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They say your body is a temple, but for some, it’s just a rental. Lena thought she knew the rules of the night, until a chance encounter at a bar shattered the boundaries of her own skin.
---
Hi, author here. o/
I tried to condense the Hopper lore to make the tutoring of a 'newly minted' Hopper feel more believable. I also saw an opportunity to explore a facet of the Hopper world that I feel is somewhat neglected: the rare female Hopper. I hope no one is offended by this story, and I’m open to suggestions on where the plot should go next!
---
Hi, author here. o/
I tried to condense the Hopper lore to make the tutoring of a 'newly minted' Hopper feel more believable. I also saw an opportunity to explore a facet of the Hopper world that I feel is somewhat neglected: the rare female Hopper. I hope no one is offended by this story, and I’m open to suggestions on where the plot should go next!
f2m Body Hopper
by
barackobrahma
· 03 Feb 2026
They say your body is a temple, but for some, it’s just a rental. Lena thought she knew the rules of the night, until a chance encounter at a bar shattered the boundaries of her own skin.
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Inspired by a comic.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
mind control
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This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
mind control
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Inspired by a Rere comic.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
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This story explores disturbing themes of non-consensual bodily violation and the total loss of autonomy through a forced supernatural transformation. Due to its focus on the graphic and psychological invasion of the protagonist's identity and physical self, this content may be distressing or triggering and is not suitable for all audiences.
The fluorescent hum of the office had finally been replaced by the amber glow of the lounge. It was his last night in a standard business trip. Stale air, PowerPoint slides, and the dull ache of a life lived in middle management. Arthur swirled the ice in his scotch, feeling the weight of the gold band on his left finger.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, a shock of crimson hair against a backless emerald dress. Her silhouette was a perfect hourglass, a literal curve in an otherwise linear world. When she looked up, her piercing and predatory green eyes locked onto his. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline he hadn't felt in a decade. She’s way out of your league, he thought. Then she winked.
Calculated and quick, Arthur slipped his wedding ring into his coin pocket. He stood up, smoothed his suit, and walked over.
The conversation was effortless. Her name was Elena. She laughed at his tired jokes as if they were comedic gold, leaning in close enough for him to smell jasmine. He felt invincible. He felt like a king.
"This place is a bit... public," he whispered, emboldened by the third drink. "I have a suite upstairs."
Elena’s gaze dropped to his lips. "I thought you’d never ask."
The elevator ride was a blur of heavy breathing and frantic hands. By the time the door to Room 412 clicked shut, clothes were hitting the carpet. In the dim light of the city skyline, Elena was a masterpiece. Arthur felt like he’d won the lottery, his pulse hammering against his ribs as they moved together.
Her skin was cool silk against his, and when her mouth found his again, the taste of scotch and her was overwhelming. She was not passive. She guided his hands to the zipper of her dress, letting it fall in a whisper of emerald to the floor. The city lights through the window painted stripes of gold across her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the incredible flare of her hips.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, her crimson hair a curtain that smelled of jasmine. There was nothing tentative in her touch. Her nails scraped lightly down his chest, making him gasp, and her mouth was hot and demanding on his neck, his collarbone, lower. She took him in her mouth, and Arthur’s head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. It had been years, a lifetime maybe, since he’d felt anything so intense, so shockingly skilled. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
When he tried to roll her over, she resisted with a throaty laugh, planting a hand on his chest. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, her green eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “My turn.” She straddled him, taking him inside her in one slow, exquisite slide that made them both cry out. She moved with a rhythm that was ancient and utterly new to him, her head thrown back, a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips, feeling the muscles work beneath her skin. He was lost in the sight of her, the feel of her tight heat, the low, encouraging murmurs that she made, coiled heat in his gut. The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this woman who rode him with fierce, unapologetic pleasure. His own climax built like a storm, inevitable and terrifying in its power. He was mumbling nonsense, praises, curses, her name.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice a rough scrape. He forced his eyes open, meeting her predatory gaze. She held it, unblinking, as she ground down against him, her body clenching around his, and that was all it took. Arthur shattered, a white-hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like oblivion, his vision spotting as he spilled into her with a broken shout.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot against his skin, her own body trembling through the aftershocks. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
"Again," she whispered. Her voice sounded deeper, a resonant vibration that seemed to rattle the glass. "But this time, stay on your feet."
He laughed, breathless. "You’re a machine, Elena. You gonna dry me up."
He stood against the cold drywall, and she pressed into him. She moved with a sudden, violent strength, impaling herself upon him with a force that made his breath hitch. But as they moved, the sensation began to change.
The heat between them turned into a searing, liquid fire. The air in Room 412 had grown thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Arthur was pinned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. When Elena had suggested "one more time," he thought it was a testament to his prowess. He didn't realize he was being prepared for a harvest.
As she continued impaling herself upon him, the pleasure didn't peak. It curdled.
A cold, rhythmic suction began at the point of contact between his dick and her pussy. A psychic vacuum that started at the base of his spine and began pulling. Arthur’s eyes widened. He tried to push her shoulders away, but her skin felt like cooling iron.
"Something’s... wrong," he wheezed. His voice cracked, losing its baritone edge.
Elena leaned into his ear, her breath a freezing mist. "Don't fight it, Arthur. The more you struggle, the more it hurts."
The sensation wasn't just a draining. It was a re-sculpting. As that cold suction pulled at the very marrow of him, Arthur’s mind was flooded with fragments of not his own memories, but ghostly echoes trapped within the thing that wore Elena’s skin. He glimpsed, in a dizzying flash, a stern jaw that was not her jaw, a pair of broad, laborer’s hands that were not her hands. The impressions were faint and crumbling, like a statue worn smooth by a relentless sea. This beautiful, predatory form had not always been so. Once, perhaps, it had been something else, someone else, someone strapping and male, before it, too, had been hollowed out and remade into a perfect, terrible feminine vessel.
What was happening to him now was the final, violent stage of a timeless digestion. The entity within Elena was an insatiable furnace, a primal masculine hunger that had consumed its original body ages ago. From time to time, to live, it needed the fresh fuel of a man’s essence, his vitality, his very identity. It would gorge until the stolen male form could no longer contain the paradox of its nature, until the excess began to warp the shell from the inside out. The muscles would soften into curves, the face would refine into soft features, the body would blossom into a hyper-feminine masterpiece, not for pleasure, but for purpose. It was a biological honeypot, a chrysalis of flesh designed for one thing: to lure the next sustenance, and begin the cycle anew. Arthur was just its most recent prey.
Arthur felt his chest tighten. He looked down and watched in silent horror as his pectorals softened and swelled, the skin stretching into a delicate, pale ivory. He tried to flex his biceps to strike her, but the muscle mass was melting, flowing into her like water down a drain.
"No!" he roared, but the sound was becoming a soprano wail.
He fought. He reached deep into his mind, clutching at the memories of his father, his sports, the weight of his tools, the nights of passion with his wife Sarah. He tried to anchor the very concept of himself as a man in his spirit.
Elena, or the thing with the statuesque her form in front of him, let out a low, guttural growl of delight. Her (his) shoulders began to broaden.
"Yes," the entity hissed, its voice now a deep, vibrating rumble that shook Arthur’s new, fragile ribcage. "Give me that defiance. I haven't tasted a will this stubborn in a century."
The transition became a violent, intimate tug-of-war. Arthur fought not with his weakening muscles, but with his will, clawing at the memory of his own face in the mirror, the scrape of a morning shave, the satisfying heft of a hammer in his grip. He poured every stubborn ounce of his identity into the fight, trying to anchor the very shape of his bones.
He felt the rasp of his beard beginning to recede, the follicles dying with a faint, prickling itch. In response, the entity pinning him merely grinned, a cruel slash of a smile. A shadow of coarse, dark stubble sprouted across its jaw, each hair pushing through the skin with an audible, scratchy whisper. Arthur’s own jawline ached as it softened, the hard angle melting into a delicate, heart-shaped curve. He tried to clench his teeth, to feel the familiar tension in his masseter muscle, but even that resistance was siphoned away, leaving a smooth, feminine line.
His hands came up, instinct driving him to shove at the solid wall of the entity’s new chest. But his hands… they were betraying him. The knuckles, once prominent and scarred from a long-ago fight, smoothed into gentle bumps. His fingers, which had once confidently curled around a steering wheel, now slimmed and elongated, the tendons standing out in delicate relief. They were becoming slender, manicured things, like a pianist’s hands or a courtesan’s hands. He stared at them, willing them to curl into fists, but they remained limp and elegant, their strength flowing out through his fingertips.
The entity watched this internal struggle with the bored, appreciative gaze of a connoisseur. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Arthur’s fragile new frame.
“Struggle,” the entity whispered, its voice now fully Arthur’s own baritone, but laced with a dark, ancient amusement. “I can taste the defiance. It’s the best part, you know. The raw, panicked flavor of a man who still believes he can win.” It leaned in, its new, rough stubble scratching Arthur’s cheek, now smooth as porcelain. “I have fought dozens wills like yours before. I am so very used to it. And I always win in the end.”
To emphasize its point, the entity ground its hips forward, a brutal reminder of their grotesque connection. With that motion, a fresh, dizzying wave of suction pulled at Arthur’s core. He felt a final, visceral shift in his hands, the last of the calluses dissolving, the palms becoming soft and unmarked. They were utterly alien to him now, tools of pleasure, not labor. The entity lifted one of its own new, broad hands, Arthur’s old hands, and examined it with satisfaction, flexing the powerful fingers before closing them into a fist that could shatter bone.
“There,” the entity sighed, the sound one of deep, sated pleasure. “Now the real masterpiece begins.”
The entity let out a final, triumphant breath, vacuuming the last embers of Arthur’s masculinity.
The cold suction reached its zenith, pulling not just substance but shape, rearranging Arthur on a cellular level. He felt a final, wrenching pull deep in his groin, a sensation of inversion so profound it stole his breath. His own penis, the last proud emblem of his stolen manhood, didn’t just wither, it reversed. It was a sickening, intimate retreat, the flesh drawing inward, folding and reforming itself with wet, muscular ripples into a new, sensitive hollow. A high, keening sound escaped his lips as he felt it settle, a completed, vulnerable absence.
At the same time, as his body yielded, Elena’s consumed it. The entity, still pressed flush against him, let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. Arthur felt the warm, slick folds he’d been buried within moments before begin to change against his new flesh. It fused, the lips sealing together with a faint, sticky sound, the seam smoothing into unbroken skin. Then, beneath that skin, something swelled. It hardened and lengthened, pushing outward, an obscene bloom of stolen virility. Arthur’s own former shaft, now ruddy and thick and fully erect, emerged from where Elena’s femininity had been, glistening in the low light.
The entity looked down, a cruel smile playing on its—his—newly masculine lips. He gripped Arthur’s, now Elena’s, slender hips with one broad hand. With the other, he guided his new cock, the flesh that had once been Arthur’s pride, to the newly formed, tight entrance he had just carved out of Arthur’s body.
“Full circle,” the entity rumbled in Arthur’s stolen voice.
And he impaled him with it.
It was a violation that transcended the physical, a horrific echo of their earlier coupling. Arthur screamed, a raw, feminine sound of shock and agony as he was filled by the very essence of what he had lost. The entity moved, a few slow, brutal thrusts, not for pleasure but for possession, a brand of final ownership. Each drive home seemed to hammer the last of Arthur’s resistance into dust, sealing his new form with the brutal stamp of his old one.
The entity held him there for a long, final moment, buried to the hilt. Arthur felt a hot, impossible pressure building at the root of the cock that had once been his own. Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through both their bodies, the new Arthur released.
It was a flood, a heavy, viscous pour of stolen seed. Arthur felt it jetting deep inside the new, sensitive cavity of his body, a searing heat that was both alien and horribly familiar. This was his essence, the vital, masculine potential that had been ripped from him, now being returned in this corrupted, violating baptism. His stomach, flat and taut moments before, gave a faint, phantom swell under the sheer volume of it, the sensation of being filled branding itself onto his new nerves.
With a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the silent room, a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle, the entity withdrew.
The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. And then, a warm, trickling release. Arthur looked down, his vision blurred with tears, as a thick, pearlescent stream began to seep from his violated opening. It traced a glistening path down the inside of one slender, pale thigh, a second rivulet following the other. It dripped onto the carpet, his cum, their cum, marking the spot where he had ceased to be a man. The entity took a step back, admiring its work.
The man—the new Arthur—stood tall, broad-shouldered and radiating a terrifying, predatory calm. He looked down at the trembling creature slumped against the wall, her beautiful legs slick and shameful.
Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation, and its violent consummation, was complete. He was sobbing with a voice that didn't know how to be his, his body throbbing with the brutal memory of its own creation and the heavy, leaking proof of its new purpose.
He had the red hair, the green eyes, and the hourglass curves that he had lusted just hours ago. Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation was complete and functional.
She was beautiful, she was “Elena”.
---
It was already morning.
The entity reached into the discarded suit jacket, pulled out a gold wedding band, and slid it onto its finger.
"Beautiful," the entity said, using Arthur's voice. "I think I’ll enjoy being a husband for a while."
"You were a heavy meal, Elena," the entity said, while dressing as Arthur. Its new voice, Arthur's old voice, rolling over her like a physical weight. It was adjusting to the timber, testing the name it had stolen along with everything else. "It will take a long time to digest you. But when I am hungry again... when this body begins to soften and distort into a walking wet dream once more, into a hyper-feminized version of your old shell, I’ll find someone just like you."
He stepped back, and as he did, a wave of something colder than the room’s air washed over the woman who had been Arthur. It wasn’t a touch, but an impression, a psychic stamp pressed deep into the soft, new clay of her mind.
The first thing to go was the sharp, specific ache for home. The memory of a wife, his wife, Sarah, with her soft laughter and the little mole on her left shoulder, didn’t vanish so much as unravel. The love became a vague, sentimental warmth, then a faded photograph of a stranger, then a blank space where a feeling should have been. Sarah? Who was Sarah? The question drifted through her head and found no anchor, slipping away like smoke. The comfortable weight of a mortgage, the solid pride of a career, the reassuring grind of middle management, all these concepts melted like sugar in rain, leaving behind only a hollow, formless longing for stability, with no memory of ever having possessed it.
In their place, new memories began to crystallize, not as a flood, but as a slow, sickening seep. They felt thin and cheap, like bad perfume.
She remembered a cramped apartment that always smelled of stale smoke and someone else’s cooking. She remembered the pinch of too-tight shoes, bought from a discount bin, and the constant, gnawing anxiety that came two days before rent was due. She remembered standing under flickering neon, not as a choice, but as a grim arithmetic: fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for half an hour, enough to keep the lights on and the landlord’s threats at bay for one more week. The memories carried no history, no childhood, no dreams deferred. They started, abruptly, with a desperate choice made in a cold bus station, and they stretched forward into an endless, grinding present.
Her certainty, the ironclad knowledge that she was Arthur, that she had been robbed, began to waver. The fight that had defined her final moments as a man now seemed like a delirious dream, a strange story she’d once heard about someone else. Had she been a man? The idea felt absurd, laughable. She looked down at her own delicate hands, at the shimmering fall of red hair over a pale shoulder, at the beautiful, treacherous curves that had ensnared her. This was her. This had always been her.
The entity watched the understanding dawn in her new, green eyes. It was the final gift, the cruelest one: not just a new body, but a new past, engineered to fit its purpose. She wasn’t a victim of a grand, supernatural theft. She was just Elena. A girl with no education, no family safety net, no prospects. Her body was her only viable tool, her pleasure a currency she didn’t control. The world was a series of rooms like this one, of transactions, of fleeting power that always ended with her alone and counting crumpled bills.
A single, hot tear traced a path through her face. It wasn’t a tear of rage, not anymore. It was a tear of bitter, total recognition. The sob that followed was quieter, defeated. She remembered the feel of cheap hotel carpet under her knees. She remembered the hollow click of a lock in a stranger’s door. This was her life. It had always been her life.
The entity smiled, a perfect, terrible mirror of Arthur’s old, confident grin. It watched as the fight left her eyes, seeing her mind finally buckle under the weight of her stolen skin. She was no longer a man who had lost; she was a hyper-feminized byproduct, a soft, decorative high-heeled tragedy, destined to spend her days selling her body and to be stared at and objectified wherever she goes. The woman that used to be Arthur looked down at her new, delicate hands and finally stopped sobbing, accepting the silence of her own situation.
“Good girl,” the entity rumbled, turning toward the door. It didn’t look back. Its work was done.
The fluorescent hum of the office had finally been replaced by the amber glow of the lounge. It was his last night in a standard business trip. Stale air, PowerPoint slides, and the dull ache of a life lived in middle management. Arthur swirled the ice in his scotch, feeling the weight of the gold band on his left finger.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, a shock of crimson hair against a backless emerald dress. Her silhouette was a perfect hourglass, a literal curve in an otherwise linear world. When she looked up, her piercing and predatory green eyes locked onto his. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline he hadn't felt in a decade. She’s way out of your league, he thought. Then she winked.
Calculated and quick, Arthur slipped his wedding ring into his coin pocket. He stood up, smoothed his suit, and walked over.
The conversation was effortless. Her name was Elena. She laughed at his tired jokes as if they were comedic gold, leaning in close enough for him to smell jasmine. He felt invincible. He felt like a king.
"This place is a bit... public," he whispered, emboldened by the third drink. "I have a suite upstairs."
Elena’s gaze dropped to his lips. "I thought you’d never ask."
The elevator ride was a blur of heavy breathing and frantic hands. By the time the door to Room 412 clicked shut, clothes were hitting the carpet. In the dim light of the city skyline, Elena was a masterpiece. Arthur felt like he’d won the lottery, his pulse hammering against his ribs as they moved together.
Her skin was cool silk against his, and when her mouth found his again, the taste of scotch and her was overwhelming. She was not passive. She guided his hands to the zipper of her dress, letting it fall in a whisper of emerald to the floor. The city lights through the window painted stripes of gold across her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the incredible flare of her hips.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, her crimson hair a curtain that smelled of jasmine. There was nothing tentative in her touch. Her nails scraped lightly down his chest, making him gasp, and her mouth was hot and demanding on his neck, his collarbone, lower. She took him in her mouth, and Arthur’s head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. It had been years, a lifetime maybe, since he’d felt anything so intense, so shockingly skilled. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
When he tried to roll her over, she resisted with a throaty laugh, planting a hand on his chest. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, her green eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “My turn.” She straddled him, taking him inside her in one slow, exquisite slide that made them both cry out. She moved with a rhythm that was ancient and utterly new to him, her head thrown back, a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips, feeling the muscles work beneath her skin. He was lost in the sight of her, the feel of her tight heat, the low, encouraging murmurs that she made, coiled heat in his gut. The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this woman who rode him with fierce, unapologetic pleasure. His own climax built like a storm, inevitable and terrifying in its power. He was mumbling nonsense, praises, curses, her name.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice a rough scrape. He forced his eyes open, meeting her predatory gaze. She held it, unblinking, as she ground down against him, her body clenching around his, and that was all it took. Arthur shattered, a white-hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like oblivion, his vision spotting as he spilled into her with a broken shout.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot against his skin, her own body trembling through the aftershocks. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
"Again," she whispered. Her voice sounded deeper, a resonant vibration that seemed to rattle the glass. "But this time, stay on your feet."
He laughed, breathless. "You’re a machine, Elena. You gonna dry me up."
He stood against the cold drywall, and she pressed into him. She moved with a sudden, violent strength, impaling herself upon him with a force that made his breath hitch. But as they moved, the sensation began to change.
The heat between them turned into a searing, liquid fire. The air in Room 412 had grown thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Arthur was pinned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. When Elena had suggested "one more time," he thought it was a testament to his prowess. He didn't realize he was being prepared for a harvest.
As she continued impaling herself upon him, the pleasure didn't peak. It curdled.
A cold, rhythmic suction began at the point of contact between his dick and her pussy. A psychic vacuum that started at the base of his spine and began pulling. Arthur’s eyes widened. He tried to push her shoulders away, but her skin felt like cooling iron.
"Something’s... wrong," he wheezed. His voice cracked, losing its baritone edge.
Elena leaned into his ear, her breath a freezing mist. "Don't fight it, Arthur. The more you struggle, the more it hurts."
The sensation wasn't just a draining. It was a re-sculpting. As that cold suction pulled at the very marrow of him, Arthur’s mind was flooded with fragments of not his own memories, but ghostly echoes trapped within the thing that wore Elena’s skin. He glimpsed, in a dizzying flash, a stern jaw that was not her jaw, a pair of broad, laborer’s hands that were not her hands. The impressions were faint and crumbling, like a statue worn smooth by a relentless sea. This beautiful, predatory form had not always been so. Once, perhaps, it had been something else, someone else, someone strapping and male, before it, too, had been hollowed out and remade into a perfect, terrible feminine vessel.
What was happening to him now was the final, violent stage of a timeless digestion. The entity within Elena was an insatiable furnace, a primal masculine hunger that had consumed its original body ages ago. From time to time, to live, it needed the fresh fuel of a man’s essence, his vitality, his very identity. It would gorge until the stolen male form could no longer contain the paradox of its nature, until the excess began to warp the shell from the inside out. The muscles would soften into curves, the face would refine into soft features, the body would blossom into a hyper-feminine masterpiece, not for pleasure, but for purpose. It was a biological honeypot, a chrysalis of flesh designed for one thing: to lure the next sustenance, and begin the cycle anew. Arthur was just its most recent prey.
Arthur felt his chest tighten. He looked down and watched in silent horror as his pectorals softened and swelled, the skin stretching into a delicate, pale ivory. He tried to flex his biceps to strike her, but the muscle mass was melting, flowing into her like water down a drain.
"No!" he roared, but the sound was becoming a soprano wail.
He fought. He reached deep into his mind, clutching at the memories of his father, his sports, the weight of his tools, the nights of passion with his wife Sarah. He tried to anchor the very concept of himself as a man in his spirit.
Elena, or the thing with the statuesque her form in front of him, let out a low, guttural growl of delight. Her (his) shoulders began to broaden.
"Yes," the entity hissed, its voice now a deep, vibrating rumble that shook Arthur’s new, fragile ribcage. "Give me that defiance. I haven't tasted a will this stubborn in a century."
The transition became a violent, intimate tug-of-war. Arthur fought not with his weakening muscles, but with his will, clawing at the memory of his own face in the mirror, the scrape of a morning shave, the satisfying heft of a hammer in his grip. He poured every stubborn ounce of his identity into the fight, trying to anchor the very shape of his bones.
He felt the rasp of his beard beginning to recede, the follicles dying with a faint, prickling itch. In response, the entity pinning him merely grinned, a cruel slash of a smile. A shadow of coarse, dark stubble sprouted across its jaw, each hair pushing through the skin with an audible, scratchy whisper. Arthur’s own jawline ached as it softened, the hard angle melting into a delicate, heart-shaped curve. He tried to clench his teeth, to feel the familiar tension in his masseter muscle, but even that resistance was siphoned away, leaving a smooth, feminine line.
His hands came up, instinct driving him to shove at the solid wall of the entity’s new chest. But his hands… they were betraying him. The knuckles, once prominent and scarred from a long-ago fight, smoothed into gentle bumps. His fingers, which had once confidently curled around a steering wheel, now slimmed and elongated, the tendons standing out in delicate relief. They were becoming slender, manicured things, like a pianist’s hands or a courtesan’s hands. He stared at them, willing them to curl into fists, but they remained limp and elegant, their strength flowing out through his fingertips.
The entity watched this internal struggle with the bored, appreciative gaze of a connoisseur. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Arthur’s fragile new frame.
“Struggle,” the entity whispered, its voice now fully Arthur’s own baritone, but laced with a dark, ancient amusement. “I can taste the defiance. It’s the best part, you know. The raw, panicked flavor of a man who still believes he can win.” It leaned in, its new, rough stubble scratching Arthur’s cheek, now smooth as porcelain. “I have fought dozens wills like yours before. I am so very used to it. And I always win in the end.”
To emphasize its point, the entity ground its hips forward, a brutal reminder of their grotesque connection. With that motion, a fresh, dizzying wave of suction pulled at Arthur’s core. He felt a final, visceral shift in his hands, the last of the calluses dissolving, the palms becoming soft and unmarked. They were utterly alien to him now, tools of pleasure, not labor. The entity lifted one of its own new, broad hands, Arthur’s old hands, and examined it with satisfaction, flexing the powerful fingers before closing them into a fist that could shatter bone.
“There,” the entity sighed, the sound one of deep, sated pleasure. “Now the real masterpiece begins.”
The entity let out a final, triumphant breath, vacuuming the last embers of Arthur’s masculinity.
The cold suction reached its zenith, pulling not just substance but shape, rearranging Arthur on a cellular level. He felt a final, wrenching pull deep in his groin, a sensation of inversion so profound it stole his breath. His own penis, the last proud emblem of his stolen manhood, didn’t just wither, it reversed. It was a sickening, intimate retreat, the flesh drawing inward, folding and reforming itself with wet, muscular ripples into a new, sensitive hollow. A high, keening sound escaped his lips as he felt it settle, a completed, vulnerable absence.
At the same time, as his body yielded, Elena’s consumed it. The entity, still pressed flush against him, let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. Arthur felt the warm, slick folds he’d been buried within moments before begin to change against his new flesh. It fused, the lips sealing together with a faint, sticky sound, the seam smoothing into unbroken skin. Then, beneath that skin, something swelled. It hardened and lengthened, pushing outward, an obscene bloom of stolen virility. Arthur’s own former shaft, now ruddy and thick and fully erect, emerged from where Elena’s femininity had been, glistening in the low light.
The entity looked down, a cruel smile playing on its—his—newly masculine lips. He gripped Arthur’s, now Elena’s, slender hips with one broad hand. With the other, he guided his new cock, the flesh that had once been Arthur’s pride, to the newly formed, tight entrance he had just carved out of Arthur’s body.
“Full circle,” the entity rumbled in Arthur’s stolen voice.
And he impaled him with it.
It was a violation that transcended the physical, a horrific echo of their earlier coupling. Arthur screamed, a raw, feminine sound of shock and agony as he was filled by the very essence of what he had lost. The entity moved, a few slow, brutal thrusts, not for pleasure but for possession, a brand of final ownership. Each drive home seemed to hammer the last of Arthur’s resistance into dust, sealing his new form with the brutal stamp of his old one.
The entity held him there for a long, final moment, buried to the hilt. Arthur felt a hot, impossible pressure building at the root of the cock that had once been his own. Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through both their bodies, the new Arthur released.
It was a flood, a heavy, viscous pour of stolen seed. Arthur felt it jetting deep inside the new, sensitive cavity of his body, a searing heat that was both alien and horribly familiar. This was his essence, the vital, masculine potential that had been ripped from him, now being returned in this corrupted, violating baptism. His stomach, flat and taut moments before, gave a faint, phantom swell under the sheer volume of it, the sensation of being filled branding itself onto his new nerves.
With a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the silent room, a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle, the entity withdrew.
The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. And then, a warm, trickling release. Arthur looked down, his vision blurred with tears, as a thick, pearlescent stream began to seep from his violated opening. It traced a glistening path down the inside of one slender, pale thigh, a second rivulet following the other. It dripped onto the carpet, his cum, their cum, marking the spot where he had ceased to be a man. The entity took a step back, admiring its work.
The man—the new Arthur—stood tall, broad-shouldered and radiating a terrifying, predatory calm. He looked down at the trembling creature slumped against the wall, her beautiful legs slick and shameful.
Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation, and its violent consummation, was complete. He was sobbing with a voice that didn't know how to be his, his body throbbing with the brutal memory of its own creation and the heavy, leaking proof of its new purpose.
He had the red hair, the green eyes, and the hourglass curves that he had lusted just hours ago. Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation was complete and functional.
She was beautiful, she was “Elena”.
---
It was already morning.
The entity reached into the discarded suit jacket, pulled out a gold wedding band, and slid it onto its finger.
"Beautiful," the entity said, using Arthur's voice. "I think I’ll enjoy being a husband for a while."
"You were a heavy meal, Elena," the entity said, while dressing as Arthur. Its new voice, Arthur's old voice, rolling over her like a physical weight. It was adjusting to the timber, testing the name it had stolen along with everything else. "It will take a long time to digest you. But when I am hungry again... when this body begins to soften and distort into a walking wet dream once more, into a hyper-feminized version of your old shell, I’ll find someone just like you."
He stepped back, and as he did, a wave of something colder than the room’s air washed over the woman who had been Arthur. It wasn’t a touch, but an impression, a psychic stamp pressed deep into the soft, new clay of her mind.
The first thing to go was the sharp, specific ache for home. The memory of a wife, his wife, Sarah, with her soft laughter and the little mole on her left shoulder, didn’t vanish so much as unravel. The love became a vague, sentimental warmth, then a faded photograph of a stranger, then a blank space where a feeling should have been. Sarah? Who was Sarah? The question drifted through her head and found no anchor, slipping away like smoke. The comfortable weight of a mortgage, the solid pride of a career, the reassuring grind of middle management, all these concepts melted like sugar in rain, leaving behind only a hollow, formless longing for stability, with no memory of ever having possessed it.
In their place, new memories began to crystallize, not as a flood, but as a slow, sickening seep. They felt thin and cheap, like bad perfume.
She remembered a cramped apartment that always smelled of stale smoke and someone else’s cooking. She remembered the pinch of too-tight shoes, bought from a discount bin, and the constant, gnawing anxiety that came two days before rent was due. She remembered standing under flickering neon, not as a choice, but as a grim arithmetic: fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for half an hour, enough to keep the lights on and the landlord’s threats at bay for one more week. The memories carried no history, no childhood, no dreams deferred. They started, abruptly, with a desperate choice made in a cold bus station, and they stretched forward into an endless, grinding present.
Her certainty, the ironclad knowledge that she was Arthur, that she had been robbed, began to waver. The fight that had defined her final moments as a man now seemed like a delirious dream, a strange story she’d once heard about someone else. Had she been a man? The idea felt absurd, laughable. She looked down at her own delicate hands, at the shimmering fall of red hair over a pale shoulder, at the beautiful, treacherous curves that had ensnared her. This was her. This had always been her.
The entity watched the understanding dawn in her new, green eyes. It was the final gift, the cruelest one: not just a new body, but a new past, engineered to fit its purpose. She wasn’t a victim of a grand, supernatural theft. She was just Elena. A girl with no education, no family safety net, no prospects. Her body was her only viable tool, her pleasure a currency she didn’t control. The world was a series of rooms like this one, of transactions, of fleeting power that always ended with her alone and counting crumpled bills.
A single, hot tear traced a path through her face. It wasn’t a tear of rage, not anymore. It was a tear of bitter, total recognition. The sob that followed was quieter, defeated. She remembered the feel of cheap hotel carpet under her knees. She remembered the hollow click of a lock in a stranger’s door. This was her life. It had always been her life.
The entity smiled, a perfect, terrible mirror of Arthur’s old, confident grin. It watched as the fight left her eyes, seeing her mind finally buckle under the weight of her stolen skin. She was no longer a man who had lost; she was a hyper-feminized byproduct, a soft, decorative high-heeled tragedy, destined to spend her days selling her body and to be stared at and objectified wherever she goes. The woman that used to be Arthur looked down at her new, delicate hands and finally stopped sobbing, accepting the silence of her own situation.
“Good girl,” the entity rumbled, turning toward the door. It didn’t look back. Its work was done.
mind control
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A NEET terrorizes her family with her possession powers.
It was in the very early morning hours. The whole house was pitch-black and its inhabitants were fast asleep, except for one. The only source of light was the glow emenating from a computer monitor. It illuminated Wendy’s face and the strands of greasy hair glued to it. The synthetic light just faintly revealed the mess in her room: the moldy plates, empty take-out boxes, and dirty clothes, all of which were freely intermixed and strewn about.
Wet sounds and a pungent smell filled the air. Wendy sat in her computer chair in just her underwear and masturbated while playing an erotic dating simulator. She had been an avid fan of video games, especially story-driven ones like visual novels, since she was a kid, but since the twenty-three-year-old failed out of college and moved back in with her parents, she had done nothing but sit in front of her computer and play video games all day long.
She used to be somewhat pretty, but she let herself go quite a bit when she essentially barricaded herself into her old childhood room, only ever leaving to use the bathroom. Since then, she had been escaping more and more into the virtual world of various video games, desperately trying to escape her failures in the outside world. The easily achievable goals in those games provided her with at least a fake sense of fullfilment and purpose.
Initially, she stuck to regular video games and story-driven visual novels. But since moving back home, she got fairly addicted to romantic dating simulators, which provided her a with a substitute for the type of relationship she longed for but could not achieve in real life. Things took even more of a downturn when, a few months ago, after having played through virtually all visual novels, she checked out her first incest-themed eroge, a genre she had not paid any attention to before, but now felt compelled to in order to avoid spending any second alone with her own thoughts.
