shared heat.
Back in his suite, John unwound, reflecting. Unbelievable. Staring at Summer all day, sharing secrets. She's into girls-maybe me. Even if not as John, worth it? He pondered his kinks: Living a body swap fantasy. Porn come to life.
Chapter 6: Summer Makes Her Move
The resort's restaurant lingered in Summer's mind like a hazy afterglow as she slipped back into her suite, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality. The room was a mirror of Heather's-ocean views framed by gauzy curtains, the bed inviting with its turned-down sheets, and the faint hum of waves crashing outside like a lullaby. But sleep was the last thing on her mind. Dinner had been electric: the way Heather's eyes had met hers across the table, that shared blush when Amy teased about crushes, the wine loosening tongues and inhibitions. Heather, into women? Experimented? And those kinks-body swaps, MILF roleplay. God, it's like she read my fantasies. Summer's skin tingled with the memory, a warmth spreading from her chest downward as she kicked off her sandals and padded to the mirror.
She stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, her red bikini swapped earlier for a simple tank top and shorts that clung to her damp skin from the evening humidity. Look at you, she thought, inner monologue swirling with a mix of nerves and desire. Twenty years old, closet lesbian, crushing on your best friend's mom. Pathetic? Or, bold? Her hands moved almost of their own accord, slipping under the hem of her tank top to lift it slowly over her head. Blonde waves tumbled free, framing her face as she tossed the top aside. Her E-cup breasts bounced gently, freed from confinement, nipples already hardening in the cool air-conditioned room. She cupped them, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks, a soft sigh escaping her lips. So full, so sensitive. Imagine her hands on them-Heather's. Mature, knowing touch.
The shorts came next, shimmying down her long legs to reveal lacy panties that matched her earlier bikini-red and sheer, hinting at the neatly trimmed blonde patch beneath. She turned, admiring her reflection: taller frame lean and athletic from volleyball, ass firm and rounded, thighs toned from endless practices. I'm hot. She noticed me today-ogling at the pool, in the changing room. Those eyes on my body, Arousal built like a tide, her pussy aching with need. She slipped a hand into her panties, fingers finding her clit-swollen and slick already. Circling slowly, she moaned softly, imagining Heather's voice from the massage: I've experimented, curious about women. "Fuck," Summer whispered, her free hand pinching a nipple. What if I went to her room right now? Knocked, told her I can't stop thinking about her. Experimented, with me.
The fantasy spiraled: Heather pulling her inside, lips crashing, hands exploring. She's bi-curious. Shared those secrets. This could happen. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding into her wet folds, pumping gently as her knees weakened. Mentor me, like in those porn vids-the mom teaching the daughter. God, yes. Orgasm hovered close, but she stopped, breathing ragged. No. Not alone. Go to her. Now. Panties off, she grabbed a silk robe from the closet-thin and short, tying it loosely so it gaped at the front, hinting at her nudity beneath. Heart pounding, she slipped out into the dimly lit hallway, bare feet silent on the carpet, making her way to Heather's door. This is crazy. But if she turns me away, at least I tried. She knocked softly, pulse racing.
---
Back in Heather's suite, John paced the room, the nightgown whispering against his skin like a lover's promise. The silk fabric clung to his curves, nipples visible through the thin material, a constant reminder of his borrowed body. Dinner replayed in his mind: the gossip, the laughter, Summer's blush mirroring his own. She shared she's curious. About girls. And I-Heather-admitted to experimenting. Fuck, the ideas in my head, could I seduce her? As Mom? Taboo as hell, but, hot. He ran a hand through his brunette waves, arousal simmering from the day's sights-Summer's body, wet and glistening, her secret glances. Living my kink. Body swap porn come true. If only I could-
A knock shattered the silence. John's heart-or Heather's-leaped into his throat. Who the hell? At this hour? Peeking through the peephole, his breath caught: Summer, in a robe that barely contained her, blonde hair tousled, eyes wide with nervous determination. Oh shit. It's her. What does she want? Internally freaking: Calm down. Play it cool. But, what if this is it? He smoothed the nightgown, took a deep breath, and opened the door. "Summer? Is everything okay?"
She didn't answer with words. Stepping inside, she pushed the door shut behind her, locked it with a click, and surged forward. Her hands cupped Heather's face-John's face-and she kissed him fiercely, lips soft and urgent, tongue seeking entry. John gasped into the kiss, body responding instinctively: arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. The robe gaped, her naked breasts pressing against the nightgown, heat radiating through the fabric. Holy fuck, she's kissing me. Naked under there? This is happening. They stumbled backward, Summer guiding him toward the bed, her taller frame dominant yet gentle.
Breaking the kiss, Summer's blue eyes locked onto his, cheeks flushed. "Heather, I can't get you out of my head. All day-the pool, the changing room, the massage. You were staring. Ogling me. And what you said, about being curious, experimenting. It lit something in me."
John's mind reeled, but Heather's charisma surged: "Summer, honey, I noticed you too. Blushing, glancing back. You're beautiful. Irresistible." This is insane. My crush, making the move on me-as her. His pussy throbbed, wet and aching.
Summer's hands roamed, slipping under the nightgown to caress his hips. "I, I've never done this. With a woman. But I want to. With you." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Remember your kinks? The roleplay stuff? I have a favorite porn vid, the mom mentoring her daughter, teaching her about sex. Gentle at first, then, passionate. Will you? Roleplay that for me? Be the mom, show me?"
John's arousal spiked-One of my favorites too. The taboo mentor scene. He nodded, letting go, autopilot kicking in. Heather's sultriness blended with his knowledge, reciting lines perfectly. "Oh, sweetie," he purred in Heather's voice, seductive and maternal, "come here. Mommy's going to teach you everything. Make you feel so good." He pushed Summer gently onto the bed, climbing atop her, nightgown hiking up to reveal his thighs.
Summer moaned, robe falling open completely, exposing her nude body-breasts heaving, pussy glistening. John fondled her with grace: hands tracing her sides, cupping her E-cups softly, thumbs rolling nipples with deliberate, experienced touches. "Like this, baby? Feel how sensitive they are?" Summer arched, gasping. "Yes, Heather-Mommy-more."
But John switched to a male touch-his old instincts-groping harder, massaging her breasts roughly, pinching just enough to elicit a yelp. Summer's eyes widened. "That's, different. Rougher. Like a guy would."
He caught himself, switching back to Heather's graceful strokes, fingers trailing down her stomach. "Sorry, sweetie. Got carried away. Let Mommy show you properly." Lower now, he spread her legs, face inches from her pussy-pink and wet, scent musky and inviting. Diving in like a horny teenager-his true self-tongue lapping eagerly, sloppy and enthusiastic, sucking her clit with fervor. "Taste so good," he mumbled against her folds.
Summer writhed, hands in his hair. "Oh God, that's intense. Like a teen boy eating me out for the first time." She noticed the shift, but moaned louder. "Don't stop-switch back if you want. It's hot."
John obliged, alternating: graceful licks with Heather's precision, then teen-like enthusiasm-fingers plunging in, curling to hit her G-spot. Summer bucked, crying out. They kissed passionately next-tongues dancing, tastes mingling, bodies grinding. "Finger me," Summer begged, guiding his hand.
He did, two fingers sliding into her tightness, pumping rhythmically while his thumb worked her clit. "Like this? Feel Mommy filling you?" Summer reciprocated, hand slipping under the nightgown to find his pussy-wet and eager-fingers dipping in, exploring. "You're so wet, Heather. Taste yourself?" They ate each other out in turns: John on his back, Summer's face buried between his legs, tongue flicking his clit expertly now, drawing moans that echoed Heather's voice. "Yes, right there, baby. Lick Mommy's pussy."
Climax built, leading to scissoring: legs intertwined, pussies grinding. First position-side by side, hips rocking, clits rubbing in slick friction. "Fuck, yes," Summer gasped, breasts bouncing. They switched: Summer on top, dominant, grinding down hard; then John atop, using Heather's hips to maximize contact, juices mixing. Multiple positions-facing each other, backs arched; one on her back, the other straddling backward for deeper pressure. Orgasms crashed simultaneously: bodies shuddering, moans filling the room, waves of pleasure rippling through them.
Exhausted, they collapsed, embracing-Summer's head on Heather's chest, legs tangled, breaths syncing. "That was, incredible," Summer whispered, kissing his neck. "Thank you."
John held her, mind blissed: My dream. Intimate with Summer. Inside and out. They drifted to sleep, bodies entwined.
Morning light filtered in early, Summer stirring first. She slipped from the bed quietly, robe on, glancing back at the sleeping form. Can't get caught. But, wow. More later? She snuck out, door clicking softly.
John woke moments later, alone, sheets tangled and scented with sex. Was that, a dream? Felt so real. But the ache between his legs, the lingering taste on his lips-No. It happened. He rolled over, wondering if it was all a massive lucid fantasy, heart racing with confusion and lingering ecstasy.
Chapter 7: Back to Reality?
John's eyelids fluttered open to the familiar sight of his bedroom ceiling, the posters of video game characters and bands staring back at him like old friends. Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn blinds, casting striped patterns across his rumpled sheets. He groaned, shifting under the covers, immediately aware of the insistent throb between his legs-morning wood, tenting his boxers, and a sticky wetness that suggested a wet dream had spilled over into reality. What the hell was that? he thought, fragments of the night flashing like a fevered montage: Summer's body writhing against his-Heather's-scissoring in ecstasy, moans echoing in a spa suite. It felt so real. Too real. But, a dream? Yeah, must be. The most intense wet dream ever. Disappointment washed over him like a cold shower, his cock twitching one last time at the memory before he willed it down. Gone. All of it-the body swap, the explorations, Summer. Just my horny brain playing tricks.
He swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the cool hardwood floor of his room-a teenage mess of discarded clothes, gaming controllers, and empty soda cans. The house felt eerily quiet, no clatter from the kitchen or Amy's music blasting from her room. Weird. Usually Mom's up making breakfast. He stripped off his sticky boxers, tossing them into the hamper, and grabbed a fresh pair from his drawer along with jeans and a t-shirt. A quick cleanup in his attached bathroom-splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth-did little to shake the lingering haze. That dream, possessing Mom's body, fucking Summer as her. Taboo as hell. Hot, though. Wish it wasn't just a subconscious jerk-off session.
Dressed now, he headed downstairs, the stairs creaking under his weight. The kitchen was empty, no coffee brewing, no note on the counter. "Mom? Amy?" he called out, voice echoing in the silence. A glance at the clock-9 AM on a Sunday-confirmed they should be home. Where is everyone? Did they go out early? His stomach rumbled, but before he could raid the fridge, a car horn blared outside, sharp and insistent.
Curiosity piqued, John peered through the front window. There, in the driveway, was Heather's SUV, doors open as four women unloaded bags: Heather, Jessica, Amy, and Summer. The spa trip. They must've just gotten back. But something felt off-Heather looked radiant, her brunette hair windswept, wearing that sexy sun dress from the dream, hugging her curves. Jessica, ever the MILF, laughed with Amy as they hauled luggage, her blonde locks catching the light. Summer, oh, Summer. She stood a bit apart, slinging a duffel over her shoulder, but her eyes were locked on Heather, scanning her up and down with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Is she, ogling Mom? Like, checking her out? Nah, can't be. John's mind spun, the dream's echoes making everything feel surreal.
The group spotted him in the window, waving him out. John stepped onto the porch, the warm Texas air hitting him like a wave. Heather was first to approach, arms open wide. "John, sweetie! There you are." She pulled him into a tight hug, her body pressing against his-soft breasts against his chest, the faint scent of jasmine shampoo and something muskier, like sex and sweat. He hugged back awkwardly, hyper-aware of how good she felt, the dream's intimacies flashing unbidden.
Pulling back, Heather's warm brown eyes met his, a playful sparkle in them that wasn't quite, her. "So, what did you get up to while we were gone? Play any good games?" She tilted her head, smiling. "That Elden Ring you mentioned-is it still as interesting as you said? The fire giant boss sounds brutal."
John froze, his brain short-circuiting. What? Mom knows about Elden Ring? The fire giant? I never told her that. He'd rambled about it to friends, sure, but Heather? She barely knew Mario from Minecraft. "Uh, yeah, it's cool. Beat it finally." His voice came out strained, confusion mounting.
Heather winked-actually winked-at him, leaning in closer so her breath tickled his ear. "Good boy. We should chat later about some, RPGs and scenarios we could try out. When we have more privacy." Her hand lingered on his arm, a subtle squeeze that sent a jolt straight to his groin. RPGs? Scenarios? Like roleplay? What the fuck is going on? Is she, flirting? With me? Her son? His mind reeled, the dream's body swap theory suddenly not so dreamlike. No way. Did it actually happen? Was I really in her body? And she, in mine?
He stammered a response-"Sure, Mom, sounds fun?"-but recovered enough to glance at the others. Jessica and Amy were busy with bags, chatting animatedly about the spa's hot tubs. Summer, though, waved from afar, her taller frame stunning in shorts and a crop top that showcased her E-cup bust and toned midriff. "Bye, John! Catch you later?" she called, blowing him a kiss with a wink. Then, when Jessica and Amy turned away, she mouthed "Thank you," her lips forming the words clearly, followed by a scissoring motion with her fingers-index and middle crossing like grinding legs.
John's jaw dropped, heat flooding his face-and his pants. Scissoring? Like, what we did in the dream? Thank you? For what? Confusion crashed over him like a tidal wave. This can't be coincidence. It happened. The swap was real. And Summer, she knows? Or thinks it was Mom? Fuck, I need answers. He waved back weakly, hoping to grill Heather later for insights.
The goodbyes wrapped up quickly-Jessica and Summer heading next door, Amy disappearing inside with her bags. Heather shot John one last knowing smile before following Amy, leaving him on the porch, mind spinning like a glitchy game.
Later that day, the living room hummed with normalcy-or what passed for it. John lounged on the couch, controller in hand but game paused, his thoughts a whirlwind. Amy sprawled nearby, scrolling her phone, while Heather sat in the armchair, flipping through a magazine but stealing glances at him. She's different. More, aware? Flirty? If the swap happened, does she remember? Did she experience my body while I was in hers? The taboo implications made his cock stir uncomfortably-imagining Heather in his teenage form, maybe even jerking off, exploring.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him. An unknown number, but the message preview showed a link and a heart emoji. He pulled it out, opening the text: "Hey John, it's Summer. Hope you enjoy these pics from the trip ;) Maybe we can meet up later to explore and have some 'fun'? as she was curious about meeting the real John," Attached was a link to a private photo album.
Summer? Texting me? With a winky face? Heart pounding, he clicked the link, the album loading in his browser. First, innocent group shots: the four women in sexy outfits at the spa-Heather in that white bikini, cleavage enhanced; Summer frolicking in the pool, water glistening on her curves; Jessica posing like a model; Amy laughing in her swimsuit. Selfies galore, all playful and hot.
But scrolling deeper, the tone shifted. Sexy solos: Summer in her robe, parted to show a nipple; Heather-Mom-in the nightgown, hand cupping her breast suggestively. Then nudes: Summer sprawled on the bed, legs spread, fingers teasing her pussy; Heather mirroring, her modest breasts bared, fingers dipped into her slit. And the foreplay shots-oh God-the two together: kissing passionately, Summer's larger tits mashed against Heather's; fingers intertwined in each other's pussies; scissoring positions, bodies grinding, faces contorted in pleasure. Explicit, unfiltered-cum-slicked thighs, moaning expressions captured in selfies.
John nearly dropped his phone, his cock instantly hard, straining against his jeans. This is, from last night. The 'dream.' But real. They did this. Summer and, Mom? Or me in Mom's body? And she's sending it to me? The message's words echoed: Curious about the real John. Did she know? Suspect the swap?
Amy glanced over. "You okay, bro? Look like you saw a ghost."
"Yeah, fine," he muttered, shoving the phone into his pants-right over his bulge, the vibration from another buzz making him twitch. Confront Mom? Text Summer back? What the hell is going on? But beneath the confusion, gratitude bloomed. Whoever-whatever-made this happen, thank you. He rejoined the conversation with a dazed smile, intrigued and aroused, the album's secrets burning in his pocket like a promise of more taboo adventures to come.
