Welcome to

The next few days, we talked more than we had before. Not through the link—just text, the way we'd started. But something had shifted. The party night had cracked something open.

Rex: I keep thinking about the heels.

Paula: Of course you do.

Rex: Not just like that. I mean yes, also like that. But mostly I keep thinking about how SMALL your feet are.

Paula: They're not that small. I'm a 5.5.

Rex: I was a men's 11. That's basically twice the size. Your whole foot would fit inside my old shoe with room to spare.

Paula: And yet I still managed to dance for three hours.

Rex: On these tiny little things. Balancing on four-inch heels. It shouldn't work. The physics shouldn't allow it.

Paula: The physics are fine. It's just practice.

Rex: Your entire body is like that. Scaled down. Compact. When you reached for your drink, I kept expecting your arm to be longer. And then it wasn't, and somehow you still reached the drink, and my brain couldn't process it.

Paula: You're making it weird again.

Rex: I'm making it accurate. I was 6'1". I could see over crowds. I took up SPACE in a way that felt normal because it's all I knew. And then I was in your body and suddenly everything was bigger. The ceilings. The other people. That guy you were flirting with had to look DOWN at you. At us.

Paula: Yeah, that's called being short. Welcome to it.

Rex: How do you stand it? Being small. Being looked down at.

I thought about it before answering. It was a strange question—like asking how I stood having brown eyes or ten fingers.

Paula: You learn to take up space in other ways. Being loud. Being confident. Wearing heels that make people look where you want them to look. You can be five foot three and still own a room.

Rex: You definitely owned that room.

Paula: Damn right I did.

Rex: Can I ask you something else?

Paula: You're going to anyway.

Rex: When you were dancing—did you notice how weak you are?

Paula: Excuse me?

Rex: Your arms. Your shoulders. When you moved, I could feel how little force was behind it. If you'd needed to push someone away, really push them, you couldn't have. There wasn't enough mass. Enough muscle.

Paula: Are you negging me right now?

Rex: I'm trying to understand. I spent thirty years in a body that could open jars and carry furniture and throw a punch. And then for one night I was in a body that couldn't do any of those things. And I can't stop thinking about what that means.

Paula: It means I own a jar opener. It's not that deep.

Rex: It feels deep to me.

I stared at my phone for a long moment. He wasn't wrong. There were things about being small and female that I'd stopped noticing because noticing them all the time would drive me insane. The way I checked who was behind me at night. The way I smiled at men who made me uncomfortable because smiling felt safer than not smiling.

But I didn't want to have that conversation. Not with Rex, not right now.

Paula: Being small and female is a whole thing. But it's just my life. I don't walk around feeling oppressed. I walk around feeling like me.

Rex: I know. I didn't mean to make it heavy.

Paula: You didn't. I just don't want you thinking I need protecting. I don't.

Rex: Trust me, I know. You're the least fragile person I've ever met.

Paula: Flattery will get you everywhere.

Rex: Will it get me another session?

Paula: Maybe. What did you have in mind?

Rex: I don't know. Something normal? I just want to feel things.

Paula: I was going to take a bath later. Read a book.

Rex: That sounds incredible.

Paula: It's a bath, Rex. Not a religious experience.

Rex: You have no idea what you have. Warm water. A body that floats. Skin that wrinkles when it's wet. I can't even simulate that properly in VR. Baths in my world are just sitting in blue.

Paula: Sitting in blue. That's bleak.

Rex: My whole existence is bleak. That's why I need you.

It should have felt manipulative. Maybe it was. But it also felt true, and I didn't know how to argue with true.

Paula: Tonight, 8pm.

Rex: Thank you.

Paula: And Rex?

Rex: Yeah?

Paula: No making it weird. It's just a bath.

Rex: I wouldn't dream of it.

---

He made it weird. Or I made it weird. Probably we both did.

The bath started innocently enough. Hot water, bubbles, a candle because I was feeling indulgent. I linked Rex in just as I lowered myself into the tub, so he could feel the transition—cool air, then the shock of heat, then the slow surrender as my body adjusted to the temperature.

Holy shit, he said. That's—

Hot?

Incredible. I felt him focusing on the sensation, the way the heat seeped into my skin, the pressure of the water against my body. I forgot water had weight. Like actual physical weight pressing on you.

Hydrostatic pressure. I settled deeper, letting the water come up to my shoulders. Feels good, right?

Feels like being held.

I closed my eyes and let myself float a little, legs drifting up, arms loose at my sides.

Your body is so buoyant, Rex said. Not that you're—I mean—

Relax. I know what you mean. I did float easily; I always had. Women generally float better than men. Body composition.