Right in that moment she was playing through a scene where the main character’s adorable little sister snuck into her older brother’s bed and snuggled up to him under the covers. The game quickly turned erotic and, in response, Wendy let out a long, deep grunt, signaling her climax.
To recuperate from her self-satisfaction, Wendy leaned back into her chair and looked up at her dimmly-lit ceiling. After a few moments an idea popped into her head. She got up and, for the first time in a while, left her room for a reason other than to use the bathroom. She quietly crept through the dark hallway and slowly opened the door two rooms further down, trying to keep it from creaking as to not wake the person sleeping inside.
After entering the room, she managed to silently close the door behind her and then tip-toed towards the bed inside. There, she lifted the covers and carefully laid down next to her older brother Josh who was sleeping soundly. She then cozied up to him under the blanket just like she had seen the little sister do in her video game. She was now right next to him with her foul breath caressing his skin.
Wanting to recreate the scene from her video game, Wendy began carefully fishing her brother’s limp dick out of his pyjama pants and gently rubbed it until it was fully errect. She then rolled on top of him, pushed her panties aside, and stealthily slipped his dick into her hungry snatch.
Meanwhile, Josh was having the most amazing dream. In it, he found himself in an infinite, white void where he was hooking up with the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her long, brunette hair appeared to be silky-soft as it gently swayed around her slender frame with each motion, lending her an ethereal presence. The only things about her that he found more captivating than her radiant smile were her full, ripe breasts, which were practically begging to be devoured. She seemed really familiar to Josh, although he could not quite place where he had seen her before. Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend he had forgotten about. Nevertheless, he did not want to keep this unknown beauty waiting by fretting about it.
Josh and the mysterious girl had already fully shed their clothes and were eager to get things going. He laid down on the most comfortable bed imaginable, which had appeared out of nowhere without him ever noticing. Lying on his back, he watched as his dream lover expertly fondled his privates while looking up at him with hungry eyes. In no time he was ready to take her. The nameless vixen sat on top of him and began immediately riding him, placing her hands on his hard abs for support. Her hot, silky depths engulfed him completely as her smooth, hairless body writhed with pleasure. Biting her lower lip, she failed to stifle the soft moans escaping from her mouth that accompanied the expressions of extacy on her gorgeous face. They caressed Josh’s ears like the sweatest of melodies, bewitching him like a siren. The pleasure that grew in his groin was overwhelming, beyond anything he had ever experienced in real life.
Yet, something about her felt odd to him. Despite her small size and lithe body, the dreamy nymph on top of him felt unusually heavy. This bizarre fact made him realize that he was actually dreaming, which immediately ripped him from his sleep.
Completely disoriented, the only things Josh could perceive in the dark was labored breathing and groaning, and a heavy weight bouncing up and down on him. At first he hoped that this might be a continuation of his wonderful dream, but when a lurid stench crept up his nose he knew for certain that he was awake. Wanting to find out who or what was disturbing his sweet dreams, he turned to his night stand right beside his bed to turn on the light. For a few seconds the sudden presence of light blinded him like a flash of lightning. But when his eyes had acclimated to the new-found brightness, he was horrified by the ghastly figure sitting on top of him.
“Wendy!!”, Josh exlaimed as he recognized his grody younger sister straddling him, wearing only a bra and panties. Her grin was barely visible through her greasy hair and the bra that had failed to adjust to her increased size dug deeply into her chubby shape, almost cutting off circulation to her formless breasts. “What the hell are you doing in my room in the middle of the night? And why are you sitting on top of me?” Josh demanded angrily. “Oh, Josh,” was the only answer Wendy could moan, never breaking with the rhythm of her movements. Hearing these sexual sounds come from his sister’s mouth was like fingernails on a chalkboard to his ears.
Her abhorrent, yet puzzling, response made Josh’s eyes wander lower. He gagged violently when he discovered his dick was burried deep inside his sister’s rancid, unkempt snatch, even feeling her coarse pubes rubbing against his skin as she was grinding her crotch against his. He felt so repulsed by this disgusting sight that he could have projectile-vomitted every meal he had ever had in his life right in that very moment. Luckily, his stomach was completely empty or he would have made an even bigger mess out of this situation.
“Get off of me!” Josh yelled while forcefully pushing his grody sister away. Wendy fell off his dick, off his bed, and on onto the floor, landing there with a strong thud. She quickly scrambled back onto her feet. “Why did you do that?” she hissed. “That’s what I should be asking! Why were you having sex with me, Wendy? You’re my sister! That’s so fucked!” he exclaimed. “But I’m your cute little sister, bro. Don’t you find me adorable,” she said batting her eye-lids, trying to charm her brother, but somehow ending up looking even creepier.
“Eewww, you’re sick, Wendy! Sick and vile!” Josh said disgusted. “And not just that, you’re also fucking filthy. I’d rather rip my own dick off and poke my eyes out with it than have sex with you, even if we were the last two people on earth stranded on a lonely island! I wish you’d just disappear forever and leave us alone.” Her brother’s harsh remarks finally burst the fantasy that Wendy had built up in her mind over the past few months of playing eroges. The reality she tried to run from came crashing down on her right in this moment, as Josh’s cutting words hurt her deeply.
“Fine!” Wendy said scorned and full of anger. “If you want me to disappear, then that’s what I will do, I guess!” With tears of anger welling up, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Wait! Wendy! Nooo—!” Josh exclaimed, trying to stop her. But it was too late. As if something had zapped the life out of her, Wendy instantly lost all the tension in her body and collapsed face-first onto her brother’s bed. At the same time, Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body began convulsing vigorously. Then something inside of him snapped and he, too, lost almost all the tension in his body, just barely being able to stand. His head was loosely dangling from his neck.
After a few moments of silence, Josh seemed to wake up, as both his heads slowly rose up again. But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in control. His sister Wendy had somehow developed the powers to take over other people’s bodies during her early teenage years. At first she was shy and reluctant about them, as she used to be a gentle soul. She simply could not square it with her conscience to control other people. The most she would do was ride along in the friends or family members of a boy she had a crush on at the time. When her parents found out about her powers, they immediately scolded her and forbade her from ever using her powers. But as Wendy grew older, her parents realized that their daughter did not have any ill intentions and began relaxing about the situation.
But when Wendy failed out of college and her mental health declined, things turned scary for her family. She became more and more controlling and petulant, throwing tamper tantrums anytime anyone disturbed her or tried to tell her what to do. She also became increasingly blasé about using her powers, taking over her family, neighbors, and anyone in reach for the smallest of matters, just so she would never have to leave her room.
On a few occasions Wendy had even used her powers to blackmail people into doing what she wanted, even when she was not possessing them. Another time she had stalked a poor guy who she had become at first infatuated and then obsessed with on social media. She had followed him around as different people, watching every step he made, every second of his life for two months. She only stopped because she eventually became bored of him.
These were the myriad of reasons that her family now lived in fear of her. Her parents could not throw her out because of her powers. They themselves could not move out since all their savings were tied into their house. Their youngest daughter, Alice, refused to leave, as she did not want her parents to suffer alone. And even Josh had moved back in as a means to protect his family, which is why he now found himself not in control of his own body.
“Josh” grinned from ear to ear as he patted down “his” flat chest. “He” then flexed his biceps, admiring his own strength. Next, he grabbed his dick, which was already painfully errect, with both his hands and began firmly squeezing it. He could virtually feel the blood pulsing through the thick meat of his sizeable member. “He” then turned to the person lying on his bed and said, “I’m soooo sorry, ‘sis’. I didn’t mean to hurt you. My words came out all wrong. What I meant to say was that you are the most adorable little sister a big brother could ever wish for! Here, let me show you how much I love you.”
With that, “Josh” stepped towards Wendy’s comatose body and snaked his big, strong hands underneath her torso. “Oh, my. When did my cute little sister grow up to be such a woman?” “he” cooed while groping her flabby breasts. Without turning over her heavy frame, “Josh” glid his rough hands along her pudgy waist and onto her even wider hips, firmly grabbing ahold of them. “He” then carefully wormed his prick into “his sister’s” slimy, hairy cunt, before forcefully jamming his entire length into her unconscious flesh.
Without any further hesitation, “Josh” began viciously fucking his sleeping sister, pumping in and out of her like an animal while groaning and grunting like a bull. “He” nearly worked himself into a frenzy. Wendy’s rotten odor began reeking from all the friction and heat they created, which seemed to turn him on even more. For the next two minutes, the clapping of “his” hips against her sizeable cheeks echoed throughout the room until “he” finally hit is climax and then dumped his thick load inside of “his” sister’s gooey slit. Still inside of her, he collapsed on top of her and under heavy breathing whispered into her ear, “I love you, ‘sis’.”
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It was very late in the morning, almost creeping on noon, when Christine, the mother of the house, stood in the kitchen and prepared some food. She was cheerfully humming a tune while cutting up a cantalope and placing slices of ham on pieces of crispy toast. She then artfully aranged the food on a plate, in a way that was worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant. The food was not only delicious but also visually appetizing, and so was her ample bosom that was proudly put on display by a low-cut, floral sundress, which gently hugged her motherly curves.
Still humming to herself, Christine picked up the plate, left the kitchen, and went up the stairs with a joyful bounce to her step, which not only made the hem of her short dress dance around her hips and tickle her thighs but also made her opulent mounds jiggle playfully. Upstairs, she entered her daughter’s dingy room without either knocking or turning on the lights and placed the food on her desk. “Enjoy your breakfast, honey,” she whispered to a sleeping Wendy.
Without any further hesitation, Christine left her daughter’s room and headed straight to the master bedroom. Behind locked doors she made her way over to her full-sized mirror and began admiring herself. Slowly, a big, dirty grin spread across her face. “Thank you, mother, for providing me with such a healthy breakfast,” “Christine” said in a sickly-sweet tone, seemingly mocking herself. “You always taught me to eat my daily share of fruits, and your ‘melons’ are especially delicious,” she said while giving her huge globes a firm squeeze. “She” then slowly moved her hands along “her” waist and hips, closely following and enjoying every inch of her delectable curves, and then began groping her big, womanly ass. “And let’s not forget about your delicious meat! I gotta hand it to you: you got a real meatsuit of a body, mom!”
“Christine” then threw herself onto her bed and immediately began furiously masturbating, not even bothering to undress. One hand tightly squeezed her fleshy tits while the other inserted two fingers into her hungry snatch, dragging her panties along with them as they plummeted the depths of her steaming hot hole that had given birth to three children, one of which was now in control of her body and effectively molesting her own mother.
Regrettably, “Christine” soon had to remove her hand from her supple twins in order to cover her mouth and stiffle her moans, so that she would not alert the whole house to her lewd activities. Meanwhile, the other hand continued to slip in and out of her unabated. Under the assault from such intense stimulation, it did not take long for her to reach her peak, which she celebrated by letting out a long, muffled scream.
The only thing “Christine” was able to do in the immediate aftermath was to lay on her back, breathing heavily, and bask in the afterglow of her orgasm. Her panties and her hand were now drenched in her juices. But, alas, her bliss was soon interrupted by a knock on the door. “Mom, are you in there?” Josh asked loudly through the door. “Have you seen my black shirt? I’ve been looking all over for it!”
“Christine” quickly scrambled onto her feet and straightend out her dress and hair, trying to make herself look as presentable as possible, as to not tip off “her son” to what kept her so busy. She cracked the door open just barely enough to stick her head out, hiding her body behind the door and her dripping wet hand behind her back. “Have you checked the laundry? I’m pretty sure I’ve put it in the wash recently,” she answered his query. “Yeah, I did. I guess I’m gonna check again, just to be sure,” Josh said and was already turning to walk away.
“Wait!” “Christine” suddenly exlaimed a little bit too loudly, as a most devious idea popped into her head. “What?” Josh asked somewhat startled. “You’ve got a smudge on the corner of your mouth” she explained. “Where?” he said while trying to wipe the imaginary stain from his face. “No, it’s still there. Here, let me try,” she said, now fully opening the door and finally stepping out of the room.
Josh was taken by surprise when “his mother” suddenly got so close to him that she was essentially pushing her opulent chest against his torso. Looking down he saw her face with an expresssion of concentration look up at him. Underneath that he caught a glimpse of her soft pillows bulging out of the top of her dress as they were pressed flat against him.
“M–Mom, w–what are you doing?” Jost stammered, as he began to blush. “Hold still! Just let me get it real quick,” “Christine” demanded. Unbeknownst to Josh, though, the hand which “his mother” was now smearing all over his face was still coated in her sticky juices.
Since Josh was quite a bit taller than his mother, “Christine” raised herself up by standing on the tips of her toes to better reach and more closely inspect his face. In the process, she pushed her breasts even deeper into him and slid them up along his chest until their nipples were perfectly aligned with each other.
“M–Mom, s–stop it!” Josh said while struggling to get away from her, as her face was now close enough that he could feel her hot breath on his skin. “Hold still!” “Christine” demanded. “The more you move the longer it will take.” Never having been this close to his own mother, at least not since he was a child, Josh caught a whiff of her perfume which was followed by a strange, musky smell.
Coming into such intimate contact with a woman’s body made the inside of Josh’s pants swell rapidly. His dick did not care who it was, flesh was flesh. But the thought that it was his own mother’s flesh surprisingly made him grow even harder. So hard, in fact, that he was now poking her belly with his manhood.
Appaled by his own reaction, Josh pushed who he thought was his mother away from himself. “Thanks, I think it’s gone now,” he yelled out without looking at her, trying to hide that his face was now a deep crimson. He then hastily fled to his room, almost tripping over himself, as he desperately tried to escape this embarrassing situation. “Christine” on the other just chuckled to herself, as she was highly amused by “her son’s” reaction.
That night Christine and Gilbert could be heard enjoying each other throughout the house.
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A lot of clanking, rattling, and cursing could be heard coming from the garage. Christine had asked her husband Gilbert to look after the car, since it had been making a lot of weird noises lately and even had briefly died on her the other day. This is why Gilbert, a man in his early fifties who, despite his thinning hair and slight dad bob, had still retained some of his youthful handsomeness, was now bent over the car’s engine covered in dirt and motor oil, occasionally bonking his head on the hood of the car.
Just as he finished changing the oil, his daughter Alice walked in. Unlike her sister Wendy, Alice had always been a Daddy’s girl. She and her father had been attached by the hip to each other ever since she was born. Even throughout puberty, when most other teenagers vie for their independence, she had stayed close to her Dad who had remained a steadfast anchor for her. Even now, the twenty-year-old college student loved spending time with her father more than anything else. Ever since she was a little child, one of her favorite things to do was to sit in her father’s lap and play Super Mario Bros., earning her the nickname “princess”.
There was something about her father’s presence that was incredibly relaxing to her, which is why the slim brunette did not mind him seeing her in only a pair of yoga pants and a tight spaghetti-strap top without a bra. Her outfit revealed the outline of her nubile form in great detail, including her pert buns and her gravity-defying orbs. Even her nipples were poking through the thin fabric of her top as soon as they got a taste of the chilly air inside the garage.
“Hey, Dad! Watcha doing?” Alice exclaimed with a beaming smile on her face. She threw her arms enthusiastically around her father’s waist, smushing her buoyant breasts against his soft belly in the process. “Not much,” Gilbert replied while reciprocating her loving embrace. He rocked her from side to side, thereby squishing his daughter’s youthful mounds even tighter against himself. “Your mother was complaining about the car so I thought maybe I could get the old can working again. What about you, princess? Wanna hang out with your old man?”
“Oh, I’d love to,” Alice said. “But I just came here to get a screwdriver to fix the recliner on my chair.” “Well, then don’t let me stop you,” Gilbert said and booped her on the nose, coating its tip with black grease from his dirty hands. When they released their embrace and Alice made her way towards the shelf on the other side of the garage, Gilbert watched his daughter’s backside and discovered that he had accidentally smeared black grease all over her. Most of it covered her shoulders and upper arms, but some of it even got on her lower back.
The tool she was looking for was located on the top-most shelf, so Alice had to really stretch herself to reach up high. But, it was not enough, as she was still missing a few inches. She then tried jumping up and down, making her luscious body, and especially her firm cheeks, shake vigorously every time she returned to the ground. Yet, she still came up short. For a while, Gilbert closely eyed his daughter’s antics before he walked over to her and said, “Here, let me help you with that.”
Alice suddenly yelped as her father, without warning, scooped up her tight little butt with his big, strong hands, and lifted her up high. His palms essentially provided a seat for her from which she comfortably could reach the tool she needed. Gilbert then gently put her down again, leaving two big, greasy handprints on his daughter’s rear.
Her father’s sudden display of strength left Alice a bit frazzled. For a moment she just stood there in silence, still facing away from him. She did not know what was happening to her. As a kid she had loved being picked up by her Dad and would cling to him like a koala. But that was ages ago. Now that she was fully grown she felt differently. No man had ever handled her like that, lifting her entire adult weight so easily. It somehow made her heart beat much faster and left her short of breath. She tried to swallow down those strange feelings, yet she still blushed when she tucked her long, brunette hair behind her ears.
Alice was in the middle of turning to face her father, wanting to ask him what that was all about, when she suddenly felt as if her feet were knocked away from under her legs, making her trip and fall chest-first towards him. Gilbert instinctively tried to catch her fall, but by doing so his daughter’s perky mounds landed squarely on his big, greasy hands. His dirty palms molded themselves perfectly around the swell of her pliable breasts. Alice thought she might be going crazy, but she could have sworn she had felt her Dad give her boobs a firm squeeze. Nevertheless, her nipples still visibly stiffened.
“Uhm, … Dad?” Alice squeaked with her father’s hands still cupping her twins. “Yes, princess? Are you alright?” Gilbert asked with worry on his face. “Yeah, … I guess so …,” she mumbled while getting back on her own feet. When Gilbert’s hands finally disconnected from his daughter’s body, they revealed yet another pair of big, black handprints, this time squarely on her chest.
“Are you sure? You seem kinda out of it,” Gilbert said while trying to feel his daughter’s forehead with the back of his hand. Alice swatted his hand away more aggressively than she had intended. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said with a bit of agitation in her voice. “I …, uh …, I need to change.”
Unable to deny the heat welling up inside of her, Alice tried to leave as quickly as she could, but on her way out her Dad surprised her yet again by giving her a not-so-fatherly pat on her ass. She turned her head around one last time and to give her “father” a quizzical look, but the expression on his face betrayed nothing but paternal intentions. Yet, as soon as she had left the garage, “Gilbert’s” warm expression turned sinister and a big, wet stain began to form on the crotch of his pants.
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It was late at night. Christine and Gilbert had gone out earlier that evening and were not expected to return until the next morning, leaving the “kids“ home alone. The whole house was wrapped in silence, except for the blaring of the TV coming from the living room. Josh sat alone on the couch watching a movie when Alice came shuffling into the room. She was completely draped in a giant blanket, dragging a long train behind her, making it almost look like a wedding dress.
“Heeeyy, Josh. What are you doing?” Alice asked drowsily. “Oh, nothing much. Just watching a movie. What’s up with you? Why the huge-ass blanket?” her brother responded. “I’m a little cold. Mind if I join you?” “Sure. Be my guest” he said patting the spot next to him and then placed his arm on the back of the couch. She took up his offer and sat down beside him, putting up her legs and angling them to the side, all while making sure to never leave the comforting warmth of her blanket.
“Oh, hey, isn’t that the movie we used to watch a lot as kids?” Alice asked. “Yeah,” Josh responded. “I happened to come across it while I was flipping through the channels.” “Boy, I haven’t seen it in years. I completely forgot about it. I remember we used to watch it every time it was on. I even used to scour the TV magazines so that I always knew when to catch it,” Alice said excitedly. “Yeah, I’ve been watching it only for a few minutes, yet there are so many lines that come back to me just seconds before they show up in the movie,“ Josh said joining in on the excitement.
The two siblings kept laughing and joking, quoting lines from the movie as they appeared on screen, and reveling in old memories. After sharing lots of heartfelt moments, Alice suddenly asked her brother, “Are you cold, too?” Without waiting for an answer, she began covering him with the excess half of her blanket. “Here, let me give you some of my blanket. That’ll warm you up in no time.” “Well, I wasn’t really cold. But, thanks, I guess,” the young man commented.
Underneath the blanket, Alice sidled up closer to her brother and put her head on his shoulder. They had always gotten along great, yet he was somewhat surprised about how she was acting chummier than usual. But since they were sharing a deeply bonding moment, he didn’t question it any further. Sitting like that with his sister felt comfortable to him, making him relax deeply, and allowing himself to completely get lost in the movie.
For the rest of the night, the two of them kept watching the movie in silence. When it was over, Josh’s immersion finally broke and he came back to the real world. He switched off the TV and was about to turn towards his sister when he noticed that the top of her head was right underneath his nose. Somehow she had sneakily wrapped her arms around his waist and had fallen asleep with her head nestled against his chest. Most of her body laid on top of him in a tight embrace.
Alice’s gentle snores reminded Josh of a cat’s soft purrs. He thought that, in this moment, his little sister was the most adorable. But when the sweet fragrance of her peach-flavored shampoo invaded his nose, it caused something to stir deep inside of him, in a place completely unbeknownst to him. To his shock, he began to grow hard.
Confused about his feelings, Josh just sat there, not daring to make a move. After what seemed like an eternity to him, Alice woke up. Rustling underneath the blanket she looked up at him with bleary eyes. When the vision of her brother’s face came into focus she greeted him with a beaming smile. For a long moment, they just gazed at each other wordlessly. Her big, glimmering eyes looked up at him longingly, which made him blush and melted away all his natural defences. He was now at full mast.
Josh then watched in slow-motion how his sister closed her eyes and moved in closer. When he felt her tender lips on his, he was completly stunned. His jaw dropped in shock, which Alice interpreted as an invitation to sneak her tongue into his mouth. At first he went along with it by pure instinct. But when it finally sank in that he was, in fact, really kissing his sister, he shoved her away in panic, making the blanket slip down a bit, uncovering her bare shoulders.
“Stooooppp!!” Josh yelled. “What are you doing? You’re my sister! We can’t be doing that!” Tears began welling up in Alice’s eyes in response to his sudden outburst. “But Josh …,” she whimpered. “Don’t you love me?” She looked at him expectantly with her watery eyes. “Nooo!!!” he continued yelling. “I-I-I mean, y-yes, I-I m-mean, no!” he stammered. “Aarghh! I don’t love you like thaaat!”
Alice dropped her head seemingly in defeat. But something about her demeanor changed, like a shadow was cast over her eyes. Suddenly Josh felt something scurrying around his scrotch underneath the blanket. He realized it was his sister’s hands trying to undo his belt and zipper. Now even more panicked, he pushed her away more forcefully than before, accidentally throwing the blanket off of her in the process and revealing that she had been naked underneath.
“Alice!! Why the hell are you naked?!?! What is wrong with you today?” Josh kept yelling. With a dark, menacing grin forming on her face, she growled at him, “You better let this happen. We don’t want her to find herself in a compromising situation, do we?” “Wendy…,” Josh gasped, the words getting stuck in his throat. His mind was sent on a rollercoaster, desperately struggling for a solution on how to get out of this situation. But deep down, Josh knew he had nothing against her powers.
Completely dejected, Josh finally resigned himself to his fate. “Alice”, on the other hand, squealed with excitement and, like a child ripping open a present on christmas, frantically tried to get her brother’s dick out of his pants. When she finally freed it from its denim prison, his rigid member sprung out with the energy of a coil spring. She then swung one of her smooth legs over her brother and placed herself squarely on top of him.
Without any further hesitation, “Alice” slowly lowered her unclad, nubile form towards her brother’s penis. His bulbous head at first just barely kissed her velvety folds, but then gently parted them, and finally, by completely piercing her labia, desecrated that holy bond between brother and sister.
“Wendy, we have to stop this! We’re not wearing any protection!” Josh tried to protest one last time. “Don’t be silly, I’m sure this little slut is on birth control” “Alice” hissed. She was straining to force herself down her brother’s girth. “Hhnnnnnghhhoooohhhh my god she is so tight” she said panting. “She must still be a virgin. Well, not anymore, hehe.” Her small, hairless lips formed a tight seal around his thick shaft. To keep going further, she arched her back and angled her hips for maximum penetration.
When she finally bottomed out, “Alice” grabbed Josh’s head and started giving him a deep passionate kiss. Her long, brown hair draped over them, curtailing the world from seeing the forbidden intimacy they were sharing. While they kept kissing, “Alice” started to moan into his mouth, as she began slowly working her way up and down her brother’s shaft. The more their friction and passion increased, the more she ruffled his hair, her hands’ movements becoming more and more frantic.
Meanwhile, Josh moved his hands down his sister’s bare back and glid them first along her waist, then her hips, and finally around the sensual curve of her butt. He gave her firm cheeks a strong squeeze, while at the same time supporting her petite body with his manly hands. At last, he finally gave in to his new-found, forbidden desires and started humping his sister in sync with the rhythm of her movements.
Getting wetter by the second, “Alice’s” juices by now provided enough lubrication for her to easily glide along her brother’s member. She broke off their kiss, sat upgright, and began to drastically increase her speed. As she was bouncing up and down on Josh’s dick, her perky tits kept jiggling wildy about. To aleviate that, she took her brother’s hands and firmly placed them on top of her shapley breasts. He eagerly accepted her offer and began digging his fingers deeply into the tender flesh of his sister’s swollen boobs, ferociously groping and squeezing them like a man who lost all his inhibitions.
Greed seemed to overtake Josh, as he followed his sister’s lead by sitting upright and then tightly embracing her lithe body while she kept viciously riding his cock. Hungrily, he placed his mouth on her delicious breasts and began sucking and licking and biting her nipples, practically devouring her boobs and almost swallowing them whole. His sister rewarded him by giving off a series of high-pitched moans and clamping down on his dick.
“Wendy …,” Josh gasped short of breath and inbetween sucking his sister’s nipples. “What is it, bro?” Alice moaned. “I don’t… I don’t think I can hold it any lo—” was the last thing Josh managed to say before he finally errupted inside his sister like a volcano, spraying his creamy spunk all over his her insides. Feeling her brother’s hot goo coating her inner walls set off “Alice’s” own orgasm, making her join him in his extacy. Her body, which was glistening from all the excertion, began shaking from top to bottom as if a current of electricity ran through her.
When the tension suddenly left her body, “Alice” collapsed on top of her brother. Completely drained, she nestled her head against his chest, breathing heavily and with strands of her sweat-drenched hair sticking to her face. “I love you, Josh,” “Alice” whispered sweetly. “I love you, too,” he sighed unconvincingly. His dick was still inside deep his sister, refusing to go limp.
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For the past month there had been a large shadow hanging over their household. Wendy’s shenanigans had sowed mistrust and uneasiness among the members of her family. It all came to a head when Alice finally confronted her brother. “Josh, I’m begging you: please tell me the truth!” Alice pleaded. “What’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me? You don’t even look me in the eyes anymore.” “I said, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Josh hissed without even facing her. His eyes were red and on the verge of tears.
Gilbert and Christine heard their children argue, so they went to investigate. “What’s going with the two of you? Why are you making so much noise?” Gilbert said as he stepped into the room. “Josh, has been avoiding me for weeks now and he won’t tell me what his problem is,” Alice said unnerved. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that, too. Care to explain yourself, son?” Gilbert asked.
Josh tried to block off their barrage of questions, but, after being relentlessly corned by three people, he eventually broke down in tears and confessed how Wendy had taken control of Alice and forced himself onto her, and how he had been unable to resist. The entire room fell silent. Alice’s stomach turned, sickening her to her core. Gilbert was simply stunned, the news leaving his mind completely blank.
Christine, on the other hand, felt an uncontrollable rage explode inside of her. “That’s it!” she yelled with tears of anger in her eyes. “This is way over the line! I’m so sick and tired of her shit. This has to end now!” “Wait! Where are you going?” Gilbert said to the afterimage of his wife as she had already rushed out of the room. The rest of them slowly began to follow her, one after the other, still trying to process the information they had just received.
An absolutely livid Christine stomped furiously down the hallway and violently barged into her daughter’s room, almost knocking the door out of its hinges. There, Wendy laid on her bed and, like so often, just slept. Without waiting for her to wake up, Christine swiftly approached her sleeping daughter, wrapped her hands around her throat, and began strangling her with all her might. Wendy did not seem to make any signs of struggling against her mother’s assault.
“How could you do that?” Christine sobbed uncontrollably as rivers of tears streamed down her face. “I loved you with all my heart. Why did you become such a hateful peson? Where did I go wrong?” she said gritting her teeth. “This is the only way I can make things right!”
Gilbert and Josh were aghast when they stepped into the room and discovered what Christine was doing. Yet, neither of them intervened and tried to stop her. They just stood there and watched.
When everything was over, everybody went quiet again, except for Christine who was unable to stop her tears. Suddenly, Alice, who everyone seemed to have forgotten about, stepped into the room. They all looked at her in disbelief as they watched a creepy, sinister smile form on her pretty face. “No!” Christine whispered. “Actually, yes, mother,” “Alice” countered. “I’m not so easy to get rid of, you see.” “No!” Christine repeated, this time more emphatically. “And from now on, you will all do exactly as I tell you or the police might get an anonymous tip about what has happened to your dearest daughter. Remember this for the rest of you lives: you got blood on your hands, literally, and I won’t hesistate to take any one of you down!” “Alice” said menacingly. It finally dawned on Christine, Gilbert, and Josh that there was no way of escaping Wendy and that they had to resign themselves to the fact that their lives were now fully under her control, essentially making them her personal slaves.
Meanwhile, “Alice”, who was relishing in the power she had over her family, sauntered over towards her father and lifted the front of her skirt, exposing “her” panty-clad pussy. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, Daddy,” she whispered with lust dripping in her voice. Both of her small, feminine hands then reached out and grabbed one of her father’s big, manly hands and slowly guided it underneath her skirt and panties and gently placed it onto her already sopping wet pussy. Gilbert was too stunned to stop her, and even if he had not been, he would not have dared to go against her.
Suddenly, both Alice and Gilbert shuddered simultaneously. “We sure will, princess,” “Gilbert” said with a lecherous expression on his face. “He” then slipped a finger inside “his” daughter’s smooth folds and began aggressively fingering her hole. The real Alice was dazed and confused when she finally came to again. “D–Dad?” she stammared. “W–What’s going o–o–oooohhhhnnggg?!” she moaned, being overwhelmed by an unexpected orgasm as her “father” quickly sent her over the edge.
Christine was horrified as she watched her husband molest their daughter in front of her eyes. Unfortunately, she was unable to do anything about it as a shiver ran down her spine and the same spell that had taken over her husband and daughter was now taking hold of her. “And let’s not neglect these two here,” “Christine” said while firmly squeezing “her” boobs against each other. “She” then climbed onto Wendy’s bed on all fours, pulled up her dress and her panties to the side, and openly offered up “her own” snatch. “Josh, be a good son and come over here and show Mommy how much my boy has grown up?”
At last it was Josh’s turn. Before he could really process the actions unfolding in front of him, he was no longer in control of his body. “Don’t mind if I do!” “Josh” replied eagerly. As fast as lightning “he” walked over to his mother, dropped his pants, and slammed his rock-hard errection into her sloppy slit. Christine, now back in control of her body, was overwhelmed with the pleasurable sensation of her son’s girthy member ramming in and out of her. When she felt her son mauling her big tits from behind, she went completely limp in his arms, as the last of her will left her while “her son” kept hammering her hole. Eventually, they both climaxed at the same time and Christine felt her son’s hot fluids spread throughout her inside.
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That same night it was raining cats and dogs. Gilbert and Josh, equipped with spades, dug a hole in their backyard to dispose of Wendy’s corpse while Christine and “Alice” watched from the kitchen window.
The four of them would spend the rest of their lives living in fear and terror, as Wendy forced them to live out all of her depraved sex fantasies between sister and brother, father and daughter, mother and son, mother and daugher, and even between father and son.
Eventually, when the last of her family members had passed on, Wendy continued to live on as a formless presence, taking over other people, until the end of time.
It was in the very early morning hours. The whole house was pitch-black and its inhabitants were fast asleep, except for one. The only source of light was the glow emenating from a computer monitor. It illuminated Wendy’s face and the strands of greasy hair glued to it. The synthetic light just faintly revealed the mess in her room: the moldy plates, empty take-out boxes, and dirty clothes, all of which were freely intermixed and strewn about.