Epilogue: Revelations and Resolutions
The weeks following the spa trip blurred into a haze of normalcy laced with undercurrents of the extraordinary, like a dream that refused to fully dissipate. Willow Creek simmered under the relentless Texas sun, barbecues and pool parties filling the air with laughter and the scent of grilled burgers, but for John, every glance at Heather or text from Summer carried the weight of unspoken secrets. The photo album burned a hole in his phone's hidden folder-explicit reminders of a night he both cherished and questioned. Was it really me in her body? Or did some cosmic force just, make it happen? And Mom-why does she act like she knows more than she's letting on? He'd caught her staring at him during family dinners, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, her usual modest demeanor laced with a playful edge that mirrored his own geeky humor.
It all came to a head one humid evening, about two weeks after the trip. Amy had gone out with friends for a movie night, leaving the house quiet except for the hum of the AC and the distant chirp of crickets. John found Heather in the living room, lounging on the couch in a simple tank top and shorts that hugged her fit figure, her brunette hair loose and tousled. She was scrolling through her phone, but set it aside when he entered, her warm brown eyes lighting up with that new, intriguing sparkle. "Hey, sweetie. Come sit. We haven't had a real chat since the trip."
John's heart pounded as he sank into the armchair across from her, his mind racing. Now or never. Confront her. Figure out what the hell happened. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Mom, about that wink the day you got back. And asking about my games. You never cared about that stuff before. What's going on?"
Heather's expression softened, but there was a flush to her cheeks, a mix of guilt and something, excited? She leaned forward, her modest B-cup breasts shifting under the tank top, drawing his eye involuntarily-a taboo flicker he shoved down. "John, honey, I need to confess something. That night before the trip, when you, well, I heard you in your room. Wishing aloud about Summer. It was late, and I was passing by to check on you. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but, it stirred something in me."
John's face burned, embarrassment mingling with shock. She heard me jerking off? Wishing to get closer to Summer? "Mom, I-"
She held up a hand, her voice steady but laced with vulnerability. "Let me finish. I've always felt responsible for you, especially after your dad. And hearing that wish, it unlocked memories of my own wilder days. College experiments, curiosities I buried. But that night, something shifted. Like a, spark. The next morning, I woke up feeling different. More alive. And during the trip," She trailed off, biting her lip, her eyes darting away as if reliving it. God, what did I do? With Summer-my daughter's best friend. It felt so right, so intense. But was it me? Or something else?
"What about the trip?" John pressed, leaning in, his pulse racing. She thinks she did it. With Summer. But it was me-in her body.
Heather sighed, running a hand through her hair-a gesture so like his own nervous tic that it sent a chill down his spine. "Summer and I, we got close. Intimate. She came to my room that night, and I, I went with it. Roleplayed, explored. It was like I was channeling something younger, hornier. Like parts of you, maybe? Your energy?" She laughed softly, but it was tinged with self-doubt. "I feel responsible. For crossing lines with her. She's Amy's friend, and I'm, well, me. But it happened, and now I can't stop thinking about it. The thrill, the taboo."
John's mind whirled. She wasn't in my body. No swap for her. But she felt it-my influence? My personality bleeding through? Internally, relief and arousal battled: So it was me, fully. But she thinks it was her own will. And now she's, changed? Showing my traits? "Mom, that's, intense. But why the game talk? The winks?"
She smiled, a playful glint in her eye that was unmistakably his own geeky charm. "Since that night, I've felt more, adventurous. Like I've got this new side. Your side? I've even looked up some of those videos you might like. Body swap stuff, gender transformations. Kinky, right?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, laced with a seductive lilt he'd heard in her body. "What if we roleplayed one? Just us. I could be the son, you the mom-or swap it. Explore those scenarios. It'd be our secret. Fun, taboo, intimate."
John's cock stirred at the suggestion, the taboo heat of it overwhelming. Mom wants to roleplay a body swap? With me? Fuck, that's my kink. But she's my step-mom, He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I, yeah. Maybe. We can talk about it."
Heather's eyes sparkled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Good. I love you, John. And I'm sorry if I overstepped with Summer. But it felt, right." She pulled back, the moment heavy with unspoken possibilities, leaving John dazed as she headed upstairs. She's got my personality now. Wants to play out my fantasies. This summer's just getting weirder-and hotter.
As the days stretched into the final week of summer break, the neighborhood buzzed with back-to-school prep, but John's focus narrowed to Summer. Texts had flown between them-flirty at first, then explicit: shared memories of the album pics, teasing promises of "meeting the real John." She knows something. That 'thank you' and scissor motion-it's like she suspects I was involved. Amy headed back to college early for orientation, and Heather busied herself with work, leaving John with pockets of freedom. The climax came on a sultry Friday evening, a text from Summer lighting up his phone: "Meet me at the old park trailhead. 8 PM. Alone. Got something to show you, and do to you. ;)"
The park was a secluded spot on the edge of town-winding trails through woods, a hidden clearing by a creek where teens snuck off for privacy. John arrived as the sun dipped low, fireflies flickering in the dusk, his nerves electric. Summer waited on a picnic blanket, looking ethereal in a short sundress that hugged her taller frame, her blonde waves glowing in the fading light, E-cup breasts straining the fabric. "John," she purred, standing to hug him-bodies pressing close, her curves against his lean form. "Finally. The real you."
They sat, the air thick with tension, a bottle of wine between them. "Summer, those pics. The trip. What happened with, Mom?" He hesitated, probing.
She smiled mysteriously, sipping wine. "Oh, I know, John. You were responsible. Somehow. That night with Heather-it was you in there, wasn't it? Your energy, your kinks spilling out. The way she switched touches, knew my favorite scenes, it was too perfect. Too you." She leaned in, her hand on his thigh. "Don't ask how I know. A girl's got her secrets. But thank you. It opened my eyes. Made me want the original."
John's breath hitched, arousal surging. She knows. Doesn't care how. Wants me. "Summer, I-"
"Shh." She kissed him, soft at first, then hungry-tongues dancing, her larger body pressing him back onto the blanket. Hands roamed: hers under his shirt, nails raking his chest; his cupping her ass, squeezing the firm cheeks. "I've wanted this since that hug when I got home. But now, after tasting a piece of you, I need the full thing."
She pushed him flat, unzipping his jeans with deft fingers, freeing his hardening cock-thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum. "Look at you. Real boy parts." She licked her lips, blue eyes locked on his as she lowered her head. Her mouth enveloped him-warm, wet, tongue swirling the head, sucking gently at first, then deeper. John groaned, hands in her blonde hair, as she bobbed-taking him halfway, then all, throat relaxing around him. Fuck, her mouth, so skilled. Bigger tits bouncing as she sucks. She hummed, vibrations sending shocks through him, one hand stroking the base while the other fondled his balls.
"Summer, God, yes," he moaned, hips bucking lightly. She popped off briefly, grinning. "Taste different. Saltier. Love it." Back down, faster now-sloppy, saliva dripping, her free hand slipping under her dress to rub her pussy. The sight pushed him close, but she sensed it, pulling off with a wet pop. "Not yet. Want you inside me first."
She straddled him, dress hiked up-no panties, her wet pussy hovering over his cock. "Condom?" he gasped.
"On the pill. Clean. You?" He nodded, and she sank down-tight, hot walls gripping him inch by inch, her E-cups bouncing as she rode. "Fuck, John, feels so good. Different from scissoring, but, perfect." She ground her hips, clit rubbing against his base, moans filling the clearing. John thrust up, hands on her breasts-squeezing, pinching nipples-then flipped her onto her back, pounding deeper. Positions shifted: missionary, her legs over his shoulders for depth; doggy, ass jiggling as he slapped it lightly; cowgirl again, her taller body dominating.
Orgasms built-hers first, pussy clenching around him, crying out as she came. He followed, pulling out to cum on her stomach-hot ropes painting her skin. Breathless, they collapsed, laughing softly. "The real John's even better," she whispered, kissing him. "More this summer? And beyond?"
"Absolutely," he replied, the gender-bending whirlwind of the break culminating in this raw, real connection. As stars emerged overhead, John thanked whatever force had twisted his wish into this taboo, erotic reality-closer to Summer than ever, inside and out.
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A curse. Two souls. One fatal touch. Shortly before his wedding, Ethan learns of the legend of a cursed brooch – and becomes its next victim. He swaps bodies with Margarete, his wife's mother's friend, and realises that the gift of slipping into other people's skin is not a coincidence, but a test. The ceremony is only the beginning of an adventure that will lead Ethan through the lives and secrets of strangers. His goal: to regain his own identity before he loses himself in the lives of others.
I woke up to the smell of lavender and old books, which was the first wrong thing.
My alarm should have been the sharp ping of my phonesome upbeat synth track I’d set to “motivational asshole mode.” Instead there was silence, thick hotel-room silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a wall clock I didn’t remember owning. My body felt… heavy. Not gym-sore heavy. Not even post-night-out heavy. It felt like someone had poured concrete into my joints and then politely asked them to creak.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was wrong. Too high, too ornate, crown molding that belonged in a period drama. The bed was wrong toosoft in that way old mattresses are soft, like they’ve given up fighting gravity decades ago. I tried to sit up and my back immediately lodged a formal complaint. A dull ache bloomed behind my knees. My handswhen I lifted them to rub my facewere not mine.
They were smaller. Knotted at the knuckles. Liver spots scattered like spilled coffee across the backs. Thin gold wedding band on the left ring finger, worn smooth from years. Nails short, unpainted, practical.
I stared at them for what felt like ten full seconds.
Then I screamed.
It came out wrong. Higher, raspier, an older woman’s startled yelp instead of my usual baritone bark. I clapped a hand over my mouthmy new, unfamiliar mouthand tasted lipstick. Not gloss. Actual matte lipstick, the kind that feels like wax and smells faintly of roses.
I scrambled out of bed (or tried to; the knees locked halfway and I nearly face-planted into a floral rug). There was a full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway.
Margaret stared back at me.
Not some random old lady. Margaret. The Margaret. Sophie’s family friend, the retired principal who once told mein front of twenty people at the engagement partythat “youth is wasted on the young and charm is wasted on the cocky.” Gray hair pulled into a neat chignon. Wire-rimmed glasses hanging from a chain around myherneck. A silk dressing gown the color of weak tea. And behind the glasses, my own wide, panicked eyes.
I whispered, “No. No no no no.”
The voice was hers. Dry, precise, faintly British even though she was born in Ohio. I hated how authoritative it sounded even when I was the one panicking.
Phone. I needed my phone.
I lurched across the roomevery step a negotiation with joints that had apparently unionized against meand found a small clutch purse on the dresser. Inside: reading glasses, tissues, a tin of mints, a hotel keycard, andthank Godmy phone. Except it wasn’t my phone. It was hers. An iPhone 8, cracked screen protector, wallpaper of a black-and-white photo of two kids who were probably her grandchildren.
I tried Face ID anyway. It didn’t work. Obviously.
Passcode. I typed my birthday.
Nothing.
Her birthday? I had no idea.
I typed 01011958 on a guess (she’d once said she was “born the year they launched Sputnik, which explains my lifelong suspicion of bright ideas”). The phone unlocked.
First thing I did: opened the camera and switched to selfie mode.
Yeah. Still Margaret.
Second thing: checked the time. 7:42 a.m. Wedding was at 4:00 p.m. Rehearsal brunch at 10:00. Sophie was probably already in the bridal suite getting her hair done, surrounded by bridesmaids and mimosas and that calming playlist she loved.
I could text her. I could call her. I could say, “Babe, something insane happened, I’m in Margaret’s body, please don’t freak out.”
And then what?
She’d think I was drunk. Or high. Or having a psychotic break forty-eight hours before our wedding. She’d call my brother. She’d call her mom. Within twenty minutes the entire wedding party would know the groom was claiming to be trapped in a sixty-seven-year-old woman’s body. The photos would leak. TwitterXwould have a field day. “Tech bro groom swaps souls with grandma, more at 11.”
No. No way.
I wasn’t telling anyone. Not Sophie. Not James. Not even Clara, who’d probably believe me and then try to livestream it.
I had to fix this quietly. Find the broochMargaret’s stupid cursed brooch that I’d laughed at last night when she’d pinned it to her lapel and muttered something about “family nonsense.” I’d touched it. I remembered touching it when I helped her with her coat. That had to be it.
I rummaged through the purse again. No brooch. Checked the nightstand, the dresser drawers, under the bed like an idiot. Nothing.
The ceremony was in eight hours. I had to get through the morning looking like Margaret, sounding like Margaret, acting like Margaret, while Margaretsomewhere in my bodywas probably waking up in the groom’s suite wondering why she suddenly had abs and could see without glasses.
I caught my reflection again. Margaret’s stern mouth was currently twisted into something like horror.
“Okay,” I said aloud in her voice. “You built a thirty-million-dollar valuation from a dorm room. You can handle one wedding in heels.”
I opened the wardrobe.
Dresses. Cardigans. Low block heels that looked like they’d been designed by someone who hated fun.
I picked the least offensive outfita navy dress with sensible sleevesand started the longest morning of my life.
First problem: pantyhose.
Second problem: I had no idea how to walk in any of these shoes without looking like a newborn giraffe.
Third problem: in about two hours I had to sit at a table with Sophie’s entire family, smile politely, and pretend I was a retired school principal who approved of their daughter marrying me.
I took a deep breath that hurt my ribs in a brand-new way.
Then I squared Margaret’s narrow shoulders, put on her glasses, and opened the hotel-room door.
Showtime.
I stepped into the hallway, Margaret's sensible flats squeaking faintly on the carpet like they were judging me with every step. The hotel was buzzing alreadymaids pushing carts, distant laughter from the lobby, the faint clink of breakfast trays. My heartor rather, her heartwas pounding in a way that felt foreign, slower but insistent, like an old engine revving up after years in storage.
First stop: the groom's suite. My suite. Where Margaret was probably freaking out in my body right now. I needed to confront her, figure out how to reverse this, and swear her to secrecy. But walking down that hall felt like a marathon. These knees weren't built for speed; every stride sent a twinge up my thighs, and I had to fight the urge to hunch forward like she always did.
A door opened ahead, and out stepped one of the groomsmenwait, no, it was the hotel concierge, a young guy in a crisp uniform. He smiled politely. "Good morning, ma'am. Can I help you with anything?"
Ma'am. God, that stung. I forced Margaret's lips into what I hoped was her signature no-nonsense smile. "No, thank you. Just heading tofamily matters."
He nodded and moved on, but not before his eyes flicked downsubtly, professionallyto my chest. Or her chest. I felt a flush creep up my neck. These breasts were substantial, heavy in a way I'd never experienced, shifting slightly under the dress with each step. It was distracting, almost sensual, the fabric brushing against skin that felt hypersensitive. I shook it off. Focus, Ethan.
By the time I reached my suite door, I was sweating. Knocked twice, sharp and principal-like. No answer. I tried the handlelocked. Shit. My keycard was probably in my real pants pocket, wherever that body was now.
"Open up," I hissed in her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "It's me. Ethan."
The door cracked open after a beat, and there I wasmy own face staring back at me, wide-eyed and pale. Except it wasn't me. It was Margaret in my skin, her expression a mix of terror and something else. Exhilaration? She yanked me inside and slammed the door.
"What in God's name" she started in my voice, deep and resonant, but with her clipped cadence. It was weird hearing my baritone sound so proper.
"Shh!" I cut her off, pushing past into the room. My room looked the same: tux hanging on the closet door, my phone charging on the nightstand, a half-empty protein shake from last night. But seeing it from this height, this angle, made everything feel off-kilter.
Margaretin my bodypaced, running my hands through my hair in a way that'd mess up the style I'd planned. "This is the brooch. I told you it was cursed! My great-aunt swore it swapped her with a cousin on her wedding day in '32. We need to find it and"
"I know," I snapped, her voice cracking a bit. "I touched it last night. But we can't tell anyone. Not Sophie, not anyone. We'll fix this before the ceremony."
