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For a long moment, the only sounds in the perfumed closet were their ragged breaths—Karen’s husky pants and Sarah’s higher, broken sighs. The air was thick with the scent of sex, expensive perfume, and stunned realization.

Jack was the first to speak, his voice in Sarah’s body still shaky. “Holy. Shit.” He looked down at where they were still joined, then back up at Philip, his expression a whirlwind of awe and residual shock. “That was… I have no words.”

Philip slowly withdrew the toy, a slick sound punctuating the motion. He sat back on his heels, Karen’s body thrumming with exhausted, satiated heat. The frantic, revenge-fueled energy was gone, replaced by a profound, deepening weirdness. He had just fucked his best friend with a dildo. While they were both women. Older women. He dropped the toy onto the velvet as if it had burned him.

“We are in so far over our heads,” Philip muttered, running a trembling hand through Karen’s perfect blonde waves.

But as the physical aftershocks faded, something else began to surface. A ripple of knowledge that wasn’t his own. Flashes of a calendar, a guest list, whispered conversations over champagne. Karen’s memories, or at least the recent, pressing ones, seeped into the corners of his mind like ink spreading in water.

“The gala,” Philip said, his eyes going distant. “The Crestwood Hotel. Black tie. It’s for the pediatric wing.”

Jack blinked, then his own face—Sarah’s face—took on a similar faraway look. “Right. The after-party. The Sapphire Suite. Private. Invitation only.” A slow, wicked grin spread across features that were not his own. “Oh, man. Karen was planning on networking there. And Sarah… Sarah knows some of the VIPs are… open to persuasion. The kind that involves less talking and more… well.”

The implications hung in the air between them. The terror of their situation didn’t vanish, but it was suddenly alloyed with a giddy, reckless possibility. They were no longer just two frat guys trapped in a bizarre predicament. They were two stunning, connected, wealthy women with an all-access pass to an evening of unparalleled hedonism.

“We have to go,” Jack said, his voice firming with new purpose. He stood up, wincing slightly as he pulled Sarah’s trousers back into place, fastening them with a deftness that came from the body’s muscle memory. “Think about it, Phil. We’re them. For however long this lasts. We have their memories, their faces, their… assets.” He gestured broadly at Karen’s spectacular cleavage, now barely contained by the still-open dress. “We could have any woman in that room.”

“That’s insane,” Philip protested, but it was weak. The pulse of Karen’s remembered anticipation—the thrill of the hunt, the promise of clandestine, no-strings pleasure—was a potent drug in his veins.

“Is it?” Jack challenged, stepping closer. He reached out and, with a surprising gentleness, began to zip up the back of Karen’s little black dress. His fingers, guided by Sarah’s knowledge, made quick work of the tricky clasp at the nape of her neck. “We’re already in the deep end. We might as well swim. Besides,” he added, his grin turning predatory as he met Philip’s eyes in the mirror, “don’t you want to know what it’s like when it’s not your idiot best friend on the other end? When it’s a gorgeous movie producer or a billionaire heiress who knows exactly what she wants?”

The idea was terrifying. It was also irresistibly exciting. The panty raid, their original bodies, Delta Epsilon—it all seemed like a distant, childish dream. This was the adult world, wrapped in satin and power.

Twenty minutes later, they were a vision descending the grand staircase of Karen’s home. Philip had managed, with Karen’s ingrained habits guiding him, to finish the look: the dress clung to every ripe curve, the stilettos adding a dangerous, elegant height. A diamond bracelet glittered at Karen’s wrist, and her perfume was a cloud of dark roses and amber.

Beside him, Jack had perfected Sarah’s cool, commanding aura. The silver-haired woman in the razor-sharp navy suit looked every inch the powerful executive, her arm linked casually with Karen’s. The driver, Franklin, held the door of a sleek town car open, his expression impeccably neutral.

The Crestwood Hotel was a blaze of light and polished marble. Paparazzi flashes erupted as they glided from the car to the red carpet. Philip felt a hundred eyes on him—on her—feeling the weight of masculine gazes and appreciative feminine ones. He heard his name—Karen’s name—being called, saw familiar faces from Karen’s memory: a senator’s wife, a tech CEO, a actress nominated for an Oscar last year.

They moved through the glittering crowd like sharks. Philip, as Karen, accepted a flute of champagne, the bubbles tickling his throat. He laughed at a joke from a media mogul, the sound coming out as Karen’s low, confident chuckle. He felt the heat of stares, the subtle brush of a hand against the small of his back from a stunning woman in emerald green who murmured, “Lovely to see you, Karen. The Sapphire Suite later?”