Wet sounds and a pungent smell filled the air. Wendy sat in her computer chair in just her underwear and masturbated while playing an erotic dating simulator. She had been an avid fan of video games, especially story-driven ones like visual novels, since she was a kid, but since the twenty-three-year-old failed out of college and moved back in with her parents, she had done nothing but sit in front of her computer and play video games all day long.
She used to be somewhat pretty, but she let herself go quite a bit when she essentially barricaded herself into her old childhood room, only ever leaving to use the bathroom. Since then, she had been escaping more and more into the virtual world of various video games, desperately trying to escape her failures in the outside world. The easily achievable goals in those games provided her with at least a fake sense of fullfilment and purpose.
Initially, she stuck to regular video games and story-driven visual novels. But since moving back home, she got fairly addicted to romantic dating simulators, which provided her a with a substitute for the type of relationship she longed for but could not achieve in real life. Things took even more of a downturn when, a few months ago, after having played through virtually all visual novels, she checked out her first incest-themed eroge, a genre she had not paid any attention to before, but now felt compelled to in order to avoid spending any second alone with her own thoughts.
Right in that moment she was playing through a scene where the main character’s adorable little sister snuck into her older brother’s bed and snuggled up to him under the covers. The game quickly turned erotic and, in response, Wendy let out a long, deep grunt, signaling her climax.
To recuperate from her self-satisfaction, Wendy leaned back into her chair and looked up at her dimmly-lit ceiling. After a few moments an idea popped into her head. She got up and, for the first time in a while, left her room for a reason other than to use the bathroom. She quietly crept through the dark hallway and slowly opened the door two rooms further down, trying to keep it from creaking as to not wake the person sleeping inside.
After entering the room, she managed to silently close the door behind her and then tip-toed towards the bed inside. There, she lifted the covers and carefully laid down next to her older brother Josh who was sleeping soundly. She then cozied up to him under the blanket just like she had seen the little sister do in her video game. She was now right next to him with her foul breath caressing his skin.
Wanting to recreate the scene from her video game, Wendy began carefully fishing her brother’s limp dick out of his pyjama pants and gently rubbed it until it was fully errect. She then rolled on top of him, pushed her panties aside, and stealthily slipped his dick into her hungry snatch.
Meanwhile, Josh was having the most amazing dream. In it, he found himself in an infinite, white void where he was hooking up with the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her long, brunette hair appeared to be silky-soft as it gently swayed around her slender frame with each motion, lending her an ethereal presence. The only things about her that he found more captivating than her radiant smile were her full, ripe breasts, which were practically begging to be devoured. She seemed really familiar to Josh, although he could not quite place where he had seen her before. Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend he had forgotten about. Nevertheless, he did not want to keep this unknown beauty waiting by fretting about it.
Josh and the mysterious girl had already fully shed their clothes and were eager to get things going. He laid down on the most comfortable bed imaginable, which had appeared out of nowhere without him ever noticing. Lying on his back, he watched as his dream lover expertly fondled his privates while looking up at him with hungry eyes. In no time he was ready to take her. The nameless vixen sat on top of him and began immediately riding him, placing her hands on his hard abs for support. Her hot, silky depths engulfed him completely as her smooth, hairless body writhed with pleasure. Biting her lower lip, she failed to stifle the soft moans escaping from her mouth that accompanied the expressions of extacy on her gorgeous face. They caressed Josh’s ears like the sweatest of melodies, bewitching him like a siren. The pleasure that grew in his groin was overwhelming, beyond anything he had ever experienced in real life.
Yet, something about her felt odd to him. Despite her small size and lithe body, the dreamy nymph on top of him felt unusually heavy. This bizarre fact made him realize that he was actually dreaming, which immediately ripped him from his sleep.
Completely disoriented, the only things Josh could perceive in the dark was labored breathing and groaning, and a heavy weight bouncing up and down on him. At first he hoped that this might be a continuation of his wonderful dream, but when a lurid stench crept up his nose he knew for certain that he was awake. Wanting to find out who or what was disturbing his sweet dreams, he turned to his night stand right beside his bed to turn on the light. For a few seconds the sudden presence of light blinded him like a flash of lightning. But when his eyes had acclimated to the new-found brightness, he was horrified by the ghastly figure sitting on top of him.
“Wendy!!”, Josh exlaimed as he recognized his grody younger sister straddling him, wearing only a bra and panties. Her grin was barely visible through her greasy hair and the bra that had failed to adjust to her increased size dug deeply into her chubby shape, almost cutting off circulation to her formless breasts. “What the hell are you doing in my room in the middle of the night? And why are you sitting on top of me?” Josh demanded angrily. “Oh, Josh,” was the only answer Wendy could moan, never breaking with the rhythm of her movements. Hearing these sexual sounds come from his sister’s mouth was like fingernails on a chalkboard to his ears.
Her abhorrent, yet puzzling, response made Josh’s eyes wander lower. He gagged violently when he discovered his dick was burried deep inside his sister’s rancid, unkempt snatch, even feeling her coarse pubes rubbing against his skin as she was grinding her crotch against his. He felt so repulsed by this disgusting sight that he could have projectile-vomitted every meal he had ever had in his life right in that very moment. Luckily, his stomach was completely empty or he would have made an even bigger mess out of this situation.
“Get off of me!” Josh yelled while forcefully pushing his grody sister away. Wendy fell off his dick, off his bed, and on onto the floor, landing there with a strong thud. She quickly scrambled back onto her feet. “Why did you do that?” she hissed. “That’s what I should be asking! Why were you having sex with me, Wendy? You’re my sister! That’s so fucked!” he exclaimed. “But I’m your cute little sister, bro. Don’t you find me adorable,” she said batting her eye-lids, trying to charm her brother, but somehow ending up looking even creepier.
“Eewww, you’re sick, Wendy! Sick and vile!” Josh said disgusted. “And not just that, you’re also fucking filthy. I’d rather rip my own dick off and poke my eyes out with it than have sex with you, even if we were the last two people on earth stranded on a lonely island! I wish you’d just disappear forever and leave us alone.” Her brother’s harsh remarks finally burst the fantasy that Wendy had built up in her mind over the past few months of playing eroges. The reality she tried to run from came crashing down on her right in this moment, as Josh’s cutting words hurt her deeply.
“Fine!” Wendy said scorned and full of anger. “If you want me to disappear, then that’s what I will do, I guess!” With tears of anger welling up, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Wait! Wendy! Nooo—!” Josh exclaimed, trying to stop her. But it was too late. As if something had zapped the life out of her, Wendy instantly lost all the tension in her body and collapsed face-first onto her brother’s bed. At the same time, Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body began convulsing vigorously. Then something inside of him snapped and he, too, lost almost all the tension in his body, just barely being able to stand. His head was loosely dangling from his neck.
After a few moments of silence, Josh seemed to wake up, as both his heads slowly rose up again. But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in control. His sister Wendy had somehow developed the powers to take over other people’s bodies during her early teenage years. At first she was shy and reluctant about them, as she used to be a gentle soul. She simply could not square it with her conscience to control other people. The most she would do was ride along in the friends or family members of a boy she had a crush on at the time. When her parents found out about her powers, they immediately scolded her and forbade her from ever using her powers. But as Wendy grew older, her parents realized that their daughter did not have any ill intentions and began relaxing about the situation.
But when Wendy failed out of college and her mental health declined, things turned scary for her family. She became more and more controlling and petulant, throwing tamper tantrums anytime anyone disturbed her or tried to tell her what to do. She also became increasingly blasé about using her powers, taking over her family, neighbors, and anyone in reach for the smallest of matters, just so she would never have to leave her room.
On a few occasions Wendy had even used her powers to blackmail people into doing what she wanted, even when she was not possessing them. Another time she had stalked a poor guy who she had become at first infatuated and then obsessed with on social media. She had followed him around as different people, watching every step he made, every second of his life for two months. She only stopped because she eventually became bored of him.
These were the myriad of reasons that her family now lived in fear of her. Her parents could not throw her out because of her powers. They themselves could not move out since all their savings were tied into their house. Their youngest daughter, Alice, refused to leave, as she did not want her parents to suffer alone. And even Josh had moved back in as a means to protect his family, which is why he now found himself not in control of his own body.
“Josh” grinned from ear to ear as he patted down “his” flat chest. “He” then flexed his biceps, admiring his own strength. Next, he grabbed his dick, which was already painfully errect, with both his hands and began firmly squeezing it. He could virtually feel the blood pulsing through the thick meat of his sizeable member. “He” then turned to the person lying on his bed and said, “I’m soooo sorry, ‘sis’. I didn’t mean to hurt you. My words came out all wrong. What I meant to say was that you are the most adorable little sister a big brother could ever wish for! Here, let me show you how much I love you.”
With that, “Josh” stepped towards Wendy’s comatose body and snaked his big, strong hands underneath her torso. “Oh, my. When did my cute little sister grow up to be such a woman?” “he” cooed while groping her flabby breasts. Without turning over her heavy frame, “Josh” glid his rough hands along her pudgy waist and onto her even wider hips, firmly grabbing ahold of them. “He” then carefully wormed his prick into “his sister’s” slimy, hairy cunt, before forcefully jamming his entire length into her unconscious flesh.
Without any further hesitation, “Josh” began viciously fucking his sleeping sister, pumping in and out of her like an animal while groaning and grunting like a bull. “He” nearly worked himself into a frenzy. Wendy’s rotten odor began reeking from all the friction and heat they created, which seemed to turn him on even more. For the next two minutes, the clapping of “his” hips against her sizeable cheeks echoed throughout the room until “he” finally hit is climax and then dumped his thick load inside of “his” sister’s gooey slit. Still inside of her, he collapsed on top of her and under heavy breathing whispered into her ear, “I love you, ‘sis’.”
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It was very late in the morning, almost creeping on noon, when Christine, the mother of the house, stood in the kitchen and prepared some food. She was cheerfully humming a tune while cutting up a cantalope and placing slices of ham on pieces of crispy toast. She then artfully aranged the food on a plate, in a way that was worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant. The food was not only delicious but also visually appetizing, and so was her ample bosom that was proudly put on display by a low-cut, floral sundress, which gently hugged her motherly curves.
Still humming to herself, Christine picked up the plate, left the kitchen, and went up the stairs with a joyful bounce to her step, which not only made the hem of her short dress dance around her hips and tickle her thighs but also made her opulent mounds jiggle playfully. Upstairs, she entered her daughter’s dingy room without either knocking or turning on the lights and placed the food on her desk. “Enjoy your breakfast, honey,” she whispered to a sleeping Wendy.
Without any further hesitation, Christine left her daughter’s room and headed straight to the master bedroom. Behind locked doors she made her way over to her full-sized mirror and began admiring herself. Slowly, a big, dirty grin spread across her face. “Thank you, mother, for providing me with such a healthy breakfast,” “Christine” said in a sickly-sweet tone, seemingly mocking herself. “You always taught me to eat my daily share of fruits, and your ‘melons’ are especially delicious,” she said while giving her huge globes a firm squeeze. “She” then slowly moved her hands along “her” waist and hips, closely following and enjoying every inch of her delectable curves, and then began groping her big, womanly ass. “And let’s not forget about your delicious meat! I gotta hand it to you: you got a real meatsuit of a body, mom!”
“Christine” then threw herself onto her bed and immediately began furiously masturbating, not even bothering to undress. One hand tightly squeezed her fleshy tits while the other inserted two fingers into her hungry snatch, dragging her panties along with them as they plummeted the depths of her steaming hot hole that had given birth to three children, one of which was now in control of her body and effectively molesting her own mother.
Regrettably, “Christine” soon had to remove her hand from her supple twins in order to cover her mouth and stiffle her moans, so that she would not alert the whole house to her lewd activities. Meanwhile, the other hand continued to slip in and out of her unabated. Under the assault from such intense stimulation, it did not take long for her to reach her peak, which she celebrated by letting out a long, muffled scream.
The only thing “Christine” was able to do in the immediate aftermath was to lay on her back, breathing heavily, and bask in the afterglow of her orgasm. Her panties and her hand were now drenched in her juices. But, alas, her bliss was soon interrupted by a knock on the door. “Mom, are you in there?” Josh asked loudly through the door. “Have you seen my black shirt? I’ve been looking all over for it!”
“Christine” quickly scrambled onto her feet and straightend out her dress and hair, trying to make herself look as presentable as possible, as to not tip off “her son” to what kept her so busy. She cracked the door open just barely enough to stick her head out, hiding her body behind the door and her dripping wet hand behind her back. “Have you checked the laundry? I’m pretty sure I’ve put it in the wash recently,” she answered his query. “Yeah, I did. I guess I’m gonna check again, just to be sure,” Josh said and was already turning to walk away.
“Wait!” “Christine” suddenly exlaimed a little bit too loudly, as a most devious idea popped into her head. “What?” Josh asked somewhat startled. “You’ve got a smudge on the corner of your mouth” she explained. “Where?” he said while trying to wipe the imaginary stain from his face. “No, it’s still there. Here, let me try,” she said, now fully opening the door and finally stepping out of the room.
Josh was taken by surprise when “his mother” suddenly got so close to him that she was essentially pushing her opulent chest against his torso. Looking down he saw her face with an expresssion of concentration look up at him. Underneath that he caught a glimpse of her soft pillows bulging out of the top of her dress as they were pressed flat against him.
“M–Mom, w–what are you doing?” Jost stammered, as he began to blush. “Hold still! Just let me get it real quick,” “Christine” demanded. Unbeknownst to Josh, though, the hand which “his mother” was now smearing all over his face was still coated in her sticky juices.
Since Josh was quite a bit taller than his mother, “Christine” raised herself up by standing on the tips of her toes to better reach and more closely inspect his face. In the process, she pushed her breasts even deeper into him and slid them up along his chest until their nipples were perfectly aligned with each other.
“M–Mom, s–stop it!” Josh said while struggling to get away from her, as her face was now close enough that he could feel her hot breath on his skin. “Hold still!” “Christine” demanded. “The more you move the longer it will take.” Never having been this close to his own mother, at least not since he was a child, Josh caught a whiff of her perfume which was followed by a strange, musky smell.
Coming into such intimate contact with a woman’s body made the inside of Josh’s pants swell rapidly. His dick did not care who it was, flesh was flesh. But the thought that it was his own mother’s flesh surprisingly made him grow even harder. So hard, in fact, that he was now poking her belly with his manhood.
Appaled by his own reaction, Josh pushed who he thought was his mother away from himself. “Thanks, I think it’s gone now,” he yelled out without looking at her, trying to hide that his face was now a deep crimson. He then hastily fled to his room, almost tripping over himself, as he desperately tried to escape this embarrassing situation. “Christine” on the other just chuckled to herself, as she was highly amused by “her son’s” reaction.
That night Christine and Gilbert could be heard enjoying each other throughout the house.
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A lot of clanking, rattling, and cursing could be heard coming from the garage. Christine had asked her husband Gilbert to look after the car, since it had been making a lot of weird noises lately and even had briefly died on her the other day. This is why Gilbert, a man in his early fifties who, despite his thinning hair and slight dad bob, had still retained some of his youthful handsomeness, was now bent over the car’s engine covered in dirt and motor oil, occasionally bonking his head on the hood of the car.
Just as he finished changing the oil, his daughter Alice walked in. Unlike her sister Wendy, Alice had always been a Daddy’s girl. She and her father had been attached by the hip to each other ever since she was born. Even throughout puberty, when most other teenagers vie for their independence, she had stayed close to her Dad who had remained a steadfast anchor for her. Even now, the twenty-year-old college student loved spending time with her father more than anything else. Ever since she was a little child, one of her favorite things to do was to sit in her father’s lap and play Super Mario Bros., earning her the nickname “princess”.
There was something about her father’s presence that was incredibly relaxing to her, which is why the slim brunette did not mind him seeing her in only a pair of yoga pants and a tight spaghetti-strap top without a bra. Her outfit revealed the outline of her nubile form in great detail, including her pert buns and her gravity-defying orbs. Even her nipples were poking through the thin fabric of her top as soon as they got a taste of the chilly air inside the garage.
“Hey, Dad! Watcha doing?” Alice exclaimed with a beaming smile on her face. She threw her arms enthusiastically around her father’s waist, smushing her buoyant breasts against his soft belly in the process. “Not much,” Gilbert replied while reciprocating her loving embrace. He rocked her from side to side, thereby squishing his daughter’s youthful mounds even tighter against himself. “Your mother was complaining about the car so I thought maybe I could get the old can working again. What about you, princess? Wanna hang out with your old man?”
“Oh, I’d love to,” Alice said. “But I just came here to get a screwdriver to fix the recliner on my chair.” “Well, then don’t let me stop you,” Gilbert said and booped her on the nose, coating its tip with black grease from his dirty hands. When they released their embrace and Alice made her way towards the shelf on the other side of the garage, Gilbert watched his daughter’s backside and discovered that he had accidentally smeared black grease all over her. Most of it covered her shoulders and upper arms, but some of it even got on her lower back.
The tool she was looking for was located on the top-most shelf, so Alice had to really stretch herself to reach up high. But, it was not enough, as she was still missing a few inches. She then tried jumping up and down, making her luscious body, and especially her firm cheeks, shake vigorously every time she returned to the ground. Yet, she still came up short. For a while, Gilbert closely eyed his daughter’s antics before he walked over to her and said, “Here, let me help you with that.”
Alice suddenly yelped as her father, without warning, scooped up her tight little butt with his big, strong hands, and lifted her up high. His palms essentially provided a seat for her from which she comfortably could reach the tool she needed. Gilbert then gently put her down again, leaving two big, greasy handprints on his daughter’s rear.
Her father’s sudden display of strength left Alice a bit frazzled. For a moment she just stood there in silence, still facing away from him. She did not know what was happening to her. As a kid she had loved being picked up by her Dad and would cling to him like a koala. But that was ages ago. Now that she was fully grown she felt differently. No man had ever handled her like that, lifting her entire adult weight so easily. It somehow made her heart beat much faster and left her short of breath. She tried to swallow down those strange feelings, yet she still blushed when she tucked her long, brunette hair behind her ears.
Alice was in the middle of turning to face her father, wanting to ask him what that was all about, when she suddenly felt as if her feet were knocked away from under her legs, making her trip and fall chest-first towards him. Gilbert instinctively tried to catch her fall, but by doing so his daughter’s perky mounds landed squarely on his big, greasy hands. His dirty palms molded themselves perfectly around the swell of her pliable breasts. Alice thought she might be going crazy, but she could have sworn she had felt her Dad give her boobs a firm squeeze. Nevertheless, her nipples still visibly stiffened.
“Uhm, … Dad?” Alice squeaked with her father’s hands still cupping her twins. “Yes, princess? Are you alright?” Gilbert asked with worry on his face. “Yeah, … I guess so …,” she mumbled while getting back on her own feet. When Gilbert’s hands finally disconnected from his daughter’s body, they revealed yet another pair of big, black handprints, this time squarely on her chest.
“Are you sure? You seem kinda out of it,” Gilbert said while trying to feel his daughter’s forehead with the back of his hand. Alice swatted his hand away more aggressively than she had intended. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said with a bit of agitation in her voice. “I …, uh …, I need to change.”
Unable to deny the heat welling up inside of her, Alice tried to leave as quickly as she could, but on her way out her Dad surprised her yet again by giving her a not-so-fatherly pat on her ass. She turned her head around one last time and to give her “father” a quizzical look, but the expression on his face betrayed nothing but paternal intentions. Yet, as soon as she had left the garage, “Gilbert’s” warm expression turned sinister and a big, wet stain began to form on the crotch of his pants.
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It was late at night. Christine and Gilbert had gone out earlier that evening and were not expected to return until the next morning, leaving the “kids“ home alone. The whole house was wrapped in silence, except for the blaring of the TV coming from the living room. Josh sat alone on the couch watching a movie when Alice came shuffling into the room. She was completely draped in a giant blanket, dragging a long train behind her, making it almost look like a wedding dress.
“Heeeyy, Josh. What are you doing?” Alice asked drowsily. “Oh, nothing much. Just watching a movie. What’s up with you? Why the huge-ass blanket?” her brother responded. “I’m a little cold. Mind if I join you?” “Sure. Be my guest” he said patting the spot next to him and then placed his arm on the back of the couch. She took up his offer and sat down beside him, putting up her legs and angling them to the side, all while making sure to never leave the comforting warmth of her blanket.
“Oh, hey, isn’t that the movie we used to watch a lot as kids?” Alice asked. “Yeah,” Josh responded. “I happened to come across it while I was flipping through the channels.” “Boy, I haven’t seen it in years. I completely forgot about it. I remember we used to watch it every time it was on. I even used to scour the TV magazines so that I always knew when to catch it,” Alice said excitedly. “Yeah, I’ve been watching it only for a few minutes, yet there are so many lines that come back to me just seconds before they show up in the movie,“ Josh said joining in on the excitement.
The two siblings kept laughing and joking, quoting lines from the movie as they appeared on screen, and reveling in old memories. After sharing lots of heartfelt moments, Alice suddenly asked her brother, “Are you cold, too?” Without waiting for an answer, she began covering him with the excess half of her blanket. “Here, let me give you some of my blanket. That’ll warm you up in no time.” “Well, I wasn’t really cold. But, thanks, I guess,” the young man commented.
Underneath the blanket, Alice sidled up closer to her brother and put her head on his shoulder. They had always gotten along great, yet he was somewhat surprised about how she was acting chummier than usual. But since they were sharing a deeply bonding moment, he didn’t question it any further. Sitting like that with his sister felt comfortable to him, making him relax deeply, and allowing himself to completely get lost in the movie.
For the rest of the night, the two of them kept watching the movie in silence. When it was over, Josh’s immersion finally broke and he came back to the real world. He switched off the TV and was about to turn towards his sister when he noticed that the top of her head was right underneath his nose. Somehow she had sneakily wrapped her arms around his waist and had fallen asleep with her head nestled against his chest. Most of her body laid on top of him in a tight embrace.
Alice’s gentle snores reminded Josh of a cat’s soft purrs. He thought that, in this moment, his little sister was the most adorable. But when the sweet fragrance of her peach-flavored shampoo invaded his nose, it caused something to stir deep inside of him, in a place completely unbeknownst to him. To his shock, he began to grow hard.
Confused about his feelings, Josh just sat there, not daring to make a move. After what seemed like an eternity to him, Alice woke up. Rustling underneath the blanket she looked up at him with bleary eyes. When the vision of her brother’s face came into focus she greeted him with a beaming smile. For a long moment, they just gazed at each other wordlessly. Her big, glimmering eyes looked up at him longingly, which made him blush and melted away all his natural defences. He was now at full mast.
Josh then watched in slow-motion how his sister closed her eyes and moved in closer. When he felt her tender lips on his, he was completly stunned. His jaw dropped in shock, which Alice interpreted as an invitation to sneak her tongue into his mouth. At first he went along with it by pure instinct. But when it finally sank in that he was, in fact, really kissing his sister, he shoved her away in panic, making the blanket slip down a bit, uncovering her bare shoulders.
“Stooooppp!!” Josh yelled. “What are you doing? You’re my sister! We can’t be doing that!” Tears began welling up in Alice’s eyes in response to his sudden outburst. “But Josh …,” she whimpered. “Don’t you love me?” She looked at him expectantly with her watery eyes. “Nooo!!!” he continued yelling. “I-I-I mean, y-yes, I-I m-mean, no!” he stammered. “Aarghh! I don’t love you like thaaat!”
Alice dropped her head seemingly in defeat. But something about her demeanor changed, like a shadow was cast over her eyes. Suddenly Josh felt something scurrying around his scrotch underneath the blanket. He realized it was his sister’s hands trying to undo his belt and zipper. Now even more panicked, he pushed her away more forcefully than before, accidentally throwing the blanket off of her in the process and revealing that she had been naked underneath.
“Alice!! Why the hell are you naked?!?! What is wrong with you today?” Josh kept yelling. With a dark, menacing grin forming on her face, she growled at him, “You better let this happen. We don’t want her to find herself in a compromising situation, do we?” “Wendy…,” Josh gasped, the words getting stuck in his throat. His mind was sent on a rollercoaster, desperately struggling for a solution on how to get out of this situation. But deep down, Josh knew he had nothing against her powers.
Completely dejected, Josh finally resigned himself to his fate. “Alice”, on the other hand, squealed with excitement and, like a child ripping open a present on christmas, frantically tried to get her brother’s dick out of his pants. When she finally freed it from its denim prison, his rigid member sprung out with the energy of a coil spring. She then swung one of her smooth legs over her brother and placed herself squarely on top of him.
Without any further hesitation, “Alice” slowly lowered her unclad, nubile form towards her brother’s penis. His bulbous head at first just barely kissed her velvety folds, but then gently parted them, and finally, by completely piercing her labia, desecrated that holy bond between brother and sister.
“Wendy, we have to stop this! We’re not wearing any protection!” Josh tried to protest one last time. “Don’t be silly, I’m sure this little slut is on birth control” “Alice” hissed. She was straining to force herself down her brother’s girth. “Hhnnnnnghhhoooohhhh my god she is so tight” she said panting. “She must still be a virgin. Well, not anymore, hehe.” Her small, hairless lips formed a tight seal around his thick shaft. To keep going further, she arched her back and angled her hips for maximum penetration.
When she finally bottomed out, “Alice” grabbed Josh’s head and started giving him a deep passionate kiss. Her long, brown hair draped over them, curtailing the world from seeing the forbidden intimacy they were sharing. While they kept kissing, “Alice” started to moan into his mouth, as she began slowly working her way up and down her brother’s shaft. The more their friction and passion increased, the more she ruffled his hair, her hands’ movements becoming more and more frantic.
Meanwhile, Josh moved his hands down his sister’s bare back and glid them first along her waist, then her hips, and finally around the sensual curve of her butt. He gave her firm cheeks a strong squeeze, while at the same time supporting her petite body with his manly hands. At last, he finally gave in to his new-found, forbidden desires and started humping his sister in sync with the rhythm of her movements.
Getting wetter by the second, “Alice’s” juices by now provided enough lubrication for her to easily glide along her brother’s member. She broke off their kiss, sat upgright, and began to drastically increase her speed. As she was bouncing up and down on Josh’s dick, her perky tits kept jiggling wildy about. To aleviate that, she took her brother’s hands and firmly placed them on top of her shapley breasts. He eagerly accepted her offer and began digging his fingers deeply into the tender flesh of his sister’s swollen boobs, ferociously groping and squeezing them like a man who lost all his inhibitions.
Greed seemed to overtake Josh, as he followed his sister’s lead by sitting upright and then tightly embracing her lithe body while she kept viciously riding his cock. Hungrily, he placed his mouth on her delicious breasts and began sucking and licking and biting her nipples, practically devouring her boobs and almost swallowing them whole. His sister rewarded him by giving off a series of high-pitched moans and clamping down on his dick.
“Wendy …,” Josh gasped short of breath and inbetween sucking his sister’s nipples. “What is it, bro?” Alice moaned. “I don’t… I don’t think I can hold it any lo—” was the last thing Josh managed to say before he finally errupted inside his sister like a volcano, spraying his creamy spunk all over his her insides. Feeling her brother’s hot goo coating her inner walls set off “Alice’s” own orgasm, making her join him in his extacy. Her body, which was glistening from all the excertion, began shaking from top to bottom as if a current of electricity ran through her.
When the tension suddenly left her body, “Alice” collapsed on top of her brother. Completely drained, she nestled her head against his chest, breathing heavily and with strands of her sweat-drenched hair sticking to her face. “I love you, Josh,” “Alice” whispered sweetly. “I love you, too,” he sighed unconvincingly. His dick was still inside deep his sister, refusing to go limp.
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For the past month there had been a large shadow hanging over their household. Wendy’s shenanigans had sowed mistrust and uneasiness among the members of her family. It all came to a head when Alice finally confronted her brother. “Josh, I’m begging you: please tell me the truth!” Alice pleaded. “What’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me? You don’t even look me in the eyes anymore.” “I said, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Josh hissed without even facing her. His eyes were red and on the verge of tears.
Gilbert and Christine heard their children argue, so they went to investigate. “What’s going with the two of you? Why are you making so much noise?” Gilbert said as he stepped into the room. “Josh, has been avoiding me for weeks now and he won’t tell me what his problem is,” Alice said unnerved. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that, too. Care to explain yourself, son?” Gilbert asked.
Josh tried to block off their barrage of questions, but, after being relentlessly corned by three people, he eventually broke down in tears and confessed how Wendy had taken control of Alice and forced himself onto her, and how he had been unable to resist. The entire room fell silent. Alice’s stomach turned, sickening her to her core. Gilbert was simply stunned, the news leaving his mind completely blank.
Christine, on the other hand, felt an uncontrollable rage explode inside of her. “That’s it!” she yelled with tears of anger in her eyes. “This is way over the line! I’m so sick and tired of her shit. This has to end now!” “Wait! Where are you going?” Gilbert said to the afterimage of his wife as she had already rushed out of the room. The rest of them slowly began to follow her, one after the other, still trying to process the information they had just received.
An absolutely livid Christine stomped furiously down the hallway and violently barged into her daughter’s room, almost knocking the door out of its hinges. There, Wendy laid on her bed and, like so often, just slept. Without waiting for her to wake up, Christine swiftly approached her sleeping daughter, wrapped her hands around her throat, and began strangling her with all her might. Wendy did not seem to make any signs of struggling against her mother’s assault.
“How could you do that?” Christine sobbed uncontrollably as rivers of tears streamed down her face. “I loved you with all my heart. Why did you become such a hateful peson? Where did I go wrong?” she said gritting her teeth. “This is the only way I can make things right!”
Gilbert and Josh were aghast when they stepped into the room and discovered what Christine was doing. Yet, neither of them intervened and tried to stop her. They just stood there and watched.
When everything was over, everybody went quiet again, except for Christine who was unable to stop her tears. Suddenly, Alice, who everyone seemed to have forgotten about, stepped into the room. They all looked at her in disbelief as they watched a creepy, sinister smile form on her pretty face. “No!” Christine whispered. “Actually, yes, mother,” “Alice” countered. “I’m not so easy to get rid of, you see.” “No!” Christine repeated, this time more emphatically. “And from now on, you will all do exactly as I tell you or the police might get an anonymous tip about what has happened to your dearest daughter. Remember this for the rest of you lives: you got blood on your hands, literally, and I won’t hesistate to take any one of you down!” “Alice” said menacingly. It finally dawned on Christine, Gilbert, and Josh that there was no way of escaping Wendy and that they had to resign themselves to the fact that their lives were now fully under her control, essentially making them her personal slaves.
Meanwhile, “Alice”, who was relishing in the power she had over her family, sauntered over towards her father and lifted the front of her skirt, exposing “her” panty-clad pussy. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, Daddy,” she whispered with lust dripping in her voice. Both of her small, feminine hands then reached out and grabbed one of her father’s big, manly hands and slowly guided it underneath her skirt and panties and gently placed it onto her already sopping wet pussy. Gilbert was too stunned to stop her, and even if he had not been, he would not have dared to go against her.
Suddenly, both Alice and Gilbert shuddered simultaneously. “We sure will, princess,” “Gilbert” said with a lecherous expression on his face. “He” then slipped a finger inside “his” daughter’s smooth folds and began aggressively fingering her hole. The real Alice was dazed and confused when she finally came to again. “D–Dad?” she stammared. “W–What’s going o–o–oooohhhhnnggg?!” she moaned, being overwhelmed by an unexpected orgasm as her “father” quickly sent her over the edge.
Christine was horrified as she watched her husband molest their daughter in front of her eyes. Unfortunately, she was unable to do anything about it as a shiver ran down her spine and the same spell that had taken over her husband and daughter was now taking hold of her. “And let’s not neglect these two here,” “Christine” said while firmly squeezing “her” boobs against each other. “She” then climbed onto Wendy’s bed on all fours, pulled up her dress and her panties to the side, and openly offered up “her own” snatch. “Josh, be a good son and come over here and show Mommy how much my boy has grown up?”
At last it was Josh’s turn. Before he could really process the actions unfolding in front of him, he was no longer in control of his body. “Don’t mind if I do!” “Josh” replied eagerly. As fast as lightning “he” walked over to his mother, dropped his pants, and slammed his rock-hard errection into her sloppy slit. Christine, now back in control of her body, was overwhelmed with the pleasurable sensation of her son’s girthy member ramming in and out of her. When she felt her son mauling her big tits from behind, she went completely limp in his arms, as the last of her will left her while “her son” kept hammering her hole. Eventually, they both climaxed at the same time and Christine felt her son’s hot fluids spread throughout her inside.
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That same night it was raining cats and dogs. Gilbert and Josh, equipped with spades, dug a hole in their backyard to dispose of Wendy’s corpse while Christine and “Alice” watched from the kitchen window.