She stopped pacing, turning to face me. My own eyes raked over her bodymy body now occupied by her. It was surreal, like looking in a funhouse mirror. And then something shifted. She adjusted my stance, squaring my shoulders, and I noticed how my athletic build filled out the robe she must've thrown on. Broad chest, the faint outline of abs under the fabric. I'd always been proud of that body, but seeing it from the outside, controlled by someone else it stirred something unexpected. A heat low in my bellyher bellythat I wasn't prepared for.
"Why are you staring?" she demanded, but there was a flush on my cheeks now. Her in there.
"I nothing." I averted my eyes, but they landed on the mirror across the room. There we were: an older woman and a young man, standing too close in a hotel room. The contrast was electric. Her mind in my prime physique, my energy trapped in her seasoned form. I felt a forbidden curiosity bubble up. What did this body feel like, really? Not just the achesthe pleasures?
She seemed to sense it too. Stepped closer, towering over me now in a way that made my pulse quicken. "Ethan, this is serious. But good Lord, your body. It's like being plugged into a live wire. Everything's so responsive." Her voicemy voicedropped lower, and I saw her glance down at herself, adjusting the robe where it tented slightly. Was that arousal? In my body?
I swallowed hard, Margaret's throat dry. "Yeah, well, yours isn't exactly a slouch. It's sensitive. In ways I didn't expect." My hand, almost without thinking, brushed against the side of her hipmy hip now. The skin there was softer, warmer than I'd imagined. A shiver ran through me, electric, pooling between my legs in a unfamiliar, building ache. Women's bodies, I realized with a jolt, didn't ramp up the same way it was slower, deeper, like a wave gathering.
She inhaled sharply at the touch, my eyes darkening. "We shouldn't This is madness." But she didn't pull away. Instead, her handmy strong, callused hand from rock climbingreached out and cupped my cheek, thumb tracing Margaret's jawline. The contact was intimate, charged. I leaned into it, feeling the roughness against smooth skin, and suddenly we were kissing.
It was clumsy at firstme in her body, her in mine, lips meeting in a rush of confusion and heat. My mouth was softer, more yielding; hers firmer, insistent. I tasted my own aftershave on her tongue, mixed with her surprise. Hands roamed: mine exploring the hard planes of my chest under the robe, hers sliding down to grip Margaret's waist, pulling me closer. The friction of fabric against skin sent sparks through me, her nipplesmy nipples nowtightening under the dress.
We broke apart, breathing hard. "This is wrong," I gasped in her voice, but my body betrayed me, thighs pressing together instinctively, seeking more pressure.
"Utterly," she agreed in mine, but her grin was wicked, eyes gleaming with that secret delight she'd mentioned. "But educational. Your stamina, Ethanit's intoxicating." She flexed my arms, and I felt a rush watching the muscles shift.
We didn't go furthernot then. Time was ticking, and the brunch loomed. But the air hummed with possibility, a secret shared in swapped flesh. I straightened her dressmy dressand she helped me fix the chignon, fingers lingering a second too long on my neck.
"Find the brooch," I said firmly, stepping back. "It's probably in your things. I'll play you at brunch; you play me. Act normal."
She nodded, but as I turned to leave, her voicemy voicecalled softly, "Ethan? This body of yours it wants things. Be careful."
I shivered again, that erotic undercurrent lingering as I slipped back into the hall. The wedding was hours away, and now, on top of everything, I had to navigate Margaret's form through a sea of family and friends, all while ignoring the newfound desires humming under her skin.
I slipped out of the groom’s suite with my pulse still hammering in Margaret’s narrower chest, the memory of that kiss burning behind my eyes like a live wire. Her lipsmy lips nowstill tingled from the press of my own mouth, from the rough scrape of stubble that wasn’t there anymore. I could taste the faint salt of my skin on her tongue, could still feel the hard ridge of my erection pressing against her thigh through the robe when we’d broken apart.
Focus, Ethan. Brunch. Family. Act like a retired principal who thinks you’re marrying beneath her.
The elevator ride down was torture. Every sway of the car made Margaret’s breasts shift under the navy dress, the silk lining sliding against nipples that had hardened and stayed that way since the kiss. I crossed my arms under them instinctivelysupport, modesty, whateverand immediately regretted it. The pressure only sharpened the ache, sent a slow, liquid heat curling low in her belly. I’d spent years chasing that kind of build-up in my own body: quick, focused, explosive. This was different. Deeper. Patient. Insistent. Like her body knew exactly how long it could draw the tension out before it snapped.
When the doors opened on the second floor, the private dining room was already alive with chatter and clinking silverware. Sophie’s family, my groomsmen, a few cousins milling around the buffet. And therestanding near the mimosa station in my charcoal suit, looking unfairly goodwas me. Margaret-in-my-body, hair still mussed from my fingers, tie slightly crooked in a way I never allowed. She caught my eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod, the corner of my mouth quirking in that knowing half-smile I usually saved for closing deals.
I forced Margaret’s posture straight, smoothed the dress over hips that felt too wide and too soft, and walked in.
“Margaret, darling!” EleanorSophie’s motherswooped in first, air-kissing both cheeks. “You look positively radiant this morning. Did you do something different with your makeup?”
I blinked behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Just… slept well,” I managed in her crisp tone. “The hotel pillows are divine.”
Eleanor laughed and linked her arm through mine, steering me toward the table. Every step rubbed the lace of Margaret’s underwear against sensitive skin I’d never paid attention to before. The seam pressed right where the heat was gathering, a constant, maddening friction. I bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
Sophie was already seated, radiant in a soft white sundress, hair half-up in loose waves. When she saw “Margaret,” her face lit up.
“Aunt Margaret!” She stood and hugged mecarefully, the way you hug someone fragile. Her perfume wrapped around me, familiar and devastating. “I’m so glad you’re here early. Ethan’s been weirdly quiet this morning. Nerves, I think.”
I hugged her back, Margaret’s arms thinner than I was used to, but the embrace felt achingly real. Sophie’s breasts pressed softly against mine through the thin fabric; I could feel the warmth of her skin, the slight catch of her breath. My bodyher bodyreacted instantly: a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs, thighs that clenched without permission. I pulled back too quickly.
“He’ll be fine,” I said, patting her arm with what I hoped was maternal reassurance. “Men get peculiar before weddings. It passes.”
Sophie laughed, but her eyes searched my faceMargaret’s facea second longer than usual. “You sound so sure.”
Because I am sure, I wanted to say. Because I’m the one who’s going to marry you in eight hours and I’m currently fighting the urge to drag you into the nearest coat closet just to feel your hands on this body that suddenly wants everything.
Instead I smiled Margaret’s tight, polite smile and let Eleanor guide me to a chair.
Across the table, Margaret-in-my-body was watching. Our eyes locked again. She lifted my mimosa glass in a tiny toast, lips curving. Thendeliberatelyshe ran my tongue along the rim of the flute, slow and suggestive, before taking a sip. My stomach flipped. Her in my skin, playing with sensations I knew too well: the cold fizz on the tongue, the subtle stretch of jaw muscles, the way a single swallow could send warmth straight down.
I shifted in the seat. The chair was hard; the pressure against my clitGod, even thinking the word in her voice felt obscenewas almost too much. I pressed my thighs together under the tablecloth and tried to focus on the conversation.
Clara bounded over then, all eleven-year-old energy, clutching her tablet. “Aunt Margaret! Look, I made a TikTok edit of Uncle Ethan’s proposal video with cat filters!”
She shoved the screen in my face. There I wasmy real bodydown on one knee in the park last spring, edited so cartoon ears twitched on my head and whiskers sprouted whenever I smiled at Sophie.
“Very… creative,” I said, voice dry. Clara beamed.
Margaretacross the tableleaned forward. “Clara, sweetheart,” she said in my deeper register, “why don’t you show me how to make one of those later? I could use some modernizing.”
Clara’s eyes went wide. “You? On TikTok?”
“Desperate times,” Margaret replied, and shot me a look that said: We’re going to talk. Soon.
The brunch dragged. Every time Sophie laughed, every time her fingers brushed mine passing the fruit platter, every accidental graze of her knee against Margaret’s under the table sent another pulse of arousal through me. By the time people started drifting toward the elevators for hair and makeup appointments, I was dizzy with itwet, swollen, aching in places I’d never inhabited before. Margaret’s body didn’t rush toward release the way mine did; it simmered, built layer by layer until I felt like I might combust from sheer anticipation.
As the room emptied, Margaret caught my elbowmy arm now, strong fingers wrapping around Margaret’s thinner oneand steered me toward the quiet hallway outside the restrooms.
“Storage closet,” she muttered. “Now.”
I didn’t argue.
The door clicked shut behind us. Dim light from a single bulb. Shelves of extra linens, the faint smell of bleach and lavender.
She pushed megentlyagainst the wall. My back arched; Margaret’s breasts lifted with the motion. She loomed over me in my own body, heat radiating off skin I knew was fever-hot.
“We can’t” I started.
“We already did,” she whispered in my voice, rougher now. “And your body won’t stop thinking about it.”
Her handmy handslid up under the hem of the navy dress, callused fingertips tracing the lace edge of panties already soaked through. I gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Tell me to stop,” she said, eyes locked on mine.
I didn’t.
Instead I reached up, tangled Margaret’s fingers in my own hair, and pulled her down into another kiss. This one was hungrier. Teeth. Tongue. The rough slide of my stubble against her softer skin. Her palm cupped me through the lacefirm, knowing pressure right where I needed itand I moaned into her mouth, the sound high and feminine and utterly foreign.
She rubbed slow circles, learning the rhythm of this body the way I’d learned mine over years. I rocked against her hand, chasing the building wave, thighs trembling.
“Ethan,” she breathed against my earmy ear now“let go. Just this once.”
The orgasm hit like a slow-rolling tide instead of the sharp snap I was used to. It started deep, radiated outward in warm pulses that left me shaking, clinging to her shoulders, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from crying out loud enough for the hallway to hear.
When it finally ebbed, I sagged against her, forehead to her collarbonemy collarbonebreathing hard.
She kissed my temple, soft now. “The brooch,” she murmured. “We still need to find it.”
I nodded, dazed. “After… after the photos. Before the ceremony.”
She helped me straighten the dress, smooth the chignon, wipe smudged lipstick with her thumb. Then she opened the door a crack, checked the hall, and slipped out first.
I waited thirty seconds, heart still thundering, body still humming.
Then I followed.
Eight hours until vows.
And I had no idea how I was going to walk down that aisle pretending I hadn’t just come undone in a storage closetwearing someone else’s skin, craving someone else’s touch, while the woman who used to be me waited in mine.
The photos were next. Outdoor portraits in the hotel garden before the ceremonygolden hour light, everyone in their finery, the kind of shots that would end up framed on mantels and mocked on group chats for decades.
I stood on the lawn in Margaret’s navy dress, sensible flats sinking slightly into the damp grass, trying to look like I belonged among the younger crowd. The photographera cheerful woman named Mara with a camera the size of a small cannonkept repositioning us.
“Margaret, darling, chin up a touch! You’ve got such elegant posture.”
Elegant. Right. I lifted Margaret’s chin, felt the unfamiliar pull of skin that had lost some of its elasticity, and smiled the tight, practiced smile I’d seen her use a hundred times. Across the grouping, Margaret-in-my-body lounged against a stone pillar in the charcoal suit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking effortlessly cool in a way I usually had to work for. She caught my eye and flexed my fingersslow, deliberatethen let her hand drop to rest low on my own hip. A casual gesture to anyone watching. To me, it was a promise.
Sophie was radiant between us, laughing as Clara darted in and out of frame trying to photobomb with peace signs. Every time Sophie turned to me“Aunt Margaret, come stand closer!”and slipped an arm around my waist, the contact sent fresh sparks racing under my skin. Her fingers brushed the small of my back, just above where the dress’s zipper sat, and I had to lock Margaret’s knees to keep from swaying.
The ache from the storage closet hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled in deeper, a low, constant throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeather heartbeat. Every brush of lace against swollen flesh reminded me exactly how wet I still was, how sensitive the folds had become. I pressed my thighs together when no one was looking and nearly whimpered at the pressure.
Mara called for couple shots next. “Bride and groom first, then we’ll add family!”
Sophie tugged me forwardthinking I was Margaret, of courseand positioned me on her other side so the three of us stood together: Sophie in the middle, “Ethan” on her right, “Margaret” on her left. The irony was so thick I could taste it.
“Perfect,” Mara said. “Big smiles!”
Sophie leaned into meinto Margaret’s bodyher cheek brushing mine. Her breath was warm against my ear. “You’ve been so quiet today,” she murmured, just for me. “Everything okay?”
I turned Margaret’s head, met her eyes. So close I could see the flecks of gold in her irises, smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Just… savoring it,” I said in the older woman’s voice. “Watching you two. It’s beautiful.”
Sophie’s smile softened, genuine. “You always know what to say.”
Behind her, Margaret-in-my-body watched us with an expression I couldn’t quite readjealousy? Hunger? Pride? She stepped closer on Sophie’s other side, slid an arm around her waist, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. Sophie melted into it.
And Itrapped in Margaret’s skinfelt a sharp, unexpected twist in my chest. Not just arousal anymore. Something softer. Hotter. The sight of my own body holding the woman I loved, touching her with a gentleness I’d always been too impatient to master… it unraveled me.
The camera clicked. Again. Again.
When Mara finally called a break, Sophie excused herself to touch up lipstick. Clara ran off to chase butterflies with one of the ring bearers. The garden emptied for a moment.
Margaret stepped up behind meclose enough that I could feel the heat rolling off my own body.
“Storage closet again?” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of my earMargaret’s ear.
“No time,” I whispered back, even as my hips shifted backward instinctively, seeking contact. “Photos resume in ten.”
“Then here.” Her handmy handslipped under the hem of the dress again, hidden by the angle of our bodies and the low stone wall at our backs. Fingers found soaked lace, pushed it aside with practiced ease. Two fingers slid inside meslow, deepand I had to clamp a hand over my own mouth to muffle the sound.
She curled them, found that spot I’d never been able to reach properly in this body, and stroked. Steady. Relentless. Her thumb circled my clit at the same time, slick and sure.
I trembled against her, back arched, breasts heaving under the navy silk. The orgasm built faster this timesharperbecause she knew exactly what this body needed now. I came with a choked sob, biting down on my own palm, thighs shaking so hard I nearly buckled.
She held me through it, steady as stone, until the aftershocks faded. Then she withdrew her fingers, brought them to her lipsmy lipsand licked them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of tongue. Watching herself do it was obscene. Intimate. Mine.
“Brooch,” she said quietly, voice rough. “I think it’s in the bridal suite. Sophie mentioned Margaret’s things were brought there this morning for ‘sentimental photos.’”
I nodded, still catching my breath. “After the first look. We’ll slip in.”
She adjusted my dress for me, smoothed a stray lock of gray hair behind my ear. “You’re doing beautifully,” she saidmy voice saying it, but her warmth behind the words. “Stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”
I looked up at herat meand felt something shift again. Not just lust. Respect. Affection. A strange, mirrored tenderness.
The photographer called us back.
We rejoined the group separately, faces composed, bodies humming with shared secrets.
Sophie reappeared, lipstick perfect, eyes bright. She took my handMargaret’s handand squeezed.
“Ready for the aisle?” she asked.
I squeezed back. “More than ever.”
I woke up to the smell of lavender and old books, which was the first wrong thing.
My alarm should have been the sharp ping of my phonesome upbeat synth track I’d set to “motivational asshole mode.” Instead there was silence, thick hotel-room silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a wall clock I didn’t remember owning. My body felt… heavy. Not gym-sore heavy. Not even post-night-out heavy. It felt like someone had poured concrete into my joints and then politely asked them to creak.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was wrong. Too high, too ornate, crown molding that belonged in a period drama. The bed was wrong toosoft in that way old mattresses are soft, like they’ve given up fighting gravity decades ago. I tried to sit up and my back immediately lodged a formal complaint. A dull ache bloomed behind my knees. My handswhen I lifted them to rub my facewere not mine.
They were smaller. Knotted at the knuckles. Liver spots scattered like spilled coffee across the backs. Thin gold wedding band on the left ring finger, worn smooth from years. Nails short, unpainted, practical.
I stared at them for what felt like ten full seconds.
Then I screamed.