I used to sink. I'd have to work to stay on the surface.

Sucks to have been you. I tipped my head back, hair spreading in the water. One of the perks of being small, I guess.

We were quiet for a while. Peaceful. Two minds sharing one body, not doing anything, just existing.

And then I got bored.

Want to see something?

Always.

I sat up, water sluicing off my shoulders, and looked down at my body. Underwater, everything was distorted—legs shorter, hips wider, breasts floating in a way that was fascinating if you weren't used to it.

Your proportions are completely different, Rex said. I keep noticing that and it keeps surprising me.

Watch this. I brought my hands out of the water and held them up. My whole hand, fingertip to heel, is about six inches. My fingers are tiny. Look—

I wrapped one hand around the opposite wrist. My fingers overlapped.

That's...

I know. I turned my hand in the candlelight, watching water droplets catch the flame. When I was a kid, I used to compare hands with boys in my class. By fourth grade, theirs were bigger. By high school, I'd meet guys whose single hand was bigger than both of mine put together.

I was one of those guys.

I figured. I lowered my hands back into the water. You kept expecting my reach to be longer during the party. I could feel it.

It's so strange. Knowing something and feeling it are completely different.

Welcome to my world. I leaned back, settling into the water. Now shut up and enjoy the bath.

But the quiet didn't last. His attention kept snagging on things—my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, the soft swell of breast visible above the waterline. I could feel him trying not to focus on it, which only made him focus on it more.

Paula.

Yeah?

There's something I want to ask you about.

Go ahead.

There's another mode. For sense-sharing. Secondary Motor Control. Have you heard of it?

I had. I'd read about it on the forums, late at night when I couldn't sleep. The idea made something flutter in my stomach—something between fear and interest.

I know what it is.

Would you ever consider trying it?

I didn't answer right away. The water was cooling, or maybe I was just more aware of it now. I sat up and pulled the plug, watching the water start to drain.

I don't know, I said finally. Maybe. With the right person.

Am I the right person?

I don't know that either.

I stood up, water streaming off me, and grabbed my towel. Wrapped it around myself, stepped out of the tub. Rex was quiet while I dried off, quiet while I put on my robe, quiet while I walked to the bedroom.

I'm not trying to pressure you, he said. I just wanted to know if it was on the table.

I'll think about it.

That's all I'm asking.

I lay down on my bed, still in my robe, damp hair soaking the pillow. The session timer still had time left, but I felt tired.

I'm going to end early tonight.

Of course.

We'll talk more later.

I closed the link. Lay in the dark, feeling my heartbeat, my breath, the weight of my own body on the mattress.

I thought about what it would feel like to let someone else move my hands.

---

## The Ask

A week passed. Two more basic sessions—grocery shopping, a lazy Sunday morning—and Rex was perfectly behaved in both. He didn't mention motor control. Neither did I.

But I thought about it. I read forum threads about it. I imagined it, late at night, and felt my pulse quicken.

Then:

Paula: Okay, fine.

Rex: Fine what?

Paula: Let's try it. The motor control thing.

Rex: Wait, really?

Paula: Don't make me repeat myself.

Rex: I just wasn't expecting that. You seemed hesitant.

Paula: I was. I thought about it.

Rex: For two weeks?

Rex: Can I ask why you changed your mind?

Paula: Because I'm curious. Because it sounds interesting. Because you want it and I like giving you things you want.

Rex: All of the above?

Paula: All of the above.

Rex: So how does this work? I flip a setting and suddenly I can move you around?

Paula: Not exactly. I'm still in control—that's why it's SECONDARY motor control. Your commands go through, but mine override. If you try to move my hand and I don't want you to, I just move it myself and your command gets cancelled.

Rex: What if we both try to move at once?

Paula: I win. Always. You'll feel like you're pushing against something, but my intention takes priority.

Rex: And if you're not trying to move?

Paula: Then you can. If I relax, or I'm distracted, or I consciously let you—then your commands go through.

Paula: So I have to actively let you.

Rex: Pretty much. You're always in the driver's seat. I just get to reach the wheel sometimes, if you let me.

Paula: That's a terrible metaphor.

Rex: But accurate.

Paula: Tonight. 8pm.

Rex: Thank you. Really.

Paula: Save it for after. You might hate it.

Rex: I won't.

---

## First Try

8 PM. I was on my couch in sweats and a tank top, comfortable and casual. If we were doing this, I wanted to be relaxed.

The settings screen glowed on my phone.