The four of them would spend the rest of their lives living in fear and terror, as Wendy forced them to live out all of her depraved sex fantasies between sister and brother, father and daughter, mother and son, mother and daugher, and even between father and son.
Eventually, when the last of her family members had passed on, Wendy continued to live on as a formless presence, taking over other people, until the end of time.
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Calyope is a bisexual witch who has settled down with a normal guy. But when she discovers a magical rune of transformation, she thinks she might have discovered a way to have the best of both worlds.
Calyope was a novice witch. A witch that had recently had a whirlwind romance and married a man who was everything she’d ever wanted. Almost. Despite loving Eric’s masculine body, there were times she found herself wanting something different in bed. She really did enjoy the feel of her husband’s hard cock sliding between her legs. The way he held her down with his powerful body and the long moan he’d make as he erupted inside of her.
She loved it. She really did. And it should have been enough. Except…Calyope was bisexual. And even though she loved her husband’s cock and the feel of his abs and the way he fucked her with such intensity, she found herself missing the touch of a woman. There was just something about the feeling of running her fingers across gentle curves. The inhale of sweet perfume on impossibly soft breasts. The vibrant feminine moans that escaped as she used her tongue to taste a deliciously wet pussy. The feeling of her soft curves. The sweet smells. The taste of pussy on her tongue.
When Calyope chose to marry Eric, she thought she’d given up on those desires. It had been easy at first. Her high sex drive helped her go out of her way to seduce him the moment he got home from work. She would devour him, enticing him to make love in any and every position he wanted. She was his completely. So why was she still having all these fantasies about being in bed with a woman?! And it was only getting worse. The more she thought about what she’d left behind, the more she craved it. This made her feel guilty, because she had a good thing with Eric. He loved her. Had accepted her being a witch with no issues at all. And he worked so hard to help provide for their home. He had too, since he didn’t have an ounce of magical ability himself.
She told herself it was enough and that she should just move forward with her husband and his hot body. And she might have, until an old book of spells suddenly appeared on her doorstep one day. She was very curious who had dropped it off. She thought about doing a trace spell, but forgot the incantation and would have to look it up. But she got distracted from further investigation as she opened the pages. It contained a lot of advanced magic, some that might take years to master. She was about to put it aside, when she came across an intricate rune called ‘Overlaid’ that contained elements of mind control and physical transformation.
Her heart quickened its pace as she read further. To place the rune, a complicated spell must be uttered while placing hands on a person who was willing to be transformed. While chanting, the caster must envision the new shape they want the subject to take, as well as their state of mind. If done properly, a rune would be created on the person that when activated, would overlay their mind and body with a completely new persona.
It could completely alter their mind, giving them the thoughts, feelings and desires implanted by the caster, while also changing their shape, even their gender. Calyope’s heart began to beat faster as she reread the part about changing gender. It was exactly the kind of spell she was looking for that would allow her to have her cake, and be able to fuck it too.
There were two problems though. This was a very risky spell that used borderline dark magic to temporarily alter a person’s thoughts and appearance. But it also required a willing subject. It was one thing to roleplay in the bedroom. This was on another level entirely. Her husband would have to trust her so much!
Had they even been married long enough for her to ask such a thing of Eric? He’d always been so accepting of her, and had thus far been willing to do whatever she wanted to do in the bedroom. If she asked him in just the right way, perhaps with her legs wrapped around him, he’d consent to this wild idea. She grew wet as she thought of asking him for this erotic favor while his big cock was buried in her pussy.
She looked up from the book, suddenly wondering where Eric was. She wanted to fuck him right now! Why was he at work so much of the time?!
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind her made her jump in her seat. Then she heard her husband’s deep sexy voice ask, “Whatchya reading there?”
Calyope suddenly felt very embarrassed, and turned bright red. They were married. She could talk to him about anything. But this was so kinky, so perverted, and she wasn’t sure he was really ready for that conversation. So she lied. “N-nothing you’d be interested in?”
“Oh, well now I have to see!” Eric said, and he lunged for his wife.
Calyoped giggled and shoved the book out of his reach as he landed on top of her. They mock wrestled and clung to each other for several seconds. But then his hands were squeezing her boobs and she was pulling his shirt over his head between needy kisses. “I need you inside me,” she begged.
Eric smirked as he removed his underwear. “Don’t you always.”
It was true. She’d never been disinterested in sex with Eric. Sex with her man was always on the table. Would she still feel that way if he had different parts? If he exchanged his chiseled pecs for a pair of bouncy double D’s, or his hard throbbing cock for a wet and warm pussy?
The thought of it made her grasp his dick and stroke it while she looked up at him and begged. “Please! Shove it in. Right now!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. Then he tenderly lay her down on the floor, and pushed into her.
“Fuck!” she howled, loving the initial moment of penetration. “Yeah. Give it to me hard baby! Just the way I like it!”
Thoughts of telling him about the transformation rune vanished from her mind. All she could think of was how good his cock felt. Her brain grew wonderfully fuzzy with each thrust, and all she could think to do was wrap her legs around his torso and to pull him deeper.
She came before he did. She always did.
As Eric watched her scream in ecstasy, he said, “Oh fuck! That’ll do it!” He grunted and moaned as he shot inside his wife.
He rolled off and lay beside her on their living room floor, both panting from the sudden but wonderful exertion.
“Not complaining, but what brought that on?” Eric finally asked.
“Um…well, uh, I found a new spell…” Calyope said shyly.
‘Oh yeah?” Eric said bemused. “What kind of spell?”
Calyope decided to just rip the bandaid. She shut her eyes tight and said, “It lets you transform a person!”
Eric laughed. “Want me to have an even bigger dick, is that it?”
“No!” Calyope clarified quickly. “Your dick is perfect!” And she really meant it. She loved his cock the way it was. It fit her perfectly. Stretched her out in all the right ways, like it was made for her. But, if Eric were also a woman, they’d just be getting STARTED with their lovemaking. “This would be transforming you…in other ways. I’d really be swapping out your dick with…something else…” She clenched her fists and sucked in a breath. She was so nervous about telling him, but it was right there.
After a moment of confused silence, Eric asked, “Swap it out for what?”
“Well…You know how I also like girls, right?”
“I am aware,” Eric said, wisely choking down a laugh as he realized how hard this was for his wife to say.
“This spell would let me change you into a woman.”
“A woman?!” Eric repeated with a mixture of shock and amusement.
“Not permanently or anything! Just like, it puts a magical rune on your skin, like a tattoo. And whenever I activate the rune, I could turn you into a girl, and back again, whenever I, er, WE, wanted to.” There was more to it, but she decided to leave out the fact that it also altered the mind. “The spell says the subject must be willing to have it placed on you. So, you’d have to give me consent, and I completely understand if you need time to think about it, and I’ll still love you if you say no so don’t think that you have to-”
“I’m down,” he said, cutting her off with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope’s breath caught as her husband just casually agreed to let her fuse a rune to his skin that would allow her to radically change him! She again thought about letting him know that she’d be able to change his thoughts and personality, but didn’t want to give him any reason to change his mind. She told herself he wouldn’t care, because he’d so quickly agreed. He wanted to make her happy. And during the times he was a girl, she’d definitely go out of her way to make him happy as well.
Eric interrupted her by asking, “So, do you want to do this now or…”
Her eyes went wide, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. It was amazing enough that he was willing to do it, but even sweeter that he was willing to do it immediately. She reached out to play with his short dark hair. “That’s incredibly sweet, but no, not now.”
She noticed his expression change to one of disappointment, so she hastened to explain, “I’ll need time to read over the spell. It’s a long and tricky one and I don’t want to botch it. Plus, I’ll want to think of the type of…um…,” she felt her cheeks turning pink again. “...body I’d like you to have as a girl.”
Eric grinned. “Oh yeah? You got certain attributes in mind?” He looked down at his impressive chest and abs. “Thinking of turning my pecs into some nice round melons you can suck on? Boy, that’d be so weird, but like, yeah, it’d be cool to have your mouth there on a couple of big titties.”
That kind of talk really got Calyope’s motor running. She didn’t admit that was the first thing she’d thought about, but instead picked a more aesthetic detail. “Well, I mean, I love your hair color, but I’d just make it a little longer. Like shoulder length, and straight. I’d round out your face a bit, making it more feminine. Ooh, I’d give you full, luscious lips. And then…” Her eyes drifted down her husband’s body as very vivid details flooded her thoughts.
As if reading her mind, Eric moved a hand between his wife’s legs and began to gently finger her. “Please, keep going. Tell me how else you’d turn me into your dream girl.”
“Oh, uh…” she gasped, suddenly finding it hard to talk as her husband’s skilled fingers went to work. She placed a hand on her husband’s chest. “You’re…you’re right about me swapping out your chest. It’s a really hot chest babe, but…yeah…I’d love to see what it looks like with a pair of double D’s. I’d make them so sensitive that if I just breathed on them, you’d be begging me to suck on them.”
Eric laughed. “I would, huh? Well, I guess we’ll see about that.”
As her mind became consumed with lust, she thought to herself, ‘You wouldn’t have a choice. I’ll turn you into a horny slut that wants my mouth all over your new body.”
Her hand drifted down his abs, and came to his dick, which was semi hard and slippery with their combined juices. “I’d shrink this until it became a slit. A perfect little pussy that I could lick as much as I wanted, making you scream for more.”
“Is that all?” Eric asked, knowing his wife was almost to the brink of climax by the way she was breathing and moving her hips in time with his fingers.
“I’d make you just a little shorter than me!” she cried out. “And I’d make you-Oh fuck! I’d make you my perverted little sex slave! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Ooh!” The powerful orgasm made her shake from head to toe.
When she was finally able to relax, Eric pulled her close and they cuddled. He whispered gently in her ear, “Are you sure you can’t do that spell on me now?”
She laughed softly. “I think I need to get the dishes put away and dinner started,” she said.
Eric said nothing for a moment, then shrugged and said a playful, “Fine.” He stood and helped her to her feet. With a playful swat on her butt he said, “Get to work.”
Her mouth fell open in mock surprise, but then she giggled, and went off to do the housework.
The next few days were a blur, because everytime she had a chance, Calyope was thinking about that spell. Putting eyes on it. Sounding it out. Imagining the ideal feminine shape her husband would become, and the personality she would make him have. She was becoming obsessed, and could think of little else while she did her daily chores. It certainly made them easier.
She thought a tiny bit about maybe altering Eric’s mind to not just be a sex slave, but also be willing to do some of the mundane chores that she did every day. She didn’t mind doing them for her husband. It was part of how she showed her love and devotion to him. But she did wish he’d help out around the house a little more. The vast majority of her thoughts though, were imagining the raven haired beauty he would become, and then making that goddess put her pretty mouth between her legs.
Despite her perverted obsession, it was actually her husband that mentioned using the spell again. She’d been lost in another fantasy while the dishes magically washed, dried, and put away themselves, when her husband pressed himself against her from behind.
“How’s that rune spell coming along, Calyope? Are you ready to turn me into a sexy woman yet?”
Calyope felt his rod twitch against her ass. She instinctively pushed back, wanting to feel it slide between her cheeks. Since she was only wearing an apron, she got her wish. The delightful sensation of that hard cock made her lose her magical concentration though, and a dish crashed to the floor. “Oh shoot,” she pouted, as her husband withdrew behind her. She made a motion with her finger and the dish repaired itself and sailed into the cupboard.
“Sorry,” about that,” she heard her thoughtful husband say.
“She spun around and said, “I think I’m ready.” Goodness knows she needed to be. She needed to alleviate the sexual tension that seemed to be building exponentially inside of her as she thought about turning her husband into a woman. It had felt all consuming these last few days. “I’ve been studying it every time I get a free moment, and should have all the words memorized, so I think we should, um…” she trailed off as she realized how eager she sounded.
Eric laughed. “I can tell you’ve been thinking about it a lot. Every time I look at you while you’re doing your chores, or we’re eating, or, well, after we’re done fucking, you get that faraway look in your eye that makes me think you’re thinking about transforming me into your lesbian lover.”
“Busted,” she giggled, as she looked her husband up and down, undressing him with her eyes and fantasizing about the new curves he’d soon have.
“So where do you want to do this?” he asked curiously. The way his wife was looking at him made him feel like a slab of meat being dangled in front of a hungry lion. He didn’t mind in the least.
“How about upstairs in the bedroom,” Calyope suggested excitedly. “And I’ll need to make contact with you for the spell, so why don’t you just-”
“Get naked,” Eric finished with a wide grin.
Calyope winked at him. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, babe,” he said, winking back.
They raced upstairs. As soon as Eric walked in, he pulled off his shirt. Calyope found herself staring at his toned body, and for a moment, thought about scrapping the spell and just taking his male self right then and there.
He saw her gawking as he pulled off his pants and underwear. She was now staring right at his rigid cock that was pointing straight at her. He snapped his fingers and said, “My eyes are up here, love. I know you love this cock, but let’s try to focus,” he teased, then twisted his body side to side so his dick slapped against his torso.
Calyope felt like she was being hypnotized by the motion of that big beautiful cock. Drool had formed in her mouth. Drool that she could use to slobber all over his impressive man meat with her tongue. She shook her head and closed her eyes. She really did need to focus! She had her husband’s permission, and knew the spell pretty well. She needed to strike while the iron was hot, because who knew, tomorrow he might change his mind.
She stepped directly in front of him, and put the fingertips of her right hand onto his stomach. She could feel the tight muscles there. His body was lean and calloused and tough. Everything she wanted in her man. She almost pushed him down onto the bed so she could fuck him, but with an extra bit of willpower, she began a slow and steady chant. As she did, she put every thought into the woman she wanted him to become.
She pictured a slightly shorter physique than herself. One with shoulder length jet black hair, pouty lips, and a round face. This woman would have large, bouncy breasts, almost but not quite as big as her own. Her body would be a vision of seductive curves and soft skin. She would have a neatly trimmed bush, and an always wet and sensitive pussy.
Calyope’s thoughts turned from the physical to the mental. She knew this would reshape her husband’s mind, but she did not hesitate as she thought how this transformed woman would always desire to have sex with Calyope. She would find ways to seduce Calyope, and be willing to beg for the chance to get between her legs. And housework. She’d want to help with chores and making meals. But most importantly, she’d be a kinky slut, coming up with new and exciting ways to get each other off!
That last thought turned her on so much it threatened to distract her, and she stumbled over a few of the words. She looked down at her fingertips and was disheartened to see no rune had formed. She wondered if her carelessness had ruined her first attempt.
“It’s okay, you can do it,” Eric assured her, and put his hand atop hers encouragingly as she started saying the spell again.
Calyope put all her concentration into it this time. She tuned everything else out as she thought only about the words and the manifestation of her fantasy woman.
Slowly but surely, she felt the spark of magic against Eric’s skin. She looked down, and saw a glowing line etched itself from the top of her middle finger, to the other places her fingertips touched. She became excited as a perfect circle began to form, and inside that circle, a combined symbol of an arrow and a cross that represented the masculine and feminine. As Calyope finished the chant, it glowed brightly, and then faded. But the rune remained. A permanent magical brand on her husband’s stomach.
Eric’s brow furrowed, and he let out a breath he’d been holding. He looked down at himself, and asked with obvious disappointment, “Shouldn’t I be a girl now?”
“Not yet,” Calyope said, and licked her lips. “Now that the rune’s there, I should be able to turn you into a girl whenever I want. No lengthy spell, just a touch, and a one word command.”
“Well go ahead then, babe,” Eric said in his deep voice as he struck out his chest and did a superhero pose. “Let me help you make your bisexual dreams come true.”
Calyope bounced up and down and clapped her hands excitedly. Then she put her hand on the rune, and said, “Transform.”
The rune did not glow, but just remained a faint mark on his skin. “I don’t know what’s wrong? That should have worked!” she said. “Let me consult the-”
But before she could run and get the spell book, Eric took her hand again, and placed it over hers on his stomach. “Maybe I have to help show the magic that I’m willing? I am. I am willing,” he said, looking down at his stomach. “Let’s try again, at the same time. Ready?”
Calyope nodded and said, “Okay. On the count of three, let’s both of us say it. One, two, three…”
Simultaneously, husband and wife both said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed bright on Eric’s stomach.
“I think something’s happening!” Eric said excitedly as his skin began to ripple up and down his body.
“It sure is,” Calyope exclaimed. She stepped back from her husband, and watched with wide eyed fascination as he shrank from his 6 foot 2 self, to about 5 foot 9. This was apparent to Calyope, because it was still an inch taller than her own self. That wasn’t quite to her specifications, but it could be amended at a later time.
Eric’s brown hair darkened until it was jet black, then ran down to his shoulders like a waterfall cascading down from his head. His lips became fuller, his face rounder and softer. His broad chest shifted, narrowing first and becoming slimmer. Then his right pectoral began to protrude. It blossomed into a round jiggly boob.
This caused Eric to chuckle as he reached his hand up to it and gave it a squeeze. He looked at his wife, and saw how much she was enjoying the show. He blew her a kiss, right before a left boob popped out before Calyope’s eyes.
He suddenly shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his crotch. Calyope followed his gaze, and saw his erect penis shrink rapidly into his body, leaving only a slit with a tuft of dark curly hair barely covering it.
“Oh wow, that transformation process feels good!” Eric gasped in a high pitched voice as his smaller hand dipped down to his new pussy.
Calyope was glad that her husband wasn’t mourning the loss of his favorite member. She assumed this was part of the spell, helping him embrace the changes by spiking his lust. She remembered that soon he should be up for anything if the spell did its job.
“Oh!” Eric suddenly exclaimed. “Something else is getting bigger!” He gave a slow turn so his wife could see his hips widen, and his ass expand into a round plump butt that had Calyope drooling. He gave it a shake, and giggled as it clapped. “Certainly a lot more exciting than my flat ass, wouldn’t you say, babe?”
Calyope took a step towards him, as if entranced by the wobble of his new sexy butt.
Eric giggled again and said, “I take it you like what you see?”
“I really do,” Calyope said sincerely as Eric finished a slow spin. She saw that the rune on his stomach had faded into a faint, black outline, a reminder that she’d be able to turn him back to her masculine husband whenever she wanted. But right now, she wanted, no, NEEDED to touch every inch of his feminine skin with her fingertips. And then her tongue.
“This spell is incredible,” she whispered as she put a hand on Eric’s arm. “You look nothing like your original self, Eric! I wouldn’t even know you were my husband if I hadn’t seen you transform before my very eyes.”
When Eric responded, his new high girly voice was silky and seductive. “As long as I look like this, Cal, why don’t you call me Erica.”
“Yeah,” Calyope said, bringing her face closer and closer to her husband’s pouty lips. “Erica.”
And then they were kissing. It was not the kissing of two people that have never kissed each other before. Nor the kind that expresses comfortable familiarity. No. This was rather like the kind where two people have been desperate for each other in the worst way and are finally allowed to express their pent up feelings physically.
Hands groped greedily. Lips migrated from lips to necks to shoulders to breasts. They each attacked each other’s bodies like this would be their only opportunity. What made Calyope so infinitely happy, other than Erica’s sweet moans, was that it wouldn’t be. She could live out her lesbian fantasy a million times over, all because of how wonderfully willing her husband was.
“You want to lick this pink pussy of mine, right?” Erica suddenly asked, interrupting Calyope’s thoughts.
“I do!” she squealed. Erica smiled wantonly and laid back on the bed. The raven haired beauty parted her legs, and moved her fingers in a downward V to spread her lips open. Calyope saw her folds were already glistening with desire. Calyope got on her knees and bent low. She began by kissing up Erica’s inner thigh, letting the passion between them escalate. Then her lips were kissing a pussy that had been molded and shaped just for her. She extended her tongue, and tasted a divine salty tartness that was instantly addictive.
Calyope giggled into her lover as Erica began to moan and squirm. She popped her head up and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fucking great!” Erica replied, and then put her hand on top of Calyope’s head. “But don’t stop!”
Calyope squealed happily as her mouth was shoved back into Erica’s dripping cunt.
For the first time that Calyope could remember, her husband came before she did. Turns out all he needed for that to happen, was a clit. Even after Erica squirted in her face, Calyope found she didn’t want to stop licking. “You taste so good baby! And I gotta say, I think I prefer my face coated with your pussy juice than your cum.”
Erica giggled. “Thank you? I think? You really do have an amazing tongue by the way.”
“Do you wanna try yours out?” Calyope asked as she dropped next to her.
Erica pushed herself up and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
Caloype was keenly aware of the lack of stubble as Erica’s face brushed against her inner thighs. There was only soft, smooth skin. And then a tongue. It was smaller than Eric’s, but there was a sensuality about it that made Calyope arch her back as it began to lick up and down her folds. “You’re my girlfriend!” she moaned.
A soft laugh reverberated between Calyope’s legs, and then her perfect woman looked up and said, “No, I’m your wife.”
A thrill of delight went through Calyope’s whole body, and Erica didn’t stop until she’d given Calyope everything she’d been hoping for.
The session lasted a very long time, and by the end, they were a sweaty, happy mess. The last thing Calyope thought before she drifted off to sleep was how different it was with a woman. It wasn’t a sprint, but a marathon.
The next several days whizzed by for Calyope. She felt like she was in a perpetual state of sex, and she loved it. The second Eric got home Calyope would turn him into Erica, and they’d make each other climax several times, and then a very tired Calyope would finish her chores while Erica basked in the afterglow. After dinner, Erica would change back to Eric, and fill Calyope’s pussy with strong, powerful thrusts. It was a very good routine, and it might have lasted a good deal longer, had Calyope not made an important discovery.
It happened a month after Erica had been introduced into their lives. Calyope had decided to get up early and shower with her ‘wife.’ She’d showered with Eric many times, but never in the morning before he left for work, because she hated getting up early. She LOVED sleep. She often felt like she could sleep the whole day away. In so many ways, her day really didn’t begin until her husband got back home. That was why she always felt behind on chores, because she so often didn’t start them until Eric got back home.
But she’d been thinking about showering with Erica. She wanted to soap up those beautiful curves. To let her fingers glide over those most intimate of areas while making them smell sweet and fragrant. She’d climaxed last night while thinking about it, while her husband had been inside of her. It was something naughty she often liked to do. To think about the ‘other lover’ that wasn’t there with her while she came.
The opportunity finally arrived when Eric’s alarm actually woke up her that one morning. He was still Erica. Calyope realized she’d forgotten to change Erica back to Eric last night, but Calyope did love the sight of her wife sitting up in bed and stretching. It was a fantastic view. She wanted to pull the busty vixen back down into the bed and begin kissing and licking her all over that curvy figure. But she knew time was of the essence. “I want to shower with you,” she said, placing a hand lovingly on the small of Erica’s back.
Erica yelped at Calyope’s voice, and looked back at her in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to see her in their bed. “Oh, shit. Uh, sorry Cal..yope. I totally forgot to, um…”
“It’s okay, I’m up!” she beamed. “I’ll go heat up the water.” She looked back at Erica from the bedroom door. “And if you don’t mind, I’m not gonna transform you back yet until AFTER the shower,” she giggled.
Erica watched Calyope’s cute butt all the way down the hall to their bathroom. She bit her lower lip and said, “Well, I guess a quick shower won’t hurt.”
She heard the sound of water running. And then a scream.
Erica leapt off the bed and sprinted down the hall. When she got to the doorframe, she cried, “What? What’s the matter? You see a mouse?”
Calyope was still facing the shower. But her head was turned towards the mirror, and her eyes were laser focused on something there. She pointed a shaky hand towards her reflection. She didn’t understand why she had one too. It was smaller, but it was there. On her left butt cheek, was a circular rune with the symbol for masculine and feminine.
“I don’t remember putting a copy of the rune on myself,” she whispered.
Erica sighed and folded her arms. “That’s cause you didn’t put it there, sweetie. I did.”
Calyope finally looked away from the mirror, and turned to face Erica. She was so confused. “But…how could you? You can’t do magic?”
Erica gave her a pitying look and said gently. “No, dear. You’re the one that can’t do magic.” WIth a sudden flick of her wrist, a toothbrush sailed into the air and Erica deftly caught it.
Calyope stared at it in disbelief, not just at the magic on display from her husband/wife, but because the toothbrush…looked like a woman’s toothbrush. She looked at the other toothbrush next to the sink. It was a man’s toothbrush. And a chill went down Calyope’s spine, as she could never remember brushing her teeth. Like, ever.
She began taking panicked, shallow breaths. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” she gasped. She flicked her wrist at the other toothbrush. It did not move. Not even a little. “N-no. No I use magic all the ti-WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER EVER DOING CERTAIN THINGS LIKE BRUSHING MY TEETH?!”
Erica held up her hands soothingly and said, “Darling, relax. Let me just…let me talk to my husband, and we’ll straighten this all-”
Calyope’s hands shot down to her sides and clenched into fists as she shrieked, “Your husband?!”
Erica grimaced. “Yeah, this was…well it was his idea. And he’s…inside of you.”
This revelation stunned Calyope to her very core, which gave Erica the time she needed to step forward and hug her. Then she placed a hand on Calyope’s right buttcheek, and said, “Transform.”
_______________________________________________________
Three months ago.
“So, do you know like, transformation magic?” Calvin asked as they laid in bed after another passionate night unbridled lovemaking.
Erica giggled and hit her husband on the arm. “You sick of my body already?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m just like…I’m wondering if you could transform me? I know you also like girls, and I know that you gave that up that part of you when we got married. But…what if you didn’t have to. What if you could transform me into your ‘wife’ sometimes?”
Erica squeezed her man. “And then I transform into a handsome guy with muscular pecs and come home from work and give you the business?”
“Oh…” Calvin uttered curiously. “I mean…I hadn’t thought of that, but…”
“You’d let me fuck you with a dick?” Erica said, mouth opened in a wide grin.
“No! I mean…maybe.”
“No lie, dear, that actually sounds kinda hot.”
“Wait, wait. I’m not sure I’d want to be able to remember something like that. Is there like, memory magic you could use as well?”
Erica licked her lips, then said, “I actually may know of a spell that is exactly what we’re looking for babe. Just remember, this was all your idea.”
_____________________________________________________
Present Day
The panic left Calvin’s body as he returned to his original self. The weight from his former boobs was distributed mainly to his belly. He was not the ripped male version that his wife became, but a rather ordinary looking guy. The memories began to rush in from his time as Caloyope.
“You didn’t change me back last night,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Erica said, letting him go. She stepped past him and turned off the shower. “We let this go on too long, Cal. She’s become like, a whole different person.”
That had been Cal’s decision too. To be transformed into Calyope more and more throughout the week. Erica didn’t complain, because Cal was an amazing lover as a woman, plus he didn’t mind that his wife had instilled within him a desire to take care of the house, because he felt a disconnect to it. It was helping her, helping him, and they’d been fucking like rabbits in different gender combinations. There had seemed to be no downside. Until now. Calyope had become aware of the transformation rune, and that had led to her feeling like she wasn’t a whole person. And in a way, maybe she wasn’t. She only appeared when they wanted her to. She didn’t get to remember anything beyond those few hours she was allowed to exist. Cal could remember, but not her.
“This is my fault,” Erica said. “I should have paid attention to the precautions. I can have the rune removed.”
Cal’s face fell. “No. No please don’t. There’s got to be another way. Calyope means so much to you. So much to me.”
Erica hugged her husband. She was glad he felt this way. Calyope really had become a part of their family. “Give me some time to think. Maybe…maybe there’s something we can do, but I’ll need to research some spell books.”
They held each other, and finally parted ways. Cal going to work. Erica doing the same. She worked at an apothecary, one that had many magical recipes and spellbooks, which she would dive into today, looking for an answer to the mess they’d made.
A week later, the husband and wife reconvened in the bathroom again. They were both naked as if they were about to shower, but Calvin was just watching his wife use her finger to make a large circle over the mirror. Then she took out a sharp stone and began scratching the surface, carving small symbols into it. When it was done, she placed her hand upon it, and said a lengthy spell she’d been memorizing for the last few days. The mirror glowed, and then looked like a regular mirror again, except it didn’t reflect as it once had. It still showed Erica, but as Calvin looked at it, he saw Calyope. But her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be asleep.
“Okay,” Erica said, assessing the small bathroom. “It’s time. Stand right where she was when she got transformed last time. Let’s try to make this as comfortable for her as possible.”
Calvin put his back to the shower, and Erica put her arms around him. “I hope this works.”
“Me too.”
Erica put a hand on her husband’s fuzzy butt, and said, “Transform.”
A few seconds later, Calyope sucked in a huge breath. Her ‘wife’s’ arms were still around as they had been when she felt herself blank out. She fought the urge to panic. “Let me go,” she said firmly.
Erica did, but then quickly said, “Calyope, we both owe you an apology.”
“Was any of it real?!” she demanded.
Erica hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It was very real, Calyope. But what we did to you wasn’t right. But we think we’ve-”
“Why do you keep saying ‘we?’” Calyope spat. She was so mad, but not just at Erica. She was also mad at herself, because even now the sight of Erica was turning her on. She wanted to kiss her soft lips, and get her mouth between her legs and taste her. She now assumed that this desire was also a part of that rune.
Erica noted the woman’s mixed emotions, but instead of commenting on them, she pointed to the mirror and said quietly, “Calyope, meet your other half, Calvin.”
Calyope looked from Erica to the mirror, expecting to see her and Erica reflected in its surface. But she was mistaken. There was Erica, yes, but instead of Calyope, there was a man where she should be. A man that, in certain aspects, vaguely resembled Calyope herself. Same sandy brown hair color. Same chin. Same eyes.
“Nice to meet you officially,” the reflection of Cal suddenly said, which caused Calyope to jump. The man put his palms out in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, sorry, don’t be scared. The last thing I’d ever want is to hurt you, cause, well, I am you. Erica magicked up this mirror especially for us, so we could talk. It’s very important that you know, Calyope, that you’ve made Erica so happy these last few months.”
“It’s true,” Erica said.
Calyope frowned and looked towards Erica. “I haven’t known you for months,” she countered. “I’ve only known Eric. You know, the person I thought was my husband.”
“Would having him here with you make you more comfortable?” Erica interjected.
Calyope met the woman’s eyes, and nodded sadly. “Yeah. It’d help.” Eric had been her rock. The person she’d do absolutely anything for. She knew this was also probably part of the spell, but just the thought of seeing him calmed her a little.
Erica put a hand to her own overlaid rune and said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed, and Erica’s soft supple form grew taller and became muscular. Her smooth belly gained those chiseled abs that made Calyope go weak in the knees. And suddenly there was his handsome face, looking at her in concern. She threw herself into his strong arms, and he held her tight and patted her head.
“There, there, it’s okay, dear,” he said.
For a few precious seconds, Calyope allowed herself to melt into him. “Do you remember being her?” she finally asked her husband.
He gave her a pitying look. “Um, yes, but…”
“That’s not fair that you get to!” she protested. Then she turned on her male counterpart in the mirror. “Do you remember being me?”
“Also yes,” Calvin admitted. “But for different reasons.”
Calyope looked up into her husband’s dark eyes. She found she wanted to kiss him. To grind against his body until he grew hard, picked her up, and fucked her against the bathroom wall. She tried to keep focused. “What’s he talking about? Why do you both get to remember?”
“Well,” Eric confessed. “I’m still…Erica. Even when I’m Eric, I’m still me. I used the overlaid rune to transform from female to male, but otherwise there were no changes.”
Calyope’s jaw dropped in surprise. “But…you act like a guy when you look like this.” She put a hand on his chest. Being this close to him was having quite the effect on her. If Erica’s body had made her horny, Eric’s body was having even more of an impact.
She looked at her male counterpart while her hand kept descending down to those abs she loved so much. “And what’s your excuse?”
“The magic of the rune allows me to remember everything you thought and did when I transform back,” Cal explained. “It doesn’t feel quite like I was there, but it’s certainly close enough that I feel that you’re a huge part of me.”
Calyope couldn’t stop her hand from going lower as she said, “But that’s not fair. I should be able to feel the same way. I should get to remember being married to Erica, and living your life, and all of it.”
“You’re right,” Cal said. “You’re absolutely right. And the reason Erica and I brought you back, was to tell you that she’s got a way to…” Eric gasped as Calyope’s hand touched the tip of his penis, and Cal noticed. “Um…do I need to give you guys a second?”
Calyope licked her lips as she looked down at Eric’s throbbing member. Then she looked at Cal in the mirror. “Do you remember every time I’ve gone down on my husband?” she asked coolly.
“I…do…” Cal said tentatively. “But, like I said, it’s like remembering something that happened to somebody else. And I certainly don’t dwell on it.”
“Well you’re about to see it,” Calyope said as she began sinking to her knees.
Cal looked at his wife’s Eric persona. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous of the body that his wife had. He looked at her and said, “Look, I’m glad this is working out, but could you take this to the other room.”