It came out wrong. Higher, raspier, an older woman’s startled yelp instead of my usual baritone bark. I clapped a hand over my mouthmy new, unfamiliar mouthand tasted lipstick. Not gloss. Actual matte lipstick, the kind that feels like wax and smells faintly of roses.
I scrambled out of bed (or tried to; the knees locked halfway and I nearly face-planted into a floral rug). There was a full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway.
Margaret stared back at me.
Not some random old lady. Margaret. The Margaret. Sophie’s family friend, the retired principal who once told mein front of twenty people at the engagement partythat “youth is wasted on the young and charm is wasted on the cocky.” Gray hair pulled into a neat chignon. Wire-rimmed glasses hanging from a chain around myherneck. A silk dressing gown the color of weak tea. And behind the glasses, my own wide, panicked eyes.
I whispered, “No. No no no no.”
The voice was hers. Dry, precise, faintly British even though she was born in Ohio. I hated how authoritative it sounded even when I was the one panicking.
Phone. I needed my phone.
I lurched across the roomevery step a negotiation with joints that had apparently unionized against meand found a small clutch purse on the dresser. Inside: reading glasses, tissues, a tin of mints, a hotel keycard, andthank Godmy phone. Except it wasn’t my phone. It was hers. An iPhone 8, cracked screen protector, wallpaper of a black-and-white photo of two kids who were probably her grandchildren.
I tried Face ID anyway. It didn’t work. Obviously.
Passcode. I typed my birthday.
Nothing.
Her birthday? I had no idea.
I typed 01011958 on a guess (she’d once said she was “born the year they launched Sputnik, which explains my lifelong suspicion of bright ideas”). The phone unlocked.
First thing I did: opened the camera and switched to selfie mode.
Yeah. Still Margaret.
Second thing: checked the time. 7:42 a.m. Wedding was at 4:00 p.m. Rehearsal brunch at 10:00. Sophie was probably already in the bridal suite getting her hair done, surrounded by bridesmaids and mimosas and that calming playlist she loved.
I could text her. I could call her. I could say, “Babe, something insane happened, I’m in Margaret’s body, please don’t freak out.”
And then what?
She’d think I was drunk. Or high. Or having a psychotic break forty-eight hours before our wedding. She’d call my brother. She’d call her mom. Within twenty minutes the entire wedding party would know the groom was claiming to be trapped in a sixty-seven-year-old woman’s body. The photos would leak. TwitterXwould have a field day. “Tech bro groom swaps souls with grandma, more at 11.”
No. No way.
I wasn’t telling anyone. Not Sophie. Not James. Not even Clara, who’d probably believe me and then try to livestream it.
I had to fix this quietly. Find the broochMargaret’s stupid cursed brooch that I’d laughed at last night when she’d pinned it to her lapel and muttered something about “family nonsense.” I’d touched it. I remembered touching it when I helped her with her coat. That had to be it.
I rummaged through the purse again. No brooch. Checked the nightstand, the dresser drawers, under the bed like an idiot. Nothing.
The ceremony was in eight hours. I had to get through the morning looking like Margaret, sounding like Margaret, acting like Margaret, while Margaretsomewhere in my bodywas probably waking up in the groom’s suite wondering why she suddenly had abs and could see without glasses.
I caught my reflection again. Margaret’s stern mouth was currently twisted into something like horror.
“Okay,” I said aloud in her voice. “You built a thirty-million-dollar valuation from a dorm room. You can handle one wedding in heels.”
I opened the wardrobe.
Dresses. Cardigans. Low block heels that looked like they’d been designed by someone who hated fun.
I picked the least offensive outfita navy dress with sensible sleevesand started the longest morning of my life.
First problem: pantyhose.
Second problem: I had no idea how to walk in any of these shoes without looking like a newborn giraffe.
Third problem: in about two hours I had to sit at a table with Sophie’s entire family, smile politely, and pretend I was a retired school principal who approved of their daughter marrying me.
I took a deep breath that hurt my ribs in a brand-new way.
Then I squared Margaret’s narrow shoulders, put on her glasses, and opened the hotel-room door.
Showtime.
I stepped into the hallway, Margaret's sensible flats squeaking faintly on the carpet like they were judging me with every step. The hotel was buzzing alreadymaids pushing carts, distant laughter from the lobby, the faint clink of breakfast trays. My heartor rather, her heartwas pounding in a way that felt foreign, slower but insistent, like an old engine revving up after years in storage.
First stop: the groom's suite. My suite. Where Margaret was probably freaking out in my body right now. I needed to confront her, figure out how to reverse this, and swear her to secrecy. But walking down that hall felt like a marathon. These knees weren't built for speed; every stride sent a twinge up my thighs, and I had to fight the urge to hunch forward like she always did.
A door opened ahead, and out stepped one of the groomsmenwait, no, it was the hotel concierge, a young guy in a crisp uniform. He smiled politely. "Good morning, ma'am. Can I help you with anything?"
Ma'am. God, that stung. I forced Margaret's lips into what I hoped was her signature no-nonsense smile. "No, thank you. Just heading tofamily matters."
He nodded and moved on, but not before his eyes flicked downsubtly, professionallyto my chest. Or her chest. I felt a flush creep up my neck. These breasts were substantial, heavy in a way I'd never experienced, shifting slightly under the dress with each step. It was distracting, almost sensual, the fabric brushing against skin that felt hypersensitive. I shook it off. Focus, Ethan.
By the time I reached my suite door, I was sweating. Knocked twice, sharp and principal-like. No answer. I tried the handlelocked. Shit. My keycard was probably in my real pants pocket, wherever that body was now.
"Open up," I hissed in her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "It's me. Ethan."
The door cracked open after a beat, and there I wasmy own face staring back at me, wide-eyed and pale. Except it wasn't me. It was Margaret in my skin, her expression a mix of terror and something else. Exhilaration? She yanked me inside and slammed the door.
"What in God's name" she started in my voice, deep and resonant, but with her clipped cadence. It was weird hearing my baritone sound so proper.
"Shh!" I cut her off, pushing past into the room. My room looked the same: tux hanging on the closet door, my phone charging on the nightstand, a half-empty protein shake from last night. But seeing it from this height, this angle, made everything feel off-kilter.
Margaretin my bodypaced, running my hands through my hair in a way that'd mess up the style I'd planned. "This is the brooch. I told you it was cursed! My great-aunt swore it swapped her with a cousin on her wedding day in '32. We need to find it and"
"I know," I snapped, her voice cracking a bit. "I touched it last night. But we can't tell anyone. Not Sophie, not anyone. We'll fix this before the ceremony."
She stopped pacing, turning to face me. My own eyes raked over her bodymy body now occupied by her. It was surreal, like looking in a funhouse mirror. And then something shifted. She adjusted my stance, squaring my shoulders, and I noticed how my athletic build filled out the robe she must've thrown on. Broad chest, the faint outline of abs under the fabric. I'd always been proud of that body, but seeing it from the outside, controlled by someone else it stirred something unexpected. A heat low in my bellyher bellythat I wasn't prepared for.
"Why are you staring?" she demanded, but there was a flush on my cheeks now. Her in there.
"I nothing." I averted my eyes, but they landed on the mirror across the room. There we were: an older woman and a young man, standing too close in a hotel room. The contrast was electric. Her mind in my prime physique, my energy trapped in her seasoned form. I felt a forbidden curiosity bubble up. What did this body feel like, really? Not just the achesthe pleasures?
She seemed to sense it too. Stepped closer, towering over me now in a way that made my pulse quicken. "Ethan, this is serious. But good Lord, your body. It's like being plugged into a live wire. Everything's so responsive." Her voicemy voicedropped lower, and I saw her glance down at herself, adjusting the robe where it tented slightly. Was that arousal? In my body?
I swallowed hard, Margaret's throat dry. "Yeah, well, yours isn't exactly a slouch. It's sensitive. In ways I didn't expect." My hand, almost without thinking, brushed against the side of her hipmy hip now. The skin there was softer, warmer than I'd imagined. A shiver ran through me, electric, pooling between my legs in a unfamiliar, building ache. Women's bodies, I realized with a jolt, didn't ramp up the same way it was slower, deeper, like a wave gathering.
She inhaled sharply at the touch, my eyes darkening. "We shouldn't This is madness." But she didn't pull away. Instead, her handmy strong, callused hand from rock climbingreached out and cupped my cheek, thumb tracing Margaret's jawline. The contact was intimate, charged. I leaned into it, feeling the roughness against smooth skin, and suddenly we were kissing.
It was clumsy at firstme in her body, her in mine, lips meeting in a rush of confusion and heat. My mouth was softer, more yielding; hers firmer, insistent. I tasted my own aftershave on her tongue, mixed with her surprise. Hands roamed: mine exploring the hard planes of my chest under the robe, hers sliding down to grip Margaret's waist, pulling me closer. The friction of fabric against skin sent sparks through me, her nipplesmy nipples nowtightening under the dress.
We broke apart, breathing hard. "This is wrong," I gasped in her voice, but my body betrayed me, thighs pressing together instinctively, seeking more pressure.
"Utterly," she agreed in mine, but her grin was wicked, eyes gleaming with that secret delight she'd mentioned. "But educational. Your stamina, Ethanit's intoxicating." She flexed my arms, and I felt a rush watching the muscles shift.
We didn't go furthernot then. Time was ticking, and the brunch loomed. But the air hummed with possibility, a secret shared in swapped flesh. I straightened her dressmy dressand she helped me fix the chignon, fingers lingering a second too long on my neck.
"Find the brooch," I said firmly, stepping back. "It's probably in your things. I'll play you at brunch; you play me. Act normal."
She nodded, but as I turned to leave, her voicemy voicecalled softly, "Ethan? This body of yours it wants things. Be careful."
I shivered again, that erotic undercurrent lingering as I slipped back into the hall. The wedding was hours away, and now, on top of everything, I had to navigate Margaret's form through a sea of family and friends, all while ignoring the newfound desires humming under her skin.
I slipped out of the groom’s suite with my pulse still hammering in Margaret’s narrower chest, the memory of that kiss burning behind my eyes like a live wire. Her lipsmy lips nowstill tingled from the press of my own mouth, from the rough scrape of stubble that wasn’t there anymore. I could taste the faint salt of my skin on her tongue, could still feel the hard ridge of my erection pressing against her thigh through the robe when we’d broken apart.
Focus, Ethan. Brunch. Family. Act like a retired principal who thinks you’re marrying beneath her.
The elevator ride down was torture. Every sway of the car made Margaret’s breasts shift under the navy dress, the silk lining sliding against nipples that had hardened and stayed that way since the kiss. I crossed my arms under them instinctivelysupport, modesty, whateverand immediately regretted it. The pressure only sharpened the ache, sent a slow, liquid heat curling low in her belly. I’d spent years chasing that kind of build-up in my own body: quick, focused, explosive. This was different. Deeper. Patient. Insistent. Like her body knew exactly how long it could draw the tension out before it snapped.
When the doors opened on the second floor, the private dining room was already alive with chatter and clinking silverware. Sophie’s family, my groomsmen, a few cousins milling around the buffet. And therestanding near the mimosa station in my charcoal suit, looking unfairly goodwas me. Margaret-in-my-body, hair still mussed from my fingers, tie slightly crooked in a way I never allowed. She caught my eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod, the corner of my mouth quirking in that knowing half-smile I usually saved for closing deals.
I forced Margaret’s posture straight, smoothed the dress over hips that felt too wide and too soft, and walked in.
“Margaret, darling!” EleanorSophie’s motherswooped in first, air-kissing both cheeks. “You look positively radiant this morning. Did you do something different with your makeup?”
I blinked behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Just… slept well,” I managed in her crisp tone. “The hotel pillows are divine.”
Eleanor laughed and linked her arm through mine, steering me toward the table. Every step rubbed the lace of Margaret’s underwear against sensitive skin I’d never paid attention to before. The seam pressed right where the heat was gathering, a constant, maddening friction. I bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
Sophie was already seated, radiant in a soft white sundress, hair half-up in loose waves. When she saw “Margaret,” her face lit up.
“Aunt Margaret!” She stood and hugged mecarefully, the way you hug someone fragile. Her perfume wrapped around me, familiar and devastating. “I’m so glad you’re here early. Ethan’s been weirdly quiet this morning. Nerves, I think.”
I hugged her back, Margaret’s arms thinner than I was used to, but the embrace felt achingly real. Sophie’s breasts pressed softly against mine through the thin fabric; I could feel the warmth of her skin, the slight catch of her breath. My bodyher bodyreacted instantly: a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs, thighs that clenched without permission. I pulled back too quickly.
“He’ll be fine,” I said, patting her arm with what I hoped was maternal reassurance. “Men get peculiar before weddings. It passes.”
Sophie laughed, but her eyes searched my faceMargaret’s facea second longer than usual. “You sound so sure.”
Because I am sure, I wanted to say. Because I’m the one who’s going to marry you in eight hours and I’m currently fighting the urge to drag you into the nearest coat closet just to feel your hands on this body that suddenly wants everything.
Instead I smiled Margaret’s tight, polite smile and let Eleanor guide me to a chair.
Across the table, Margaret-in-my-body was watching. Our eyes locked again. She lifted my mimosa glass in a tiny toast, lips curving. Thendeliberatelyshe ran my tongue along the rim of the flute, slow and suggestive, before taking a sip. My stomach flipped. Her in my skin, playing with sensations I knew too well: the cold fizz on the tongue, the subtle stretch of jaw muscles, the way a single swallow could send warmth straight down.
I shifted in the seat. The chair was hard; the pressure against my clitGod, even thinking the word in her voice felt obscenewas almost too much. I pressed my thighs together under the tablecloth and tried to focus on the conversation.
Clara bounded over then, all eleven-year-old energy, clutching her tablet. “Aunt Margaret! Look, I made a TikTok edit of Uncle Ethan’s proposal video with cat filters!”
She shoved the screen in my face. There I wasmy real bodydown on one knee in the park last spring, edited so cartoon ears twitched on my head and whiskers sprouted whenever I smiled at Sophie.
“Very… creative,” I said, voice dry. Clara beamed.
Margaretacross the tableleaned forward. “Clara, sweetheart,” she said in my deeper register, “why don’t you show me how to make one of those later? I could use some modernizing.”
Clara’s eyes went wide. “You? On TikTok?”
“Desperate times,” Margaret replied, and shot me a look that said: We’re going to talk. Soon.
The brunch dragged. Every time Sophie laughed, every time her fingers brushed mine passing the fruit platter, every accidental graze of her knee against Margaret’s under the table sent another pulse of arousal through me. By the time people started drifting toward the elevators for hair and makeup appointments, I was dizzy with itwet, swollen, aching in places I’d never inhabited before. Margaret’s body didn’t rush toward release the way mine did; it simmered, built layer by layer until I felt like I might combust from sheer anticipation.
As the room emptied, Margaret caught my elbowmy arm now, strong fingers wrapping around Margaret’s thinner oneand steered me toward the quiet hallway outside the restrooms.
“Storage closet,” she muttered. “Now.”
I didn’t argue.
The door clicked shut behind us. Dim light from a single bulb. Shelves of extra linens, the faint smell of bleach and lavender.
She pushed megentlyagainst the wall. My back arched; Margaret’s breasts lifted with the motion. She loomed over me in my own body, heat radiating off skin I knew was fever-hot.
“We can’t” I started.
“We already did,” she whispered in my voice, rougher now. “And your body won’t stop thinking about it.”
Her handmy handslid up under the hem of the navy dress, callused fingertips tracing the lace edge of panties already soaked through. I gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Tell me to stop,” she said, eyes locked on mine.
I didn’t.
Instead I reached up, tangled Margaret’s fingers in my own hair, and pulled her down into another kiss. This one was hungrier. Teeth. Tongue. The rough slide of my stubble against her softer skin. Her palm cupped me through the lacefirm, knowing pressure right where I needed itand I moaned into her mouth, the sound high and feminine and utterly foreign.
She rubbed slow circles, learning the rhythm of this body the way I’d learned mine over years. I rocked against her hand, chasing the building wave, thighs trembling.
“Ethan,” she breathed against my earmy ear now“let go. Just this once.”