Across the room, he caught Jack’s eye. Jack, as Sarah, was engaged in intense conversation with a statuesque blonde in a gown worth more than a car. The blonde was leaning in, her smile intimate, her fingers toying with the stem of her glass. Jack gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

The charity auction droned on in the background, a distant hum. All Philip could focus on was the current of electricity in the room, the whispered invitations, the promise in perfectly made-up eyes. The memories were a guidebook: She likes to be dominated. She’s shy at first. They’re a package deal, both of them.

When the official event began to wind down, the migration started. A select group, maybe two dozen of the most powerful, beautiful, and discreet guests, began to drift towards the private elevators. Philip felt a hand slip into his—a woman with fiery red hair and a smile that promised sin. “Shall we?” she breathed.

In the elevator, surrounded by the soft rustle of silk and the scent of anticipation, Philip looked at Jack. In Sarah’s eyes, he saw the same dizzying mix of terror and hunger that churned in his own gut. They were no longer Phillip and Jack. For tonight, they were Karen and Sarah, and the Sapphire Suite awaited—a velvet-lined playground where every fantasy their borrowed minds could remember was on the menu. The doors slid open onto a hushed, opulent hallway. The real night, it seemed, was just beginning.

The Sapphire Suite was not a room; it was a realm. Occupying the hotel’s entire penthouse floor, it was a study in curated opulence. Low, ambient lighting glowed from behind onyx panels, illuminating sinuous modern sculptures and plush, sectional sofas in shades of charcoal and sapphire. A wall of windows presented a glittering panorama of the city, but no one was looking at the view. The air hummed with a low, intimate murmur of conversation and the soft clink of crystal, carrying the rich scents of jasmine, sandalwood, and expensive alcohol.

Philip, moving as Karen with a grace that was half-memory, half-panic, took it all in. The redhead who’d guided him in was Elara Vance, a celebrated fashion designer in her early forties known for her avant-garde bridal wear. Up close, her elegance was fierce: sharp cheekbones, moss-green eyes, and a spill of coppery hair over one shoulder. Her dress was one of her own designs—a sheath of ivory silk that seemed to be held together by sheer will and strategically placed platinum pins.

By the panoramic window, holding court, was Diana Thorne. A legendary film producer in her late fifties, she was regal and imposing, with a crown of stark white hair cut in a severe bob. Her face was a map of clever lines, and her eyes, a piercing grey, missed nothing. She wore a trousersuit of black velvet, a single blood-red ruby at her throat, and she sipped bourbon while listening to a much younger woman speak.

That woman was Chloe. No last name needed in these circles. A social media phenom turned wellness guru, she was all soft edges and ethereal beauty, maybe twenty-five. Her hair was honey-blonde, her eyes a wide, innocent blue, and her dress was a whisper of pale pink chiffon that floated around her. She was Diana’s latest “protégé,” and she hung on the older woman’s every word.

Near the bar, laughing with a throaty, infectious sound, was Simone Devereux. A former Olympic swimmer turned sports commentator, she was a powerhouse of athletic beauty. Tall and broad-shouldered, she wore a daring, backless jumpsuit of emerald green that showcased her powerful physique. Her dark hair was cropped short, and her smile was brilliant and unapologetic.

And there were others. An heiress to a shipping fortune, a reclusive novelist, a powerful divorce attorney—each woman a masterpiece of beauty, wealth, and influence, all here under the unspoken pact of mutual, discreet desire.

Jack, as Sarah, materialized at Philip’s side, handing him a fresh glass of champagne. “See the novelist by the bookshelf?” he murmured, his voice a perfect imitation of Sarah’s smoky alto. “Vanessa’s memories say she writes erotic thrillers and likes to be… researched.” He gave a slight nod toward Diana and Chloe. “And the producer and her pet. Package deal. Interested?”

Before Philip could answer, Elara the designer slid her arm through his. “Karen, darling, you’ve been neglecting me. Come, tell me what you think of the drape on Simone.” She led him, not toward the athlete, but toward a more secluded alcove framed by a living wall of ferns. Her touch was proprietary, her confidence absolute. In the semi-privacy, she turned, her mossy eyes gleaming. “Sarah told me you’ve been… tense. Needing a distraction.” Her hand came up, fingertips tracing the plunging neckline of Karen’s dress. “I have some new fabrics that require a sensitive touch to appreciate. I’d value your opinion.”

Philip’s mind screamed, but Karen’s body responded, a flush warming her skin, her breath catching. Elara’s kiss was not a question; it was a claiming. It was all teeth and dominance, a world away from Sarah’s practiced passion. She backed Philip against the cool glass of the window, her hands skimming down to grasp Karen’s ass through the satin, pulling their bodies flush. “I want to hear you ruin your lipstick,” Elara breathed against his mouth.

