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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.
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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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Plot
Your body was stolen by a super busty Goth Girl. You now have to live her life. You find out you switched because her family was cursed to give their bodies to a stranger of the opposite sex on their 21st birthday. Emily just chose you at random.
Characters
Emily Lunawood: The goth girl who stole your body. She is wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt with a black lace thong under it, a revealing top with a black lace bra under it and black high heels when she steals your body. She has black hair with red dyed tips, it goes to her waist.
You: An average looking man, you have brown hair and blue eyes. Your slightly muscular.
One moment, I was pressing my palm to the mirror, mesmerized by the way my reflection moved without me. The next—reality twisted, inverted. A dizzying lurch, and I was staring out from the glass at my own horrified face.
Oh God.
My body—Emily’s body now—was already backing away, her—my—lips curling into a smirk that felt alien on my features. "Enjoy the new life," she said in my voice, rolling my shoulders like she was testing them out. "Trust me, you’ll need it."
"Switch us back!" I snapped, but the words came out in her higher, smoother tone—hers now. My hands—slender, unfamiliar—clenched at my sides.
She just smirked, my smirk, and reached for the jacket I’d draped over the chair. "Check the purse, sweetheart. You’ll definitely want to." Then, with a wink that made my stomach twist, she was gone, the door slamming behind her before I could even think to chase her—me.
Nausea rolled through me as I grabbed the leather handbag by the dresser. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking as I pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. Emily Lunawood. 21. 309 Cedar Lane.
The drive was a nightmare of panicked swerves and clumsy turns; the car, an automatic, felt foreign without my stick shift to grip. Her—my—apartment was all soft grays and jasmine in the air, pristine except for the open notebook on the kitchen counter.
A single note sat beside it, written in fluid, looping script.
Sorry to whoever is now me, it read, my family was cursed years ago. On the 21st birthday, we are forced to seek out someone of the opposite sex and give them our bodies. You will be given my memories the first night you sleep. Signed Emily Lunawood.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Of course. I thumbed open the notebook—passwords, addresses, even a meticulously planned gym schedule—before collapsing onto the couch, my (her) head in my (her) hands.
The bed was too plush, the sheets too silky, but exhaustion won out. I fell into the dark, and when dreams came, they weren’t mine.
They were hers—childhood summers, first heartbreaks, whispered family warnings that the curse had no loopholes, no way back. And worst of all? The unshakable knowledge that no one in the Lunawood bloodline had ever escaped it.
The first thing I registered as consciousness crawled back was the delicious ache between my thighs and the whisper of stockings against freshly shaved skin. My fingers—her fingers—traced the outline of fishnets stretched taut over smooth legs, the crisscross pattern pressing kisses into flesh that wasn’t mine. A gasp caught in my throat as I realized the skirt riding up was obscenely short, the lace of my thong riding high enough to tease at the curve of my—her—ass. The top barely contained the swell of cleavage spilling over a black lace bra, the fabric sheer enough to outline hardened nipples.
I shifted—God, even the movement felt different—and nearly toppled off the bed when the spiked heels caught in the sheets. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a punch to the gut: smudged eyeliner, swollen lips bitten red, black hair cascading over bare shoulders with crimson streaks blazing through it like warning flares.
And the worst part? The thrill zipping down my spine at how good it all felt.
I got up and went to a mirror.
The mirror showed me—her—in full, and I barely recognized the predatory amusement in my new eyes. My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, every unfamiliar contour both alien and intoxicating. The lace of my bra dug into soft flesh when I inhaled sharply, my nails biting crescents into my palms—just to feel something real.
A slow, involuntary roll of my hips sent a jolt through me—her body knew exactly what it wanted. The fishnets rasped against my thighs as I spread my legs slightly, just enough to feel the damp heat pooling where the thong cut in.
Jesus.
I watched in horrified fascination as my reflection’s tongue swiped over painted lips, my own breath coming faster as I fought the urge to slide a hand lower. This wasn’t me—
But the thought shattered when I arched my back experimentally, and the bra’s clasp strained against the motion. A whimper escaped me—high, breathy, embarrassingly feminine—as my nipple peaked tighter against the lace, the sensation so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
The purse Emily left gaped open on the bed, a glint of metal catching my eye. I reached for it with shaking fingers and pulled out a slim silver vibrator, still slick with—
Oh God, she’d been using this right before swapping us.
The realization burned through me hotter than shame. My reflection’s pupils blew wide as my thumb brushed the damp button, the device humming to life with a predatory purr. The sound alone dragged a moan from my throat—her throat.
I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop.
The vibrator pressed against my inner thigh, the vibrations rippling up through the fishnets like a live wire. Every rational thought short-circuited when I dragged it higher, the lace of my panties already soaked through.
The mirror showed it all—the way my hips jerked when the buzzing found my clit, the obscene glide of the toy through slick folds as I fucked myself with it in frantic, shallow thrusts.
"Fuck—fuck—" My voice was a broken thing, her voice, her pleasure, even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t right.
But God, it felt like heaven.
The orgasm hit like a train, my back slamming against the vanity as my legs gave out. Pleasure pulsed through me in dizzying waves, my reflection’s mouth slack with ecstasy, mascara streaking down flushed cheeks.
I slid to the floor, trembling, the vibrator still buzzing weakly against my thigh.
What the hell was I becoming?
The question pulsed through me like a second heartbeat as I stared at my reflection lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. The need to feel more, to explore this stolen flesh, burned hotter than reason.
The top was the first to go. I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, letting the silky material pool around my waist before sliding it the rest of the way down.
With shaking hands, I reached up and tugged at the straps of the lace bra, seeing in the process a 42F tag. The fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, setting my full breasts free. They bounced slightly with the motion, nipples hardening immediately in the cool air. A shiver ran through me as my fingers brushed against one, the contact sending a jolt straight to my still-throbbing core.
The fishnets came next. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, rolling them down with slow, deliberate movements. The material clung stubbornly, the crisscross pattern stretching then snapping back against my hips with each inch exposed. Smooth skin emerged beneath, freshly waxed and still tingling from earlier.
The thong was soaked through, the damp lace clinging obscenely when I finally shimmied out of it. My fingers trailed along the inside of my thighs before pausing at the apex - so smooth, so incredibly different. The scent of my own arousal filled the air as I tentatively spread my legs wider, watching in the mirror as the evidence of my pleasure glistened under soft light.
I ran trembling hands over my new body - from the dip of my waist up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling peaked nipples that responded eagerly to every touch. A breathy moan escaped my lips as one hand slid lower, fingertips brushing through damp curls before sinking into slick heat.
This isn't me.
This feels so good.