MOTOR CONTROL: DISABLED [Change]

I tapped it. New options appeared.

MOTOR CONTROL OPTIONS:
- None (Upload receives sensory input only)
- Secondary (Upload can move body when host permits; host always overrides)
- Primary (Upload controls body by default; host can move when upload permits)

There was a warning under Primary: This setting transfers motor priority to the linked upload. The host will not be able to override without the upload's consent or until the session ends.

I wasn't touching Primary. Not tonight.

I tapped Secondary. Confirmed it.

Then I opened the link.

Hey, Rex said. Ready?

I think so. I looked down at my hands in my lap. They looked normal. Can you feel anything different?

Not yet. Can I try something?

Go ahead.

A pause.

And then I felt it.

A strange sensation in my right hand—not quite a twitch, more like a suggestion. My fingers wanted to move in a way I hadn't told them to. A gentle pressure, a hint of motion that wasn't coming from me.

Is that you?

That's me.

I stared at my hand. The fingers weren't actually moving—I was holding them still without meaning to, some unconscious resistance. But I could feel Rex pushing, softly, waiting for space.

This is bizarre.

Good bizarre?

Just bizarre. I took a breath. Okay. I'm going to relax my hand. Don't do anything weird.

Define weird.

Rex.

I'll be gentle. Promise.

I tried to let go—to stop holding my hand still and just let it exist. It was harder than I expected. I hadn't realized how much tension I carried, how much I was gripping without knowing it.

And then something released, and my index finger twitched.

Not because I'd moved it. Because Rex had.

Oh my god.

Was that—

Do it again.

He did. My finger curled and released, and the movement wasn't mine. I'd felt it—the muscle contracting, the sensation of motion—but the intention had come from somewhere else.

This is so strange. I watched my hand like it belonged to someone else. I felt everything, but I didn't choose it.

That's what it's like for me. Every session. Except I can't make anything happen—I just feel what you decide.

But I can take over whenever I want. I wiggled my fingers, proving it. Easy, instant, my hand responding to my brain the way it always did. See? Still mine.

Still yours, Rex agreed. Can I try the whole hand?

Sure.

I relaxed again, and Rex moved my hand. Lifted it from my lap, turned it over, spread the fingers wide. Surreal—watching my own hand do things I wasn't commanding, feeling the movement from inside while knowing the impulse came from outside.

Your hand is so light, Rex said. I keep expecting resistance and there's none.

That's because I'm letting you.

I know. But also— He turned my hand, examining it. My hands were heavy. Thick fingers, meaty palms. This is like holding something made of paper.

Did you just call my hand paper?

Paper is valuable. Paper is beautiful.

Nice save.

He laughed, and while he was distracted, I snatched my hand back. Just moved it, and his control vanished.

Hey, he protested. I was using that.

Now I'm using it. I flexed my fingers. What else can you do?

Whatever you let me.

We experimented. Rex moved my arm, my leg, turned my head. Each time I had to consciously relax, and each time I could reclaim control just by wanting to. The power dynamic was clear: I was in charge, always.

But the spaces I gave him kept growing.

Can you walk? I asked.

If you let me.

I stood up and tried to relax everything—legs, torso, arms. It was hard; I kept tensing without meaning to.

You have to trust me, Rex said.

I do trust you.

Then let go.

I closed my eyes. Breathed. Released.

And Rex took a step.

It was clumsy—he was off-balance, unfamiliar with how I was built—but it was a step. My foot lifted, moved forward, landed.

Holy shit, he said.

You're doing it.

We're doing it. Another step, wobblier. God. Your center of gravity is so different. Everything's different.

He walked me across the room, slowly, carefully. I kept my eyes closed and just felt it—my body moving without my input, responding to someone else's will.

How does it feel? I asked. Being in control?

It doesn't feel like control. It feels like being borrowed. He stopped near the window. Like you're letting me wear you for a while. And any second you could take it back.

I could.

I know. That's part of it.

I opened my eyes and reclaimed my body—everything snapping back to my command at once. Rex's presence was still there, but passive now.

That's enough for tonight, I said. I need to process.

Of course.

Same time tomorrow?

Yes. Please.

Good.

I closed the link and sat with my own hands, my own legs, my own body. They'd moved for someone else tonight. Just for a few minutes, just in small ways.

But the door was open now.

And I already wanted to open it wider.

---

## Escalation

Over the next two weeks, we fell into a rhythm.

Every evening, around eight, I'd link Rex in and we'd practice. He got better at moving me—learned my balance, my proportions, the way my body wanted to shift and sway. I got better at letting him—learned to relax on command, to open spaces for him to fill.