Eric shook his head and as he put a hand on top of Calyope’s. “No honey. It’s so much hotter if you’re here to watch your pretty little mouth suck my dick. You can take it so deep too!”
“Yeah, I can absolutely do without the play by play.” But he did watch as Calyope took the cock in her mouth with no hesitation. She sucked it like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she began to moan and rub her clit as she did so. “Fuck, that IS hot,” he finally admitted.
“I knew you’d like to watch you little perv,” Eric groaned. “But I know my precious Calyope. THIS is what she really wants.” With that he lifted her up in his strong arms, pinned her to the wall, and impaled her pussy with his thick cock.
“Yes!” Calyope screamed. “I love you so much, Eric!”
“I love you too, Calyope!”
A moment later, Cal said, “We both do.”
Calyope came hard a minute later. When she did, she knew that her sensitive pussy was a gift from Erica. She bucked her hips and clawed at Eric’s back until he came inside her. When he put her down, she asked, “So…what now?”
Eric kissed her and said, “Now we give you what Calvin has always had. The ability to remember. You’ll remember being him the way he remembers being you.”
“What about some of the other things? Will those change too?”
“What other things?” Calvin asked.
“I’m guessing she means the desire to cook and clean for me.”
“Yeah!” Calyope pouted.
“Ooh, yeah, that was my idea,” Cal admitted.
“Or the fact that just the sight of either of your forms makes me go into heat,” Calyope added.
“Uh, I didn’t actually do that one,” Eric laughed.
“I mean, she is hot as a guy or a girl,” Cal agreed.
“Oh, you want some of this too?” Eric winked, stroking his slippery cock.
Cal rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass, but thanks. I already have plenty of memories of tasting it and having that enormous thing shoved in me.”
“Ohmygosh!” Calyope suddenly exclaimed. “I’ll get to remember fucking you with a dick?!”
Eric hugged her. “Yes, you will, sweetie. But as for the other stuff…well, I’m afraid to redo the rune to make you not want to cook and clean and think you have magic, that won’t go away. Not unless I redid the rune, which…would make the version that is you, go away.”
“Well I don’t want that!” she said quickly. “And I don’t mind too much cooking and cleaning. It is how I’ve always shown you I love you.”
“Again, my idea,” Calvin said.
“Shut it, husband,” Eric snapped playfully.
“Whose idea was it to let me see the book with the overlaid rune?” Calyope asked curiously.
“Oh, that was mine!” Eric answered proudly. “After you brought up wanting to be with a woman, I knew there was a part of you that missed, well, the real me. And that was confirmed when you described me. I thought it would be fun-”
Cal coughed in the mirror.
“Sorry, WE thought it would be fun if we played this out, and…yeah, it was really hot, but we’re both sorry if we ever hurt-”
“Shh,” Calyope whispered, as she put a finger on her husband’s lips. “I’m still really horny. So, I think I’d be fine if…”
“I changed back into your ‘wife’?’” Eric suggested with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope bit her lip. “Yes please.”
Eric swooped up his bride and looked at Cal’s reflection. “You’re gonna enjoy remembering all the kinky lesbian shit we’re about to do, dear.”
Calvin laughed and waved at them. “I know I will. Have fun you two.”
Calyope squealed as Eric ran from the bathroom and threw her onto their bed. He was Erica a moment later, and she dove between Calyope’s legs and began lapping up the cum that had just been deposited by her male self. The two were insatiable all day, and Eric made many guest appearances.
Calvin and Calyope settled into new routines where they shared their time with Erica/Eric, but also loved remembering how happy the other made their spouse.
There are certainly more hijinks to their story, like the one where Calyope got a temporary body from a gollum that Erica created. But that is another story altogether.
The end.
Author's Note
Sorry for my long absence. I hope you enjoyed this new story. The inspiration for it came from the show Severance, and I enjoyed applying the concept of playing it out with a twist with this happily married couple. If you'd like to see more of their story, let me know. I have a few ideas rolling around in my head. Next up though will be more Working Remotely.
Thank you to all my supporters. After I add the next chapter of Working Remotely, you'll be the ones to decide what I work on next.
Calyope was a novice witch. A witch that had recently had a whirlwind romance and married a man who was everything she’d ever wanted. Almost. Despite loving Eric’s masculine body, there were times she found herself wanting something different in bed. She really did enjoy the feel of her husband’s hard cock sliding between her legs. The way he held her down with his powerful body and the long moan he’d make as he erupted inside of her.
She loved it. She really did. And it should have been enough. Except…Calyope was bisexual. And even though she loved her husband’s cock and the feel of his abs and the way he fucked her with such intensity, she found herself missing the touch of a woman. There was just something about the feeling of running her fingers across gentle curves. The inhale of sweet perfume on impossibly soft breasts. The vibrant feminine moans that escaped as she used her tongue to taste a deliciously wet pussy. The feeling of her soft curves. The sweet smells. The taste of pussy on her tongue.
When Calyope chose to marry Eric, she thought she’d given up on those desires. It had been easy at first. Her high sex drive helped her go out of her way to seduce him the moment he got home from work. She would devour him, enticing him to make love in any and every position he wanted. She was his completely. So why was she still having all these fantasies about being in bed with a woman?! And it was only getting worse. The more she thought about what she’d left behind, the more she craved it. This made her feel guilty, because she had a good thing with Eric. He loved her. Had accepted her being a witch with no issues at all. And he worked so hard to help provide for their home. He had too, since he didn’t have an ounce of magical ability himself.
She told herself it was enough and that she should just move forward with her husband and his hot body. And she might have, until an old book of spells suddenly appeared on her doorstep one day. She was very curious who had dropped it off. She thought about doing a trace spell, but forgot the incantation and would have to look it up. But she got distracted from further investigation as she opened the pages. It contained a lot of advanced magic, some that might take years to master. She was about to put it aside, when she came across an intricate rune called ‘Overlaid’ that contained elements of mind control and physical transformation.
Her heart quickened its pace as she read further. To place the rune, a complicated spell must be uttered while placing hands on a person who was willing to be transformed. While chanting, the caster must envision the new shape they want the subject to take, as well as their state of mind. If done properly, a rune would be created on the person that when activated, would overlay their mind and body with a completely new persona.
It could completely alter their mind, giving them the thoughts, feelings and desires implanted by the caster, while also changing their shape, even their gender. Calyope’s heart began to beat faster as she reread the part about changing gender. It was exactly the kind of spell she was looking for that would allow her to have her cake, and be able to fuck it too.
There were two problems though. This was a very risky spell that used borderline dark magic to temporarily alter a person’s thoughts and appearance. But it also required a willing subject. It was one thing to roleplay in the bedroom. This was on another level entirely. Her husband would have to trust her so much!
Had they even been married long enough for her to ask such a thing of Eric? He’d always been so accepting of her, and had thus far been willing to do whatever she wanted to do in the bedroom. If she asked him in just the right way, perhaps with her legs wrapped around him, he’d consent to this wild idea. She grew wet as she thought of asking him for this erotic favor while his big cock was buried in her pussy.
She looked up from the book, suddenly wondering where Eric was. She wanted to fuck him right now! Why was he at work so much of the time?!
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind her made her jump in her seat. Then she heard her husband’s deep sexy voice ask, “Whatchya reading there?”
Calyope suddenly felt very embarrassed, and turned bright red. They were married. She could talk to him about anything. But this was so kinky, so perverted, and she wasn’t sure he was really ready for that conversation. So she lied. “N-nothing you’d be interested in?”
“Oh, well now I have to see!” Eric said, and he lunged for his wife.
Calyoped giggled and shoved the book out of his reach as he landed on top of her. They mock wrestled and clung to each other for several seconds. But then his hands were squeezing her boobs and she was pulling his shirt over his head between needy kisses. “I need you inside me,” she begged.
Eric smirked as he removed his underwear. “Don’t you always.”
It was true. She’d never been disinterested in sex with Eric. Sex with her man was always on the table. Would she still feel that way if he had different parts? If he exchanged his chiseled pecs for a pair of bouncy double D’s, or his hard throbbing cock for a wet and warm pussy?
The thought of it made her grasp his dick and stroke it while she looked up at him and begged. “Please! Shove it in. Right now!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. Then he tenderly lay her down on the floor, and pushed into her.
“Fuck!” she howled, loving the initial moment of penetration. “Yeah. Give it to me hard baby! Just the way I like it!”
Thoughts of telling him about the transformation rune vanished from her mind. All she could think of was how good his cock felt. Her brain grew wonderfully fuzzy with each thrust, and all she could think to do was wrap her legs around his torso and to pull him deeper.
She came before he did. She always did.
As Eric watched her scream in ecstasy, he said, “Oh fuck! That’ll do it!” He grunted and moaned as he shot inside his wife.
He rolled off and lay beside her on their living room floor, both panting from the sudden but wonderful exertion.
“Not complaining, but what brought that on?” Eric finally asked.
“Um…well, uh, I found a new spell…” Calyope said shyly.
‘Oh yeah?” Eric said bemused. “What kind of spell?”
Calyope decided to just rip the bandaid. She shut her eyes tight and said, “It lets you transform a person!”
Eric laughed. “Want me to have an even bigger dick, is that it?”
“No!” Calyope clarified quickly. “Your dick is perfect!” And she really meant it. She loved his cock the way it was. It fit her perfectly. Stretched her out in all the right ways, like it was made for her. But, if Eric were also a woman, they’d just be getting STARTED with their lovemaking. “This would be transforming you…in other ways. I’d really be swapping out your dick with…something else…” She clenched her fists and sucked in a breath. She was so nervous about telling him, but it was right there.
After a moment of confused silence, Eric asked, “Swap it out for what?”
“Well…You know how I also like girls, right?”
“I am aware,” Eric said, wisely choking down a laugh as he realized how hard this was for his wife to say.
“This spell would let me change you into a woman.”
“A woman?!” Eric repeated with a mixture of shock and amusement.
“Not permanently or anything! Just like, it puts a magical rune on your skin, like a tattoo. And whenever I activate the rune, I could turn you into a girl, and back again, whenever I, er, WE, wanted to.” There was more to it, but she decided to leave out the fact that it also altered the mind. “The spell says the subject must be willing to have it placed on you. So, you’d have to give me consent, and I completely understand if you need time to think about it, and I’ll still love you if you say no so don’t think that you have to-”
“I’m down,” he said, cutting her off with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope’s breath caught as her husband just casually agreed to let her fuse a rune to his skin that would allow her to radically change him! She again thought about letting him know that she’d be able to change his thoughts and personality, but didn’t want to give him any reason to change his mind. She told herself he wouldn’t care, because he’d so quickly agreed. He wanted to make her happy. And during the times he was a girl, she’d definitely go out of her way to make him happy as well.
Eric interrupted her by asking, “So, do you want to do this now or…”
Her eyes went wide, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. It was amazing enough that he was willing to do it, but even sweeter that he was willing to do it immediately. She reached out to play with his short dark hair. “That’s incredibly sweet, but no, not now.”
She noticed his expression change to one of disappointment, so she hastened to explain, “I’ll need time to read over the spell. It’s a long and tricky one and I don’t want to botch it. Plus, I’ll want to think of the type of…um…,” she felt her cheeks turning pink again. “...body I’d like you to have as a girl.”
Eric grinned. “Oh yeah? You got certain attributes in mind?” He looked down at his impressive chest and abs. “Thinking of turning my pecs into some nice round melons you can suck on? Boy, that’d be so weird, but like, yeah, it’d be cool to have your mouth there on a couple of big titties.”
That kind of talk really got Calyope’s motor running. She didn’t admit that was the first thing she’d thought about, but instead picked a more aesthetic detail. “Well, I mean, I love your hair color, but I’d just make it a little longer. Like shoulder length, and straight. I’d round out your face a bit, making it more feminine. Ooh, I’d give you full, luscious lips. And then…” Her eyes drifted down her husband’s body as very vivid details flooded her thoughts.
As if reading her mind, Eric moved a hand between his wife’s legs and began to gently finger her. “Please, keep going. Tell me how else you’d turn me into your dream girl.”
“Oh, uh…” she gasped, suddenly finding it hard to talk as her husband’s skilled fingers went to work. She placed a hand on her husband’s chest. “You’re…you’re right about me swapping out your chest. It’s a really hot chest babe, but…yeah…I’d love to see what it looks like with a pair of double D’s. I’d make them so sensitive that if I just breathed on them, you’d be begging me to suck on them.”
Eric laughed. “I would, huh? Well, I guess we’ll see about that.”
As her mind became consumed with lust, she thought to herself, ‘You wouldn’t have a choice. I’ll turn you into a horny slut that wants my mouth all over your new body.”
Her hand drifted down his abs, and came to his dick, which was semi hard and slippery with their combined juices. “I’d shrink this until it became a slit. A perfect little pussy that I could lick as much as I wanted, making you scream for more.”
“Is that all?” Eric asked, knowing his wife was almost to the brink of climax by the way she was breathing and moving her hips in time with his fingers.
“I’d make you just a little shorter than me!” she cried out. “And I’d make you-Oh fuck! I’d make you my perverted little sex slave! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Ooh!” The powerful orgasm made her shake from head to toe.
When she was finally able to relax, Eric pulled her close and they cuddled. He whispered gently in her ear, “Are you sure you can’t do that spell on me now?”
She laughed softly. “I think I need to get the dishes put away and dinner started,” she said.
Eric said nothing for a moment, then shrugged and said a playful, “Fine.” He stood and helped her to her feet. With a playful swat on her butt he said, “Get to work.”
Her mouth fell open in mock surprise, but then she giggled, and went off to do the housework.
The next few days were a blur, because everytime she had a chance, Calyope was thinking about that spell. Putting eyes on it. Sounding it out. Imagining the ideal feminine shape her husband would become, and the personality she would make him have. She was becoming obsessed, and could think of little else while she did her daily chores. It certainly made them easier.
She thought a tiny bit about maybe altering Eric’s mind to not just be a sex slave, but also be willing to do some of the mundane chores that she did every day. She didn’t mind doing them for her husband. It was part of how she showed her love and devotion to him. But she did wish he’d help out around the house a little more. The vast majority of her thoughts though, were imagining the raven haired beauty he would become, and then making that goddess put her pretty mouth between her legs.
Despite her perverted obsession, it was actually her husband that mentioned using the spell again. She’d been lost in another fantasy while the dishes magically washed, dried, and put away themselves, when her husband pressed himself against her from behind.
“How’s that rune spell coming along, Calyope? Are you ready to turn me into a sexy woman yet?”
Calyope felt his rod twitch against her ass. She instinctively pushed back, wanting to feel it slide between her cheeks. Since she was only wearing an apron, she got her wish. The delightful sensation of that hard cock made her lose her magical concentration though, and a dish crashed to the floor. “Oh shoot,” she pouted, as her husband withdrew behind her. She made a motion with her finger and the dish repaired itself and sailed into the cupboard.
“Sorry,” about that,” she heard her thoughtful husband say.
“She spun around and said, “I think I’m ready.” Goodness knows she needed to be. She needed to alleviate the sexual tension that seemed to be building exponentially inside of her as she thought about turning her husband into a woman. It had felt all consuming these last few days. “I’ve been studying it every time I get a free moment, and should have all the words memorized, so I think we should, um…” she trailed off as she realized how eager she sounded.
Eric laughed. “I can tell you’ve been thinking about it a lot. Every time I look at you while you’re doing your chores, or we’re eating, or, well, after we’re done fucking, you get that faraway look in your eye that makes me think you’re thinking about transforming me into your lesbian lover.”
“Busted,” she giggled, as she looked her husband up and down, undressing him with her eyes and fantasizing about the new curves he’d soon have.
“So where do you want to do this?” he asked curiously. The way his wife was looking at him made him feel like a slab of meat being dangled in front of a hungry lion. He didn’t mind in the least.
“How about upstairs in the bedroom,” Calyope suggested excitedly. “And I’ll need to make contact with you for the spell, so why don’t you just-”
“Get naked,” Eric finished with a wide grin.
Calyope winked at him. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, babe,” he said, winking back.
They raced upstairs. As soon as Eric walked in, he pulled off his shirt. Calyope found herself staring at his toned body, and for a moment, thought about scrapping the spell and just taking his male self right then and there.
He saw her gawking as he pulled off his pants and underwear. She was now staring right at his rigid cock that was pointing straight at her. He snapped his fingers and said, “My eyes are up here, love. I know you love this cock, but let’s try to focus,” he teased, then twisted his body side to side so his dick slapped against his torso.
Calyope felt like she was being hypnotized by the motion of that big beautiful cock. Drool had formed in her mouth. Drool that she could use to slobber all over his impressive man meat with her tongue. She shook her head and closed her eyes. She really did need to focus! She had her husband’s permission, and knew the spell pretty well. She needed to strike while the iron was hot, because who knew, tomorrow he might change his mind.
She stepped directly in front of him, and put the fingertips of her right hand onto his stomach. She could feel the tight muscles there. His body was lean and calloused and tough. Everything she wanted in her man. She almost pushed him down onto the bed so she could fuck him, but with an extra bit of willpower, she began a slow and steady chant. As she did, she put every thought into the woman she wanted him to become.
She pictured a slightly shorter physique than herself. One with shoulder length jet black hair, pouty lips, and a round face. This woman would have large, bouncy breasts, almost but not quite as big as her own. Her body would be a vision of seductive curves and soft skin. She would have a neatly trimmed bush, and an always wet and sensitive pussy.
Calyope’s thoughts turned from the physical to the mental. She knew this would reshape her husband’s mind, but she did not hesitate as she thought how this transformed woman would always desire to have sex with Calyope. She would find ways to seduce Calyope, and be willing to beg for the chance to get between her legs. And housework. She’d want to help with chores and making meals. But most importantly, she’d be a kinky slut, coming up with new and exciting ways to get each other off!
That last thought turned her on so much it threatened to distract her, and she stumbled over a few of the words. She looked down at her fingertips and was disheartened to see no rune had formed. She wondered if her carelessness had ruined her first attempt.
“It’s okay, you can do it,” Eric assured her, and put his hand atop hers encouragingly as she started saying the spell again.
Calyope put all her concentration into it this time. She tuned everything else out as she thought only about the words and the manifestation of her fantasy woman.
Slowly but surely, she felt the spark of magic against Eric’s skin. She looked down, and saw a glowing line etched itself from the top of her middle finger, to the other places her fingertips touched. She became excited as a perfect circle began to form, and inside that circle, a combined symbol of an arrow and a cross that represented the masculine and feminine. As Calyope finished the chant, it glowed brightly, and then faded. But the rune remained. A permanent magical brand on her husband’s stomach.
Eric’s brow furrowed, and he let out a breath he’d been holding. He looked down at himself, and asked with obvious disappointment, “Shouldn’t I be a girl now?”
“Not yet,” Calyope said, and licked her lips. “Now that the rune’s there, I should be able to turn you into a girl whenever I want. No lengthy spell, just a touch, and a one word command.”
“Well go ahead then, babe,” Eric said in his deep voice as he struck out his chest and did a superhero pose. “Let me help you make your bisexual dreams come true.”
Calyope bounced up and down and clapped her hands excitedly. Then she put her hand on the rune, and said, “Transform.”
The rune did not glow, but just remained a faint mark on his skin. “I don’t know what’s wrong? That should have worked!” she said. “Let me consult the-”
But before she could run and get the spell book, Eric took her hand again, and placed it over hers on his stomach. “Maybe I have to help show the magic that I’m willing? I am. I am willing,” he said, looking down at his stomach. “Let’s try again, at the same time. Ready?”
Calyope nodded and said, “Okay. On the count of three, let’s both of us say it. One, two, three…”
Simultaneously, husband and wife both said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed bright on Eric’s stomach.
“I think something’s happening!” Eric said excitedly as his skin began to ripple up and down his body.
“It sure is,” Calyope exclaimed. She stepped back from her husband, and watched with wide eyed fascination as he shrank from his 6 foot 2 self, to about 5 foot 9. This was apparent to Calyope, because it was still an inch taller than her own self. That wasn’t quite to her specifications, but it could be amended at a later time.
Eric’s brown hair darkened until it was jet black, then ran down to his shoulders like a waterfall cascading down from his head. His lips became fuller, his face rounder and softer. His broad chest shifted, narrowing first and becoming slimmer. Then his right pectoral began to protrude. It blossomed into a round jiggly boob.
This caused Eric to chuckle as he reached his hand up to it and gave it a squeeze. He looked at his wife, and saw how much she was enjoying the show. He blew her a kiss, right before a left boob popped out before Calyope’s eyes.
He suddenly shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his crotch. Calyope followed his gaze, and saw his erect penis shrink rapidly into his body, leaving only a slit with a tuft of dark curly hair barely covering it.
“Oh wow, that transformation process feels good!” Eric gasped in a high pitched voice as his smaller hand dipped down to his new pussy.
Calyope was glad that her husband wasn’t mourning the loss of his favorite member. She assumed this was part of the spell, helping him embrace the changes by spiking his lust. She remembered that soon he should be up for anything if the spell did its job.
“Oh!” Eric suddenly exclaimed. “Something else is getting bigger!” He gave a slow turn so his wife could see his hips widen, and his ass expand into a round plump butt that had Calyope drooling. He gave it a shake, and giggled as it clapped. “Certainly a lot more exciting than my flat ass, wouldn’t you say, babe?”
Calyope took a step towards him, as if entranced by the wobble of his new sexy butt.
Eric giggled again and said, “I take it you like what you see?”
“I really do,” Calyope said sincerely as Eric finished a slow spin. She saw that the rune on his stomach had faded into a faint, black outline, a reminder that she’d be able to turn him back to her masculine husband whenever she wanted. But right now, she wanted, no, NEEDED to touch every inch of his feminine skin with her fingertips. And then her tongue.
“This spell is incredible,” she whispered as she put a hand on Eric’s arm. “You look nothing like your original self, Eric! I wouldn’t even know you were my husband if I hadn’t seen you transform before my very eyes.”
When Eric responded, his new high girly voice was silky and seductive. “As long as I look like this, Cal, why don’t you call me Erica.”
“Yeah,” Calyope said, bringing her face closer and closer to her husband’s pouty lips. “Erica.”
And then they were kissing. It was not the kissing of two people that have never kissed each other before. Nor the kind that expresses comfortable familiarity. No. This was rather like the kind where two people have been desperate for each other in the worst way and are finally allowed to express their pent up feelings physically.
Hands groped greedily. Lips migrated from lips to necks to shoulders to breasts. They each attacked each other’s bodies like this would be their only opportunity. What made Calyope so infinitely happy, other than Erica’s sweet moans, was that it wouldn’t be. She could live out her lesbian fantasy a million times over, all because of how wonderfully willing her husband was.
“You want to lick this pink pussy of mine, right?” Erica suddenly asked, interrupting Calyope’s thoughts.
“I do!” she squealed. Erica smiled wantonly and laid back on the bed. The raven haired beauty parted her legs, and moved her fingers in a downward V to spread her lips open. Calyope saw her folds were already glistening with desire. Calyope got on her knees and bent low. She began by kissing up Erica’s inner thigh, letting the passion between them escalate. Then her lips were kissing a pussy that had been molded and shaped just for her. She extended her tongue, and tasted a divine salty tartness that was instantly addictive.
Calyope giggled into her lover as Erica began to moan and squirm. She popped her head up and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fucking great!” Erica replied, and then put her hand on top of Calyope’s head. “But don’t stop!”
Calyope squealed happily as her mouth was shoved back into Erica’s dripping cunt.
For the first time that Calyope could remember, her husband came before she did. Turns out all he needed for that to happen, was a clit. Even after Erica squirted in her face, Calyope found she didn’t want to stop licking. “You taste so good baby! And I gotta say, I think I prefer my face coated with your pussy juice than your cum.”
Erica giggled. “Thank you? I think? You really do have an amazing tongue by the way.”
“Do you wanna try yours out?” Calyope asked as she dropped next to her.
Erica pushed herself up and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
Caloype was keenly aware of the lack of stubble as Erica’s face brushed against her inner thighs. There was only soft, smooth skin. And then a tongue. It was smaller than Eric’s, but there was a sensuality about it that made Calyope arch her back as it began to lick up and down her folds. “You’re my girlfriend!” she moaned.
A soft laugh reverberated between Calyope’s legs, and then her perfect woman looked up and said, “No, I’m your wife.”
A thrill of delight went through Calyope’s whole body, and Erica didn’t stop until she’d given Calyope everything she’d been hoping for.
The session lasted a very long time, and by the end, they were a sweaty, happy mess. The last thing Calyope thought before she drifted off to sleep was how different it was with a woman. It wasn’t a sprint, but a marathon.
The next several days whizzed by for Calyope. She felt like she was in a perpetual state of sex, and she loved it. The second Eric got home Calyope would turn him into Erica, and they’d make each other climax several times, and then a very tired Calyope would finish her chores while Erica basked in the afterglow. After dinner, Erica would change back to Eric, and fill Calyope’s pussy with strong, powerful thrusts. It was a very good routine, and it might have lasted a good deal longer, had Calyope not made an important discovery.
It happened a month after Erica had been introduced into their lives. Calyope had decided to get up early and shower with her ‘wife.’ She’d showered with Eric many times, but never in the morning before he left for work, because she hated getting up early. She LOVED sleep. She often felt like she could sleep the whole day away. In so many ways, her day really didn’t begin until her husband got back home. That was why she always felt behind on chores, because she so often didn’t start them until Eric got back home.
But she’d been thinking about showering with Erica. She wanted to soap up those beautiful curves. To let her fingers glide over those most intimate of areas while making them smell sweet and fragrant. She’d climaxed last night while thinking about it, while her husband had been inside of her. It was something naughty she often liked to do. To think about the ‘other lover’ that wasn’t there with her while she came.
The opportunity finally arrived when Eric’s alarm actually woke up her that one morning. He was still Erica. Calyope realized she’d forgotten to change Erica back to Eric last night, but Calyope did love the sight of her wife sitting up in bed and stretching. It was a fantastic view. She wanted to pull the busty vixen back down into the bed and begin kissing and licking her all over that curvy figure. But she knew time was of the essence. “I want to shower with you,” she said, placing a hand lovingly on the small of Erica’s back.
Erica yelped at Calyope’s voice, and looked back at her in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to see her in their bed. “Oh, shit. Uh, sorry Cal..yope. I totally forgot to, um…”
“It’s okay, I’m up!” she beamed. “I’ll go heat up the water.” She looked back at Erica from the bedroom door. “And if you don’t mind, I’m not gonna transform you back yet until AFTER the shower,” she giggled.
Erica watched Calyope’s cute butt all the way down the hall to their bathroom. She bit her lower lip and said, “Well, I guess a quick shower won’t hurt.”
She heard the sound of water running. And then a scream.
Erica leapt off the bed and sprinted down the hall. When she got to the doorframe, she cried, “What? What’s the matter? You see a mouse?”
Calyope was still facing the shower. But her head was turned towards the mirror, and her eyes were laser focused on something there. She pointed a shaky hand towards her reflection. She didn’t understand why she had one too. It was smaller, but it was there. On her left butt cheek, was a circular rune with the symbol for masculine and feminine.
“I don’t remember putting a copy of the rune on myself,” she whispered.
Erica sighed and folded her arms. “That’s cause you didn’t put it there, sweetie. I did.”
Calyope finally looked away from the mirror, and turned to face Erica. She was so confused. “But…how could you? You can’t do magic?”
Erica gave her a pitying look and said gently. “No, dear. You’re the one that can’t do magic.” WIth a sudden flick of her wrist, a toothbrush sailed into the air and Erica deftly caught it.
Calyope stared at it in disbelief, not just at the magic on display from her husband/wife, but because the toothbrush…looked like a woman’s toothbrush. She looked at the other toothbrush next to the sink. It was a man’s toothbrush. And a chill went down Calyope’s spine, as she could never remember brushing her teeth. Like, ever.
She began taking panicked, shallow breaths. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” she gasped. She flicked her wrist at the other toothbrush. It did not move. Not even a little. “N-no. No I use magic all the ti-WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER EVER DOING CERTAIN THINGS LIKE BRUSHING MY TEETH?!”
Erica held up her hands soothingly and said, “Darling, relax. Let me just…let me talk to my husband, and we’ll straighten this all-”
Calyope’s hands shot down to her sides and clenched into fists as she shrieked, “Your husband?!”
Erica grimaced. “Yeah, this was…well it was his idea. And he’s…inside of you.”
This revelation stunned Calyope to her very core, which gave Erica the time she needed to step forward and hug her. Then she placed a hand on Calyope’s right buttcheek, and said, “Transform.”
_______________________________________________________
Three months ago.
“So, do you know like, transformation magic?” Calvin asked as they laid in bed after another passionate night unbridled lovemaking.
Erica giggled and hit her husband on the arm. “You sick of my body already?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m just like…I’m wondering if you could transform me? I know you also like girls, and I know that you gave that up that part of you when we got married. But…what if you didn’t have to. What if you could transform me into your ‘wife’ sometimes?”
Erica squeezed her man. “And then I transform into a handsome guy with muscular pecs and come home from work and give you the business?”
“Oh…” Calvin uttered curiously. “I mean…I hadn’t thought of that, but…”
“You’d let me fuck you with a dick?” Erica said, mouth opened in a wide grin.
“No! I mean…maybe.”
“No lie, dear, that actually sounds kinda hot.”
“Wait, wait. I’m not sure I’d want to be able to remember something like that. Is there like, memory magic you could use as well?”
Erica licked her lips, then said, “I actually may know of a spell that is exactly what we’re looking for babe. Just remember, this was all your idea.”
_____________________________________________________
Present Day
The panic left Calvin’s body as he returned to his original self. The weight from his former boobs was distributed mainly to his belly. He was not the ripped male version that his wife became, but a rather ordinary looking guy. The memories began to rush in from his time as Caloyope.
“You didn’t change me back last night,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Erica said, letting him go. She stepped past him and turned off the shower. “We let this go on too long, Cal. She’s become like, a whole different person.”
That had been Cal’s decision too. To be transformed into Calyope more and more throughout the week. Erica didn’t complain, because Cal was an amazing lover as a woman, plus he didn’t mind that his wife had instilled within him a desire to take care of the house, because he felt a disconnect to it. It was helping her, helping him, and they’d been fucking like rabbits in different gender combinations. There had seemed to be no downside. Until now. Calyope had become aware of the transformation rune, and that had led to her feeling like she wasn’t a whole person. And in a way, maybe she wasn’t. She only appeared when they wanted her to. She didn’t get to remember anything beyond those few hours she was allowed to exist. Cal could remember, but not her.
“This is my fault,” Erica said. “I should have paid attention to the precautions. I can have the rune removed.”
Cal’s face fell. “No. No please don’t. There’s got to be another way. Calyope means so much to you. So much to me.”
Erica hugged her husband. She was glad he felt this way. Calyope really had become a part of their family. “Give me some time to think. Maybe…maybe there’s something we can do, but I’ll need to research some spell books.”
They held each other, and finally parted ways. Cal going to work. Erica doing the same. She worked at an apothecary, one that had many magical recipes and spellbooks, which she would dive into today, looking for an answer to the mess they’d made.
A week later, the husband and wife reconvened in the bathroom again. They were both naked as if they were about to shower, but Calvin was just watching his wife use her finger to make a large circle over the mirror. Then she took out a sharp stone and began scratching the surface, carving small symbols into it. When it was done, she placed her hand upon it, and said a lengthy spell she’d been memorizing for the last few days. The mirror glowed, and then looked like a regular mirror again, except it didn’t reflect as it once had. It still showed Erica, but as Calvin looked at it, he saw Calyope. But her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be asleep.
“Okay,” Erica said, assessing the small bathroom. “It’s time. Stand right where she was when she got transformed last time. Let’s try to make this as comfortable for her as possible.”
Calvin put his back to the shower, and Erica put her arms around him. “I hope this works.”
“Me too.”
Erica put a hand on her husband’s fuzzy butt, and said, “Transform.”
A few seconds later, Calyope sucked in a huge breath. Her ‘wife’s’ arms were still around as they had been when she felt herself blank out. She fought the urge to panic. “Let me go,” she said firmly.
Erica did, but then quickly said, “Calyope, we both owe you an apology.”
“Was any of it real?!” she demanded.
Erica hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It was very real, Calyope. But what we did to you wasn’t right. But we think we’ve-”
“Why do you keep saying ‘we?’” Calyope spat. She was so mad, but not just at Erica. She was also mad at herself, because even now the sight of Erica was turning her on. She wanted to kiss her soft lips, and get her mouth between her legs and taste her. She now assumed that this desire was also a part of that rune.
Erica noted the woman’s mixed emotions, but instead of commenting on them, she pointed to the mirror and said quietly, “Calyope, meet your other half, Calvin.”