The orgasm hit like a slow-rolling tide instead of the sharp snap I was used to. It started deep, radiated outward in warm pulses that left me shaking, clinging to her shoulders, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from crying out loud enough for the hallway to hear.
When it finally ebbed, I sagged against her, forehead to her collarbonemy collarbonebreathing hard.
She kissed my temple, soft now. “The brooch,” she murmured. “We still need to find it.”
I nodded, dazed. “After… after the photos. Before the ceremony.”
She helped me straighten the dress, smooth the chignon, wipe smudged lipstick with her thumb. Then she opened the door a crack, checked the hall, and slipped out first.
I waited thirty seconds, heart still thundering, body still humming.
Then I followed.
Eight hours until vows.
And I had no idea how I was going to walk down that aisle pretending I hadn’t just come undone in a storage closetwearing someone else’s skin, craving someone else’s touch, while the woman who used to be me waited in mine.
The photos were next. Outdoor portraits in the hotel garden before the ceremonygolden hour light, everyone in their finery, the kind of shots that would end up framed on mantels and mocked on group chats for decades.
I stood on the lawn in Margaret’s navy dress, sensible flats sinking slightly into the damp grass, trying to look like I belonged among the younger crowd. The photographera cheerful woman named Mara with a camera the size of a small cannonkept repositioning us.
“Margaret, darling, chin up a touch! You’ve got such elegant posture.”
Elegant. Right. I lifted Margaret’s chin, felt the unfamiliar pull of skin that had lost some of its elasticity, and smiled the tight, practiced smile I’d seen her use a hundred times. Across the grouping, Margaret-in-my-body lounged against a stone pillar in the charcoal suit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking effortlessly cool in a way I usually had to work for. She caught my eye and flexed my fingersslow, deliberatethen let her hand drop to rest low on my own hip. A casual gesture to anyone watching. To me, it was a promise.
Sophie was radiant between us, laughing as Clara darted in and out of frame trying to photobomb with peace signs. Every time Sophie turned to me“Aunt Margaret, come stand closer!”and slipped an arm around my waist, the contact sent fresh sparks racing under my skin. Her fingers brushed the small of my back, just above where the dress’s zipper sat, and I had to lock Margaret’s knees to keep from swaying.
The ache from the storage closet hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled in deeper, a low, constant throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeather heartbeat. Every brush of lace against swollen flesh reminded me exactly how wet I still was, how sensitive the folds had become. I pressed my thighs together when no one was looking and nearly whimpered at the pressure.
Mara called for couple shots next. “Bride and groom first, then we’ll add family!”
Sophie tugged me forwardthinking I was Margaret, of courseand positioned me on her other side so the three of us stood together: Sophie in the middle, “Ethan” on her right, “Margaret” on her left. The irony was so thick I could taste it.
“Perfect,” Mara said. “Big smiles!”
Sophie leaned into meinto Margaret’s bodyher cheek brushing mine. Her breath was warm against my ear. “You’ve been so quiet today,” she murmured, just for me. “Everything okay?”
I turned Margaret’s head, met her eyes. So close I could see the flecks of gold in her irises, smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Just… savoring it,” I said in the older woman’s voice. “Watching you two. It’s beautiful.”
Sophie’s smile softened, genuine. “You always know what to say.”
Behind her, Margaret-in-my-body watched us with an expression I couldn’t quite readjealousy? Hunger? Pride? She stepped closer on Sophie’s other side, slid an arm around her waist, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. Sophie melted into it.
And Itrapped in Margaret’s skinfelt a sharp, unexpected twist in my chest. Not just arousal anymore. Something softer. Hotter. The sight of my own body holding the woman I loved, touching her with a gentleness I’d always been too impatient to master… it unraveled me.
The camera clicked. Again. Again.
When Mara finally called a break, Sophie excused herself to touch up lipstick. Clara ran off to chase butterflies with one of the ring bearers. The garden emptied for a moment.
Margaret stepped up behind meclose enough that I could feel the heat rolling off my own body.
“Storage closet again?” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of my earMargaret’s ear.
“No time,” I whispered back, even as my hips shifted backward instinctively, seeking contact. “Photos resume in ten.”
“Then here.” Her handmy handslipped under the hem of the dress again, hidden by the angle of our bodies and the low stone wall at our backs. Fingers found soaked lace, pushed it aside with practiced ease. Two fingers slid inside meslow, deepand I had to clamp a hand over my own mouth to muffle the sound.
She curled them, found that spot I’d never been able to reach properly in this body, and stroked. Steady. Relentless. Her thumb circled my clit at the same time, slick and sure.
I trembled against her, back arched, breasts heaving under the navy silk. The orgasm built faster this timesharperbecause she knew exactly what this body needed now. I came with a choked sob, biting down on my own palm, thighs shaking so hard I nearly buckled.
She held me through it, steady as stone, until the aftershocks faded. Then she withdrew her fingers, brought them to her lipsmy lipsand licked them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of tongue. Watching herself do it was obscene. Intimate. Mine.
“Brooch,” she said quietly, voice rough. “I think it’s in the bridal suite. Sophie mentioned Margaret’s things were brought there this morning for ‘sentimental photos.’”
I nodded, still catching my breath. “After the first look. We’ll slip in.”
She adjusted my dress for me, smoothed a stray lock of gray hair behind my ear. “You’re doing beautifully,” she saidmy voice saying it, but her warmth behind the words. “Stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”
I looked up at herat meand felt something shift again. Not just lust. Respect. Affection. A strange, mirrored tenderness.
The photographer called us back.
We rejoined the group separately, faces composed, bodies humming with shared secrets.
Sophie reappeared, lipstick perfect, eyes bright. She took my handMargaret’s handand squeezed.
“Ready for the aisle?” she asked.
I squeezed back. “More than ever.”
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Home from college and stuck in his childhood bedroom, a restless young man discovers a bizarre side-effect of his meditation practice: the ability to astral project into the bodies of other people.
My breath slowed, easing into the steady rhythm I’d been practicing. The YouTube guru’s voice was a distant murmur in my earbuds. Let your consciousness expand beyond the physical form. Feel the boundaries of your body dissolve… I always felt a little silly doing this in my bedroom, the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling my only witness. But tonight, something was different. A strange, pulling sensation started behind my navel, like a gentle but insistent hook.
I tried to ignore it, to focus on my breathing, but the tug grew stronger. The feeling of my own body—the weight of my limbs on the bed, the pressure of the mattress against my back—suddenly vanished. There was a dizzying rush of color and sound, a sensation of being pulled through a narrow, dark tunnel at impossible speed.
Then, with a soft thump I felt I heard more than heard, everything stopped. A weight... A different kind of weight. My chest felt heavy, supported. My hips felt wider.
I blinked. This wasn’t my room. The air smelled of lavender and expensive perfume. I looked down.
My hands. They were not my hands. They were smaller, with slender fingers tipped with perfectly manicured, pale pink nails. A delicate silver bracelet hung from one wrist. I wore a silk robe, peach, tied loosely at the waist. My heart—no, her heart—hammered against my ribs.
A wave of vertigo hit me, followed by a flood of images that weren’t mine. Lydia. Her name is Lydia. A memory of her laughing with my step mom at the mailbox, holding a grocery bag. Another of her watering her roses in a sun dress last weekend. Before I left for college, she'd always waved at me, a kind, almost shy smile on her face.
Mrs. Henderson from next door. The hot MILF all my friends whispered about but who just seemed… nice.
I was inside Lydia Henderson.
Panic surged, a cold, sharp spike. I needed to get back. I tried to concentrate, to will myself back to my own body lying on my bed, but nothing happened. The panic subsided, replaced by a trembling, awe-filled curiosity. I was here. In her.
I turned, my movements unfamiliar and graceful, and caught my reflection in a full-length mirror mounted on the closet door.
Wow.
She was… stunning. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her green-flecked hazel eyes, were wide with an expression I knew was my own shock staring back. The silk robe hinted at the curves beneath. A lifetime of curious, stolen glances from my bedroom window hadn’t prepared me for the reality of being inside this body. A thrill, warm and forbidden, shot through me.
My gaze drifted past my—her—reflection to the rest of the walk-in closet behind me. The curiosity, always simmering just beneath the surface, roared to life. I’d always wondered. About the feel of it, the look of it, the secret world of it.
There I was surrounded by a forest of silks, satins, and soft, colorful fabrics.
Almost without conscious thought, my hands went to the tie of the robe. It fell open. She—I—was wearing matching peach lace lingerie underneath. A bra that cupped and lifted, panties that were just a delicate scrap of fabric. A heat that had nothing to do with possession flushed through me. It was awe. It was a secret, answered question.
I reached for a hanger. A slip of crimson satin and black lace. A teddy. My fingers trembled as I shimmied out of the peach set and into the red one. The cool satin whispered over my hips, the lace hugged curves I’d never had. I looked in the mirror again. A stranger, yet me. A beautiful, secret version of myself.
I spent what felt like hours, lost in a tactile wonderland. I tried on a tight pencil skirt and a cream-colored cashmere sweater, feeling the sophisticated drape. I found a pair of sky-high black heels and clomped around the carpet, her body’s balance instinctively better than mine would have been. The click-click of the heels on the hardwood floor was a powerful, feminine sound.
Then I found the vanity. An array of pots, pencils, and brushes that might as well have been alien technology. But as I picked up a tube of lipstick, a strange thing happened. A knowledge that wasn’t mine surfaced. A muscle memory. My hand steadied. I uncapped the tube, a deep rose color, and applied it to “my” lips in smooth, practiced strokes. Then eyeliner, a flick at the corner that appeared as if by magic. Blush dusted on the apples of cheeks I could now feel smiling back at me. I was using her memories, her routines. It was like riding a bike for the first time, but the bike knew the way.
When I opened my eyes and looked in the vanity mirror, a perfectly made-up Lydia Henderson looked back. It was her face, but the light in the eyes… that was all my stunned, giddy wonder.
I was awestruck. Transformed. The innocent, cookie-baking neighbor I saw from my window was also this… this goddess of satin and expertly applied liner.
I was floating on a cloud of discovery when another memory-nudge pulled me. It was stronger, more insistent than the makeup knowledge. It was a pull of routine, of duty, tinged with a secret thrill. It led me out of the bedroom, down the hall, to a door I hadn’t noticed before. It was plain, white, unlike the other decorative doors in the house.
I turned the knob and entered.
The room was an office, but unlike any office I'd ever seen before.
It was a small, soundproofed office. The dominant feature was a large desk with a ring light, a high-quality webcam, and a monitor. Plush, sexy outfits hung on a rack in the corner—things far more daring than the clothes in her main closet. Leather, lace, PVC. A shelf held… toys. Neatly arranged, clean, professional.
The cam girl setup was so blatant, so at odds with the cozy suburban mom exterior, that I just stared. Another memory-flash, not mine: the feeling of logging in, of a stage name—ScarletVelvet—of the focused, performative smile that wasn’t the same as the one she gave me when I mowed her lawn.
My heart hammered again, but with a different kind of adrenaline. This was her secret. And now it was mine. The monitor was dark, but a schedule was pinned to a corkboard. A highlighted time slot was in 15 minutes.
The idea hit me with the force of a train. It was insane. Reckless. Unforgivably invasive.
I couldn’t help it.
I sat down in the plush rolling chair. It adjusted to her—to my—body perfectly. I looked at the login screen for the streaming site. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn’t know the password. But I closed my eyes, and let her surface. Not her consciousness, but the automatic, procedural memory. Like the makeup. My fingers moved on their own, typing in a string of characters. The dashboard for ScarletVelvet loaded.
Five minutes to showtime.
I was sweating. I used one of her memories to pick an outfit—a black lace bodysuit that left very little to the imagination. I put it on, my hands fumbling more now with the nervous energy. I checked the angles of the camera using the preview on the monitor. I fluffed the auburn hair, reapplied the lipstick.
The clock hit the hour. A deep breath. I clicked “Go Live.”
The viewer count started ticking up almost immediately. 10… 25… 50. A chat window bloomed to life on the side screen.
Hey Scarlet!
Missed you last night!
You look hot.
A wave of paralyzing stage fright hit me. This wasn’t my memory, this was live. I had to perform. I swallowed, and offered a smile to the camera. It felt brittle.
“H-hey everyone,” I said, and her voice came out, smoother, sexier than my own cracking tenor. But the cadence was off. I sounded unsure.
You okay, Scarlet? You seem nervous.
I needed to act. I leaned back in the chair, another fragment of her muscle memory guiding me into a pose that was both relaxed and deliberately alluring. “Just a long day,” I purred, trying to mimic the smoky tone I’d heard in the memory-flash. It was closer. “But I’m happy to be here with you all now.”
I let my hands—her elegant, manicured hands—trail down over the lace of the bodysuit. The chat scrolled faster.
Yeah, that’s it.
So beautiful.
I was mimicking, a poor copy of the real ScarletVelvet. I was pulling from stolen glimpses, trying to project a sultry confidence I didn’t feel. I talked, my words stilted, my gestures a half-second too slow or too fast. But the viewers didn’t seem to mind too much. They were here for the visual, for the fantasy.
Then, a private message pinged. A username I didn’t recognize, with a high tipping status. The message read: Something’s different tonight. The light in your eyes. It’s… curious. Shy, almost. I like it. A lot.
The message sent a shiver down my spine—her spine. He saw it. He saw me. The clumsy, curious boy peeking out from behind this beautiful woman’s eyes. The revelation was no longer about her secret. It was about my own, reflected back at me through a stranger’s screen. The thrill was electric, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. I was seen, yet completely hidden. And for the first time since I’d tumbled into this body, I didn’t want to leave.
The stream ended with my heart trying to claw its way out of Mrs. Henderson’s—my—chest. I clicked ‘End Broadcast’ and sat in the silent, neon-lit room, the ghost of a hundred anonymous compliments buzzing in my ears. The adrenaline crash was monumental. A deep, shuddering fatigue pulled at my limbs, at my borrowed eyes. Stumbling back to the master bedroom, I peeled off the black lace bodysuit, leaving it in a heap on the plush carpet. I didn’t have the energy to be neat. In a daze, I pulled on one of her soft cotton nightgowns from a drawer and collapsed into the enormous bed.
The scent of her shampoo on the pillows was the last thing I registered before a deep, black nothingness swallowed me.
***
I woke up with a jolt, my own thin mattress hard beneath my back. Morning light, harsh and familiar, streamed through my blinds. I was in my boxers and a faded band t-shirt. I was me. Just me.
For a long minute, I just lay there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling I’d put up when I was ten. Had it been a dream? A hyper-vivid, wildly inappropriate stress-dream about my neighbor? It felt too detailed, too real. The weight of the heels. The slick texture of the lipstick. The cold thrill of the chat scrolling by.
I grabbed my laptop from my nightstand, my fingers clumsy. My search history felt like a crime scene. I typed in the site name from the memory, then, hesitantly, the username: ScarletVelvet.
There it was. A profile. A teaser image that was absolutely, unmistakably Mrs. Henderson, though with a smolder I’d never seen in daylight. My mouth went dry. With a trembling click, I navigated to her recent videos. And there, at the top, uploaded six hours ago: “Scarlet’s Shy Night – Live 10/23.”
I didn’t buy it. I couldn’t. I just hit play.
And there I was. Or rather, there she was, with me piloting. The footage was crystal clear. I saw the slight, uncharacteristic hesitation in my smile. The way my eyes kept flicking to the chat, wide with a panic I’d tried to hide. I heard my stolen voice say, “Just a long day,” with that imperfect, copied purr. I watched myself trail a hand over the lace, the movement a half-beat off from the real Scarlet’s confident flair.
It was real. Undeniable. A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat, immediately choked by a wave of gut-churning guilt. And beneath the guilt, a flicker of that same, electrifying curiosity.
I spent the day in a fog, jumping at every sound. I saw Mrs. Henderson bringing in her mail in the afternoon, wearing yoga pants and a loose sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun. She looked tired, but normal. Innocent. She gave a small, casual wave to someone across the street. The duality was mind-breaking.
As night fell, the pull became magnetic. The fear was still there, a cold stone in my stomach, but it was outweighed by the need to know, to feel that transformation again. To have an answer to a question I’d never dared ask out loud.