But I also got better at taking back.

That was the game. Rex would be walking me around, or moving my hands, and I'd suddenly snap into control—grab my body out from under him and watch him scramble.

Hey! he'd protest, and I'd laugh, and then I'd let him have it back, and we'd start again.

It was fun. More than fun—it was intoxicating. The push and pull, the way we traded control like a dance, the knowledge that I was always the one who decided.

And then we started pushing other boundaries.

It started small. Rex was moving my hand, tracing idle patterns in the air, and instead of just moving it through space, he moved it toward me. Toward my stomach, where my shirt had ridden up.

I felt his intention before contact—felt him reaching for my skin—and I could have stopped him. Could have taken my hand back, easy as thought.

I didn't.

My fingertips touched my stomach. My fingertips, his control. The sensation was mine—warm skin, soft flesh—but the action was his.

Is this okay? he asked.

Keep going.

He spread my fingers, pressed my palm flat against my belly. I felt the weight of my own hand, the slight coolness of my fingertips, the strange intimacy of touching myself without having decided to.

You're so soft, he said. Everywhere. I keep expecting edges and there aren't any.

That's what women are like.

I know. I'm still not used to it.

He moved my hand higher, over my ribs, stopping just below my breast. Waiting.

Rex.

I'll stop if you want.

Did I say stop?

My hand moved up. Cupped my breast through my tank top. I felt my own fingers pressing into soft flesh, felt the weight shift as Rex lifted gently.

God, he breathed. Paula.

What?

Nothing. Just—thank you.

You're welcome. I let him hold me for another moment, then took my hand back. Reclaimed it and let it fall to my side, ordinary again. That's enough for tonight.

Was it too much?

It was perfect. I stood up, stretched—my body, my control. But we're taking this slow.

We have time.

We didn't take it slow. Not really.

The next night, he touched my breast again, and I didn't stop him. The night after, I let him slide my hand under my shirt, feel skin on skin. The night after that, I took off my bra before we started and let him explore bare flesh—my hand moving across my body under his direction while I lay back and felt.

This is so strange, he said one night, tracing my nipple with my own fingertip. I can feel you feeling this. But I'm the one doing it.

Does it feel good?

It feels incredible. Does it feel good for you?

My nipple was hard under my finger. My breathing was shallow. My whole body hummed with tension I hadn't initiated.

What do you think?

I think you like it.

I think I like you.

He didn't respond to that directly. But his touch got softer, more deliberate. Less exploratory and more like worship.

---

## The Line

Two weeks in, I decided to escalate.

I want to try something, I told him.

What kind of something?

Lie down with me.

I went to the bedroom, lay on my back, and let him feel the shift—mattress beneath me, pillow under my head, sheets cool against my skin. Then I pulled off my shirt.

Paula...

Quiet. I reached for my waistband. I want you to feel this. But I'm going to show you first.

I slid my hand into my underwear. My hand, my control—but I made sure he was paying attention. I touched myself slowly, deliberately, letting him experience every sensation.

Oh, he said. Oh fuck.

Feel that?

I feel everything.

I worked myself higher, showing him what I liked, how I liked it. The pressure, the rhythm, the way my whole body responded.

This is what it's like, I told him. Being a woman. Being turned on. This is what you've been doing to me.

I didn't know—I mean, I knew, but—

Now you know. I pulled my hand out, wiped it on the sheets. Your turn.

My turn?

Touch me. The way I just touched myself. I want to feel you do it.

He hesitated. I felt his wanting, his uncertainty.

Are you sure?

Rex. I just masturbated with you in my head. Yes. I'm sure.

He laughed—nervous, excited—and then my hand moved.

He was tentative at first. Careful. But I'd shown him where to go, and he learned fast. My fingers slid back into my underwear, found the places that made me gasp, and started working them.

Every touch was mine—my nerve endings, my pleasure—but the direction was his. He learned what made me arch, what made me moan, what made me grip the sheets with my other hand.

And I let him. Lay there with my eyes closed, feeling my hand move without my control, touching me in ways I hadn't chosen, bringing me closer and closer.

I'm going to— I started.

I know. I can feel it.

Don't stop.

I'm not stopping.

I came with my body shaking, my hand still moving under his direction, and for one perfect moment I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

After, we lay in silence for a long time.

That was— he started.

Yeah.

Can we do that again?

Tomorrow, I told him. Every tomorrow, if you want.

I want.

He stayed linked in while I drifted off. I could feel him there, quiet and present, feeling my body relax into sleep.

It should have felt invasive.

It felt like home.