The contradictions warred in my mind even as my body arched into my own touch, hips rocking against my fingers with increasing urgency. The mirror showed it all - showed her - lost in pleasure, mouth open in silent ecstasy as fingers worked furiously between spread thighs.
When the wave crashed over me this time, I barely recognized my own scream.
The shower did nothing to wash away the surreal thrill of my stolen skin—every inch of Emily’s body still buzzed unnervingly under my touch. Steam fogged the mirror as I toweled off, deliberately running my (her) hands down the unfamiliar slope of narrow waist and curved hips. The face staring back—sharp cheekbones, violet eyes heavy with something darkly knowing—still sent a jolt through me.
I knotted the silk robe too tight, ignoring how it barely covered her thighs. Luckily thanks to her memories, I knew she didn't have any close relationships. I also knew that she would find me again soon, since the curse had a second component. The swapped individuals would fall in love and help continue the family line.
Emily—me now—had left more than just her lipsticks and half-used perfume. The sleek black phone buzzed beneath my fingers, unlocked by my—her—face. I swallowed hard. Time to take inventory of my new life.
Bank Account
The app opened instantly. I blinked.
$84,756.22
I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Savings account? Another $312K. I tapped through transaction history—monthly deposits from something called Lunawood Holdings for $15K, along with smaller payments labeled consulting fees. What the hell kind of consulting did she do?
Social Media
The first tab I tapped was Instagram—her Instagram. My stomach clenched as the app loaded, revealing a digital shrine to seduction. The blue checkmark was inevitable. The bio burned into my retinas: 💋 Your Next Bad Decision 💋, all smirking lips and dangerous promise.
The feed was a slow, deliberate burn—no accidents here. Every shot was a masterclass in teasing control. Silk sheets tangled around one bare thigh, the shadow-dipped dip of her spine as she arched over a hotel balcony, a crimson-lacquered nail dragging down a champagne flute. No laughter, no adrenaline—just heat, simmering in every flick of her wrist, every half-lidded glance at the camera like she could already feel hands on her skin. The captions were sparse, deliberate: "Late nights only", "Tell me how badly you want it", "Good boys don't get to touch."
Every post wasn’t just a demand to look—it was a dare to want.
Twitter was a constant stream of punchy one-liners and suggestive stunt reels. TikTok was a minefield of temptation—short, scorching loops of Emily arching against silk bedsheets, biting her lower lip in teasing slow-motion, her fingers tracing idle circles over the lace hem of lingerie before cutting to black. No laughter, no wasted movement—just a half-second of exposed thigh, the barest glimpse of teeth grazing skin, all set to a pulse-heavy soundtrack that left you craving another replay. Every clip was a dare wrapped in five seconds of sin.
OnlyFans
The icon made my fingers hesitate. Of course she had one. I tapped it—password already saved—and nearly choked.
$27K last month. $42K the month before. A catalog of paywalled galleries—Mistress in Marble, Bondage & Breakfast, each one featuring me now, in poses so sinful my pulse stuttered. There I was, sprawled across black satin sheets, fingers tangled in my own hair as I arched toward the camera, lips parted just enough to tease. Another series showed me kneeling in thigh-high stockings, the garter straps biting into creamy skin while I stared down the lens with heavy-lidded authority.
Subscriptions
Then came the subscriptions. Of course she had every premium streaming service—Netflix, HBO, the works—but the real fun started scrolling down. Paid access to high-end porn sites, all sleek branding and "exclusive content." A membership to Velvet Orbit, some kind of luxury erotic streaming platform with thumbnails featuring tangled limbs under silk sheets and promises of "real couples, real desires."
I was closing out of the accounts when I heard it—three sharp raps against the bedroom wall, followed by two slower ones. A pattern. Deliberate.
My breath caught. That wasn’t the front door.
Emily’s memories surfaced like fragments of a dream—pressed against this same wall, her fingers finding the nearly invisible seam in the wallpaper, pushing just so—
A hidden door clicked open.
I froze as the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for shoulders. And there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that matched the one I’d worn earlier, stood me.
My old body looked different now. The way he held himself was all Emily; the cocky tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his thigh. His shirt hung open, revealing the chest I used to know every scar and freckle of.
“Miss me already?” His voice was mine, but the cadence, the purr—hers.
“You—” My throat tightened. I hadn’t realized how much taller I used to be until I had to look up at myself.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger—my finger—and stepped inside, the hidden door whispering shut behind him. “Rule one of the curse: no take-backs.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering where the robe gaped at my chest. “Though I do like what I see.”
A flush burned up my neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He prowled closer, close enough that I caught my old cologne on his skin. “I was hoping you’d find the toys first.” His grin widened as my cheeks heated. “Oh, you did.”
I backed up until the vanity dug into my spine. “Why are you here?”
His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, close enough for his borrowed lips to brush my ear. "Because you will be my bride and help continue the line as per the second half of the curse."
A few years later
The pain was unbearable—a searing, primal fire tearing through me with every contraction. My nails dug into the hospital bed sheets, sweat gluing Emily’s—no, mine now—long black hair to my face.
"You’re doing amazing," he murmured, squeezing my hand. Even now, with my old face lined with worry, the way he tilted his head was pure Emily—that same confident smirk tempered by something softer. The silver band on his finger glinted under the harsh hospital lights, matching the one nestled securely against my own ring finger.
"Shut up," I gasped, arching off the bed as another wave hit. "This is your fault.*"
He just chuckled, brushing damp strands back from my forehead. "Our family now, sweetheart." His thumb traced my knuckles. "And trust me, when you hold her, you won’t regret a damn thing."
The nurse between my legs looked up, grinning. "One more push, Mom. She’s right there."
I barely had time to scream before the pressure shattered into sudden, dizzying relief. A fragile, furious wail filled the room, and then—
Her.
Tiny. Perfect. Swaddled in a pink blanket and placed carefully against my chest, her little face scrunched up in outrage. Dark lashes fluttered against petal-soft cheeks, her miniature fingers curling reflexively around mine.
"Congratulations," the nurse murmured. "She’s beautiful."
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of her was terrifying, intoxicating—mine.
"She has your nose," he whispered, bending to press a kiss to my temple. His—my old—calloused finger traced the baby’s shock of dark hair. "But your mother’s eyes." His voice cracked. "God, look at her."
The baby blinked up at us, her tiny mouth working silently before she settled with a sigh. The monitors beeped steadily, the world narrowing to this moment—this impossible, inevitable moment.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, euphoric, and met my husband’s gaze.
"Worth it?" he teased, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I clutched our daughter tighter—the next in the Lunawood line—and laughed through the tears.