Calyope looked from Erica to the mirror, expecting to see her and Erica reflected in its surface. But she was mistaken. There was Erica, yes, but instead of Calyope, there was a man where she should be. A man that, in certain aspects, vaguely resembled Calyope herself. Same sandy brown hair color. Same chin. Same eyes.
“Nice to meet you officially,” the reflection of Cal suddenly said, which caused Calyope to jump. The man put his palms out in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, sorry, don’t be scared. The last thing I’d ever want is to hurt you, cause, well, I am you. Erica magicked up this mirror especially for us, so we could talk. It’s very important that you know, Calyope, that you’ve made Erica so happy these last few months.”
“It’s true,” Erica said.
Calyope frowned and looked towards Erica. “I haven’t known you for months,” she countered. “I’ve only known Eric. You know, the person I thought was my husband.”
“Would having him here with you make you more comfortable?” Erica interjected.
Calyope met the woman’s eyes, and nodded sadly. “Yeah. It’d help.” Eric had been her rock. The person she’d do absolutely anything for. She knew this was also probably part of the spell, but just the thought of seeing him calmed her a little.
Erica put a hand to her own overlaid rune and said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed, and Erica’s soft supple form grew taller and became muscular. Her smooth belly gained those chiseled abs that made Calyope go weak in the knees. And suddenly there was his handsome face, looking at her in concern. She threw herself into his strong arms, and he held her tight and patted her head.
“There, there, it’s okay, dear,” he said.
For a few precious seconds, Calyope allowed herself to melt into him. “Do you remember being her?” she finally asked her husband.
He gave her a pitying look. “Um, yes, but…”
“That’s not fair that you get to!” she protested. Then she turned on her male counterpart in the mirror. “Do you remember being me?”
“Also yes,” Calvin admitted. “But for different reasons.”
Calyope looked up into her husband’s dark eyes. She found she wanted to kiss him. To grind against his body until he grew hard, picked her up, and fucked her against the bathroom wall. She tried to keep focused. “What’s he talking about? Why do you both get to remember?”
“Well,” Eric confessed. “I’m still…Erica. Even when I’m Eric, I’m still me. I used the overlaid rune to transform from female to male, but otherwise there were no changes.”
Calyope’s jaw dropped in surprise. “But…you act like a guy when you look like this.” She put a hand on his chest. Being this close to him was having quite the effect on her. If Erica’s body had made her horny, Eric’s body was having even more of an impact.
She looked at her male counterpart while her hand kept descending down to those abs she loved so much. “And what’s your excuse?”
“The magic of the rune allows me to remember everything you thought and did when I transform back,” Cal explained. “It doesn’t feel quite like I was there, but it’s certainly close enough that I feel that you’re a huge part of me.”
Calyope couldn’t stop her hand from going lower as she said, “But that’s not fair. I should be able to feel the same way. I should get to remember being married to Erica, and living your life, and all of it.”
“You’re right,” Cal said. “You’re absolutely right. And the reason Erica and I brought you back, was to tell you that she’s got a way to…” Eric gasped as Calyope’s hand touched the tip of his penis, and Cal noticed. “Um…do I need to give you guys a second?”
Calyope licked her lips as she looked down at Eric’s throbbing member. Then she looked at Cal in the mirror. “Do you remember every time I’ve gone down on my husband?” she asked coolly.
“I…do…” Cal said tentatively. “But, like I said, it’s like remembering something that happened to somebody else. And I certainly don’t dwell on it.”
“Well you’re about to see it,” Calyope said as she began sinking to her knees.
Cal looked at his wife’s Eric persona. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous of the body that his wife had. He looked at her and said, “Look, I’m glad this is working out, but could you take this to the other room.”
Eric shook his head and as he put a hand on top of Calyope’s. “No honey. It’s so much hotter if you’re here to watch your pretty little mouth suck my dick. You can take it so deep too!”
“Yeah, I can absolutely do without the play by play.” But he did watch as Calyope took the cock in her mouth with no hesitation. She sucked it like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she began to moan and rub her clit as she did so. “Fuck, that IS hot,” he finally admitted.
“I knew you’d like to watch you little perv,” Eric groaned. “But I know my precious Calyope. THIS is what she really wants.” With that he lifted her up in his strong arms, pinned her to the wall, and impaled her pussy with his thick cock.
“Yes!” Calyope screamed. “I love you so much, Eric!”
“I love you too, Calyope!”
A moment later, Cal said, “We both do.”
Calyope came hard a minute later. When she did, she knew that her sensitive pussy was a gift from Erica. She bucked her hips and clawed at Eric’s back until he came inside her. When he put her down, she asked, “So…what now?”
Eric kissed her and said, “Now we give you what Calvin has always had. The ability to remember. You’ll remember being him the way he remembers being you.”
“What about some of the other things? Will those change too?”
“What other things?” Calvin asked.
“I’m guessing she means the desire to cook and clean for me.”
“Yeah!” Calyope pouted.
“Ooh, yeah, that was my idea,” Cal admitted.
“Or the fact that just the sight of either of your forms makes me go into heat,” Calyope added.
“Uh, I didn’t actually do that one,” Eric laughed.
“I mean, she is hot as a guy or a girl,” Cal agreed.
“Oh, you want some of this too?” Eric winked, stroking his slippery cock.
Cal rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass, but thanks. I already have plenty of memories of tasting it and having that enormous thing shoved in me.”
“Ohmygosh!” Calyope suddenly exclaimed. “I’ll get to remember fucking you with a dick?!”
Eric hugged her. “Yes, you will, sweetie. But as for the other stuff…well, I’m afraid to redo the rune to make you not want to cook and clean and think you have magic, that won’t go away. Not unless I redid the rune, which…would make the version that is you, go away.”
“Well I don’t want that!” she said quickly. “And I don’t mind too much cooking and cleaning. It is how I’ve always shown you I love you.”
“Again, my idea,” Calvin said.
“Shut it, husband,” Eric snapped playfully.
“Whose idea was it to let me see the book with the overlaid rune?” Calyope asked curiously.
“Oh, that was mine!” Eric answered proudly. “After you brought up wanting to be with a woman, I knew there was a part of you that missed, well, the real me. And that was confirmed when you described me. I thought it would be fun-”
Cal coughed in the mirror.
“Sorry, WE thought it would be fun if we played this out, and…yeah, it was really hot, but we’re both sorry if we ever hurt-”
“Shh,” Calyope whispered, as she put a finger on her husband’s lips. “I’m still really horny. So, I think I’d be fine if…”
“I changed back into your ‘wife’?’” Eric suggested with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope bit her lip. “Yes please.”
Eric swooped up his bride and looked at Cal’s reflection. “You’re gonna enjoy remembering all the kinky lesbian shit we’re about to do, dear.”
Calvin laughed and waved at them. “I know I will. Have fun you two.”
Calyope squealed as Eric ran from the bathroom and threw her onto their bed. He was Erica a moment later, and she dove between Calyope’s legs and began lapping up the cum that had just been deposited by her male self. The two were insatiable all day, and Eric made many guest appearances.
Calvin and Calyope settled into new routines where they shared their time with Erica/Eric, but also loved remembering how happy the other made their spouse.
There are certainly more hijinks to their story, like the one where Calyope got a temporary body from a gollum that Erica created. But that is another story altogether.
The end.
Author's Note
Sorry for my long absence. I hope you enjoyed this new story. The inspiration for it came from the show Severance, and I enjoyed applying the concept of playing it out with a twist with this happily married couple. If you'd like to see more of their story, let me know. I have a few ideas rolling around in my head. Next up though will be more Working Remotely.
Thank you to all my supporters. After I add the next chapter of Working Remotely, you'll be the ones to decide what I work on next.
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They say your body is a temple, but for some, it’s just a rental. Lena thought she knew the rules of the night, until a chance encounter at a bar shattered the boundaries of her own skin.
---
Hi, author here. o/
I tried to condense the Hopper lore to make the tutoring of a 'newly minted' Hopper feel more believable. I also saw an opportunity to explore a facet of the Hopper world that I feel is somewhat neglected: the rare female Hopper. I hope no one is offended by this story, and I’m open to suggestions on where the plot should go next!
---
Hi, author here. o/
I tried to condense the Hopper lore to make the tutoring of a 'newly minted' Hopper feel more believable. I also saw an opportunity to explore a facet of the Hopper world that I feel is somewhat neglected: the rare female Hopper. I hope no one is offended by this story, and I’m open to suggestions on where the plot should go next!
f2m Body Hopper
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· 03 Feb 2026
They say your body is a temple, but for some, it’s just a rental. Lena thought she knew the rules of the night, until a chance encounter at a bar shattered the boundaries of her own skin.
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Inspired by a comic.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
Silas possesses a metaphysical ability known as Soul Partitioning, allowing him to excise a fragment of his own consciousness and project it into a host's mind through direct ocular contact. This "hit" doesn't merely brainwash the victim; it effectively overwrites their core identity with his own, causing them to experience a total shift in self-perception where they believe they are Silas.
'Its cold! Come inside!' she said, her voice bright and welcoming. Rachel stepped aside to let Silas in.
Silas stood in the foyer, while Rachel closed the door with a click that sounded far too final.
"Make yourself at home," she said, her voice carrying a devilish smirk that twisted her features into something predatory and sharp. It was a look Rachel had never worn in her life.
She began to pace the hallway, but her gait was wrong. She moved with a heavy, masculine confidence, her hips swinging not out of grace, but as if she were testing the weight and balance of a new machine. As she spoke, her hands began to wander. She traced the curve of her own waist, her fingers digging into the soft flesh with an intense curiosity.
"It’s a nice place, isn't it?" she asked, though she wasn't looking at the decor. Her hand slid upward, her palm cupping her boobs through the thin fabric of her blouse. She squeezed, her eyes widening slightly as if the sensation were a foreign transmission. "Soft. I could get used to this."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She was already walking toward the sideboard in the dining room, pointing out a heavy silver tray.
"The silverware is genuine Georgian. Worth a fortune," she noted casually, her fingers now tracing the line of her collarbone. "The jewelry safe is behind the landscape painting in the study. Code is 0-4-1-2. My birthday. Or... her birthday, anyway."
The incongruity was sickening. To any passerby, she was a housewife giving a tour; to Silas, she was a victim meticulously betraying herself. She leaned against the wall, her legs crossing in a way that made her skirt hike up, and she stared at the skin of her thighs with the wonder of a child holding a new toy.
"Her husband, Mark, isn't here, obviously," she said, a bitter, Silas-like edge creeping into her tone. "He’s in Chicago. Business. Again. He’s always 'working,' always elsewhere." She let out a dry, jagged laugh, her hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling at her own hair to feel the tension on the scalp. "You want to know a secret, Silas? The last time we actually had sex was three months ago. Pathetic, right? I’m standing here in a body this... functional... and it’s just sitting here, gathering dust while he's at a Marriott in the Midwest."
She looked down at her hands, flexed them, and then looked back at him with a chilling intimacy. She was baring Rachel’s deepest, most private frustrations to a man she had met thirty seconds ago, yet she spoke with the total lack of shame one has when talking to oneself in a mirror.
"I feel so... empty," she whispered, her fingers grazing her lips. "But not anymore. Now that you're here, I finally feel like I’ve woken up."
*
A few moments ago...
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet that makes a lone footstep sound like a threat. Silas stopped in front of the cream-colored colonial, his shadow stretching long across the manicured lawn. He reached out and pressed the doorbell.
Inside, the muffled chime was followed by a heavy silence. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of someone approaching.
The door didn't swing wide. It opened barely three inches, abruptly halted by the metallic snap of a security chain. Rachel peered through the gap, her face framed by the dark wood. Her posture was stiff, her hand visible on the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She was alone, and the sight of a strange man on her porch at this hour sent a visible ripple of unease through her.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice tight, barely a whisper. "Can I help you?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. He stood perfectly still, letting his gaze lock onto hers through the narrow opening. He looked past the iris, past the pupil, searching for her very soul.
Then, it happened.
There was no sound, no flash of light. A fragment of his very essence, cold and sharp as a needle, surged forward. It didn't travel through the air like a physical object; it bypassed the space between them entirely. It left his eyes as a shimmering distortion, a microscopic ripple in reality that hit Rachel’s retinas with the force of a psychic collision.
Rachel didn't scream. She couldn't.
For a heartbeat, her world went gray. The "blur" hit her with a total desynchronization of her senses. Her brain tried to reject the intruder, but the fragment of Silas was already burrowing, weaving itself into her neural pathways, claiming her mind as its own. Rachel's eyes were momentarily blurred, just for a split second, as if her focus had snagged on something invisible. Then, they cleared, snapping back to a sharp, vivid clarity. A warm, unearned familiarity washed over her features.
Her grip on the door softened. The fear that had been radiating from her just a second ago didn't just vanish—it was rewritten into a soft and gracious smile. Slowly, her fingers moved to the chain. With a steady, rhythmic clink, she slid the bolt out of the track.
She opened the door wide, her expression shifting from a guarded mask to that unnatural, devilish smirk. She looked at him—man to man, soul to soul—even though she was trapped in the skin of a woman he had just broken.
*
Back to present...
I watched her—or rather, I watched myself—move through Rachel’s home with a thief’s appreciation and a conqueror’s pride. Her confession hung in the air between us, a raw, intimate truth that belonged to her, but was now mine to dissect.
“Gathering dust,” I echoed, my voice low. “A shame. Such a well-made machine should be running at full capacity.”
“Shouldn’t it?” she agreed, pushing herself off the wall. That predatory grin returned, but it was edged with something new—a hungry curiosity. “Come on. The tour isn’t finished. The best part’s upstairs.”
She led the way, her hand trailing up the polished banister. I followed, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. From behind, I could see the way her spine was held too straight, the set of her shoulders too broad for the delicate frame she inhabited. It was like watching a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who’d only read about human movement in a manual.
She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Her memories are… interesting. Like watching a very dull movie about someone else’s life. But the sensory data? The physical feedback? Oh, man... that’s the real prize.”
As she spoke, her hands came up to the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking eye contact, she began to undo them, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing a lace-edged bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. “For example,” she said, her voice a clinical murmur. “The weight. We knew her breasts had weight, intellectually, just from looking. But feeling them pull, this constant, gentle anchor… it’s fascinating. And the sensitivity. Amazing.”
Her fingertips brushed over the lace covering her left nipple. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped her lips—Rachel’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second before snapping open, locked on mine. “See? A direct line. No filter. It’s all just… input.”
She turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her blouse hanging open. I followed her into the master bedroom. It was a spacious, airy room done in creams and soft blues. A large, neatly made bed dominated the space. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the nightstand—Rachel beaming, her husband Mark’s arm around her, both of them looking like a catalog for suburban bliss.
She went straight to it, picking up the frame. She studied the image with a tilted head, a faint frown on her face. “He looks earnest,” she said, her tone flat. “In her memories, he’s kind. Distant, but kind. She loved that. She mistook absence for stability. Too bad that she isn't here anymore. Hehe. ” She set the frame face down with a soft click. “Silly.”
Abandoning the blouse entirely, she let it slide off her shoulders to pool on the carpet. She stood there in her skirt and bra, her arms crossed over her chest, surveying the room as if it were a hotel suite. “This is where the neglect happened. Right here.” She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. “Firm. Good for his back, apparently. Not that it mattered.”
She lay back, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back off the comforter. The movement pushed her chest forward, and she let out a soft, experimental sigh. “She used to lie here,” she said, her voice drifting, almost dreamy as she tapped into Rachel’s stored experiences. “She’d stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until he’d come to bed. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, he’d just roll over and go to sleep. She’d listen to him breathe and feel this… hollowness. This ache. Aaaah” a moan escaped her lips.
One of her hands slid down from above her head, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the zipper. “This body ached for him. For anyone. For something to fill that quiet.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I’m not aching anymore. Now, I’m just… curious.”
She didn’t just open the zipper. She sat up slowly, sinuously, and turned to face me where I stood. Holding my gaze, she brought her other hand to the clasp at the side of her skirt. With a deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she undid it. The zipper gave way with a hushed, metallic whisper that seemed amplified in the quiet room. Then, still watching me, she wriggled her hips, pushing the skirt down over her thighs with a roll of her pelvis that was pure, calculated provocation. She kicked it away.
Now she knelt on the bed in just her bra and panties, her skin glowing. She wasn’t just lying back; she was presenting herself. “The curiosity is the best part,” she whispered, her hands sliding up her own thighs, past her hips, to cradle the curve of her waist. “It’s not her hunger. It’s mine. What does this body feel like when it’s touched? Not by a bored husband, but by an owner who’s truly interested in its functions?”
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She peeled them down, an inch at a time, revealing the neat thatch of dark hair beneath. With a final, dismissive flick, the cotton joined the pile on the floor.
But she wasn’t done. The bra was next. She reached behind her back, her movements fluid, her eyes never leaving mine. She found the clasp, fumbled for a second with a show of mock-inexperience that was itself a lie—a seductress playing at innocence. The clasp released. She let the straps slide down her shoulders, but didn’t remove it yet. She cupped her breasts through the lace, lifting them, weighing them in her palms as if offering them to me.
“So sensitive,” she breathed, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, which hardened instantly under the fabric. A soft gasp escaped her, but her smile was one of triumph. “Every nerve is a live wire. And they’re all mine to play with.”
Then, with a slow, theatrical shrug, she let the bra fall forward. It caught for a moment on the peaks of her breasts before she pulled it away entirely and let it drop. Now she was completely naked, kneeling before me like a offering and a conqueror both.
“Come here,” she commanded, but this time her voice was a low, smoky purr. It was my own voice, yes, but warped into something unbearably sensual. “Let’s see what this suite is capable of. Let’s test every single function.”
I approached the bed. She watched me, a panther assessing its prey. When I stood beside her, she didn’t reach for my hand. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the fly of my trousers. I felt her breath, hot through the fabric. Her head tilted back, her eyes gleaming up at me. “The curiosity is… becoming a need,” she confessed, her voice thick.
Her hands came up, not to guide, but to claim. She unbuckled my belt with a sharp, practiced tug. The zipper came down with a rasp that echoed in the room. Her cool fingers wrapped around me, and she let out that low, appreciative hum—a sound that vibrated through her and into me. “A much better fit for this emptiness than his pathetic, distracted affection ever was.”
Then she moved, a fluid surge of power. Her hand shot to the back of my neck, and she pulled me down onto the bed with her. We landed in a heap, but she was already rolling, reversing our positions with a strength that was shocking. In an instant she was straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress, her naked body poised above mine. The wedding photo frame rattled violently on the nightstand.
She looked down at me, her hair a dark curtain around her face. That seductive, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something raw and ravenous. “She would never,” she growled, and the word was guttural, animal. She ground herself against me, the slick heat of her scorching even through my trousers. “She’d want the lights off. She’d be thinking about the goddamn dishwasher.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips a breath from mine. “But I want to see everything. I want to feel everything.”
With a brutal yank, she finished undressing me, pushing my trousers and boxers down my hips. Her cool hand wrapped around me again, stroking once, twice, a possessive claim. Then she positioned me at her entrance.
She didn’t sink down. She impaled herself.
In one fierce, relentless motion, she took me in to the hilt. Her head snapped back, and a raw, snarling cry was torn from her throat—a sound of violent victory. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a vicious, welcoming spasm.
“Oh, Gosh,” she groaned, but it was a snarl of conquest. She began to move, not with rhythm, but with a frantic, devouring hunger. Her hips pistoned, driving herself down onto me with a force that made the bedframe slam against the wall. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in, drawing half-moons of sharp pleasure-pain.
“This!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. “This is what it was for! Not for quiet! Not for waiting! For this!”
She was a frenzy above me, a storm of stolen sensation. Her back arched, her body a taut bowstring. She reached between her own legs, her fingers working her clit with a furious, desperate rhythm that matched the savage rocking of her hips. The sounds she made were not moans, but growls—primal, uninhibited, echoing in the violated bedroom.
“Look at me!” she demanded, her eyes wild, her face flushed with a depraved ecstasy. “Look at what you’re making me do! In her bed! On her sheets!”
She rode me with a brutality that was breathtaking. She leaned back, using her hands on my thighs for leverage, driving herself down again and again, taking everything. The headboard hammered the wall in a staccato drumbeat of their collision.
“She’d die of shame!” she panted, a wild, delirious laugh breaking through her gasps. “But I… I’ve never been more alive!”
Her movements lost all finesse, becoming a jagged, desperate chase for release. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched in frantic, milking waves. Her breaths came in sharp, sobbing hitches.
“I’m… I’m gonna… now!” she screamed.
Her orgasm wasn’t a cresting wave; it was a detonation. It was a seismic event that racked her entire body. Her entire body seized, convulsing around me. She threw her head back and howled—a loud, uninhibited, house-shaking sound of pure, selfish triumph. Her hips jerked erratically as she ground herself against me, milking her own climax and mine with a greedy, relentless intensity.
As the last tremors shook her, she collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweat-slick body shuddering against mine, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. She nuzzled into my neck, her lips brushing my skin with deliberate, lingering kisses. After a moment, she lifted her head, a look of profound, conspiratorial satisfaction on her face—but now it was edged with a new, sly awareness.
She had filled the void not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, primal conquest that left the very air in the room crackling with spent energy. Yet, as the frenzy faded, a different electricity took its place: the cool, calculated current of a seductress surveying her domain.
She shifted, rolling off of me and onto her back, but she didn’t just stare at the ceiling. She stretched, a long, feline extension of her limbs that made her breasts rise and her stomach tauten, a living exhibit of her own stolen beauty. Her hand came up, trailing through the damp hair at her temple, and as it did, the overhead light caught the gold band on her finger.
She went very still, her eyes fixing on the wedding ring. A slow, deeply seductive smile spread across her lips—not just satisfied, but deliciously cruel.
“Oh, look,” she purred, her voice a throaty whisper. She raised her hand, turning it so the ring glinted. “Mark had to court me for weeks until I let him kiss me. Months until our first night.” She dropped her hand to my chest, her fingers splaying possessively over my heart. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine, gleaming with mischief. “And now you just came to the door… and came inside me, mister.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “That’s not fair to poor old Mark. Not fair at all.”
She traced a nail down the center of my chest. “He was always so… careful. So worried about doing things right.” Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “He’d ask if I was comfortable. If the pressure was okay. It was like making love to a user manual.” Her hand slid lower, over my stomach, her touch feather-light and incendiary. “But you… you didn’t ask. You just took. And you knew exactly how to make this body sing.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. The other hand continued its idle exploration of my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “He thought patience was a virtue. All that waiting.” She smirked. “He never realized that what this vessel really needed wasn’t patience… it was someone with the confidence to just claim it.” Her eyes drifted to the overturned wedding photo. “His touches were like whispers. Yours?” She leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yours are declarations. And my body… her body… understands the difference perfectly.”
She let out a contented, utterly wicked sigh and settled back against the rumpled sheets—sheets that now bore the indelible, intimate stain of her total betrayal, performed not just with a smile, but with a poet’s cruel flair for comparison.
“No hollowness now,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping over me with open ownership. “Just you. It feels… perfect.” She lifted her ring hand again, studying it as if it were a curious artifact. “I really should send him a thank you note. For being so… inadequate. He left everything so perfectly primed for a real man to finally use.”
*
Silas lay there for a few minutes more, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and salt and a strange, metallic triumph. Finally, he shifted, disentangling himself from the damp sheets and her limp, sated limbs.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The air felt cool on his skin. Without a word, he began to gather his clothes from the floor. Each movement was methodical, practiced: stepping into his boxer-briefs, pulling up his trousers, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He fastened his belt with a definitive click. The entire process was one of reclamation, of re-armoring. He was becoming a stranger in this room again, while the woman on the bed remained the stark, naked evidence of the violation.
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him dress with a lazy, affectionate smile. She made no move to cover herself. Her nakedness was casual, unselfconscious, a state of being she now shared with him as effortlessly as a thought.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice husky. There was a pout in it, but it was theatrical. She already knew the plan. She was part of it.“Business before pleasure,” Silas said, his voice back to its normal, controlled timbre as he pulled his shirt on. “We have an appointment with a safe.”
“Right, right,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. She stood before him, utterly exposed, and reached up to fix his collar, her touch proprietary. “The jewels. Can’t forget those.”
The incongruity was almost laughable. Here was a woman, naked and still glistening from being thoroughly fucked by an intruder, fussing over his shirt before leading him to rob her own home. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a wifely familiarity that would have made the real Rachel vomit, and guided him out of the desecrated bedroom.
She walked ahead of him, down the stairs, her naked body a pale beacon in the dim hallway. She moved with total assurance, as if this were the most natural way to host a guest. In the study, she went directly to the large landscape painting—a tasteful watercolor of a lake at dusk—and swung it aside on its hinges as easily as if she were opening a cupboard. Behind it was a sleek, modern wall safe.
“0-4-1-2,” she recited, tapping the digital keypad. The light turned green with a soft beep. She pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, velvet trays glimmered under the recessed light. Diamond studs, a pearl necklace, an emerald-cut ruby pendant on a platinum chain, a man’s Rolex, stacks of bonds, and bundles of cash.
“Her favorite was the pearls,” she mused, picking up the strand and letting them cascade through her fingers. “A wedding gift from Mark’s mother. She always felt they were too old for her.” She dropped them carelessly into the leather duffel bag Silas had produced from his jacket. She followed them with the ruby, the watch, the cash. She worked with the efficiency of a seasoned thief, her nakedness making the act not sensual, but surreal—a brutal, obscene practicality.
When the safe was empty and the duffel bag full, she closed the safe door and swung the painting back into place, giving it a little pat. “There. All tidy.”
She turned to him, still gloriously, unabashedly nude in the middle of her burglarized study. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with that adoring, complicit smile. “A productive visit.”
Silas leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into it, her arms sliding around his neck, her body pressing against the rough fabric of his clothes. It was the kiss of a lover seeing her partner off on a trip, full of promise and intimate knowledge.
He broke the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek for a moment. “Until next time,” he murmured, a lie that felt like truth in the charged air.
“I’ll be here,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with his own reflected cunning.
He shouldered the duffel bag, and let himself out the front door. She stood in the doorway, a nude silhouette against the warm light of the foyer, and waved, that seductive smile still playing on her lips until he disappeared into the darkness of the front walk.
Silas walked. The bag was heavy. He turned a corner, then another, putting blocks between himself and the cream-colored colonial. The night air was crisp, clearing the scent of her perfume and their sweat from his lungs.
He was three blocks away, under the stark glow of a streetlamp, when he felt it.
It was a sudden, silent snap, like the release of a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. A chill, sharper than the night air, rushed up his spine and settled behind his eyes. It was the return—the fragment of his own consciousness, saturated with the sensory memory of soft skin and stolen pleasure and the thrilling, hollow ache of Rachel’s body, now flowing back into the well of his soul. A faint, ghostly echo of her final, contented sigh whispered in the back of his mind before fading into nothing.
He paused, absorbing the totality of himself once more. The partition was closed. The connection severed.
Back in the house, Rachel would be waking up on the floor of her house, naked, confused, with a dull ache between her legs and a terrifying, inexplicable gap in her memory. The safe would be empty. The taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips, his cum leaking between her legs, and no understanding of how any of it had happened.
Silas adjusted the weight of the duffel bag and continued his walk, a quiet, profound satisfaction humming in his veins.
mind control
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This story contains heavy and mature themes. It explores psychological trauma, loss of identity, and body horror. It includes explicit scenes of a sexual nature and graphic descriptions of physical and mental distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
Daniel, a man living a solitary life in the mountain wilderness, witnesses a catastrophic event when a streak of violet light slams into the nearby ridge. Believing it to be a plane crash, his instincts drive him toward the impact site.
The silence of the mountains was Daniel’s only friend, until the sky tore open.
The sound wasn't a roar; it was a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated the floorboards of his cabin. Daniel stood on his porch, a lukewarm beer in hand, watching a streak of violet-white light cut through the mist. It plummet like a plane falling from the sky. It skipped across the atmosphere before slamming into the ridge of Blackwood Peak with a thud that felt like a localized earthquake.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He didn't call the police. In these parts, the police were forty minutes away or more, and Daniel had nothing but time. He grabbed his heavy coat and a high-powered tactical flashlight, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted pine needles as he began the trek.
As he climbed, the air changed. It smelled weird. When he reached the clearing, he didn't see a Boeing or a Cessna. He saw a jagged shard of obsidian-slick material buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a heartbeat. No flames. No smoke. Just a cold, terrifying glow.
Fear, sharp and primal, finally pierced his curiosity. Run, his brain screamed.
He turned to flee, but his boot caught on a silky, translucent, and vibrating protruding cable. As he fell, his hand slapped against a warm, metallic surface that felt like liquid.
The world turned inside out. Then, darkness.
***
Daniel woke up face-down in the dirt. His watch said only ten minutes had passed. He felt fine, better than fine, actually. He felt light. The shard of obsidian-slick material buried completely in the dirt. It wasn't possible to see it anymore.
Seeing the distant sweep of flashlights from the valley floor, the authorities were finally arriving, he scrambled to his feet and hiked back down the deer trails, bypassing the main roads. He slipped into his house, locked the door, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.
That’s when the pressure started.
It began as a dull throb behind his left eye. By the time he hit the bed, it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his temple. He swallowed four Advil, dry, and collapsed into a fever dream. He wasn't Daniel anymore. He was a queen on a throne; he was a peasant in a green desert; he was a soldier in a war with three suns.
He bolted upright at 4:00 AM, drenched in sweat. His stomach groaned with a hunger so hollow it felt like his ribs were collapsing. He checked the fridge: half a lemon and a jar of mustard.
"Damn it," he croaked. "I'm hungry!"
***
The drive to the 24/7 "Stop & Gas" was a blur of shadows. The night air was naturally still and cold.
When he pushed through the glass doors, the chime of the bell sounded like a gunshot. Jane, a woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and a permanent scent of menthol cigarettes, looked up from a crossword puzzle.
"You look like hell, Daniel," she said, squinting. "And that's saying something for a Tuesday."
"Coffee, Jane. Please. Extra sugar," Daniel managed. He leaned against the plexiglass shield, his knuckles white.
"Comin' up. Just brewed a fresh pot." She turned away, her movements practiced and slow.
Daniel took a breath, trying to steady his heart. He thought the worst was over. But then, a low hum started in the base of his skull. It grew louder, drowning out the buzz of the refrigerated aisles. The headache wasn't just back, it was evolving.
The pain didn't just peak; it shattered him. It felt as though a hot wire was being pulled through his prefrontal cortex and out his eyes. He gasped, his vision whiting out. He saw Jane through his squinted eyes and then, as quickly as a light switch flipping, the pressure vanished. The silence that followed was deafening.
Daniel blinked, gasping for air that finally didn't taste like copper. "Jane?"
Jane had frozen. She stood with the coffee pot halfway to the mug, her back to him. Then, she began to tremble. Not just a shiver of cold, but a violent, jerky twitching of her shoulders.
"Jane, you okay?"
She spun around, dropping the coffee pot into the floor. Her eyes wide, reflected the fluorescent overheads. She looked at her hands as if they were alien appendages. Her mouth opened, and she tried to speak.
"Whatafu..."
The sound died. She clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck, like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
Ignoring Daniel entirely, she began to frantically pat herself down. Her hands moved with a clinical, desperate curiosity, roaming over her torso and hips. She gripped her own breasts with a startling, painful-looking vigor.
"Boobs?" she whispered, the voice unmistakably Jane's, but the inflection entirely foreign. "I have boobs?"
She finally looked up, locking eyes with Daniel. Her expression shifted from confusion to a terrifying, mirrored recognition.
"Whathahell," she gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed at him. "Why do you look like me?"
***
Daniel’s heart hammered against a chest that felt too tight, too narrow. Daniel felt a cold sweat break out, but it wasn’t from the fever this time. He looked down at his own hands. They weren't the rough, calloused hands of a man who spent his days chopping wood and fixing pipes. They were slender. The skin was pale, smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes.
He caught his reflection in the glass of the donut display case. He didn’t see the grizzled, middle-aged face of Daniel. He saw Jane. The same tired eyes, the same messy ponytail, the same nose he had been looking at just seconds ago across the counter.
"Jane, what are you talking about?" Daniel heard his own voice asking. It was like hearing a recording, since the sound didn't came from his mouth.
The person on the other side of the counter, the one with Daniel’s heavy, muscular frame, looked puzzled to him.
Daniel felt his head spin. "I'm not Jane! I'm Daniel! I came in here for coffee because my head was,"
"I don't follow you, Jane. Do you want me to call an ambulance?" the man said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Daniel. The finger Daniel had used to wood-carve just yesterday.