I sat on my bedroom floor again. No guided meditation this time. Just silence, and a focused, desperate intention. Take me back. Let me in.
The lurch was less violent this time, more like a swift, sinking drift. The lavender scent hit my nostrils. Weight. Softness. Curve.
I opened my eyes in her dark bedroom. Success.
This time, the panic was a minor tremor, quickly subdued by a sense of purpose. I went to her closet, but bypassed the crimson teddies and silk robes. I picked out a pair of dark, well-fitting jeans, a simple black long-sleeved tee, and a comfortable cardigan. I found sensible flats. I looked in the mirror: suburban mom ready for errands. Perfect.
Driving her car was another surge of alien-yet-familiar memory. My hands on the wheel were smaller, my perspective different. The weird feeling of a tight seat-belt resting in the valley of my chest. I made it to the mall, a nervous excitement humming in my veins. This was the test. To be in this body, in the world.
I went to a department store area I’d never dared enter before: the women’s lingerie section. Surrounded by racks of lace and satin, my face flushed. But no one looked twice at a woman browsing bras. The freedom was dizzying. I selected a few sets—a delicate sky blue, a bold leopard print—using her sense of size and fit. I held them up, imagining them on this body. It was a shopping trip from a dream.
Then, emboldened, I went to the trendy clothing stores. I tried on flowy dresses that swirled around my knees, a tight leather skirt that made my heart race, and a ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater that felt like a cloud. In the fitting room, under the fluorescent lights, I just stared. I turned, examining the lines of her—my—body from every angle. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was a kind of reverence.
The final stop took every ounce of my courage. A sex shop, discreetly located on the outskirts of the mall. A bell chimed as I walked in.
The girl behind the counter looked up. She was probably in her early twenties, with dyed black hair, a septum piercing, and an impressive array of tattoos snaking up her arms. Goth, cool, and utterly intimidating.
“Help you find anything?” she asked, her voice not unfriendly.
“Just… browsing,” I said, Mrs. Henderson’s voice coming out as a shy squeak. I wandered the aisles, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of it all. I felt the Goth girl’s eyes on me, the conservative cardigan-clad mom in a den of iniquity.
Eventually, curiosity overcoming shame, I picked up a small, sleek vibrator, examining it like it was an artifact from another planet.
“Good choice,” the girl said, appearing at the end of the aisle with a knowing smile. “That one’s discreet but powerful. Popular with… beginners. But definitely something you could handle.”
Our eyes met. Hers were sharp, kohl-rimmed, and saw way too much. A faint, amused smile played on her lips. “You seem different today, Mrs. Henderson.”
I nearly dropped the vibrator. She knew her? Of course she did. Small town. My blood ran cold, then hot. I managed a weak smile, channeling every ounce of innocent-neighbor energy I’d observed. “Just… exploring,” I whispered.
“Well, have fun,” she said, her smile turning into a full-blown grin. “Exploration is good for the soul.”
I paid in cash, my face burning, and fled.
Back in the sanctuary of her house, the adrenaline shifted into something slower, warmer, more insistent. The purchases were spread on her bed. The new lingerie. The sleek little toy from the shop.
I put on the sky blue set. It was even prettier on. The contrast against her skin was beautiful. I lay back on the bed, the memories of her own solo routines blending with my own frantic, curiosity. My touch was clumsy at first, then, guided by her body’s own innate knowledge, more sure. It was a bizarre, out-of-body experience that was intensely, overwhelmingly in-body. I was both the explorer and the territory. The pleasure, when it crested, was a shocking, all-consuming wave that left me gasping, shuddering, utterly spent in a way I’d never been in my own body.
In the heavy, satisfied silence that followed, lulled by the fading echoes of sensation and the soft cotton sheets, my borrowed eyes grew heavy. The last coherent thought I had was that this was the deepest, most content sleep I’d ever known.
***
I awoke to the sound of my own alarm blaring, sunlight once again piercing my own familiar, boring blinds. I was back in my scrawny body, tangled in my own sheets, home for the holiday break. For a moment, I just breathed, the phantom sensations of silk and release still tingling at the edges of my awareness. It was real. It had happened again.
And I already knew, with a certainty that scared and thrilled me, that I would be trying to go back as soon as I could.
The weekend stretched before me, a blank canvas of time. The two previous nights had been fleeting infiltrations. Today, I wanted more. I wanted a full day in her skin.
I sat on my floor as the first pale light of Saturday crept into my room. I focused, not on white light or my heart center, but on the memory of lavender and the feeling of satin against skin. The transition was smoother this time, less a lurch and more a conscious step through a door.
I arrived to the sound of running water and the humid, steamy scent of jasmine body wash. I was standing in her master bathroom, the glass shower door fogged, the silhouette of her body—my body—moving behind it. She was humming. I could feel the warm spray hitting my skin, the water sluicing over curves that were now mine. The sensation was immediate and intensely vivid. My hands—her hands—lifted almost of their own accord, slick with soap, gliding over the swell of breasts, the dip of a waist, the smooth plane of a stomach. It was a ritual washing, but for me, it was a breathtaking exploration.
The heat, the steam, the sheer physicality of it coiled a tight, urgent need low in my belly. As the water rained down, I let my hands wander with purpose, no longer just washing, but seeking. I leaned back against the cool tile, my breath hitching as my fingers found their way, guided by a knowledge both borrowed and innate. The climax in the shower was swift and shocking, a white-hot burst that made my knees weak, my stolen cries swallowed by the drumming water. I slumped, panting, the pleasure still echoing through nerve endings that weren't originally mine. It was incredible.
After, wrapped in a plush towel, I felt a strange, powerful confidence. I took my time. I blow-dried her auburn hair into the soft, shiny waves she usually wore. I applied makeup with the practiced ease her memories provided, creating that public-facing mask of friendly, approachable prettiness. I dressed in one of her nice casual outfits—dark jeans, a cream-colored V-neck sweater that clung in a flattering way, knee-high boots. I looked in the mirror and saw the perfect image of the neighbor my step mom would happily invite in for coffee.
The bold idea struck me then, sparkling with risk and a perverse curiosity. I would visit my house.
I walked the familiar short path, her heels clicking a confident rhythm on the sidewalk my own sneakers usually scuffed. Ringing my own doorbell was surreal.
My step mom answered, her face lighting up in a warm smile. “Lydia! What a nice surprise. Come in, come in! I was just about to have some coffee.”
“I was just out for a walk and thought I’d say hi,” I said, sliding effortlessly into Mrs. Henderson’s—Lydia’s—warm, slightly musical tone. It was eerie how easily it came, like putting on a well-worn coat from her memories of countless similar chats.
I followed my step mom into the kitchen, the familiar space looking different from this vantage point. She poured coffee, chattering about her plans to re-organize the garage. I nodded and smiled, sipping from the mug, the coffee tasting subtly different with her palate. I was leveraging her memories constantly: the way she held a mug, her opinion on the new neighborhood landscaping, her polite laugh. I was a puppet, and Lydia’s life was the set of strings.
"My son's back from college and could use something to do" my step mom asked with a conspiratorial wink. “Want me to send him over to help with some house work?”
“Oh that'd be perfect,” I heard myself say, and had to suppress a hysterical giggle. “He's a real sweet boy.”
After about twenty minutes of this bizarre charade, I saw my chance. “Would you mind if I excused myself to use your powder room?” I asked.
“Of course, you know where it is!”
I didn’t go to the downstairs powder room. With a thief’s heart, I padded quietly up the stairs, past the framed family photos that now seemed like artifacts from another life. My bedroom door was ajar. I peeked in.
There, sprawled on my bed, fully dressed and snoring softly, was me. Or rather, my empty body. It was the strangest sight of all—seeing my own lanky form from the outside, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over my forehead. A profound sense of dislocation washed over me, followed by a sharp, devious thrill.
I slipped inside and closed the door silently. I stared at my own sleeping face. Then, moving quickly, I pulled out the phone from my borrowed purse—Lydia’s phone. I propped it up on my desk, angled perfectly toward the bed, and hit record.
Then I approached the bed. My own body smelled like my cheap deodorant and the fabric of my old comforter. Gently, I unbuckled my own jeans. My hands, small and soft, worked with a clinical curiosity that was also deeply erotic. I gave my unconscious self a handjob, watching the physiological reaction with a detached, fascinated awe. My shaft thick and hard between my hands. Leaning down, I then took myself into my mouth—her mouth. The sensations were a confusing feedback loop: the physical act, the visual of my own body, the knowledge of who was doing it. It was narcissistic, invasive, and unbearably hot. My body gave in, shooting a small load that covered my face and I made sure the phone captured it all.
I quickly cleaned everything up with a tissue from my nightstand, redid my jeans, and grabbed the phone. I stopped the recording. With shaky fingers, I airdropped the video file to my own phone, which was lying on the nightstand next to my sleeping head. I then meticulously deleted the video from Lydia’s phone and cleared the ‘recently deleted’ folder. The evidence was now only in my possession.
Taking a steadying breath, I smoothed down my sweater and left my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I rejoined my mom in the kitchen, my cheeks flushed.
“Everything alright? You look a little flushed,” my mom said.
“Fine! Just a bit warm,” I said, forcing another smile. I snuck glances at my mom as we talked, seeing the familiar lines of her face from this new, feminine perspective. I was hyper-aware of the body I inhabited, the sway of Lydia’s hair, the brush of her sweater against her breasts—my breasts—as I moved.
The afternoon wore on in a surreal bubble. I was trying to decide what to do next with this borrowed life. Go shopping again? Experiment more at her cam setup? The possibilities were a dizzying array in my mind.
And then, without warning, it happened. A sudden, tugging sensation behind my navel, like a rubber band stretched too far and snapping back.
***
I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was on my back in my own bed, the afternoon sun now at a different angle. My body felt instantly familiar and was overcome with a feeling of afterglow. The phantom sensations of the shower, of my own touch, still buzzed on my skin like a fading sunburn.
The memory of the video jolted me into action. I scrambled for my phone. There it was. A file received from Lydia Henderson’s device. I didn’t open it. I just stared at the filename, a cold sweat breaking out. It was real. All of it.
I changed my clothes in a frenzy, pulling on a fresh shirt and jeans, my mind reeling. I had to see. I had to know if she was still there.
I practically flew down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the doorway to the living room. My step mom was still there, on the sofa.
And sitting across from her, sipping the last of her coffee, was Mrs. Henderson—Lydia. She looked perfectly composed, her makeup fresh, her smile easy.
My step mom turned. “Oh, speak of the devil! Lydia was just telling me about her new rose bushes.”
Lydia’s eyes met mine. Those green-flecked hazel eyes held mine for a long, deliberate second. Then, as my step mom glanced down to pick up her own mug, Lydia’s expression shifted. The pleasant neighborly mask dissolved into something else—something knowing, sharp, and utterly mischievous. She gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
Then, her hand resting casually on her knee, hidden from my step mom’s view by the coffee table, she made a quick, unmistakable motion: her fist pumping up and down in the universal sign for a jerk-off.
My blood turned to ice. My stomach dropped through the floor.
She knew. Somehow she knew.
Before I could react, even to breathe, she smiled sweetly at my step mom, stood up, and said, “Well, I should let you two get on with your weekend. Thanks for the coffee, Ellen!”
She walked past me to the door, her perfume trailing behind her. As she reached for the knob, she paused, looked back over her shoulder directly at me, and mouthed silent words with a smirk that was anything but innocent:
“I hope you had fun.”
***
The meditation was a failure. For three nights straight, I sat on my floor until my legs cramped, focusing every ounce of my will on the memory of lavender and silk. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of my own thoughts and the growing dread that my window into Lydia’s world had slammed shut forever.
So when my step-mom Ellen cheerfully announced on Tuesday that she’d “volunteered” me to help Mrs. Henderson haul some old boxes to her attic, my blood ran cold. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a reckoning.
I stood on Lydia’s porch, my heart trying to batter its way through my ribs. I rang the bell.
She answered almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting. She wore simple leggings and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. No makeup. She looked like the mom next door, but her eyes held a storm.
“Come in,” she said, her voice flat. I shuffled inside, the familiar scent of her home now feeling like a crime scene.
The door closed behind me with a soft, final click. We stood in her foyer. The air was thick with unspoken things.
She crossed her arms, fixing me with a hard stare. “So. You want to tell me what the hell that was? Snooping through my things? Wearing my clothes? Going on my stream?” Her tone was sharp, accusatory. “That is some seriously messed up, perverted shit.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My face burned with shame and terror. I was going to be arrested. My life was over. I managed a strangled, “I… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Henderson, I don’t know what—”
She burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a cruel laugh, but a rich, genuine sound that filled the hallway. The angry mask melted away, replaced by sparkling amusement. “Oh, god, look at your face!” she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Priceless. I’m just messing with you, kid. Everything’s fine.”
I sagged against the wall, lightheaded with relief. “W-what?”
“Everything’s fine,” she repeated, grinning. “Well, as fine as it can be when you find out your neighbor’s been borrowing your body like a rental car.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “C’mon. I made iced tea.”
In a daze, I followed her. She poured two glasses, leaning against the counter. “So,” she began, her tone now conspiratorial. “That goth chick at Sinister Delights? Cute, right? She texted me after you left, said I seemed ‘different.’ More fun.”
I could only stare, my mind struggling to catch up.
“And the mall,” she continued, sipping her drink. “Good choices. The leopard print? Bold. I’d have never picked it for myself, but I kinda love it.”
I just held the cold glass, unable to process her words.
“And the cam show,” she continued, leaning against the counter, a sly smile on her lips. “Shy Girl Next Door? That was a brilliant angle. The nervous glances, the slightly clumsy moves… it was authentic. Viewers ate it up. My tips were 30% higher than usual.”
Her expression softened, turning serious for a moment. “That, you do have to keep to yourself. My… professional life. That’s a non-negotiable secret.”
“Of course,” I blurted. “Never. I swear.”
“I believe you,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. “And the video? Of me… you know, with you?” She shook her head, a faint blush on her cheeks that wasn’t entirely from amusement. “You can keep that. Consider it a… weird souvenir.”
The casual way she said it was staggering. “Why… why are you being so cool about this?” I finally managed to whisper.
Lydia sighed, setting her glass down. She looked at me, her gaze turning inward and serious. “Because it wasn’t just you in my head. When you left… something stayed. A little echo. A feeling. I can’t access your memories, but I can feel… a presence. A younger, curious, kinda horny male presence. It’s faint, like a radio playing in another room, but it’s there. It’s why I knew it was you at the door. I felt the echo… resonate.”
She walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. It was a strangely companionable gesture. “I don’t feel violated. I feel… like I owe you a favor. You left a piece of yourself here, and I feel like I should treat you like a new found brother. So.” She shrugged, a new, determined glint in her eye. “I’m going to do you a solid. One for the road, since you're about to go back to college and can’t seem to get back in on your own.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she took my hand. “Come on.”
She led me, stunned and silent, to her bedroom. She pointed to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”
I sat. She went to her dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out the leopard print lingerie I’d bought. She gave me a wink, then disappeared into the walk-in closet to change.
When she emerged, my breath caught. The leopard print was even more stunning on her when she wore it with intention. The bralette pushed her breasts up, the high-cut briefs accentuating the curve of her hips. She looked like a predator, confident and sleek.
“Lie back,” she instructed softly.
I did. She knelt on the floor between my knees, her hands deftly undoing my jeans. This was nothing like the frantic, secretive act in my bedroom. This was slow, deliberate, and performed with a masterful skill that had me trembling in seconds. Her mouth was hot and knowing, her hands roaming my thighs and stomach. She took her time, bringing me to the edge twice with torturous skill before pulling back with a soft laugh. “Not yet.”
Then she stood up, shimmied out of the briefs, and climbed onto the bed, straddling me. She guided me inside her, sinking down with a slow, deep sigh that was part pleasure, part relief.
The sex was nothing I had ever experienced. It was passionate but controlled, intense but deeply communicative. She rode me with a powerful, rolling rhythm, her eyes locked on mine. She leaned down, her breasts brushing my chest, and kissed me—a deep, searching kiss that tasted of iced tea and mint. The leopard print lace scraped deliciously against my skin.