Your body was stolen by a super busty Goth Girl. You now have to live her life. You find out you switched because her family was cursed to give their bodies to a stranger of the opposite sex on their 21st birthday. Emily just chose you at random.
Characters
Emily Lunawood: The goth girl who stole your body. She is wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt with a black lace thong under it, a revealing top with a black lace bra under it and black high heels when she steals your body. She has black hair with red dyed tips, it goes to her waist.
You: An average looking man, you have brown hair and blue eyes. Your slightly muscular.
One moment, I was pressing my palm to the mirror, mesmerized by the way my reflection moved without me. The next—reality twisted, inverted. A dizzying lurch, and I was staring out from the glass at my own horrified face.
Oh God.
My body—Emily’s body now—was already backing away, her—my—lips curling into a smirk that felt alien on my features. "Enjoy the new life," she said in my voice, rolling my shoulders like she was testing them out. "Trust me, you’ll need it."
"Switch us back!" I snapped, but the words came out in her higher, smoother tone—hers now. My hands—slender, unfamiliar—clenched at my sides.
She just smirked, my smirk, and reached for the jacket I’d draped over the chair. "Check the purse, sweetheart. You’ll definitely want to." Then, with a wink that made my stomach twist, she was gone, the door slamming behind her before I could even think to chase her—me.
Nausea rolled through me as I grabbed the leather handbag by the dresser. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking as I pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. Emily Lunawood. 21. 309 Cedar Lane.
The drive was a nightmare of panicked swerves and clumsy turns; the car, an automatic, felt foreign without my stick shift to grip. Her—my—apartment was all soft grays and jasmine in the air, pristine except for the open notebook on the kitchen counter.
A single note sat beside it, written in fluid, looping script.
Sorry to whoever is now me, it read, my family was cursed years ago. On the 21st birthday, we are forced to seek out someone of the opposite sex and give them our bodies. You will be given my memories the first night you sleep. Signed Emily Lunawood.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Of course. I thumbed open the notebook—passwords, addresses, even a meticulously planned gym schedule—before collapsing onto the couch, my (her) head in my (her) hands.
The bed was too plush, the sheets too silky, but exhaustion won out. I fell into the dark, and when dreams came, they weren’t mine.
They were hers—childhood summers, first heartbreaks, whispered family warnings that the curse had no loopholes, no way back. And worst of all? The unshakable knowledge that no one in the Lunawood bloodline had ever escaped it.
The first thing I registered as consciousness crawled back was the delicious ache between my thighs and the whisper of stockings against freshly shaved skin. My fingers—her fingers—traced the outline of fishnets stretched taut over smooth legs, the crisscross pattern pressing kisses into flesh that wasn’t mine. A gasp caught in my throat as I realized the skirt riding up was obscenely short, the lace of my thong riding high enough to tease at the curve of my—her—ass. The top barely contained the swell of cleavage spilling over a black lace bra, the fabric sheer enough to outline hardened nipples.
I shifted—God, even the movement felt different—and nearly toppled off the bed when the spiked heels caught in the sheets. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a punch to the gut: smudged eyeliner, swollen lips bitten red, black hair cascading over bare shoulders with crimson streaks blazing through it like warning flares.
And the worst part? The thrill zipping down my spine at how good it all felt.
I got up and went to a mirror.
The mirror showed me—her—in full, and I barely recognized the predatory amusement in my new eyes. My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, every unfamiliar contour both alien and intoxicating. The lace of my bra dug into soft flesh when I inhaled sharply, my nails biting crescents into my palms—just to feel something real.
A slow, involuntary roll of my hips sent a jolt through me—her body knew exactly what it wanted. The fishnets rasped against my thighs as I spread my legs slightly, just enough to feel the damp heat pooling where the thong cut in.
Jesus.
I watched in horrified fascination as my reflection’s tongue swiped over painted lips, my own breath coming faster as I fought the urge to slide a hand lower. This wasn’t me—
But the thought shattered when I arched my back experimentally, and the bra’s clasp strained against the motion. A whimper escaped me—high, breathy, embarrassingly feminine—as my nipple peaked tighter against the lace, the sensation so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
The purse Emily left gaped open on the bed, a glint of metal catching my eye. I reached for it with shaking fingers and pulled out a slim silver vibrator, still slick with—
Oh God, she’d been using this right before swapping us.
The realization burned through me hotter than shame. My reflection’s pupils blew wide as my thumb brushed the damp button, the device humming to life with a predatory purr. The sound alone dragged a moan from my throat—her throat.
I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop.
The vibrator pressed against my inner thigh, the vibrations rippling up through the fishnets like a live wire. Every rational thought short-circuited when I dragged it higher, the lace of my panties already soaked through.
The mirror showed it all—the way my hips jerked when the buzzing found my clit, the obscene glide of the toy through slick folds as I fucked myself with it in frantic, shallow thrusts.
"Fuck—fuck—" My voice was a broken thing, her voice, her pleasure, even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t right.
But God, it felt like heaven.
The orgasm hit like a train, my back slamming against the vanity as my legs gave out. Pleasure pulsed through me in dizzying waves, my reflection’s mouth slack with ecstasy, mascara streaking down flushed cheeks.
I slid to the floor, trembling, the vibrator still buzzing weakly against my thigh.
What the hell was I becoming?
The question pulsed through me like a second heartbeat as I stared at my reflection lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. The need to feel more, to explore this stolen flesh, burned hotter than reason.
The top was the first to go. I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, letting the silky material pool around my waist before sliding it the rest of the way down.
With shaking hands, I reached up and tugged at the straps of the lace bra, seeing in the process a 42F tag. The fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, setting my full breasts free. They bounced slightly with the motion, nipples hardening immediately in the cool air. A shiver ran through me as my fingers brushed against one, the contact sending a jolt straight to my still-throbbing core.
The fishnets came next. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, rolling them down with slow, deliberate movements. The material clung stubbornly, the crisscross pattern stretching then snapping back against my hips with each inch exposed. Smooth skin emerged beneath, freshly waxed and still tingling from earlier.
The thong was soaked through, the damp lace clinging obscenely when I finally shimmied out of it. My fingers trailed along the inside of my thighs before pausing at the apex - so smooth, so incredibly different. The scent of my own arousal filled the air as I tentatively spread my legs wider, watching in the mirror as the evidence of my pleasure glistened under soft light.
I ran trembling hands over my new body - from the dip of my waist up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling peaked nipples that responded eagerly to every touch. A breathy moan escaped my lips as one hand slid lower, fingertips brushing through damp curls before sinking into slick heat.
This isn't me.
This feels so good.