"I'm Daniel! I live up on the ridge! I, I saw the crash! I fell!" Daniel began to hyperventilate, his large chest heaving. He reached up, feeling the softness of his face, his eyes darting around the store in a panic. "I was just at my house, I took some Advil, I went to sleep,"
***
Daniel froze. Those were his memories. Jane wasn't just claiming to be him; she knew what Daniel had done for the last hours.
The silence of the convenience store was broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and the puddle of coffee spreading across the floor from the dropped pot. Daniel looked at Jane again. He felt a sickening realization crawl up his spine. The headache hadn't ended because he was cured; it ended because the pressure had reached a breaking point and vented.
It hadn't left his body. It had spilled over. To Jane.
"You think you're me," Daniel whispered. "But I'm still here. I'm right here."
The woman behind the counter clutched the edge of the register so hard her knuckles turned white. Her chest, clad in a "Stop & Gas" uniform, heaved with a breath that felt stolen.
"Stop it," she hissed, her voice trembling with Jane's pitch but Daniel’s cadence. "Stop saying what I’m thinking! I’m the one who went up that mountain. I’m the one who felt the metal. I can still taste the copper in my mouth!"
Daniel, the one standing in his own boots, with his own heavy shoulders, recoiled as if he’d been struck. He looked down at his large, familiar hands, then back at the woman. "You’re crazy, Jane. I don't know what kind of game this is, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I'm Daniel. I've lived in that cabin for twelve years. I know every creak in those floorboards."
"Then what’s the name of the dog I buried under the oak tree?" Jane’s body barked, leaning over the counter.
"Buster," the Daniel’s body answered instantly, his eyes widening. "He was a golden retriever. He died three winters ago. How do you know that? How do you know my life?"
They stared at each other, two versions of the same history housed in two different human shells. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same ozone smell Daniel had encountered at the crash site.
"It's the crash, that thing in the crash site," Jane's body whispered, her slender fingers touching her forehead. "It didn't just knock me out. It, it used me. It used us. Like a virus."
"A virus?" Daniel's body stepped back, his heavy boots squeaking on the spilled coffee. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated horror. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re Jane. You’ve worked here for years. You have a kid in elementary school, for God's sake!"
Daniel-Jane froze. A kid? He didn't have a kid. But as soon as the other Daniel mentioned it, a memory flared up in the back of his mind. Not his memory, but hers. A small boy with messy hair. A school play. The smell of crayons. It felt like a grafted branch on a tree; it didn't belong, but it was drawing blood all the same.
"No," Daniel-Jane gasped, clutching her head. "That's not mine. That's... Wait, no. Those are Jane's memories."
Daniel-Daniel looked at the door, then back at the woman who claimed to be him. His face hardened. "I don't know what's happening, but you're not me. I’m me. I can feel my heart beating in this chest. I can feel the weight of my own skin."
Before either of them could say another word, the bell above the convenience store door chimed. A young woman in a puffy coat and a beanie stomped in, rubbing her hands together. "Jesus, it's cold. Hey Jane, sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start."
Amanda, the morning shift. Daniel knew her. She came in every Thursday and Saturday.
Daniel-Jane stared, a deer in headlights. The sudden, normal interruption was more jarring than the metaphysical crisis. Amanda glanced at the spilled coffee pot on the floor, then at the two of them standing there frozen in a bubble of palpable tension. "You guys okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"We're fine," Daniel-Daniel said, his voice too loud. He forced a smile. "Just a little accident. Jane was feeling unwell."
"Right," Amanda said, skeptical, already moving behind the counter to hang up her coat. "Well, you're relieved, I guess. Get some rest, Jane. You do look peaky."
The mundanity of it broke the spell. They couldn't have this conversation here. They couldn't stand here while Amanda mopped up coffee and stocked cigarettes, with the world carrying on as if the universe hadn’t just cracked open.
Daniel-Jane’s eyes, Jane’s eyes, darted to Daniel-Daniel, a silent, frantic plea. Get me out of here.
Daniel-Daniel gave a barely perceptible nod. To Amanda, he said, "I'll give Jane a ride home. She shouldn't drive like this."
"Sounds good," Amanda said, already distracted, pulling out the mop bucket.
Daniel-Jane didn't move to get her purse from under the counter. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the uniform that wasn't hers. Daniel-Daniel reached out, grabbed her purse, gripped her arm—the arm that felt slender and unfamiliar in his hand—and guided her toward the door. She didn't resist.
***
Outside in the brittle morning air, he steered her toward his truck. "We can't go to your place," he muttered, the words steaming in the cold. "Your husband. Your kid."
"My cabin," Daniel-Jane said, the voice Jane's but the decision pure Daniel. It was the only logical place. Isolated. Private. Their shared history—his history—was in the woodwork there. "We have to figure this out. And we can't do it where anyone can hear us."
He just nodded, opening the passenger door for her. She climbed in, movements stiff and unfamiliar, like she was operating a complex puppet.
The drive up the mountain road had been short and silent. Daniel—in his own familiar, heavy-set body—kept stealing glances at the woman in the passenger seat. She had his soul and his thoughts, but she was wearing the skin of the woman he’d spent years quietly admiring from across a convenience store counter.
***
When they entered the cabin, the heavy scent of pine and old wood usually grounded Daniel. Not today.
"I need to find my phone," Daniel-Daniel muttered, his voice sounding booming and foreign to the person sitting on his couch. "I need to see if there’s any news about the crash, or if I’m losing my mind."
As he stepped into the bedroom to rummage through his bedside table, Daniel-Jane stood in the center of the living room. The "Stop & Gas" uniform felt like a straitjacket. It was scratchy, smelling of menthol and cheap coffee, and it felt fundamentally wrong against a consciousness that expected the friction of denim and flannel.
Then, a memory surfaced. It wasn't a memory of the crash. It was a memory of Daniel, the real Daniel, standing in the checkout line six months ago. He had been looking at Jane’s neckline, down at her feminine form, a heat behind his eyes, a private, lonely desire that he’d taken home with him. He’d imagined the weight of her, the softness of her, in the dark of this very same cabin. He ejaculated four times that night, thinking about Jane.
Daniel-Jane felt a jolt of electricity. It was a feedback loop. He was the subject of the desire, and now he was the object of it.
With trembling, slender fingers, Daniel-Jane began to unbutton the uniform. The polyester hit the floor. Then the bra, a functional, beige thing, was cast aside.
When Daniel-Daniel walked back into the room, phone in hand, he stopped dead. His breath hitched in the back of his throat.
There, in the middle of his rug, was Jane. She was breathtakingly naked, illuminated by the amber glow of the hearth. But she wasn't posing. She was investigating.
Daniel-Jane was cupping her left breast, lifted it high, watching the weight of it shift. She squeezed them together, fascinated by her own cleavage, then let her boobs flop down, watching the natural sway. She leaned over, trying to see if her own mouth could reach the dark circles of her nipples.
"What are you doing?" Daniel-Daniel whispered, his face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
Daniel-Jane didn't look up. She was too busy running her hands over the slight curve of her stomach, feeling the softness of the skin. She reached down, her fingers exploring the neat, bald trim of her nether regions. With a clinical curiosity, she used her fingers to part her labia, peering down at the intricate, pink folds of her own new anatomy.
"It’s, it's so different," Daniel-Jane said, her voice a breathless, melodic whisper of awe. "I can feel everything. Every inch of skin feels like it’s vibrating. Daniel, look at this. You always wanted to see this, didn't you? I remember. I remember how much we wanted to know what she looked like."
She looked up at him then, her eyes, Jane’s eyes, bright with a terrifying, shared intimacy. But something shifted in her expression, a subtle knowing that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t just Daniel’s curiosity anymore. It was a look Jane had practiced in mirror reflections, a glance she’d used to soften her husband’s anger or to get a free stuff from the trucker who came in on Thursdays.
"I'm you, Daniel," she said, but her voice had dropped, become huskier, more melodic. A tone Jane used when she wanted something. "I have your memories ingrained inside my head. But I'm also her. I'm Jane. I have her body, and with it, her instincts."
She didn't just stand there. She moved. A memory surfaced—Jane, years ago, leaning against her kitchen counter in a thin tank top, watching her husband’s eyes follow the line of her neck. Daniel-Jane copied the motion now. She arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, letting her weight settle on one hip in a pose of casual, vulnerable offering. It was a tactic. It felt both foreign and as natural as breathing.
"And I have her memories of what works," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his. "The little tilts of the head. The way to let a silence hang just long enough. She knows how to make a man’s resolve melt. I can feel that knowledge in my muscles. I remember using it."
I stared, the phone slipping from my grip to thud on the floorboards. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered in a chest that felt massive, a drumbeat of pure panic and something else, something dark and shamefully electric. This was Jane’s body. But the woman touching it wasn't just looking at it with my eyes, she was maneuvering it with her experience.
“Stop it,” I managed to choke out.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of Jane’s lips that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smile Jane saved for when she was playing a part. “Why? You like it. I can feel you liking it. And I know. I remember exactly how to make you like it more.”
She looked down at herself, her hands resuming their exploration, but now with a new purpose. Her touch was no longer just clinical. It was performative. Her fingers traced the underside of her breast, a slow, teasing circle that Jane had once read in a magazine was ‘visually arresting.’ She let her other hand drift down her flank, palm smoothing over the curve of her hip in a gesture of pure, feminine appreciation.
“The ache is still there,” she breathed, Jane’s voice now a practiced, throaty murmur. “It’s deep. A hollow, pulling feeling. But it’s not just mine. It’s hers. She spent years feeling this and ignoring it, or using it as a tool. Now it’s my tool.” Her slender hand slid down her stomach, fingers not just tangling in the dark curls but stroking, a slow, intimate petting motion. “You feel it too, don’t you? In your gut. The want. She knew how to stoke that. Let me show you.”
I did. God help me, I did. It was a twisted reflection, now refined by a woman’s lifetime of subtle art. My own body was reacting to the sight of Jane naked, but the consciousness inside that body was now deploying a calculated campaign, using every inherited trick to dismantle me.
She took a step toward me, but this time her movements weren’t tentative. They were a slow, deliberate sashay, a roll of the hips that was pure Jane-on-a-Friday-night. She stopped just inches away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t just tilt her head back to look up; she let her neck fall back in a vulnerable line, her lips parting slightly. A pose of surrender. An invitation.
I was breathing hard, the scent of her—soap, faint sweat, cigarette smoke, and now something else, something like intentional arousal—filling my nostrils.
“We’re the same person split in two,” she breathed, her words a warm caress against my chin. “But I have her playbook. And you, Daniel, ah, you, you’re the easiest mark she ever imagined.”
Her hand came up, but not in a clumsy brush. She let the back of her fingers trail slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the hard length of my denim-clad erection, her touch feather-light and knowing. A bolt of pure, targeted sensation shot through me.
“You want this,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the voice Jane used to share a secret. “I have the memory of the want. And now I have the body, and the skills, to make you beg for it. It doesn’t have to be confusing. Let me make it simple for you.” Her other hand rose to my chest, her palm flat against my pounding heart. “Please, Daniel. Let me show you how good I can make you feel.” she said in the most alluring tones.
Her use of my name, spoken in that voice, with that desperate, shared understanding, broke something in me. The last thread of resistance snapped. This was a nightmare, but it was a fever dream we were sharing. If I was going to be trapped in this madness, maybe clinging to the other half of my shattered self was the only anchor left.
My hands, big and clumsy with shock, came up and settled on her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She shuddered under my touch, Jane’s body responding to a contact it knew from a thousand casual interactions, now charged with catastrophic intimacy.
I didn’t kiss her. I couldn’t. Kissing Jane would have been a violation. Instead, I turned her around, my movements rougher than I intended. She gasped, Jane’s voice cracking, but she didn’t resist. She braced her hands against the back of my worn sofa, presenting the elegant curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the new, vulnerable velvet lips of her.
I fumbled with my belt, my fingers trembling. My own arousal was a thick, demanding pressure, tangled up with so much nausea and confusion it made my head spin. I pushed my jeans down just enough. I hesitated, the reality of it crashing down. This was Jane. But the mind wasn't.
“Do it,” she commanded, and the voice was pure, fierce Daniel. Impatient. Needing to know. “I need to feel what it’s like. I need to know if it’s the same. If her memories do justice to the feelings. ”
I positioned myself. She was wet—a slick, shocking heat that my fingers discovered as I guided myself. Her body’s readiness was a biological fact, separate from the chaos in our minds. With a groan that was part agony, I pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tight, silken heat, yes, the physical reality of a woman. But the cry she let out wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a sharp, shocked gasp of recognition.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her forehead pressing into the sofa cushion. “It’s, it’s inside. I can feel, me, inside.”
I froze, buried to the hilt, trembling. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she sobbed, the words muffled. “The pressure. The fullness. From both sides. I remember what it feels like to be you, to be the man, doing this, fucking a woman. And now I feel what it’s like to be her, receiving it. It’s a loop. It’s feeding back. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Her plea shattered the last of my hesitation. I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about desperate exploration. Each thrust was a question. Each gasp from her mouth was an answer in a language we were inventing together.
Her hands clutched at the fabric of the sofa. My hands gripped her hips, leaving pale marks on her skin. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her hair stuck to her damp neck. It was Jane’s body, alive with sensation, but the consciousness arching into each push was mine, marveling at the differences, drowning in the feedback.
“It’s deeper,” she panted. “The feeling. It’s not localized. It’s everywhere. My skin is on fire.”
I knew what she meant. In my own body, the pleasure was a focused, driving thing. In hers, through our blurred connection, it felt like the arousal was a current humming through her entire nervous system, lighting up every nerve ending. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.
The coil of tension in my own gut tightened, a familiar climb. But it felt different this time, shaded with her perceptions, amplified by the surreal horror of the act. “I’m close,” I grunted, the words ripped from me.
“Look at me,” she demanded, twisting her head over her shoulder.
I met her eyes. Jane’s tired, pretty eyes, wide now with a frantic, shared urgency. In them, I saw my own reflection, my own desperate face. I saw my loneliness, my curiosity, my catastrophic mistake on the mountain, all staring back at me from the body of the woman I’d objectified for years.
That final, impossible connection broke me. My release tore through me, a wave of blinding, guilty pleasure that felt less like an orgasm and more like a system reboot. I cried out, my body shuddering violently against hers.
As the pulses subsided, a corresponding series of tremors wracked her body. She let out a choked, shuddering sigh, her legs buckling. I caught her as she slumped, holding her up, both of us still joined, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps in the dim cabin light.
Slowly, I pulled away and lowered us both to the rug before the cold hearth. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and wrong skin, the silence heavier than any mountain snow.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice small and wrecked. “It didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I whispered, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling. “It didn’t.”
***
Daniel lay on the rug, his large, calloused hands resting on the floorboards. He looked over at Jane’s body. In that moment, Daniel felt something—a phantom limb in his mind, a lingering connection to the "other" him. It was like a taut wire stretching between them.
Experimentally, he focused on that wire. He pictured a switch in the dark theater of his mind, and with a surge of desperate will, he flipped it.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, bifurcated headache split his skull for a heartbeat. He gasped, his vision doubling as a torrent of data flooded his brain. It was a sensory overload: he felt the rough grain of the wood under his male palms, but simultaneously, he felt the cool air of the cabin on Jane’s damp skin. He remembered standing on the rug, cupping her breasts; he remembered the shocking, invasive fullness of himself inside her.
The "split" had closed. The copy had returned to the source.
As the data settled, Jane’s body suddenly jolted. The clinical, curious light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, human panic. She blinked rapidly, her gaze darting around the room, landing on her discarded uniform, then on Daniel, then on her own nakedness.
Her breath hitched in a jagged, horrified sob. "Oh God," she whispered. Her voice was back to its natural cadence, no longer carrying Daniel’s weight, only her own crushing shame.
She didn't look at him. She scrambled for her clothes with a desperate, frantic energy. She pulled on the "Stop & Gas" polyester shirt, her fingers fumbling so hard she nearly tore the buttons. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, the memory of what had just happened, still kinda fuzzy, playing back in her mind like a movie she hadn't consented to star in, yet one where she remembered acting.
"Jane—" Daniel started, his voice heavy.
"Don't," she snapped, her voice cracking. She stood up, cinching her belt, her face a mask of absolute conflict. She looked at the door, at the darkness of the mountain, then back at the floor. "This was... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I..."
She trailed off, rubbing her temples as if trying to scrub away the lingering traces of his presence in her mind. She thought it had been her. All of it, her own idea. She thought she had suffered some momentary, mountain-induced psychosis that had driven her to a lonely man’s bed. The truth that she had been a passenger, in her own body, while he piloted it was a horror she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "A one-time thing. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She finally looked at him, her eyes pleading and hard all at once. "Daniel, please. I have a life. I have a husband. I have a son. You have to forget this. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone. Just... Just stay away from me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff from the table and bolted out the door.
Daniel sat in the center of the room, alone. He reached out and touched the spot on the rug where she had been. He could still feel the echoes of her nerves in his own mind. He was Daniel again, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew exactly what it felt like to be her. And he knew that while Jane was gone, the "virus" from the mountain was still very much inside him, waiting for the next strike.
mind control
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Inspired by a Rere comic.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
***
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
"It doesn’t have to be like this."
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
"You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you?" the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
"The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key."
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
"It is a trade," the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
"A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask."
"And you have the right to ask NOW!"
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
"Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing."
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
"You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it."
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.” she thought.
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
***
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann's body. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
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This story explores disturbing themes of non-consensual bodily violation and the total loss of autonomy through a forced supernatural transformation. Due to its focus on the graphic and psychological invasion of the protagonist's identity and physical self, this content may be distressing or triggering and is not suitable for all audiences.
The fluorescent hum of the office had finally been replaced by the amber glow of the lounge. It was his last night in a standard business trip. Stale air, PowerPoint slides, and the dull ache of a life lived in middle management. Arthur swirled the ice in his scotch, feeling the weight of the gold band on his left finger.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, a shock of crimson hair against a backless emerald dress. Her silhouette was a perfect hourglass, a literal curve in an otherwise linear world. When she looked up, her piercing and predatory green eyes locked onto his. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline he hadn't felt in a decade. She’s way out of your league, he thought. Then she winked.
Calculated and quick, Arthur slipped his wedding ring into his coin pocket. He stood up, smoothed his suit, and walked over.
The conversation was effortless. Her name was Elena. She laughed at his tired jokes as if they were comedic gold, leaning in close enough for him to smell jasmine. He felt invincible. He felt like a king.
"This place is a bit... public," he whispered, emboldened by the third drink. "I have a suite upstairs."
Elena’s gaze dropped to his lips. "I thought you’d never ask."
The elevator ride was a blur of heavy breathing and frantic hands. By the time the door to Room 412 clicked shut, clothes were hitting the carpet. In the dim light of the city skyline, Elena was a masterpiece. Arthur felt like he’d won the lottery, his pulse hammering against his ribs as they moved together.
Her skin was cool silk against his, and when her mouth found his again, the taste of scotch and her was overwhelming. She was not passive. She guided his hands to the zipper of her dress, letting it fall in a whisper of emerald to the floor. The city lights through the window painted stripes of gold across her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the incredible flare of her hips.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, her crimson hair a curtain that smelled of jasmine. There was nothing tentative in her touch. Her nails scraped lightly down his chest, making him gasp, and her mouth was hot and demanding on his neck, his collarbone, lower. She took him in her mouth, and Arthur’s head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. It had been years, a lifetime maybe, since he’d felt anything so intense, so shockingly skilled. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
When he tried to roll her over, she resisted with a throaty laugh, planting a hand on his chest. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, her green eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “My turn.” She straddled him, taking him inside her in one slow, exquisite slide that made them both cry out. She moved with a rhythm that was ancient and utterly new to him, her head thrown back, a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips, feeling the muscles work beneath her skin. He was lost in the sight of her, the feel of her tight heat, the low, encouraging murmurs that she made, coiled heat in his gut. The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this woman who rode him with fierce, unapologetic pleasure. His own climax built like a storm, inevitable and terrifying in its power. He was mumbling nonsense, praises, curses, her name.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice a rough scrape. He forced his eyes open, meeting her predatory gaze. She held it, unblinking, as she ground down against him, her body clenching around his, and that was all it took. Arthur shattered, a white-hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like oblivion, his vision spotting as he spilled into her with a broken shout.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot against his skin, her own body trembling through the aftershocks. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
"Again," she whispered. Her voice sounded deeper, a resonant vibration that seemed to rattle the glass. "But this time, stay on your feet."
He laughed, breathless. "You’re a machine, Elena. You gonna dry me up."
He stood against the cold drywall, and she pressed into him. She moved with a sudden, violent strength, impaling herself upon him with a force that made his breath hitch. But as they moved, the sensation began to change.
The heat between them turned into a searing, liquid fire. The air in Room 412 had grown thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Arthur was pinned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. When Elena had suggested "one more time," he thought it was a testament to his prowess. He didn't realize he was being prepared for a harvest.
As she continued impaling herself upon him, the pleasure didn't peak. It curdled.
A cold, rhythmic suction began at the point of contact between his dick and her pussy. A psychic vacuum that started at the base of his spine and began pulling. Arthur’s eyes widened. He tried to push her shoulders away, but her skin felt like cooling iron.
"Something’s... wrong," he wheezed. His voice cracked, losing its baritone edge.
Elena leaned into his ear, her breath a freezing mist. "Don't fight it, Arthur. The more you struggle, the more it hurts."
The sensation wasn't just a draining. It was a re-sculpting. As that cold suction pulled at the very marrow of him, Arthur’s mind was flooded with fragments of not his own memories, but ghostly echoes trapped within the thing that wore Elena’s skin. He glimpsed, in a dizzying flash, a stern jaw that was not her jaw, a pair of broad, laborer’s hands that were not her hands. The impressions were faint and crumbling, like a statue worn smooth by a relentless sea. This beautiful, predatory form had not always been so. Once, perhaps, it had been something else, someone else, someone strapping and male, before it, too, had been hollowed out and remade into a perfect, terrible feminine vessel.
What was happening to him now was the final, violent stage of a timeless digestion. The entity within Elena was an insatiable furnace, a primal masculine hunger that had consumed its original body ages ago. From time to time, to live, it needed the fresh fuel of a man’s essence, his vitality, his very identity. It would gorge until the stolen male form could no longer contain the paradox of its nature, until the excess began to warp the shell from the inside out. The muscles would soften into curves, the face would refine into soft features, the body would blossom into a hyper-feminine masterpiece, not for pleasure, but for purpose. It was a biological honeypot, a chrysalis of flesh designed for one thing: to lure the next sustenance, and begin the cycle anew. Arthur was just its most recent prey.
Arthur felt his chest tighten. He looked down and watched in silent horror as his pectorals softened and swelled, the skin stretching into a delicate, pale ivory. He tried to flex his biceps to strike her, but the muscle mass was melting, flowing into her like water down a drain.
"No!" he roared, but the sound was becoming a soprano wail.
He fought. He reached deep into his mind, clutching at the memories of his father, his sports, the weight of his tools, the nights of passion with his wife Sarah. He tried to anchor the very concept of himself as a man in his spirit.
Elena, or the thing with the statuesque her form in front of him, let out a low, guttural growl of delight. Her (his) shoulders began to broaden.
"Yes," the entity hissed, its voice now a deep, vibrating rumble that shook Arthur’s new, fragile ribcage. "Give me that defiance. I haven't tasted a will this stubborn in a century."
The transition became a violent, intimate tug-of-war. Arthur fought not with his weakening muscles, but with his will, clawing at the memory of his own face in the mirror, the scrape of a morning shave, the satisfying heft of a hammer in his grip. He poured every stubborn ounce of his identity into the fight, trying to anchor the very shape of his bones.
He felt the rasp of his beard beginning to recede, the follicles dying with a faint, prickling itch. In response, the entity pinning him merely grinned, a cruel slash of a smile. A shadow of coarse, dark stubble sprouted across its jaw, each hair pushing through the skin with an audible, scratchy whisper. Arthur’s own jawline ached as it softened, the hard angle melting into a delicate, heart-shaped curve. He tried to clench his teeth, to feel the familiar tension in his masseter muscle, but even that resistance was siphoned away, leaving a smooth, feminine line.
His hands came up, instinct driving him to shove at the solid wall of the entity’s new chest. But his hands… they were betraying him. The knuckles, once prominent and scarred from a long-ago fight, smoothed into gentle bumps. His fingers, which had once confidently curled around a steering wheel, now slimmed and elongated, the tendons standing out in delicate relief. They were becoming slender, manicured things, like a pianist’s hands or a courtesan’s hands. He stared at them, willing them to curl into fists, but they remained limp and elegant, their strength flowing out through his fingertips.
The entity watched this internal struggle with the bored, appreciative gaze of a connoisseur. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Arthur’s fragile new frame.
“Struggle,” the entity whispered, its voice now fully Arthur’s own baritone, but laced with a dark, ancient amusement. “I can taste the defiance. It’s the best part, you know. The raw, panicked flavor of a man who still believes he can win.” It leaned in, its new, rough stubble scratching Arthur’s cheek, now smooth as porcelain. “I have fought dozens wills like yours before. I am so very used to it. And I always win in the end.”
To emphasize its point, the entity ground its hips forward, a brutal reminder of their grotesque connection. With that motion, a fresh, dizzying wave of suction pulled at Arthur’s core. He felt a final, visceral shift in his hands, the last of the calluses dissolving, the palms becoming soft and unmarked. They were utterly alien to him now, tools of pleasure, not labor. The entity lifted one of its own new, broad hands, Arthur’s old hands, and examined it with satisfaction, flexing the powerful fingers before closing them into a fist that could shatter bone.
“There,” the entity sighed, the sound one of deep, sated pleasure. “Now the real masterpiece begins.”
The entity let out a final, triumphant breath, vacuuming the last embers of Arthur’s masculinity.
The cold suction reached its zenith, pulling not just substance but shape, rearranging Arthur on a cellular level. He felt a final, wrenching pull deep in his groin, a sensation of inversion so profound it stole his breath. His own penis, the last proud emblem of his stolen manhood, didn’t just wither, it reversed. It was a sickening, intimate retreat, the flesh drawing inward, folding and reforming itself with wet, muscular ripples into a new, sensitive hollow. A high, keening sound escaped his lips as he felt it settle, a completed, vulnerable absence.
At the same time, as his body yielded, Elena’s consumed it. The entity, still pressed flush against him, let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. Arthur felt the warm, slick folds he’d been buried within moments before begin to change against his new flesh. It fused, the lips sealing together with a faint, sticky sound, the seam smoothing into unbroken skin. Then, beneath that skin, something swelled. It hardened and lengthened, pushing outward, an obscene bloom of stolen virility. Arthur’s own former shaft, now ruddy and thick and fully erect, emerged from where Elena’s femininity had been, glistening in the low light.
The entity looked down, a cruel smile playing on its—his—newly masculine lips. He gripped Arthur’s, now Elena’s, slender hips with one broad hand. With the other, he guided his new cock, the flesh that had once been Arthur’s pride, to the newly formed, tight entrance he had just carved out of Arthur’s body.
“Full circle,” the entity rumbled in Arthur’s stolen voice.
And he impaled him with it.
It was a violation that transcended the physical, a horrific echo of their earlier coupling. Arthur screamed, a raw, feminine sound of shock and agony as he was filled by the very essence of what he had lost. The entity moved, a few slow, brutal thrusts, not for pleasure but for possession, a brand of final ownership. Each drive home seemed to hammer the last of Arthur’s resistance into dust, sealing his new form with the brutal stamp of his old one.
The entity held him there for a long, final moment, buried to the hilt. Arthur felt a hot, impossible pressure building at the root of the cock that had once been his own. Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through both their bodies, the new Arthur released.
It was a flood, a heavy, viscous pour of stolen seed. Arthur felt it jetting deep inside the new, sensitive cavity of his body, a searing heat that was both alien and horribly familiar. This was his essence, the vital, masculine potential that had been ripped from him, now being returned in this corrupted, violating baptism. His stomach, flat and taut moments before, gave a faint, phantom swell under the sheer volume of it, the sensation of being filled branding itself onto his new nerves.
With a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the silent room, a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle, the entity withdrew.
The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. And then, a warm, trickling release. Arthur looked down, his vision blurred with tears, as a thick, pearlescent stream began to seep from his violated opening. It traced a glistening path down the inside of one slender, pale thigh, a second rivulet following the other. It dripped onto the carpet, his cum, their cum, marking the spot where he had ceased to be a man. The entity took a step back, admiring its work.
The man—the new Arthur—stood tall, broad-shouldered and radiating a terrifying, predatory calm. He looked down at the trembling creature slumped against the wall, her beautiful legs slick and shameful.
Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation, and its violent consummation, was complete. He was sobbing with a voice that didn't know how to be his, his body throbbing with the brutal memory of its own creation and the heavy, leaking proof of its new purpose.
He had the red hair, the green eyes, and the hourglass curves that he had lusted just hours ago. Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation was complete and functional.
She was beautiful, she was “Elena”.
---
It was already morning.
The entity reached into the discarded suit jacket, pulled out a gold wedding band, and slid it onto its finger.
"Beautiful," the entity said, using Arthur's voice. "I think I’ll enjoy being a husband for a while."
"You were a heavy meal, Elena," the entity said, while dressing as Arthur. Its new voice, Arthur's old voice, rolling over her like a physical weight. It was adjusting to the timber, testing the name it had stolen along with everything else. "It will take a long time to digest you. But when I am hungry again... when this body begins to soften and distort into a walking wet dream once more, into a hyper-feminized version of your old shell, I’ll find someone just like you."
He stepped back, and as he did, a wave of something colder than the room’s air washed over the woman who had been Arthur. It wasn’t a touch, but an impression, a psychic stamp pressed deep into the soft, new clay of her mind.
The first thing to go was the sharp, specific ache for home. The memory of a wife, his wife, Sarah, with her soft laughter and the little mole on her left shoulder, didn’t vanish so much as unravel. The love became a vague, sentimental warmth, then a faded photograph of a stranger, then a blank space where a feeling should have been. Sarah? Who was Sarah? The question drifted through her head and found no anchor, slipping away like smoke. The comfortable weight of a mortgage, the solid pride of a career, the reassuring grind of middle management, all these concepts melted like sugar in rain, leaving behind only a hollow, formless longing for stability, with no memory of ever having possessed it.
In their place, new memories began to crystallize, not as a flood, but as a slow, sickening seep. They felt thin and cheap, like bad perfume.
She remembered a cramped apartment that always smelled of stale smoke and someone else’s cooking. She remembered the pinch of too-tight shoes, bought from a discount bin, and the constant, gnawing anxiety that came two days before rent was due. She remembered standing under flickering neon, not as a choice, but as a grim arithmetic: fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for half an hour, enough to keep the lights on and the landlord’s threats at bay for one more week. The memories carried no history, no childhood, no dreams deferred. They started, abruptly, with a desperate choice made in a cold bus station, and they stretched forward into an endless, grinding present.
Her certainty, the ironclad knowledge that she was Arthur, that she had been robbed, began to waver. The fight that had defined her final moments as a man now seemed like a delirious dream, a strange story she’d once heard about someone else. Had she been a man? The idea felt absurd, laughable. She looked down at her own delicate hands, at the shimmering fall of red hair over a pale shoulder, at the beautiful, treacherous curves that had ensnared her. This was her. This had always been her.
The entity watched the understanding dawn in her new, green eyes. It was the final gift, the cruelest one: not just a new body, but a new past, engineered to fit its purpose. She wasn’t a victim of a grand, supernatural theft. She was just Elena. A girl with no education, no family safety net, no prospects. Her body was her only viable tool, her pleasure a currency she didn’t control. The world was a series of rooms like this one, of transactions, of fleeting power that always ended with her alone and counting crumpled bills.
A single, hot tear traced a path through her face. It wasn’t a tear of rage, not anymore. It was a tear of bitter, total recognition. The sob that followed was quieter, defeated. She remembered the feel of cheap hotel carpet under her knees. She remembered the hollow click of a lock in a stranger’s door. This was her life. It had always been her life.
The entity smiled, a perfect, terrible mirror of Arthur’s old, confident grin. It watched as the fight left her eyes, seeing her mind finally buckle under the weight of her stolen skin. She was no longer a man who had lost; she was a hyper-feminized byproduct, a soft, decorative high-heeled tragedy, destined to spend her days selling her body and to be stared at and objectified wherever she goes. The woman that used to be Arthur looked down at her new, delicate hands and finally stopped sobbing, accepting the silence of her own situation.
“Good girl,” the entity rumbled, turning toward the door. It didn’t look back. Its work was done.