“You feel that?” she murmured against my lips, her hips never stopping their movement. “That’s all you. That echo. It’s like I know what you like before you do.”
She was right. Every shift, every touch, was perfectly aligned with my building pleasure. It was as if she was reading the ghost I’d left inside her. The climax, when it hit me, was a cataclysmic wave that tore a raw, guttural shout from my throat. She followed me over a moment later, clenching around me, her own cry muffled in the crook of my neck.
We lay together for a long time, tangled and sweating, the scent of sex and her perfume filling the air. She eventually slipped off me and curled against my side. “A proper goodbye,” she whispered, before her breathing evened out into sleep.
***
I woke up alone in my own bed. The gray light of dawn filtered in. The sheets smelled of my own laundry detergent. For a dizzying moment, I was sure it had all been another impossibly vivid dream.
Then I felt the pleasant ache in my muscles. I saw the faint, smudged trace of lipstick—a peachy nude, Morning Kiss—on my collar.
And I remembered her words. You left a piece of yourself here.
That evening, restless and haunted, I sat on my bedroom floor once more. Not trying to reach for Lydia. Just trying to quiet the echo. My consciousness drifted, untethered, through the familiar walls of my house.
I floated into the master bedroom. My step mom, Ellen, was there, sitting at her vanity in a robe, carefully applying night cream. I hovered, a silent, invisible observer. She hummed a tune from some old musical, her face relaxed and kind in the soft light.
The thought, sudden and unbidden, shimmered in my non-corporeal mind. A new door. A different set of strings to pull. The curiosity, now awakened and fed, was a hungry thing.
I floated closer, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed.
The question hung in the ether, heavy with possibility.
Do I want to?
My breath slowed, easing into the steady rhythm I’d been practicing. The YouTube guru’s voice was a distant murmur in my earbuds. Let your consciousness expand beyond the physical form. Feel the boundaries of your body dissolve… I always felt a little silly doing this in my bedroom, the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling my only witness. But tonight, something was different. A strange, pulling sensation started behind my navel, like a gentle but insistent hook.
I tried to ignore it, to focus on my breathing, but the tug grew stronger. The feeling of my own body—the weight of my limbs on the bed, the pressure of the mattress against my back—suddenly vanished. There was a dizzying rush of color and sound, a sensation of being pulled through a narrow, dark tunnel at impossible speed.
Then, with a soft thump I felt I heard more than heard, everything stopped. A weight... A different kind of weight. My chest felt heavy, supported. My hips felt wider.
I blinked. This wasn’t my room. The air smelled of lavender and expensive perfume. I looked down.
My hands. They were not my hands. They were smaller, with slender fingers tipped with perfectly manicured, pale pink nails. A delicate silver bracelet hung from one wrist. I wore a silk robe, peach, tied loosely at the waist. My heart—no, her heart—hammered against my ribs.
A wave of vertigo hit me, followed by a flood of images that weren’t mine. Lydia. Her name is Lydia. A memory of her laughing with my step mom at the mailbox, holding a grocery bag. Another of her watering her roses in a sun dress last weekend. Before I left for college, she'd always waved at me, a kind, almost shy smile on her face.
Mrs. Henderson from next door. The hot MILF all my friends whispered about but who just seemed… nice.
I was inside Lydia Henderson.
Panic surged, a cold, sharp spike. I needed to get back. I tried to concentrate, to will myself back to my own body lying on my bed, but nothing happened. The panic subsided, replaced by a trembling, awe-filled curiosity. I was here. In her.
I turned, my movements unfamiliar and graceful, and caught my reflection in a full-length mirror mounted on the closet door.
Wow.
She was… stunning. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her green-flecked hazel eyes, were wide with an expression I knew was my own shock staring back. The silk robe hinted at the curves beneath. A lifetime of curious, stolen glances from my bedroom window hadn’t prepared me for the reality of being inside this body. A thrill, warm and forbidden, shot through me.
My gaze drifted past my—her—reflection to the rest of the walk-in closet behind me. The curiosity, always simmering just beneath the surface, roared to life. I’d always wondered. About the feel of it, the look of it, the secret world of it.
There I was surrounded by a forest of silks, satins, and soft, colorful fabrics.
Almost without conscious thought, my hands went to the tie of the robe. It fell open. She—I—was wearing matching peach lace lingerie underneath. A bra that cupped and lifted, panties that were just a delicate scrap of fabric. A heat that had nothing to do with possession flushed through me. It was awe. It was a secret, answered question.
I reached for a hanger. A slip of crimson satin and black lace. A teddy. My fingers trembled as I shimmied out of the peach set and into the red one. The cool satin whispered over my hips, the lace hugged curves I’d never had. I looked in the mirror again. A stranger, yet me. A beautiful, secret version of myself.
I spent what felt like hours, lost in a tactile wonderland. I tried on a tight pencil skirt and a cream-colored cashmere sweater, feeling the sophisticated drape. I found a pair of sky-high black heels and clomped around the carpet, her body’s balance instinctively better than mine would have been. The click-click of the heels on the hardwood floor was a powerful, feminine sound.
Then I found the vanity. An array of pots, pencils, and brushes that might as well have been alien technology. But as I picked up a tube of lipstick, a strange thing happened. A knowledge that wasn’t mine surfaced. A muscle memory. My hand steadied. I uncapped the tube, a deep rose color, and applied it to “my” lips in smooth, practiced strokes. Then eyeliner, a flick at the corner that appeared as if by magic. Blush dusted on the apples of cheeks I could now feel smiling back at me. I was using her memories, her routines. It was like riding a bike for the first time, but the bike knew the way.
When I opened my eyes and looked in the vanity mirror, a perfectly made-up Lydia Henderson looked back. It was her face, but the light in the eyes… that was all my stunned, giddy wonder.
I was awestruck. Transformed. The innocent, cookie-baking neighbor I saw from my window was also this… this goddess of satin and expertly applied liner.
I was floating on a cloud of discovery when another memory-nudge pulled me. It was stronger, more insistent than the makeup knowledge. It was a pull of routine, of duty, tinged with a secret thrill. It led me out of the bedroom, down the hall, to a door I hadn’t noticed before. It was plain, white, unlike the other decorative doors in the house.
I turned the knob and entered.
The room was an office, but unlike any office I'd ever seen before.
It was a small, soundproofed office. The dominant feature was a large desk with a ring light, a high-quality webcam, and a monitor. Plush, sexy outfits hung on a rack in the corner—things far more daring than the clothes in her main closet. Leather, lace, PVC. A shelf held… toys. Neatly arranged, clean, professional.
The cam girl setup was so blatant, so at odds with the cozy suburban mom exterior, that I just stared. Another memory-flash, not mine: the feeling of logging in, of a stage name—ScarletVelvet—of the focused, performative smile that wasn’t the same as the one she gave me when I mowed her lawn.
My heart hammered again, but with a different kind of adrenaline. This was her secret. And now it was mine. The monitor was dark, but a schedule was pinned to a corkboard. A highlighted time slot was in 15 minutes.
The idea hit me with the force of a train. It was insane. Reckless. Unforgivably invasive.
I couldn’t help it.
I sat down in the plush rolling chair. It adjusted to her—to my—body perfectly. I looked at the login screen for the streaming site. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn’t know the password. But I closed my eyes, and let her surface. Not her consciousness, but the automatic, procedural memory. Like the makeup. My fingers moved on their own, typing in a string of characters. The dashboard for ScarletVelvet loaded.
Five minutes to showtime.
I was sweating. I used one of her memories to pick an outfit—a black lace bodysuit that left very little to the imagination. I put it on, my hands fumbling more now with the nervous energy. I checked the angles of the camera using the preview on the monitor. I fluffed the auburn hair, reapplied the lipstick.
The clock hit the hour. A deep breath. I clicked “Go Live.”
The viewer count started ticking up almost immediately. 10… 25… 50. A chat window bloomed to life on the side screen.
Hey Scarlet!
Missed you last night!
You look hot.
A wave of paralyzing stage fright hit me. This wasn’t my memory, this was live. I had to perform. I swallowed, and offered a smile to the camera. It felt brittle.
“H-hey everyone,” I said, and her voice came out, smoother, sexier than my own cracking tenor. But the cadence was off. I sounded unsure.
You okay, Scarlet? You seem nervous.
I needed to act. I leaned back in the chair, another fragment of her muscle memory guiding me into a pose that was both relaxed and deliberately alluring. “Just a long day,” I purred, trying to mimic the smoky tone I’d heard in the memory-flash. It was closer. “But I’m happy to be here with you all now.”
I let my hands—her elegant, manicured hands—trail down over the lace of the bodysuit. The chat scrolled faster.
Yeah, that’s it.
So beautiful.
I was mimicking, a poor copy of the real ScarletVelvet. I was pulling from stolen glimpses, trying to project a sultry confidence I didn’t feel. I talked, my words stilted, my gestures a half-second too slow or too fast. But the viewers didn’t seem to mind too much. They were here for the visual, for the fantasy.
Then, a private message pinged. A username I didn’t recognize, with a high tipping status. The message read: Something’s different tonight. The light in your eyes. It’s… curious. Shy, almost. I like it. A lot.
The message sent a shiver down my spine—her spine. He saw it. He saw me. The clumsy, curious boy peeking out from behind this beautiful woman’s eyes. The revelation was no longer about her secret. It was about my own, reflected back at me through a stranger’s screen. The thrill was electric, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. I was seen, yet completely hidden. And for the first time since I’d tumbled into this body, I didn’t want to leave.
The stream ended with my heart trying to claw its way out of Mrs. Henderson’s—my—chest. I clicked ‘End Broadcast’ and sat in the silent, neon-lit room, the ghost of a hundred anonymous compliments buzzing in my ears. The adrenaline crash was monumental. A deep, shuddering fatigue pulled at my limbs, at my borrowed eyes. Stumbling back to the master bedroom, I peeled off the black lace bodysuit, leaving it in a heap on the plush carpet. I didn’t have the energy to be neat. In a daze, I pulled on one of her soft cotton nightgowns from a drawer and collapsed into the enormous bed.
The scent of her shampoo on the pillows was the last thing I registered before a deep, black nothingness swallowed me.
***
I woke up with a jolt, my own thin mattress hard beneath my back. Morning light, harsh and familiar, streamed through my blinds. I was in my boxers and a faded band t-shirt. I was me. Just me.
For a long minute, I just lay there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling I’d put up when I was ten. Had it been a dream? A hyper-vivid, wildly inappropriate stress-dream about my neighbor? It felt too detailed, too real. The weight of the heels. The slick texture of the lipstick. The cold thrill of the chat scrolling by.
I grabbed my laptop from my nightstand, my fingers clumsy. My search history felt like a crime scene. I typed in the site name from the memory, then, hesitantly, the username: ScarletVelvet.
There it was. A profile. A teaser image that was absolutely, unmistakably Mrs. Henderson, though with a smolder I’d never seen in daylight. My mouth went dry. With a trembling click, I navigated to her recent videos. And there, at the top, uploaded six hours ago: “Scarlet’s Shy Night – Live 10/23.”
I didn’t buy it. I couldn’t. I just hit play.
And there I was. Or rather, there she was, with me piloting. The footage was crystal clear. I saw the slight, uncharacteristic hesitation in my smile. The way my eyes kept flicking to the chat, wide with a panic I’d tried to hide. I heard my stolen voice say, “Just a long day,” with that imperfect, copied purr. I watched myself trail a hand over the lace, the movement a half-beat off from the real Scarlet’s confident flair.
It was real. Undeniable. A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat, immediately choked by a wave of gut-churning guilt. And beneath the guilt, a flicker of that same, electrifying curiosity.
I spent the day in a fog, jumping at every sound. I saw Mrs. Henderson bringing in her mail in the afternoon, wearing yoga pants and a loose sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun. She looked tired, but normal. Innocent. She gave a small, casual wave to someone across the street. The duality was mind-breaking.
As night fell, the pull became magnetic. The fear was still there, a cold stone in my stomach, but it was outweighed by the need to know, to feel that transformation again. To have an answer to a question I’d never dared ask out loud.
I sat on my bedroom floor again. No guided meditation this time. Just silence, and a focused, desperate intention. Take me back. Let me in.
The lurch was less violent this time, more like a swift, sinking drift. The lavender scent hit my nostrils. Weight. Softness. Curve.
I opened my eyes in her dark bedroom. Success.
This time, the panic was a minor tremor, quickly subdued by a sense of purpose. I went to her closet, but bypassed the crimson teddies and silk robes. I picked out a pair of dark, well-fitting jeans, a simple black long-sleeved tee, and a comfortable cardigan. I found sensible flats. I looked in the mirror: suburban mom ready for errands. Perfect.
Driving her car was another surge of alien-yet-familiar memory. My hands on the wheel were smaller, my perspective different. The weird feeling of a tight seat-belt resting in the valley of my chest. I made it to the mall, a nervous excitement humming in my veins. This was the test. To be in this body, in the world.
I went to a department store area I’d never dared enter before: the women’s lingerie section. Surrounded by racks of lace and satin, my face flushed. But no one looked twice at a woman browsing bras. The freedom was dizzying. I selected a few sets—a delicate sky blue, a bold leopard print—using her sense of size and fit. I held them up, imagining them on this body. It was a shopping trip from a dream.
Then, emboldened, I went to the trendy clothing stores. I tried on flowy dresses that swirled around my knees, a tight leather skirt that made my heart race, and a ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater that felt like a cloud. In the fitting room, under the fluorescent lights, I just stared. I turned, examining the lines of her—my—body from every angle. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was a kind of reverence.
The final stop took every ounce of my courage. A sex shop, discreetly located on the outskirts of the mall. A bell chimed as I walked in.
The girl behind the counter looked up. She was probably in her early twenties, with dyed black hair, a septum piercing, and an impressive array of tattoos snaking up her arms. Goth, cool, and utterly intimidating.
“Help you find anything?” she asked, her voice not unfriendly.
“Just… browsing,” I said, Mrs. Henderson’s voice coming out as a shy squeak. I wandered the aisles, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of it all. I felt the Goth girl’s eyes on me, the conservative cardigan-clad mom in a den of iniquity.
Eventually, curiosity overcoming shame, I picked up a small, sleek vibrator, examining it like it was an artifact from another planet.
“Good choice,” the girl said, appearing at the end of the aisle with a knowing smile. “That one’s discreet but powerful. Popular with… beginners. But definitely something you could handle.”
Our eyes met. Hers were sharp, kohl-rimmed, and saw way too much. A faint, amused smile played on her lips. “You seem different today, Mrs. Henderson.”
I nearly dropped the vibrator. She knew her? Of course she did. Small town. My blood ran cold, then hot. I managed a weak smile, channeling every ounce of innocent-neighbor energy I’d observed. “Just… exploring,” I whispered.
“Well, have fun,” she said, her smile turning into a full-blown grin. “Exploration is good for the soul.”
I paid in cash, my face burning, and fled.
Back in the sanctuary of her house, the adrenaline shifted into something slower, warmer, more insistent. The purchases were spread on her bed. The new lingerie. The sleek little toy from the shop.
I put on the sky blue set. It was even prettier on. The contrast against her skin was beautiful. I lay back on the bed, the memories of her own solo routines blending with my own frantic, curiosity. My touch was clumsy at first, then, guided by her body’s own innate knowledge, more sure. It was a bizarre, out-of-body experience that was intensely, overwhelmingly in-body. I was both the explorer and the territory. The pleasure, when it crested, was a shocking, all-consuming wave that left me gasping, shuddering, utterly spent in a way I’d never been in my own body.
In the heavy, satisfied silence that followed, lulled by the fading echoes of sensation and the soft cotton sheets, my borrowed eyes grew heavy. The last coherent thought I had was that this was the deepest, most content sleep I’d ever known.
***
I awoke to the sound of my own alarm blaring, sunlight once again piercing my own familiar, boring blinds. I was back in my scrawny body, tangled in my own sheets, home for the holiday break. For a moment, I just breathed, the phantom sensations of silk and release still tingling at the edges of my awareness. It was real. It had happened again.
And I already knew, with a certainty that scared and thrilled me, that I would be trying to go back as soon as I could.