The contradictions warred in my mind even as my body arched into my own touch, hips rocking against my fingers with increasing urgency. The mirror showed it all - showed her - lost in pleasure, mouth open in silent ecstasy as fingers worked furiously between spread thighs.
When the wave crashed over me this time, I barely recognized my own scream.
The shower did nothing to wash away the surreal thrill of my stolen skin—every inch of Emily’s body still buzzed unnervingly under my touch. Steam fogged the mirror as I toweled off, deliberately running my (her) hands down the unfamiliar slope of narrow waist and curved hips. The face staring back—sharp cheekbones, violet eyes heavy with something darkly knowing—still sent a jolt through me.
I knotted the silk robe too tight, ignoring how it barely covered her thighs. Luckily thanks to her memories, I knew she didn't have any close relationships. I also knew that she would find me again soon, since the curse had a second component. The swapped individuals would fall in love and help continue the family line.
Emily—me now—had left more than just her lipsticks and half-used perfume. The sleek black phone buzzed beneath my fingers, unlocked by my—her—face. I swallowed hard. Time to take inventory of my new life.
Bank Account
The app opened instantly. I blinked.
$84,756.22
I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Savings account? Another $312K. I tapped through transaction history—monthly deposits from something called Lunawood Holdings for $15K, along with smaller payments labeled consulting fees. What the hell kind of consulting did she do?
Social Media
The first tab I tapped was Instagram—her Instagram. My stomach clenched as the app loaded, revealing a digital shrine to seduction. The blue checkmark was inevitable. The bio burned into my retinas: 💋 Your Next Bad Decision 💋, all smirking lips and dangerous promise.
The feed was a slow, deliberate burn—no accidents here. Every shot was a masterclass in teasing control. Silk sheets tangled around one bare thigh, the shadow-dipped dip of her spine as she arched over a hotel balcony, a crimson-lacquered nail dragging down a champagne flute. No laughter, no adrenaline—just heat, simmering in every flick of her wrist, every half-lidded glance at the camera like she could already feel hands on her skin. The captions were sparse, deliberate: "Late nights only", "Tell me how badly you want it", "Good boys don't get to touch."
Every post wasn’t just a demand to look—it was a dare to want.
Twitter was a constant stream of punchy one-liners and suggestive stunt reels. TikTok was a minefield of temptation—short, scorching loops of Emily arching against silk bedsheets, biting her lower lip in teasing slow-motion, her fingers tracing idle circles over the lace hem of lingerie before cutting to black. No laughter, no wasted movement—just a half-second of exposed thigh, the barest glimpse of teeth grazing skin, all set to a pulse-heavy soundtrack that left you craving another replay. Every clip was a dare wrapped in five seconds of sin.
OnlyFans
The icon made my fingers hesitate. Of course she had one. I tapped it—password already saved—and nearly choked.
$27K last month. $42K the month before. A catalog of paywalled galleries—Mistress in Marble, Bondage & Breakfast, each one featuring me now, in poses so sinful my pulse stuttered. There I was, sprawled across black satin sheets, fingers tangled in my own hair as I arched toward the camera, lips parted just enough to tease. Another series showed me kneeling in thigh-high stockings, the garter straps biting into creamy skin while I stared down the lens with heavy-lidded authority.
Subscriptions
Then came the subscriptions. Of course she had every premium streaming service—Netflix, HBO, the works—but the real fun started scrolling down. Paid access to high-end porn sites, all sleek branding and "exclusive content." A membership to Velvet Orbit, some kind of luxury erotic streaming platform with thumbnails featuring tangled limbs under silk sheets and promises of "real couples, real desires."
I was closing out of the accounts when I heard it—three sharp raps against the bedroom wall, followed by two slower ones. A pattern. Deliberate.
My breath caught. That wasn’t the front door.
Emily’s memories surfaced like fragments of a dream—pressed against this same wall, her fingers finding the nearly invisible seam in the wallpaper, pushing just so—
A hidden door clicked open.
I froze as the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for shoulders. And there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that matched the one I’d worn earlier, stood me.
My old body looked different now. The way he held himself was all Emily; the cocky tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his thigh. His shirt hung open, revealing the chest I used to know every scar and freckle of.
“Miss me already?” His voice was mine, but the cadence, the purr—hers.
“You—” My throat tightened. I hadn’t realized how much taller I used to be until I had to look up at myself.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger—my finger—and stepped inside, the hidden door whispering shut behind him. “Rule one of the curse: no take-backs.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering where the robe gaped at my chest. “Though I do like what I see.”
A flush burned up my neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He prowled closer, close enough that I caught my old cologne on his skin. “I was hoping you’d find the toys first.” His grin widened as my cheeks heated. “Oh, you did.”
I backed up until the vanity dug into my spine. “Why are you here?”
His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, close enough for his borrowed lips to brush my ear. "Because you will be my bride and help continue the line as per the second half of the curse."
A few years later
The pain was unbearable—a searing, primal fire tearing through me with every contraction. My nails dug into the hospital bed sheets, sweat gluing Emily’s—no, mine now—long black hair to my face.
"You’re doing amazing," he murmured, squeezing my hand. Even now, with my old face lined with worry, the way he tilted his head was pure Emily—that same confident smirk tempered by something softer. The silver band on his finger glinted under the harsh hospital lights, matching the one nestled securely against my own ring finger.
"Shut up," I gasped, arching off the bed as another wave hit. "This is your fault.*"
He just chuckled, brushing damp strands back from my forehead. "Our family now, sweetheart." His thumb traced my knuckles. "And trust me, when you hold her, you won’t regret a damn thing."
The nurse between my legs looked up, grinning. "One more push, Mom. She’s right there."
I barely had time to scream before the pressure shattered into sudden, dizzying relief. A fragile, furious wail filled the room, and then—
Her.
Tiny. Perfect. Swaddled in a pink blanket and placed carefully against my chest, her little face scrunched up in outrage. Dark lashes fluttered against petal-soft cheeks, her miniature fingers curling reflexively around mine.
"Congratulations," the nurse murmured. "She’s beautiful."
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of her was terrifying, intoxicating—mine.
"She has your nose," he whispered, bending to press a kiss to my temple. His—my old—calloused finger traced the baby’s shock of dark hair. "But your mother’s eyes." His voice cracked. "God, look at her."
The baby blinked up at us, her tiny mouth working silently before she settled with a sigh. The monitors beeped steadily, the world narrowing to this moment—this impossible, inevitable moment.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, euphoric, and met my husband’s gaze.
"Worth it?" he teased, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I clutched our daughter tighter—the next in the Lunawood line—and laughed through the tears.
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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.