Across the room, Jack was not faring much better. Diana Thorne had summoned him with a crook of her finger. Now, he stood before her like a supplicant, while Chloe watched with rapt, eager eyes.

“Sarah,” Diana said, her voice like gravel wrapped in silk. “I understand you’ve acquired a new piece for your collection. A rather… vigorous abstract. I’d like a private viewing.” Her meaning was clear. She reached out, not touching Jack, but her finger traced a line in the air from his throat down to his belt. “Chloe is so eager to learn about modern art. Aren’t you, darling?”

Chloe nodded, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. “I’m a very quick study,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on Jack’s mouth.

Jack, ever the improviser, leaned into Sarah’s persona. “The piece is… quite interactive,” he purred. “It requires multiple viewers to fully appreciate its dimensions.”

Diana’s smile was a slow, predatory thing. She led them both toward a private chamber off the main suite—a room dominated by a vast, circular bed draped in black silk.

What followed was a surreal symphony of borrowed expertise and frantic improvisation.

In the alcove, Philip found himself following Elara’s sharp commands. “Arch your back. Look at me. Don’t you dare close your eyes.” She had Karen’s dress bunched around her waist, her mouth and hands everywhere, worshipping and punishing Karen’s extravagant body with equal fervor. Philip was a passenger, overwhelmed by sensations so intense they blurred his vision: the scrape of teeth on a nipple, the sting of a palm on his thigh, the dizzying, coiling tightness building in his core as Elara’s skilled fingers finally, finally slid inside him. He cried out, Karen’s voice shattering into a million pieces against the city-lit window, as a climax ripped through him that was less a wave and more a seismic event.

Meanwhile, in the black-silk chamber, Jack was discovering the joys and perils of being the center of attention. Diana was a demanding conductor. She directed Chloe to undress Sarah with trembling, reverent hands, then ordered Jack to his knees. “Show her how a woman of taste takes her pleasure,” Diana commanded, settling into a low chair to watch.

Jack, drawing on a confusing mix of Sarah’s memories and his own boldness, pulled Chloe down onto the silken sheets. He found Chloe’s inexperience was a canvas. He explored her with Sarah’s confident hands and mouth, making her gasp and writhe, while Diana’s approving murmurs fueled his performance. When Diana finally joined them, her touch was clinical and devastatingly precise. She used a sleek, silver toy from a nearby cabinet on Jack, bringing Sarah’s body to a shuddering, sobbing peak with ruthless efficiency, all while whispering praise to a wide-eyed Chloe about technique and control.

The night became a blur of entangled limbs and swapped partners. Philip, still vibrating from Elara’s attentions, was drawn into a plush bathroom by Simone, the athlete. Her kiss tasted of champagne and power. She lifted Karen with shocking ease, seating Philip on the cool marble vanity, her powerful thighs spreading Karen’s as she knelt. Her stamina was legendary, and she applied it with focused intensity, bringing Karen to a second, screaming climax that left Philip seeing stars.

Later, he found Jack—Sarah—in a tangled heap with Chloe and the novelist on one of the large sectionals. The novelist was reciting a passage from her latest work, a graphically poetic description of cunnilingus, while her hands demonstrated the action on a moaning Chloe. Jack caught Philip’s eye over Chloe’s shoulder, his expression dazed and triumphant. He mouthed a single word: Unbelievable.

As the first hints of dawn tinged the sky beyond the windows, the guests began to depart with hushed laughter and soft kisses. The boys—Karen and Sarah—stood together by the elevator bank, their expensive clothes disheveled, their bodies humming with the echoes of a dozen different touches.

Elara brushed a final kiss to Karen’s cheek. “Until next time, darling. You were magnificent.” Diana gave Sarah a slow, appraising nod, her arm around a sleepy, sated Chloe.

When the elevator doors finally closed on the last guest, the two of them were alone in the wreckage of the Sapphire Suite. The silence was profound.

Jack let out a long, shaky breath that was pure, unvarnished Jack. “Dude.”

“Yeah,” Philip replied, his voice hoarse.

They were still Karen and Sarah, draped in silk and satin and the scent of sex. But as they looked at each other—at the smudged makeup, the tousled hair, the utterly debauched and satiated women in the reflection—a new, unsettling tremor passed through them. It was deeper than fatigue. It was a flicker in the foundation, a subtle wrongness in the way the light hit their skin. The borrowed memories, so clear all night, suddenly felt slippery, distant. The spell that had given them this incredible, impossible night was not a permanent guest. It was a visitor, and it was getting ready to leave.

The first true pang of fear, cold and sharp, cut through the warm afterglow. What happened when the clock struck noon?