The weekend stretched before me, a blank canvas of time. The two previous nights had been fleeting infiltrations. Today, I wanted more. I wanted a full day in her skin.
I sat on my floor as the first pale light of Saturday crept into my room. I focused, not on white light or my heart center, but on the memory of lavender and the feeling of satin against skin. The transition was smoother this time, less a lurch and more a conscious step through a door.
I arrived to the sound of running water and the humid, steamy scent of jasmine body wash. I was standing in her master bathroom, the glass shower door fogged, the silhouette of her body—my body—moving behind it. She was humming. I could feel the warm spray hitting my skin, the water sluicing over curves that were now mine. The sensation was immediate and intensely vivid. My hands—her hands—lifted almost of their own accord, slick with soap, gliding over the swell of breasts, the dip of a waist, the smooth plane of a stomach. It was a ritual washing, but for me, it was a breathtaking exploration.
The heat, the steam, the sheer physicality of it coiled a tight, urgent need low in my belly. As the water rained down, I let my hands wander with purpose, no longer just washing, but seeking. I leaned back against the cool tile, my breath hitching as my fingers found their way, guided by a knowledge both borrowed and innate. The climax in the shower was swift and shocking, a white-hot burst that made my knees weak, my stolen cries swallowed by the drumming water. I slumped, panting, the pleasure still echoing through nerve endings that weren't originally mine. It was incredible.
After, wrapped in a plush towel, I felt a strange, powerful confidence. I took my time. I blow-dried her auburn hair into the soft, shiny waves she usually wore. I applied makeup with the practiced ease her memories provided, creating that public-facing mask of friendly, approachable prettiness. I dressed in one of her nice casual outfits—dark jeans, a cream-colored V-neck sweater that clung in a flattering way, knee-high boots. I looked in the mirror and saw the perfect image of the neighbor my step mom would happily invite in for coffee.
The bold idea struck me then, sparkling with risk and a perverse curiosity. I would visit my house.
I walked the familiar short path, her heels clicking a confident rhythm on the sidewalk my own sneakers usually scuffed. Ringing my own doorbell was surreal.
My step mom answered, her face lighting up in a warm smile. “Lydia! What a nice surprise. Come in, come in! I was just about to have some coffee.”
“I was just out for a walk and thought I’d say hi,” I said, sliding effortlessly into Mrs. Henderson’s—Lydia’s—warm, slightly musical tone. It was eerie how easily it came, like putting on a well-worn coat from her memories of countless similar chats.
I followed my step mom into the kitchen, the familiar space looking different from this vantage point. She poured coffee, chattering about her plans to re-organize the garage. I nodded and smiled, sipping from the mug, the coffee tasting subtly different with her palate. I was leveraging her memories constantly: the way she held a mug, her opinion on the new neighborhood landscaping, her polite laugh. I was a puppet, and Lydia’s life was the set of strings.
"My son's back from college and could use something to do" my step mom asked with a conspiratorial wink. “Want me to send him over to help with some house work?”
“Oh that'd be perfect,” I heard myself say, and had to suppress a hysterical giggle. “He's a real sweet boy.”
After about twenty minutes of this bizarre charade, I saw my chance. “Would you mind if I excused myself to use your powder room?” I asked.
“Of course, you know where it is!”
I didn’t go to the downstairs powder room. With a thief’s heart, I padded quietly up the stairs, past the framed family photos that now seemed like artifacts from another life. My bedroom door was ajar. I peeked in.
There, sprawled on my bed, fully dressed and snoring softly, was me. Or rather, my empty body. It was the strangest sight of all—seeing my own lanky form from the outside, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over my forehead. A profound sense of dislocation washed over me, followed by a sharp, devious thrill.
I slipped inside and closed the door silently. I stared at my own sleeping face. Then, moving quickly, I pulled out the phone from my borrowed purse—Lydia’s phone. I propped it up on my desk, angled perfectly toward the bed, and hit record.
Then I approached the bed. My own body smelled like my cheap deodorant and the fabric of my old comforter. Gently, I unbuckled my own jeans. My hands, small and soft, worked with a clinical curiosity that was also deeply erotic. I gave my unconscious self a handjob, watching the physiological reaction with a detached, fascinated awe. My shaft thick and hard between my hands. Leaning down, I then took myself into my mouth—her mouth. The sensations were a confusing feedback loop: the physical act, the visual of my own body, the knowledge of who was doing it. It was narcissistic, invasive, and unbearably hot. My body gave in, shooting a small load that covered my face and I made sure the phone captured it all.
I quickly cleaned everything up with a tissue from my nightstand, redid my jeans, and grabbed the phone. I stopped the recording. With shaky fingers, I airdropped the video file to my own phone, which was lying on the nightstand next to my sleeping head. I then meticulously deleted the video from Lydia’s phone and cleared the ‘recently deleted’ folder. The evidence was now only in my possession.
Taking a steadying breath, I smoothed down my sweater and left my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I rejoined my mom in the kitchen, my cheeks flushed.
“Everything alright? You look a little flushed,” my mom said.
“Fine! Just a bit warm,” I said, forcing another smile. I snuck glances at my mom as we talked, seeing the familiar lines of her face from this new, feminine perspective. I was hyper-aware of the body I inhabited, the sway of Lydia’s hair, the brush of her sweater against her breasts—my breasts—as I moved.
The afternoon wore on in a surreal bubble. I was trying to decide what to do next with this borrowed life. Go shopping again? Experiment more at her cam setup? The possibilities were a dizzying array in my mind.
And then, without warning, it happened. A sudden, tugging sensation behind my navel, like a rubber band stretched too far and snapping back.
***
I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was on my back in my own bed, the afternoon sun now at a different angle. My body felt instantly familiar and was overcome with a feeling of afterglow. The phantom sensations of the shower, of my own touch, still buzzed on my skin like a fading sunburn.
The memory of the video jolted me into action. I scrambled for my phone. There it was. A file received from Lydia Henderson’s device. I didn’t open it. I just stared at the filename, a cold sweat breaking out. It was real. All of it.
I changed my clothes in a frenzy, pulling on a fresh shirt and jeans, my mind reeling. I had to see. I had to know if she was still there.
I practically flew down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the doorway to the living room. My step mom was still there, on the sofa.
And sitting across from her, sipping the last of her coffee, was Mrs. Henderson—Lydia. She looked perfectly composed, her makeup fresh, her smile easy.
My step mom turned. “Oh, speak of the devil! Lydia was just telling me about her new rose bushes.”
Lydia’s eyes met mine. Those green-flecked hazel eyes held mine for a long, deliberate second. Then, as my step mom glanced down to pick up her own mug, Lydia’s expression shifted. The pleasant neighborly mask dissolved into something else—something knowing, sharp, and utterly mischievous. She gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
Then, her hand resting casually on her knee, hidden from my step mom’s view by the coffee table, she made a quick, unmistakable motion: her fist pumping up and down in the universal sign for a jerk-off.
My blood turned to ice. My stomach dropped through the floor.
She knew. Somehow she knew.
Before I could react, even to breathe, she smiled sweetly at my step mom, stood up, and said, “Well, I should let you two get on with your weekend. Thanks for the coffee, Ellen!”
She walked past me to the door, her perfume trailing behind her. As she reached for the knob, she paused, looked back over her shoulder directly at me, and mouthed silent words with a smirk that was anything but innocent:
“I hope you had fun.”
***
The meditation was a failure. For three nights straight, I sat on my floor until my legs cramped, focusing every ounce of my will on the memory of lavender and silk. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of my own thoughts and the growing dread that my window into Lydia’s world had slammed shut forever.
So when my step-mom Ellen cheerfully announced on Tuesday that she’d “volunteered” me to help Mrs. Henderson haul some old boxes to her attic, my blood ran cold. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a reckoning.
I stood on Lydia’s porch, my heart trying to batter its way through my ribs. I rang the bell.
She answered almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting. She wore simple leggings and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. No makeup. She looked like the mom next door, but her eyes held a storm.
“Come in,” she said, her voice flat. I shuffled inside, the familiar scent of her home now feeling like a crime scene.
The door closed behind me with a soft, final click. We stood in her foyer. The air was thick with unspoken things.
She crossed her arms, fixing me with a hard stare. “So. You want to tell me what the hell that was? Snooping through my things? Wearing my clothes? Going on my stream?” Her tone was sharp, accusatory. “That is some seriously messed up, perverted shit.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My face burned with shame and terror. I was going to be arrested. My life was over. I managed a strangled, “I… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Henderson, I don’t know what—”
She burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a cruel laugh, but a rich, genuine sound that filled the hallway. The angry mask melted away, replaced by sparkling amusement. “Oh, god, look at your face!” she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Priceless. I’m just messing with you, kid. Everything’s fine.”
I sagged against the wall, lightheaded with relief. “W-what?”
“Everything’s fine,” she repeated, grinning. “Well, as fine as it can be when you find out your neighbor’s been borrowing your body like a rental car.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “C’mon. I made iced tea.”
In a daze, I followed her. She poured two glasses, leaning against the counter. “So,” she began, her tone now conspiratorial. “That goth chick at Sinister Delights? Cute, right? She texted me after you left, said I seemed ‘different.’ More fun.”
I could only stare, my mind struggling to catch up.
“And the mall,” she continued, sipping her drink. “Good choices. The leopard print? Bold. I’d have never picked it for myself, but I kinda love it.”
I just held the cold glass, unable to process her words.
“And the cam show,” she continued, leaning against the counter, a sly smile on her lips. “Shy Girl Next Door? That was a brilliant angle. The nervous glances, the slightly clumsy moves… it was authentic. Viewers ate it up. My tips were 30% higher than usual.”
Her expression softened, turning serious for a moment. “That, you do have to keep to yourself. My… professional life. That’s a non-negotiable secret.”
“Of course,” I blurted. “Never. I swear.”
“I believe you,” she said, and she seemed to mean it. “And the video? Of me… you know, with you?” She shook her head, a faint blush on her cheeks that wasn’t entirely from amusement. “You can keep that. Consider it a… weird souvenir.”
The casual way she said it was staggering. “Why… why are you being so cool about this?” I finally managed to whisper.
Lydia sighed, setting her glass down. She looked at me, her gaze turning inward and serious. “Because it wasn’t just you in my head. When you left… something stayed. A little echo. A feeling. I can’t access your memories, but I can feel… a presence. A younger, curious, kinda horny male presence. It’s faint, like a radio playing in another room, but it’s there. It’s why I knew it was you at the door. I felt the echo… resonate.”
She walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. It was a strangely companionable gesture. “I don’t feel violated. I feel… like I owe you a favor. You left a piece of yourself here, and I feel like I should treat you like a new found brother. So.” She shrugged, a new, determined glint in her eye. “I’m going to do you a solid. One for the road, since you're about to go back to college and can’t seem to get back in on your own.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she took my hand. “Come on.”
She led me, stunned and silent, to her bedroom. She pointed to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”
I sat. She went to her dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out the leopard print lingerie I’d bought. She gave me a wink, then disappeared into the walk-in closet to change.
When she emerged, my breath caught. The leopard print was even more stunning on her when she wore it with intention. The bralette pushed her breasts up, the high-cut briefs accentuating the curve of her hips. She looked like a predator, confident and sleek.
“Lie back,” she instructed softly.
I did. She knelt on the floor between my knees, her hands deftly undoing my jeans. This was nothing like the frantic, secretive act in my bedroom. This was slow, deliberate, and performed with a masterful skill that had me trembling in seconds. Her mouth was hot and knowing, her hands roaming my thighs and stomach. She took her time, bringing me to the edge twice with torturous skill before pulling back with a soft laugh. “Not yet.”
Then she stood up, shimmied out of the briefs, and climbed onto the bed, straddling me. She guided me inside her, sinking down with a slow, deep sigh that was part pleasure, part relief.
The sex was nothing I had ever experienced. It was passionate but controlled, intense but deeply communicative. She rode me with a powerful, rolling rhythm, her eyes locked on mine. She leaned down, her breasts brushing my chest, and kissed me—a deep, searching kiss that tasted of iced tea and mint. The leopard print lace scraped deliciously against my skin.
“You feel that?” she murmured against my lips, her hips never stopping their movement. “That’s all you. That echo. It’s like I know what you like before you do.”
She was right. Every shift, every touch, was perfectly aligned with my building pleasure. It was as if she was reading the ghost I’d left inside her. The climax, when it hit me, was a cataclysmic wave that tore a raw, guttural shout from my throat. She followed me over a moment later, clenching around me, her own cry muffled in the crook of my neck.
We lay together for a long time, tangled and sweating, the scent of sex and her perfume filling the air. She eventually slipped off me and curled against my side. “A proper goodbye,” she whispered, before her breathing evened out into sleep.
***
I woke up alone in my own bed. The gray light of dawn filtered in. The sheets smelled of my own laundry detergent. For a dizzying moment, I was sure it had all been another impossibly vivid dream.
Then I felt the pleasant ache in my muscles. I saw the faint, smudged trace of lipstick—a peachy nude, Morning Kiss—on my collar.
And I remembered her words. You left a piece of yourself here.
That evening, restless and haunted, I sat on my bedroom floor once more. Not trying to reach for Lydia. Just trying to quiet the echo. My consciousness drifted, untethered, through the familiar walls of my house.
I floated into the master bedroom. My step mom, Ellen, was there, sitting at her vanity in a robe, carefully applying night cream. I hovered, a silent, invisible observer. She hummed a tune from some old musical, her face relaxed and kind in the soft light.
The thought, sudden and unbidden, shimmered in my non-corporeal mind. A new door. A different set of strings to pull. The curiosity, now awakened and fed, was a hungry thing.
I floated closer, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed.
The question hung in the ether, heavy with possibility.
Do I want to?
possession
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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.
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Selimf18 · 02 Jan 2026 -
Your friend Michelle discovers that she can astral project, but you don't believe her at first. To prove it to you, she decides to swap spirits with her cat, and the proof is pretty convincing! However, when Michelle leaves to explore the world for an hour in the cat's body, things take an unexpected twist with the cat in her body....
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I was lounging on our battered sofa, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, when Michelle burst through the front door, her brown eyes wide with an energy I rarely saw outside of a soccer match.
“You are not going to believe what happened,” she said, tossing her keys onto the counter with a clatter.
“You finally won the lottery and we can move out of this dump?” I asked, not looking up.
“Better. Way better.” She plopped down next to me, making the old springs squeak. “I figured out how to… leave my body.”
That got my attention. I lowered my phone. “Michelle, if this is about that weird incense you bought last week, I told you, it just smells like a forest fire.”
“No, listen! It’s called astral projection. I was meditating, and suddenly, I was floating near the ceiling, looking down at myself on the floor. And then… I figured out I could pull other spirits out, too. Swap them around.”
I stared at her. My roommate was many things—a fantastic cook, a loyal friend, a terrifying opponent in Mario Kart—but she wasn’t prone to outright delusions. “Okay. Prove it.”
She grinned, a brilliant, challenging flash of white teeth. “How?”
My eyes drifted to the other occupant of the room. Buttercup, Michelle’s fluffy orange tabby, was curled in a sunbeam on the rug, purring like a tiny engine. That cat adored me. More than most animals did, actually. It was weirdly flattering.
“Swap with Buttercup,” I said, gesturing with my chin. “Right now. Let’s see it.”
Michelle’s grin didn’t falter. “You got it.” She sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the cat. She closed her eyes, took a few deep, deliberate breaths, and her body went unnaturally still. A soft, almost imperceptible shimmer seemed to pass from her to the cat.
Buttercup, who had been sleeping, suddenly jerked. The cat stood up, stretched with an oddly stiff, deliberate motion, and then looked directly at me with Michelle’s intense, intelligent gaze in its green eyes. It then promptly tried to lick its own shoulder, overbalanced, and tumbled onto its side with a soft mrrp.
Meanwhile, Michelle’s body slumped. Then it slowly got to its hands and knees. It looked around the room with wide, confused eyes, then focused on Buttercup’s body. It—she—the Michelle-body let out a plaintive, confused …
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wow i absolutely loved this one. Hope there will be more!
so cute and interesting, lookin forward to more