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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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Plot
Your body was stolen by a super busty Goth Girl. You now have to live her life. You find out you switched because her family was cursed to give their bodies to a stranger of the opposite sex on their 21st birthday. Emily just chose you at random.
Characters
Emily Lunawood: The goth girl who stole your body. She is wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt with a black lace thong under it, a revealing top with a black lace bra under it and black high heels when she steals your body. She has black hair with red dyed tips, it goes to her waist.
You: An average looking man, you have brown hair and blue eyes. Your slightly muscular.
One moment, I was pressing my palm to the mirror, mesmerized by the way my reflection moved without me. The next—reality twisted, inverted. A dizzying lurch, and I was staring out from the glass at my own horrified face.
Oh God.
My body—Emily’s body now—was already backing away, her—my—lips curling into a smirk that felt alien on my features. "Enjoy the new life," she said in my voice, rolling my shoulders like she was testing them out. "Trust me, you’ll need it."
"Switch us back!" I snapped, but the words came out in her higher, smoother tone—hers now. My hands—slender, unfamiliar—clenched at my sides.
She just smirked, my smirk, and reached for the jacket I’d draped over the chair. "Check the purse, sweetheart. You’ll definitely want to." Then, with a wink that made my stomach twist, she was gone, the door slamming behind her before I could even think to chase her—me.
Nausea rolled through me as I grabbed the leather handbag by the dresser. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking as I pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. Emily Lunawood. 21. 309 Cedar Lane.
The drive was a nightmare of panicked swerves and clumsy turns; the car, an automatic, felt foreign without my stick shift to grip. Her—my—apartment was all soft grays and jasmine in the air, pristine except for the open notebook on the kitchen counter.
A single note sat beside it, written in fluid, looping script.
Sorry to whoever is now me, it read, my family was cursed years ago. On the 21st birthday, we are forced to seek out someone of the opposite sex and give them our bodies. You will be given my memories the first night you sleep. Signed Emily Lunawood.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Of course. I thumbed open the notebook—passwords, addresses, even a meticulously planned gym schedule—before collapsing onto the couch, my (her) head in my (her) hands.
The bed was too plush, the sheets too silky, but exhaustion won out. I fell into the dark, and when dreams came, they weren’t mine.
They were hers—childhood summers, first heartbreaks, whispered family warnings that the curse had no loopholes, no way back. And worst of all? The unshakable knowledge that no one in the Lunawood bloodline had ever escaped it.
The first thing I registered as consciousness crawled back was the delicious ache between my thighs and the whisper of stockings against freshly shaved skin. My fingers—her fingers—traced the outline of fishnets stretched taut over smooth legs, the crisscross pattern pressing kisses into flesh that wasn’t mine. A gasp caught in my throat as I realized the skirt riding up was obscenely short, the lace of my thong riding high enough to tease at the curve of my—her—ass. The top barely contained the swell of cleavage spilling over a black lace bra, the fabric sheer enough to outline hardened nipples.
I shifted—God, even the movement felt different—and nearly toppled off the bed when the spiked heels caught in the sheets. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a punch to the gut: smudged eyeliner, swollen lips bitten red, black hair cascading over bare shoulders with crimson streaks blazing through it like warning flares.
And the worst part? The thrill zipping down my spine at how good it all felt.
I got up and went to a mirror.
The mirror showed me—her—in full, and I barely recognized the predatory amusement in my new eyes. My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, every unfamiliar contour both alien and intoxicating. The lace of my bra dug into soft flesh when I inhaled sharply, my nails biting crescents into my palms—just to feel something real.
A slow, involuntary roll of my hips sent a jolt through me—her body knew exactly what it wanted. The fishnets rasped against my thighs as I spread my legs slightly, just enough to feel the damp heat pooling where the thong cut in.
Jesus.
I watched in horrified fascination as my reflection’s tongue swiped over painted lips, my own breath coming faster as I fought the urge to slide a hand lower. This wasn’t me—
But the thought shattered when I arched my back experimentally, and the bra’s clasp strained against the motion. A whimper escaped me—high, breathy, embarrassingly feminine—as my nipple peaked tighter against the lace, the sensation so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
The purse Emily left gaped open on the bed, a glint of metal catching my eye. I reached for it with shaking fingers and pulled out a slim silver vibrator, still slick with—
Oh God, she’d been using this right before swapping us.
The realization burned through me hotter than shame. My reflection’s pupils blew wide as my thumb brushed the damp button, the device humming to life with a predatory purr. The sound alone dragged a moan from my throat—her throat.
I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop.
The vibrator pressed against my inner thigh, the vibrations rippling up through the fishnets like a live wire. Every rational thought short-circuited when I dragged it higher, the lace of my panties already soaked through.
The mirror showed it all—the way my hips jerked when the buzzing found my clit, the obscene glide of the toy through slick folds as I fucked myself with it in frantic, shallow thrusts.
"Fuck—fuck—" My voice was a broken thing, her voice, her pleasure, even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t right.
But God, it felt like heaven.
The orgasm hit like a train, my back slamming against the vanity as my legs gave out. Pleasure pulsed through me in dizzying waves, my reflection’s mouth slack with ecstasy, mascara streaking down flushed cheeks.
I slid to the floor, trembling, the vibrator still buzzing weakly against my thigh.
What the hell was I becoming?
The question pulsed through me like a second heartbeat as I stared at my reflection lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. The need to feel more, to explore this stolen flesh, burned hotter than reason.
The top was the first to go. I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, letting the silky material pool around my waist before sliding it the rest of the way down.
With shaking hands, I reached up and tugged at the straps of the lace bra, seeing in the process a 42F tag. The fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, setting my full breasts free. They bounced slightly with the motion, nipples hardening immediately in the cool air. A shiver ran through me as my fingers brushed against one, the contact sending a jolt straight to my still-throbbing core.
The fishnets came next. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, rolling them down with slow, deliberate movements. The material clung stubbornly, the crisscross pattern stretching then snapping back against my hips with each inch exposed. Smooth skin emerged beneath, freshly waxed and still tingling from earlier.
The thong was soaked through, the damp lace clinging obscenely when I finally shimmied out of it. My fingers trailed along the inside of my thighs before pausing at the apex - so smooth, so incredibly different. The scent of my own arousal filled the air as I tentatively spread my legs wider, watching in the mirror as the evidence of my pleasure glistened under soft light.
I ran trembling hands over my new body - from the dip of my waist up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling peaked nipples that responded eagerly to every touch. A breathy moan escaped my lips as one hand slid lower, fingertips brushing through damp curls before sinking into slick heat.
This isn't me.
This feels so good.
The contradictions warred in my mind even as my body arched into my own touch, hips rocking against my fingers with increasing urgency. The mirror showed it all - showed her - lost in pleasure, mouth open in silent ecstasy as fingers worked furiously between spread thighs.
When the wave crashed over me this time, I barely recognized my own scream.
The shower did nothing to wash away the surreal thrill of my stolen skin—every inch of Emily’s body still buzzed unnervingly under my touch. Steam fogged the mirror as I toweled off, deliberately running my (her) hands down the unfamiliar slope of narrow waist and curved hips. The face staring back—sharp cheekbones, violet eyes heavy with something darkly knowing—still sent a jolt through me.
I knotted the silk robe too tight, ignoring how it barely covered her thighs. Luckily thanks to her memories, I knew she didn't have any close relationships. I also knew that she would find me again soon, since the curse had a second component. The swapped individuals would fall in love and help continue the family line.
Emily—me now—had left more than just her lipsticks and half-used perfume. The sleek black phone buzzed beneath my fingers, unlocked by my—her—face. I swallowed hard. Time to take inventory of my new life.
Bank Account
The app opened instantly. I blinked.
$84,756.22
I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Savings account? Another $312K. I tapped through transaction history—monthly deposits from something called Lunawood Holdings for $15K, along with smaller payments labeled consulting fees. What the hell kind of consulting did she do?
Social Media
The first tab I tapped was Instagram—her Instagram. My stomach clenched as the app loaded, revealing a digital shrine to seduction. The blue checkmark was inevitable. The bio burned into my retinas: 💋 Your Next Bad Decision 💋, all smirking lips and dangerous promise.
The feed was a slow, deliberate burn—no accidents here. Every shot was a masterclass in teasing control. Silk sheets tangled around one bare thigh, the shadow-dipped dip of her spine as she arched over a hotel balcony, a crimson-lacquered nail dragging down a champagne flute. No laughter, no adrenaline—just heat, simmering in every flick of her wrist, every half-lidded glance at the camera like she could already feel hands on her skin. The captions were sparse, deliberate: "Late nights only", "Tell me how badly you want it", "Good boys don't get to touch."
Every post wasn’t just a demand to look—it was a dare to want.
Twitter was a constant stream of punchy one-liners and suggestive stunt reels. TikTok was a minefield of temptation—short, scorching loops of Emily arching against silk bedsheets, biting her lower lip in teasing slow-motion, her fingers tracing idle circles over the lace hem of lingerie before cutting to black. No laughter, no wasted movement—just a half-second of exposed thigh, the barest glimpse of teeth grazing skin, all set to a pulse-heavy soundtrack that left you craving another replay. Every clip was a dare wrapped in five seconds of sin.
OnlyFans
The icon made my fingers hesitate. Of course she had one. I tapped it—password already saved—and nearly choked.
$27K last month. $42K the month before. A catalog of paywalled galleries—Mistress in Marble, Bondage & Breakfast, each one featuring me now, in poses so sinful my pulse stuttered. There I was, sprawled across black satin sheets, fingers tangled in my own hair as I arched toward the camera, lips parted just enough to tease. Another series showed me kneeling in thigh-high stockings, the garter straps biting into creamy skin while I stared down the lens with heavy-lidded authority.
Subscriptions
Then came the subscriptions. Of course she had every premium streaming service—Netflix, HBO, the works—but the real fun started scrolling down. Paid access to high-end porn sites, all sleek branding and "exclusive content." A membership to Velvet Orbit, some kind of luxury erotic streaming platform with thumbnails featuring tangled limbs under silk sheets and promises of "real couples, real desires."
I was closing out of the accounts when I heard it—three sharp raps against the bedroom wall, followed by two slower ones. A pattern. Deliberate.
My breath caught. That wasn’t the front door.
Emily’s memories surfaced like fragments of a dream—pressed against this same wall, her fingers finding the nearly invisible seam in the wallpaper, pushing just so—
A hidden door clicked open.
I froze as the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for shoulders. And there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that matched the one I’d worn earlier, stood me.
My old body looked different now. The way he held himself was all Emily; the cocky tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his thigh. His shirt hung open, revealing the chest I used to know every scar and freckle of.
“Miss me already?” His voice was mine, but the cadence, the purr—hers.
“You—” My throat tightened. I hadn’t realized how much taller I used to be until I had to look up at myself.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger—my finger—and stepped inside, the hidden door whispering shut behind him. “Rule one of the curse: no take-backs.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering where the robe gaped at my chest. “Though I do like what I see.”
A flush burned up my neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He prowled closer, close enough that I caught my old cologne on his skin. “I was hoping you’d find the toys first.” His grin widened as my cheeks heated. “Oh, you did.”
I backed up until the vanity dug into my spine. “Why are you here?”
His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, close enough for his borrowed lips to brush my ear. "Because you will be my bride and help continue the line as per the second half of the curse."
A few years later
The pain was unbearable—a searing, primal fire tearing through me with every contraction. My nails dug into the hospital bed sheets, sweat gluing Emily’s—no, mine now—long black hair to my face.
"You’re doing amazing," he murmured, squeezing my hand. Even now, with my old face lined with worry, the way he tilted his head was pure Emily—that same confident smirk tempered by something softer. The silver band on his finger glinted under the harsh hospital lights, matching the one nestled securely against my own ring finger.
"Shut up," I gasped, arching off the bed as another wave hit. "This is your fault.*"
He just chuckled, brushing damp strands back from my forehead. "Our family now, sweetheart." His thumb traced my knuckles. "And trust me, when you hold her, you won’t regret a damn thing."
The nurse between my legs looked up, grinning. "One more push, Mom. She’s right there."
I barely had time to scream before the pressure shattered into sudden, dizzying relief. A fragile, furious wail filled the room, and then—
Her.
Tiny. Perfect. Swaddled in a pink blanket and placed carefully against my chest, her little face scrunched up in outrage. Dark lashes fluttered against petal-soft cheeks, her miniature fingers curling reflexively around mine.
"Congratulations," the nurse murmured. "She’s beautiful."
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of her was terrifying, intoxicating—mine.
"She has your nose," he whispered, bending to press a kiss to my temple. His—my old—calloused finger traced the baby’s shock of dark hair. "But your mother’s eyes." His voice cracked. "God, look at her."
The baby blinked up at us, her tiny mouth working silently before she settled with a sigh. The monitors beeped steadily, the world narrowing to this moment—this impossible, inevitable moment.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, euphoric, and met my husband’s gaze.
"Worth it?" he teased, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I clutched our daughter tighter—the next in the Lunawood line—and laughed through the tears.
Your body was stolen by a super busty Goth Girl. You now have to live her life. You find out you switched because her family was cursed to give their bodies to a stranger of the opposite sex on their 21st birthday. Emily just chose you at random.
Characters
Emily Lunawood: The goth girl who stole your body. She is wearing fishnet stockings, a short skirt with a black lace thong under it, a revealing top with a black lace bra under it and black high heels when she steals your body. She has black hair with red dyed tips, it goes to her waist.
You: An average looking man, you have brown hair and blue eyes. Your slightly muscular.
One moment, I was pressing my palm to the mirror, mesmerized by the way my reflection moved without me. The next—reality twisted, inverted. A dizzying lurch, and I was staring out from the glass at my own horrified face.
Oh God.
My body—Emily’s body now—was already backing away, her—my—lips curling into a smirk that felt alien on my features. "Enjoy the new life," she said in my voice, rolling my shoulders like she was testing them out. "Trust me, you’ll need it."
"Switch us back!" I snapped, but the words came out in her higher, smoother tone—hers now. My hands—slender, unfamiliar—clenched at my sides.
She just smirked, my smirk, and reached for the jacket I’d draped over the chair. "Check the purse, sweetheart. You’ll definitely want to." Then, with a wink that made my stomach twist, she was gone, the door slamming behind her before I could even think to chase her—me.
Nausea rolled through me as I grabbed the leather handbag by the dresser. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking as I pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. Emily Lunawood. 21. 309 Cedar Lane.
The drive was a nightmare of panicked swerves and clumsy turns; the car, an automatic, felt foreign without my stick shift to grip. Her—my—apartment was all soft grays and jasmine in the air, pristine except for the open notebook on the kitchen counter.
A single note sat beside it, written in fluid, looping script.
Sorry to whoever is now me, it read, my family was cursed years ago. On the 21st birthday, we are forced to seek out someone of the opposite sex and give them our bodies. You will be given my memories the first night you sleep. Signed Emily Lunawood.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Of course. I thumbed open the notebook—passwords, addresses, even a meticulously planned gym schedule—before collapsing onto the couch, my (her) head in my (her) hands.
The bed was too plush, the sheets too silky, but exhaustion won out. I fell into the dark, and when dreams came, they weren’t mine.
They were hers—childhood summers, first heartbreaks, whispered family warnings that the curse had no loopholes, no way back. And worst of all? The unshakable knowledge that no one in the Lunawood bloodline had ever escaped it.
The first thing I registered as consciousness crawled back was the delicious ache between my thighs and the whisper of stockings against freshly shaved skin. My fingers—her fingers—traced the outline of fishnets stretched taut over smooth legs, the crisscross pattern pressing kisses into flesh that wasn’t mine. A gasp caught in my throat as I realized the skirt riding up was obscenely short, the lace of my thong riding high enough to tease at the curve of my—her—ass. The top barely contained the swell of cleavage spilling over a black lace bra, the fabric sheer enough to outline hardened nipples.
I shifted—God, even the movement felt different—and nearly toppled off the bed when the spiked heels caught in the sheets. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a punch to the gut: smudged eyeliner, swollen lips bitten red, black hair cascading over bare shoulders with crimson streaks blazing through it like warning flares.
And the worst part? The thrill zipping down my spine at how good it all felt.
I got up and went to a mirror.
The mirror showed me—her—in full, and I barely recognized the predatory amusement in my new eyes. My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, every unfamiliar contour both alien and intoxicating. The lace of my bra dug into soft flesh when I inhaled sharply, my nails biting crescents into my palms—just to feel something real.
A slow, involuntary roll of my hips sent a jolt through me—her body knew exactly what it wanted. The fishnets rasped against my thighs as I spread my legs slightly, just enough to feel the damp heat pooling where the thong cut in.
Jesus.
I watched in horrified fascination as my reflection’s tongue swiped over painted lips, my own breath coming faster as I fought the urge to slide a hand lower. This wasn’t me—
But the thought shattered when I arched my back experimentally, and the bra’s clasp strained against the motion. A whimper escaped me—high, breathy, embarrassingly feminine—as my nipple peaked tighter against the lace, the sensation so intense it nearly buckled my knees.
The purse Emily left gaped open on the bed, a glint of metal catching my eye. I reached for it with shaking fingers and pulled out a slim silver vibrator, still slick with—
Oh God, she’d been using this right before swapping us.
The realization burned through me hotter than shame. My reflection’s pupils blew wide as my thumb brushed the damp button, the device humming to life with a predatory purr. The sound alone dragged a moan from my throat—her throat.
I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop.
The vibrator pressed against my inner thigh, the vibrations rippling up through the fishnets like a live wire. Every rational thought short-circuited when I dragged it higher, the lace of my panties already soaked through.
The mirror showed it all—the way my hips jerked when the buzzing found my clit, the obscene glide of the toy through slick folds as I fucked myself with it in frantic, shallow thrusts.
"Fuck—fuck—" My voice was a broken thing, her voice, her pleasure, even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t right.
But God, it felt like heaven.
The orgasm hit like a train, my back slamming against the vanity as my legs gave out. Pleasure pulsed through me in dizzying waves, my reflection’s mouth slack with ecstasy, mascara streaking down flushed cheeks.
I slid to the floor, trembling, the vibrator still buzzing weakly against my thigh.
What the hell was I becoming?
The question pulsed through me like a second heartbeat as I stared at my reflection lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. The need to feel more, to explore this stolen flesh, burned hotter than reason.
The top was the first to go. I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, letting the silky material pool around my waist before sliding it the rest of the way down.
With shaking hands, I reached up and tugged at the straps of the lace bra, seeing in the process a 42F tag. The fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, setting my full breasts free. They bounced slightly with the motion, nipples hardening immediately in the cool air. A shiver ran through me as my fingers brushed against one, the contact sending a jolt straight to my still-throbbing core.
The fishnets came next. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, rolling them down with slow, deliberate movements. The material clung stubbornly, the crisscross pattern stretching then snapping back against my hips with each inch exposed. Smooth skin emerged beneath, freshly waxed and still tingling from earlier.
The thong was soaked through, the damp lace clinging obscenely when I finally shimmied out of it. My fingers trailed along the inside of my thighs before pausing at the apex - so smooth, so incredibly different. The scent of my own arousal filled the air as I tentatively spread my legs wider, watching in the mirror as the evidence of my pleasure glistened under soft light.
I ran trembling hands over my new body - from the dip of my waist up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling peaked nipples that responded eagerly to every touch. A breathy moan escaped my lips as one hand slid lower, fingertips brushing through damp curls before sinking into slick heat.
This isn't me.
This feels so good.
The contradictions warred in my mind even as my body arched into my own touch, hips rocking against my fingers with increasing urgency. The mirror showed it all - showed her - lost in pleasure, mouth open in silent ecstasy as fingers worked furiously between spread thighs.
When the wave crashed over me this time, I barely recognized my own scream.
The shower did nothing to wash away the surreal thrill of my stolen skin—every inch of Emily’s body still buzzed unnervingly under my touch. Steam fogged the mirror as I toweled off, deliberately running my (her) hands down the unfamiliar slope of narrow waist and curved hips. The face staring back—sharp cheekbones, violet eyes heavy with something darkly knowing—still sent a jolt through me.
I knotted the silk robe too tight, ignoring how it barely covered her thighs. Luckily thanks to her memories, I knew she didn't have any close relationships. I also knew that she would find me again soon, since the curse had a second component. The swapped individuals would fall in love and help continue the family line.
Emily—me now—had left more than just her lipsticks and half-used perfume. The sleek black phone buzzed beneath my fingers, unlocked by my—her—face. I swallowed hard. Time to take inventory of my new life.
Bank Account
The app opened instantly. I blinked.
$84,756.22
I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Savings account? Another $312K. I tapped through transaction history—monthly deposits from something called Lunawood Holdings for $15K, along with smaller payments labeled consulting fees. What the hell kind of consulting did she do?
Social Media
The first tab I tapped was Instagram—her Instagram. My stomach clenched as the app loaded, revealing a digital shrine to seduction. The blue checkmark was inevitable. The bio burned into my retinas: 💋 Your Next Bad Decision 💋, all smirking lips and dangerous promise.
The feed was a slow, deliberate burn—no accidents here. Every shot was a masterclass in teasing control. Silk sheets tangled around one bare thigh, the shadow-dipped dip of her spine as she arched over a hotel balcony, a crimson-lacquered nail dragging down a champagne flute. No laughter, no adrenaline—just heat, simmering in every flick of her wrist, every half-lidded glance at the camera like she could already feel hands on her skin. The captions were sparse, deliberate: "Late nights only", "Tell me how badly you want it", "Good boys don't get to touch."
Every post wasn’t just a demand to look—it was a dare to want.
Twitter was a constant stream of punchy one-liners and suggestive stunt reels. TikTok was a minefield of temptation—short, scorching loops of Emily arching against silk bedsheets, biting her lower lip in teasing slow-motion, her fingers tracing idle circles over the lace hem of lingerie before cutting to black. No laughter, no wasted movement—just a half-second of exposed thigh, the barest glimpse of teeth grazing skin, all set to a pulse-heavy soundtrack that left you craving another replay. Every clip was a dare wrapped in five seconds of sin.
OnlyFans
The icon made my fingers hesitate. Of course she had one. I tapped it—password already saved—and nearly choked.
$27K last month. $42K the month before. A catalog of paywalled galleries—Mistress in Marble, Bondage & Breakfast, each one featuring me now, in poses so sinful my pulse stuttered. There I was, sprawled across black satin sheets, fingers tangled in my own hair as I arched toward the camera, lips parted just enough to tease. Another series showed me kneeling in thigh-high stockings, the garter straps biting into creamy skin while I stared down the lens with heavy-lidded authority.
Subscriptions
Then came the subscriptions. Of course she had every premium streaming service—Netflix, HBO, the works—but the real fun started scrolling down. Paid access to high-end porn sites, all sleek branding and "exclusive content." A membership to Velvet Orbit, some kind of luxury erotic streaming platform with thumbnails featuring tangled limbs under silk sheets and promises of "real couples, real desires."
I was closing out of the accounts when I heard it—three sharp raps against the bedroom wall, followed by two slower ones. A pattern. Deliberate.
My breath caught. That wasn’t the front door.
Emily’s memories surfaced like fragments of a dream—pressed against this same wall, her fingers finding the nearly invisible seam in the wallpaper, pushing just so—
A hidden door clicked open.
I froze as the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for shoulders. And there, leaning against the frame with a smirk that matched the one I’d worn earlier, stood me.
My old body looked different now. The way he held himself was all Emily; the cocky tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his thigh. His shirt hung open, revealing the chest I used to know every scar and freckle of.
“Miss me already?” His voice was mine, but the cadence, the purr—hers.
“You—” My throat tightened. I hadn’t realized how much taller I used to be until I had to look up at myself.
“Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger—my finger—and stepped inside, the hidden door whispering shut behind him. “Rule one of the curse: no take-backs.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering where the robe gaped at my chest. “Though I do like what I see.”
A flush burned up my neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He prowled closer, close enough that I caught my old cologne on his skin. “I was hoping you’d find the toys first.” His grin widened as my cheeks heated. “Oh, you did.”
I backed up until the vanity dug into my spine. “Why are you here?”
His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, close enough for his borrowed lips to brush my ear. "Because you will be my bride and help continue the line as per the second half of the curse."
A few years later
The pain was unbearable—a searing, primal fire tearing through me with every contraction. My nails dug into the hospital bed sheets, sweat gluing Emily’s—no, mine now—long black hair to my face.
"You’re doing amazing," he murmured, squeezing my hand. Even now, with my old face lined with worry, the way he tilted his head was pure Emily—that same confident smirk tempered by something softer. The silver band on his finger glinted under the harsh hospital lights, matching the one nestled securely against my own ring finger.
"Shut up," I gasped, arching off the bed as another wave hit. "This is your fault.*"
He just chuckled, brushing damp strands back from my forehead. "Our family now, sweetheart." His thumb traced my knuckles. "And trust me, when you hold her, you won’t regret a damn thing."
The nurse between my legs looked up, grinning. "One more push, Mom. She’s right there."
I barely had time to scream before the pressure shattered into sudden, dizzying relief. A fragile, furious wail filled the room, and then—
Her.
Tiny. Perfect. Swaddled in a pink blanket and placed carefully against my chest, her little face scrunched up in outrage. Dark lashes fluttered against petal-soft cheeks, her miniature fingers curling reflexively around mine.
"Congratulations," the nurse murmured. "She’s beautiful."
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of her was terrifying, intoxicating—mine.
"She has your nose," he whispered, bending to press a kiss to my temple. His—my old—calloused finger traced the baby’s shock of dark hair. "But your mother’s eyes." His voice cracked. "God, look at her."
The baby blinked up at us, her tiny mouth working silently before she settled with a sigh. The monitors beeped steadily, the world narrowing to this moment—this impossible, inevitable moment.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, euphoric, and met my husband’s gaze.
"Worth it?" he teased, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I clutched our daughter tighter—the next in the Lunawood line—and laughed through the tears.
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Chapter by
Selimf18 · 10 Aug 2025 -
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.
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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 …
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