The fluorescent hum of the office had finally been replaced by the amber glow of the lounge. It was his last night in a standard business trip. Stale air, PowerPoint slides, and the dull ache of a life lived in middle management. Arthur swirled the ice in his scotch, feeling the weight of the gold band on his left finger.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, a shock of crimson hair against a backless emerald dress. Her silhouette was a perfect hourglass, a literal curve in an otherwise linear world. When she looked up, her piercing and predatory green eyes locked onto his. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
Arthur felt a surge of adrenaline he hadn't felt in a decade. She’s way out of your league, he thought. Then she winked.
Calculated and quick, Arthur slipped his wedding ring into his coin pocket. He stood up, smoothed his suit, and walked over.
The conversation was effortless. Her name was Elena. She laughed at his tired jokes as if they were comedic gold, leaning in close enough for him to smell jasmine. He felt invincible. He felt like a king.
"This place is a bit... public," he whispered, emboldened by the third drink. "I have a suite upstairs."
Elena’s gaze dropped to his lips. "I thought you’d never ask."
The elevator ride was a blur of heavy breathing and frantic hands. By the time the door to Room 412 clicked shut, clothes were hitting the carpet. In the dim light of the city skyline, Elena was a masterpiece. Arthur felt like he’d won the lottery, his pulse hammering against his ribs as they moved together.
Her skin was cool silk against his, and when her mouth found his again, the taste of scotch and her was overwhelming. She was not passive. She guided his hands to the zipper of her dress, letting it fall in a whisper of emerald to the floor. The city lights through the window painted stripes of gold across her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the incredible flare of her hips.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, her crimson hair a curtain that smelled of jasmine. There was nothing tentative in her touch. Her nails scraped lightly down his chest, making him gasp, and her mouth was hot and demanding on his neck, his collarbone, lower. She took him in her mouth, and Arthur’s head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. It had been years, a lifetime maybe, since he’d felt anything so intense, so shockingly skilled. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
When he tried to roll her over, she resisted with a throaty laugh, planting a hand on his chest. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, her green eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “My turn.” She straddled him, taking him inside her in one slow, exquisite slide that made them both cry out. She moved with a rhythm that was ancient and utterly new to him, her head thrown back, a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips, feeling the muscles work beneath her skin. He was lost in the sight of her, the feel of her tight heat, the low, encouraging murmurs that she made, coiled heat in his gut. The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this woman who rode him with fierce, unapologetic pleasure. His own climax built like a storm, inevitable and terrifying in its power. He was mumbling nonsense, praises, curses, her name.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice a rough scrape. He forced his eyes open, meeting her predatory gaze. She held it, unblinking, as she ground down against him, her body clenching around his, and that was all it took. Arthur shattered, a white-hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like oblivion, his vision spotting as he spilled into her with a broken shout.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot against his skin, her own body trembling through the aftershocks. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
"Again," she whispered. Her voice sounded deeper, a resonant vibration that seemed to rattle the glass. "But this time, stay on your feet."
He laughed, breathless. "You’re a machine, Elena. You gonna dry me up."
He stood against the cold drywall, and she pressed into him. She moved with a sudden, violent strength, impaling herself upon him with a force that made his breath hitch. But as they moved, the sensation began to change.
The heat between them turned into a searing, liquid fire. The air in Room 412 had grown thick, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Arthur was pinned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. When Elena had suggested "one more time," he thought it was a testament to his prowess. He didn't realize he was being prepared for a harvest.
As she continued impaling herself upon him, the pleasure didn't peak. It curdled.
A cold, rhythmic suction began at the point of contact between his dick and her pussy. A psychic vacuum that started at the base of his spine and began pulling. Arthur’s eyes widened. He tried to push her shoulders away, but her skin felt like cooling iron.
"Something’s... wrong," he wheezed. His voice cracked, losing its baritone edge.
Elena leaned into his ear, her breath a freezing mist. "Don't fight it, Arthur. The more you struggle, the more it hurts."
The sensation wasn't just a draining. It was a re-sculpting. As that cold suction pulled at the very marrow of him, Arthur’s mind was flooded with fragments of not his own memories, but ghostly echoes trapped within the thing that wore Elena’s skin. He glimpsed, in a dizzying flash, a stern jaw that was not her jaw, a pair of broad, laborer’s hands that were not her hands. The impressions were faint and crumbling, like a statue worn smooth by a relentless sea. This beautiful, predatory form had not always been so. Once, perhaps, it had been something else, someone else, someone strapping and male, before it, too, had been hollowed out and remade into a perfect, terrible feminine vessel.
What was happening to him now was the final, violent stage of a timeless digestion. The entity within Elena was an insatiable furnace, a primal masculine hunger that had consumed its original body ages ago. From time to time, to live, it needed the fresh fuel of a man’s essence, his vitality, his very identity. It would gorge until the stolen male form could no longer contain the paradox of its nature, until the excess began to warp the shell from the inside out. The muscles would soften into curves, the face would refine into soft features, the body would blossom into a hyper-feminine masterpiece, not for pleasure, but for purpose. It was a biological honeypot, a chrysalis of flesh designed for one thing: to lure the next sustenance, and begin the cycle anew. Arthur was just its most recent prey.
Arthur felt his chest tighten. He looked down and watched in silent horror as his pectorals softened and swelled, the skin stretching into a delicate, pale ivory. He tried to flex his biceps to strike her, but the muscle mass was melting, flowing into her like water down a drain.
"No!" he roared, but the sound was becoming a soprano wail.
He fought. He reached deep into his mind, clutching at the memories of his father, his sports, the weight of his tools, the nights of passion with his wife Sarah. He tried to anchor the very concept of himself as a man in his spirit.
Elena, or the thing with the statuesque her form in front of him, let out a low, guttural growl of delight. Her (his) shoulders began to broaden.
"Yes," the entity hissed, its voice now a deep, vibrating rumble that shook Arthur’s new, fragile ribcage. "Give me that defiance. I haven't tasted a will this stubborn in a century."
The transition became a violent, intimate tug-of-war. Arthur fought not with his weakening muscles, but with his will, clawing at the memory of his own face in the mirror, the scrape of a morning shave, the satisfying heft of a hammer in his grip. He poured every stubborn ounce of his identity into the fight, trying to anchor the very shape of his bones.
He felt the rasp of his beard beginning to recede, the follicles dying with a faint, prickling itch. In response, the entity pinning him merely grinned, a cruel slash of a smile. A shadow of coarse, dark stubble sprouted across its jaw, each hair pushing through the skin with an audible, scratchy whisper. Arthur’s own jawline ached as it softened, the hard angle melting into a delicate, heart-shaped curve. He tried to clench his teeth, to feel the familiar tension in his masseter muscle, but even that resistance was siphoned away, leaving a smooth, feminine line.
His hands came up, instinct driving him to shove at the solid wall of the entity’s new chest. But his hands… they were betraying him. The knuckles, once prominent and scarred from a long-ago fight, smoothed into gentle bumps. His fingers, which had once confidently curled around a steering wheel, now slimmed and elongated, the tendons standing out in delicate relief. They were becoming slender, manicured things, like a pianist’s hands or a courtesan’s hands. He stared at them, willing them to curl into fists, but they remained limp and elegant, their strength flowing out through his fingertips.
The entity watched this internal struggle with the bored, appreciative gaze of a connoisseur. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Arthur’s fragile new frame.
“Struggle,” the entity whispered, its voice now fully Arthur’s own baritone, but laced with a dark, ancient amusement. “I can taste the defiance. It’s the best part, you know. The raw, panicked flavor of a man who still believes he can win.” It leaned in, its new, rough stubble scratching Arthur’s cheek, now smooth as porcelain. “I have fought dozens wills like yours before. I am so very used to it. And I always win in the end.”
To emphasize its point, the entity ground its hips forward, a brutal reminder of their grotesque connection. With that motion, a fresh, dizzying wave of suction pulled at Arthur’s core. He felt a final, visceral shift in his hands, the last of the calluses dissolving, the palms becoming soft and unmarked. They were utterly alien to him now, tools of pleasure, not labor. The entity lifted one of its own new, broad hands, Arthur’s old hands, and examined it with satisfaction, flexing the powerful fingers before closing them into a fist that could shatter bone.
“There,” the entity sighed, the sound one of deep, sated pleasure. “Now the real masterpiece begins.”
The entity let out a final, triumphant breath, vacuuming the last embers of Arthur’s masculinity.
The cold suction reached its zenith, pulling not just substance but shape, rearranging Arthur on a cellular level. He felt a final, wrenching pull deep in his groin, a sensation of inversion so profound it stole his breath. His own penis, the last proud emblem of his stolen manhood, didn’t just wither, it reversed. It was a sickening, intimate retreat, the flesh drawing inward, folding and reforming itself with wet, muscular ripples into a new, sensitive hollow. A high, keening sound escaped his lips as he felt it settle, a completed, vulnerable absence.
At the same time, as his body yielded, Elena’s consumed it. The entity, still pressed flush against him, let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. Arthur felt the warm, slick folds he’d been buried within moments before begin to change against his new flesh. It fused, the lips sealing together with a faint, sticky sound, the seam smoothing into unbroken skin. Then, beneath that skin, something swelled. It hardened and lengthened, pushing outward, an obscene bloom of stolen virility. Arthur’s own former shaft, now ruddy and thick and fully erect, emerged from where Elena’s femininity had been, glistening in the low light.
The entity looked down, a cruel smile playing on its—his—newly masculine lips. He gripped Arthur’s, now Elena’s, slender hips with one broad hand. With the other, he guided his new cock, the flesh that had once been Arthur’s pride, to the newly formed, tight entrance he had just carved out of Arthur’s body.
“Full circle,” the entity rumbled in Arthur’s stolen voice.
And he impaled him with it.
It was a violation that transcended the physical, a horrific echo of their earlier coupling. Arthur screamed, a raw, feminine sound of shock and agony as he was filled by the very essence of what he had lost. The entity moved, a few slow, brutal thrusts, not for pleasure but for possession, a brand of final ownership. Each drive home seemed to hammer the last of Arthur’s resistance into dust, sealing his new form with the brutal stamp of his old one.
The entity held him there for a long, final moment, buried to the hilt. Arthur felt a hot, impossible pressure building at the root of the cock that had once been his own. Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through both their bodies, the new Arthur released.
It was a flood, a heavy, viscous pour of stolen seed. Arthur felt it jetting deep inside the new, sensitive cavity of his body, a searing heat that was both alien and horribly familiar. This was his essence, the vital, masculine potential that had been ripped from him, now being returned in this corrupted, violating baptism. His stomach, flat and taut moments before, gave a faint, phantom swell under the sheer volume of it, the sensation of being filled branding itself onto his new nerves.
With a wet, sucking pop that echoed in the silent room, a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle, the entity withdrew.
The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. And then, a warm, trickling release. Arthur looked down, his vision blurred with tears, as a thick, pearlescent stream began to seep from his violated opening. It traced a glistening path down the inside of one slender, pale thigh, a second rivulet following the other. It dripped onto the carpet, his cum, their cum, marking the spot where he had ceased to be a man. The entity took a step back, admiring its work.
The man—the new Arthur—stood tall, broad-shouldered and radiating a terrifying, predatory calm. He looked down at the trembling creature slumped against the wall, her beautiful legs slick and shameful.
Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation, and its violent consummation, was complete. He was sobbing with a voice that didn't know how to be his, his body throbbing with the brutal memory of its own creation and the heavy, leaking proof of its new purpose.
He had the red hair, the green eyes, and the hourglass curves that he had lusted just hours ago. Between his slender thighs, the evidence of the transformation was complete and functional.
She was beautiful, she was “Elena”.
---
It was already morning.
The entity reached into the discarded suit jacket, pulled out a gold wedding band, and slid it onto its finger.
"Beautiful," the entity said, using Arthur's voice. "I think I’ll enjoy being a husband for a while."
"You were a heavy meal, Elena," the entity said, while dressing as Arthur. Its new voice, Arthur's old voice, rolling over her like a physical weight. It was adjusting to the timber, testing the name it had stolen along with everything else. "It will take a long time to digest you. But when I am hungry again... when this body begins to soften and distort into a walking wet dream once more, into a hyper-feminized version of your old shell, I’ll find someone just like you."
He stepped back, and as he did, a wave of something colder than the room’s air washed over the woman who had been Arthur. It wasn’t a touch, but an impression, a psychic stamp pressed deep into the soft, new clay of her mind.
The first thing to go was the sharp, specific ache for home. The memory of a wife, his wife, Sarah, with her soft laughter and the little mole on her left shoulder, didn’t vanish so much as unravel. The love became a vague, sentimental warmth, then a faded photograph of a stranger, then a blank space where a feeling should have been. Sarah? Who was Sarah? The question drifted through her head and found no anchor, slipping away like smoke. The comfortable weight of a mortgage, the solid pride of a career, the reassuring grind of middle management, all these concepts melted like sugar in rain, leaving behind only a hollow, formless longing for stability, with no memory of ever having possessed it.
In their place, new memories began to crystallize, not as a flood, but as a slow, sickening seep. They felt thin and cheap, like bad perfume.
She remembered a cramped apartment that always smelled of stale smoke and someone else’s cooking. She remembered the pinch of too-tight shoes, bought from a discount bin, and the constant, gnawing anxiety that came two days before rent was due. She remembered standing under flickering neon, not as a choice, but as a grim arithmetic: fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for half an hour, enough to keep the lights on and the landlord’s threats at bay for one more week. The memories carried no history, no childhood, no dreams deferred. They started, abruptly, with a desperate choice made in a cold bus station, and they stretched forward into an endless, grinding present.
Her certainty, the ironclad knowledge that she was Arthur, that she had been robbed, began to waver. The fight that had defined her final moments as a man now seemed like a delirious dream, a strange story she’d once heard about someone else. Had she been a man? The idea felt absurd, laughable. She looked down at her own delicate hands, at the shimmering fall of red hair over a pale shoulder, at the beautiful, treacherous curves that had ensnared her. This was her. This had always been her.
The entity watched the understanding dawn in her new, green eyes. It was the final gift, the cruelest one: not just a new body, but a new past, engineered to fit its purpose. She wasn’t a victim of a grand, supernatural theft. She was just Elena. A girl with no education, no family safety net, no prospects. Her body was her only viable tool, her pleasure a currency she didn’t control. The world was a series of rooms like this one, of transactions, of fleeting power that always ended with her alone and counting crumpled bills.
A single, hot tear traced a path through her face. It wasn’t a tear of rage, not anymore. It was a tear of bitter, total recognition. The sob that followed was quieter, defeated. She remembered the feel of cheap hotel carpet under her knees. She remembered the hollow click of a lock in a stranger’s door. This was her life. It had always been her life.
The entity smiled, a perfect, terrible mirror of Arthur’s old, confident grin. It watched as the fight left her eyes, seeing her mind finally buckle under the weight of her stolen skin. She was no longer a man who had lost; she was a hyper-feminized byproduct, a soft, decorative high-heeled tragedy, destined to spend her days selling her body and to be stared at and objectified wherever she goes. The woman that used to be Arthur looked down at her new, delicate hands and finally stopped sobbing, accepting the silence of her own situation.
“Good girl,” the entity rumbled, turning toward the door. It didn’t look back. Its work was done.
mind control
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A NEET terrorizes her family with her possession powers.
It was in the very early morning hours. The whole house was pitch-black and its inhabitants were fast asleep, except for one. The only source of light was the glow emenating from a computer monitor. It illuminated Wendy’s face and the strands of greasy hair glued to it. The synthetic light just faintly revealed the mess in her room: the moldy plates, empty take-out boxes, and dirty clothes, all of which were freely intermixed and strewn about.
Wet sounds and a pungent smell filled the air. Wendy sat in her computer chair in just her underwear and masturbated while playing an erotic dating simulator. She had been an avid fan of video games, especially story-driven ones like visual novels, since she was a kid, but since the twenty-three-year-old failed out of college and moved back in with her parents, she had done nothing but sit in front of her computer and play video games all day long.
She used to be somewhat pretty, but she let herself go quite a bit when she essentially barricaded herself into her old childhood room, only ever leaving to use the bathroom. Since then, she had been escaping more and more into the virtual world of various video games, desperately trying to escape her failures in the outside world. The easily achievable goals in those games provided her with at least a fake sense of fullfilment and purpose.
Initially, she stuck to regular video games and story-driven visual novels. But since moving back home, she got fairly addicted to romantic dating simulators, which provided her a with a substitute for the type of relationship she longed for but could not achieve in real life. Things took even more of a downturn when, a few months ago, after having played through virtually all visual novels, she checked out her first incest-themed eroge, a genre she had not paid any attention to before, but now felt compelled to in order to avoid spending any second alone with her own thoughts.
Right in that moment she was playing through a scene where the main character’s adorable little sister snuck into her older brother’s bed and snuggled up to him under the covers. The game quickly turned erotic and, in response, Wendy let out a long, deep grunt, signaling her climax.
To recuperate from her self-satisfaction, Wendy leaned back into her chair and looked up at her dimmly-lit ceiling. After a few moments an idea popped into her head. She got up and, for the first time in a while, left her room for a reason other than to use the bathroom. She quietly crept through the dark hallway and slowly opened the door two rooms further down, trying to keep it from creaking as to not wake the person sleeping inside.
After entering the room, she managed to silently close the door behind her and then tip-toed towards the bed inside. There, she lifted the covers and carefully laid down next to her older brother Josh who was sleeping soundly. She then cozied up to him under the blanket just like she had seen the little sister do in her video game. She was now right next to him with her foul breath caressing his skin.
Wanting to recreate the scene from her video game, Wendy began carefully fishing her brother’s limp dick out of his pyjama pants and gently rubbed it until it was fully errect. She then rolled on top of him, pushed her panties aside, and stealthily slipped his dick into her hungry snatch.
Meanwhile, Josh was having the most amazing dream. In it, he found himself in an infinite, white void where he was hooking up with the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her long, brunette hair appeared to be silky-soft as it gently swayed around her slender frame with each motion, lending her an ethereal presence. The only things about her that he found more captivating than her radiant smile were her full, ripe breasts, which were practically begging to be devoured. She seemed really familiar to Josh, although he could not quite place where he had seen her before. Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend he had forgotten about. Nevertheless, he did not want to keep this unknown beauty waiting by fretting about it.
Josh and the mysterious girl had already fully shed their clothes and were eager to get things going. He laid down on the most comfortable bed imaginable, which had appeared out of nowhere without him ever noticing. Lying on his back, he watched as his dream lover expertly fondled his privates while looking up at him with hungry eyes. In no time he was ready to take her. The nameless vixen sat on top of him and began immediately riding him, placing her hands on his hard abs for support. Her hot, silky depths engulfed him completely as her smooth, hairless body writhed with pleasure. Biting her lower lip, she failed to stifle the soft moans escaping from her mouth that accompanied the expressions of extacy on her gorgeous face. They caressed Josh’s ears like the sweatest of melodies, bewitching him like a siren. The pleasure that grew in his groin was overwhelming, beyond anything he had ever experienced in real life.
Yet, something about her felt odd to him. Despite her small size and lithe body, the dreamy nymph on top of him felt unusually heavy. This bizarre fact made him realize that he was actually dreaming, which immediately ripped him from his sleep.
Completely disoriented, the only things Josh could perceive in the dark was labored breathing and groaning, and a heavy weight bouncing up and down on him. At first he hoped that this might be a continuation of his wonderful dream, but when a lurid stench crept up his nose he knew for certain that he was awake. Wanting to find out who or what was disturbing his sweet dreams, he turned to his night stand right beside his bed to turn on the light. For a few seconds the sudden presence of light blinded him like a flash of lightning. But when his eyes had acclimated to the new-found brightness, he was horrified by the ghastly figure sitting on top of him.
“Wendy!!”, Josh exlaimed as he recognized his grody younger sister straddling him, wearing only a bra and panties. Her grin was barely visible through her greasy hair and the bra that had failed to adjust to her increased size dug deeply into her chubby shape, almost cutting off circulation to her formless breasts. “What the hell are you doing in my room in the middle of the night? And why are you sitting on top of me?” Josh demanded angrily. “Oh, Josh,” was the only answer Wendy could moan, never breaking with the rhythm of her movements. Hearing these sexual sounds come from his sister’s mouth was like fingernails on a chalkboard to his ears.
Her abhorrent, yet puzzling, response made Josh’s eyes wander lower. He gagged violently when he discovered his dick was burried deep inside his sister’s rancid, unkempt snatch, even feeling her coarse pubes rubbing against his skin as she was grinding her crotch against his. He felt so repulsed by this disgusting sight that he could have projectile-vomitted every meal he had ever had in his life right in that very moment. Luckily, his stomach was completely empty or he would have made an even bigger mess out of this situation.
“Get off of me!” Josh yelled while forcefully pushing his grody sister away. Wendy fell off his dick, off his bed, and on onto the floor, landing there with a strong thud. She quickly scrambled back onto her feet. “Why did you do that?” she hissed. “That’s what I should be asking! Why were you having sex with me, Wendy? You’re my sister! That’s so fucked!” he exclaimed. “But I’m your cute little sister, bro. Don’t you find me adorable,” she said batting her eye-lids, trying to charm her brother, but somehow ending up looking even creepier.
“Eewww, you’re sick, Wendy! Sick and vile!” Josh said disgusted. “And not just that, you’re also fucking filthy. I’d rather rip my own dick off and poke my eyes out with it than have sex with you, even if we were the last two people on earth stranded on a lonely island! I wish you’d just disappear forever and leave us alone.” Her brother’s harsh remarks finally burst the fantasy that Wendy had built up in her mind over the past few months of playing eroges. The reality she tried to run from came crashing down on her right in this moment, as Josh’s cutting words hurt her deeply.
“Fine!” Wendy said scorned and full of anger. “If you want me to disappear, then that’s what I will do, I guess!” With tears of anger welling up, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Wait! Wendy! Nooo—!” Josh exclaimed, trying to stop her. But it was too late. As if something had zapped the life out of her, Wendy instantly lost all the tension in her body and collapsed face-first onto her brother’s bed. At the same time, Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body began convulsing vigorously. Then something inside of him snapped and he, too, lost almost all the tension in his body, just barely being able to stand. His head was loosely dangling from his neck.
After a few moments of silence, Josh seemed to wake up, as both his heads slowly rose up again. But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in control. His sister Wendy had somehow developed the powers to take over other people’s bodies during her early teenage years. At first she was shy and reluctant about them, as she used to be a gentle soul. She simply could not square it with her conscience to control other people. The most she would do was ride along in the friends or family members of a boy she had a crush on at the time. When her parents found out about her powers, they immediately scolded her and forbade her from ever using her powers. But as Wendy grew older, her parents realized that their daughter did not have any ill intentions and began relaxing about the situation.
But when Wendy failed out of college and her mental health declined, things turned scary for her family. She became more and more controlling and petulant, throwing tamper tantrums anytime anyone disturbed her or tried to tell her what to do. She also became increasingly blasé about using her powers, taking over her family, neighbors, and anyone in reach for the smallest of matters, just so she would never have to leave her room.
On a few occasions Wendy had even used her powers to blackmail people into doing what she wanted, even when she was not possessing them. Another time she had stalked a poor guy who she had become at first infatuated and then obsessed with on social media. She had followed him around as different people, watching every step he made, every second of his life for two months. She only stopped because she eventually became bored of him.
These were the myriad of reasons that her family now lived in fear of her. Her parents could not throw her out because of her powers. They themselves could not move out since all their savings were tied into their house. Their youngest daughter, Alice, refused to leave, as she did not want her parents to suffer alone. And even Josh had moved back in as a means to protect his family, which is why he now found himself not in control of his own body.
“Josh” grinned from ear to ear as he patted down “his” flat chest. “He” then flexed his biceps, admiring his own strength. Next, he grabbed his dick, which was already painfully errect, with both his hands and began firmly squeezing it. He could virtually feel the blood pulsing through the thick meat of his sizeable member. “He” then turned to the person lying on his bed and said, “I’m soooo sorry, ‘sis’. I didn’t mean to hurt you. My words came out all wrong. What I meant to say was that you are the most adorable little sister a big brother could ever wish for! Here, let me show you how much I love you.”
With that, “Josh” stepped towards Wendy’s comatose body and snaked his big, strong hands underneath her torso. “Oh, my. When did my cute little sister grow up to be such a woman?” “he” cooed while groping her flabby breasts. Without turning over her heavy frame, “Josh” glid his rough hands along her pudgy waist and onto her even wider hips, firmly grabbing ahold of them. “He” then carefully wormed his prick into “his sister’s” slimy, hairy cunt, before forcefully jamming his entire length into her unconscious flesh.
Without any further hesitation, “Josh” began viciously fucking his sleeping sister, pumping in and out of her like an animal while groaning and grunting like a bull. “He” nearly worked himself into a frenzy. Wendy’s rotten odor began reeking from all the friction and heat they created, which seemed to turn him on even more. For the next two minutes, the clapping of “his” hips against her sizeable cheeks echoed throughout the room until “he” finally hit is climax and then dumped his thick load inside of “his” sister’s gooey slit. Still inside of her, he collapsed on top of her and under heavy breathing whispered into her ear, “I love you, ‘sis’.”
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It was very late in the morning, almost creeping on noon, when Christine, the mother of the house, stood in the kitchen and prepared some food. She was cheerfully humming a tune while cutting up a cantalope and placing slices of ham on pieces of crispy toast. She then artfully aranged the food on a plate, in a way that was worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant. The food was not only delicious but also visually appetizing, and so was her ample bosom that was proudly put on display by a low-cut, floral sundress, which gently hugged her motherly curves.
Still humming to herself, Christine picked up the plate, left the kitchen, and went up the stairs with a joyful bounce to her step, which not only made the hem of her short dress dance around her hips and tickle her thighs but also made her opulent mounds jiggle playfully. Upstairs, she entered her daughter’s dingy room without either knocking or turning on the lights and placed the food on her desk. “Enjoy your breakfast, honey,” she whispered to a sleeping Wendy.
Without any further hesitation, Christine left her daughter’s room and headed straight to the master bedroom. Behind locked doors she made her way over to her full-sized mirror and began admiring herself. Slowly, a big, dirty grin spread across her face. “Thank you, mother, for providing me with such a healthy breakfast,” “Christine” said in a sickly-sweet tone, seemingly mocking herself. “You always taught me to eat my daily share of fruits, and your ‘melons’ are especially delicious,” she said while giving her huge globes a firm squeeze. “She” then slowly moved her hands along “her” waist and hips, closely following and enjoying every inch of her delectable curves, and then began groping her big, womanly ass. “And let’s not forget about your delicious meat! I gotta hand it to you: you got a real meatsuit of a body, mom!”
“Christine” then threw herself onto her bed and immediately began furiously masturbating, not even bothering to undress. One hand tightly squeezed her fleshy tits while the other inserted two fingers into her hungry snatch, dragging her panties along with them as they plummeted the depths of her steaming hot hole that had given birth to three children, one of which was now in control of her body and effectively molesting her own mother.
Regrettably, “Christine” soon had to remove her hand from her supple twins in order to cover her mouth and stiffle her moans, so that she would not alert the whole house to her lewd activities. Meanwhile, the other hand continued to slip in and out of her unabated. Under the assault from such intense stimulation, it did not take long for her to reach her peak, which she celebrated by letting out a long, muffled scream.
The only thing “Christine” was able to do in the immediate aftermath was to lay on her back, breathing heavily, and bask in the afterglow of her orgasm. Her panties and her hand were now drenched in her juices. But, alas, her bliss was soon interrupted by a knock on the door. “Mom, are you in there?” Josh asked loudly through the door. “Have you seen my black shirt? I’ve been looking all over for it!”
“Christine” quickly scrambled onto her feet and straightend out her dress and hair, trying to make herself look as presentable as possible, as to not tip off “her son” to what kept her so busy. She cracked the door open just barely enough to stick her head out, hiding her body behind the door and her dripping wet hand behind her back. “Have you checked the laundry? I’m pretty sure I’ve put it in the wash recently,” she answered his query. “Yeah, I did. I guess I’m gonna check again, just to be sure,” Josh said and was already turning to walk away.
“Wait!” “Christine” suddenly exlaimed a little bit too loudly, as a most devious idea popped into her head. “What?” Josh asked somewhat startled. “You’ve got a smudge on the corner of your mouth” she explained. “Where?” he said while trying to wipe the imaginary stain from his face. “No, it’s still there. Here, let me try,” she said, now fully opening the door and finally stepping out of the room.
Josh was taken by surprise when “his mother” suddenly got so close to him that she was essentially pushing her opulent chest against his torso. Looking down he saw her face with an expresssion of concentration look up at him. Underneath that he caught a glimpse of her soft pillows bulging out of the top of her dress as they were pressed flat against him.
“M–Mom, w–what are you doing?” Jost stammered, as he began to blush. “Hold still! Just let me get it real quick,” “Christine” demanded. Unbeknownst to Josh, though, the hand which “his mother” was now smearing all over his face was still coated in her sticky juices.
Since Josh was quite a bit taller than his mother, “Christine” raised herself up by standing on the tips of her toes to better reach and more closely inspect his face. In the process, she pushed her breasts even deeper into him and slid them up along his chest until their nipples were perfectly aligned with each other.
“M–Mom, s–stop it!” Josh said while struggling to get away from her, as her face was now close enough that he could feel her hot breath on his skin. “Hold still!” “Christine” demanded. “The more you move the longer it will take.” Never having been this close to his own mother, at least not since he was a child, Josh caught a whiff of her perfume which was followed by a strange, musky smell.
Coming into such intimate contact with a woman’s body made the inside of Josh’s pants swell rapidly. His dick did not care who it was, flesh was flesh. But the thought that it was his own mother’s flesh surprisingly made him grow even harder. So hard, in fact, that he was now poking her belly with his manhood.
Appaled by his own reaction, Josh pushed who he thought was his mother away from himself. “Thanks, I think it’s gone now,” he yelled out without looking at her, trying to hide that his face was now a deep crimson. He then hastily fled to his room, almost tripping over himself, as he desperately tried to escape this embarrassing situation. “Christine” on the other just chuckled to herself, as she was highly amused by “her son’s” reaction.
That night Christine and Gilbert could be heard enjoying each other throughout the house.
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A lot of clanking, rattling, and cursing could be heard coming from the garage. Christine had asked her husband Gilbert to look after the car, since it had been making a lot of weird noises lately and even had briefly died on her the other day. This is why Gilbert, a man in his early fifties who, despite his thinning hair and slight dad bob, had still retained some of his youthful handsomeness, was now bent over the car’s engine covered in dirt and motor oil, occasionally bonking his head on the hood of the car.
Just as he finished changing the oil, his daughter Alice walked in. Unlike her sister Wendy, Alice had always been a Daddy’s girl. She and her father had been attached by the hip to each other ever since she was born. Even throughout puberty, when most other teenagers vie for their independence, she had stayed close to her Dad who had remained a steadfast anchor for her. Even now, the twenty-year-old college student loved spending time with her father more than anything else. Ever since she was a little child, one of her favorite things to do was to sit in her father’s lap and play Super Mario Bros., earning her the nickname “princess”.
There was something about her father’s presence that was incredibly relaxing to her, which is why the slim brunette did not mind him seeing her in only a pair of yoga pants and a tight spaghetti-strap top without a bra. Her outfit revealed the outline of her nubile form in great detail, including her pert buns and her gravity-defying orbs. Even her nipples were poking through the thin fabric of her top as soon as they got a taste of the chilly air inside the garage.
“Hey, Dad! Watcha doing?” Alice exclaimed with a beaming smile on her face. She threw her arms enthusiastically around her father’s waist, smushing her buoyant breasts against his soft belly in the process. “Not much,” Gilbert replied while reciprocating her loving embrace. He rocked her from side to side, thereby squishing his daughter’s youthful mounds even tighter against himself. “Your mother was complaining about the car so I thought maybe I could get the old can working again. What about you, princess? Wanna hang out with your old man?”
“Oh, I’d love to,” Alice said. “But I just came here to get a screwdriver to fix the recliner on my chair.” “Well, then don’t let me stop you,” Gilbert said and booped her on the nose, coating its tip with black grease from his dirty hands. When they released their embrace and Alice made her way towards the shelf on the other side of the garage, Gilbert watched his daughter’s backside and discovered that he had accidentally smeared black grease all over her. Most of it covered her shoulders and upper arms, but some of it even got on her lower back.
The tool she was looking for was located on the top-most shelf, so Alice had to really stretch herself to reach up high. But, it was not enough, as she was still missing a few inches. She then tried jumping up and down, making her luscious body, and especially her firm cheeks, shake vigorously every time she returned to the ground. Yet, she still came up short. For a while, Gilbert closely eyed his daughter’s antics before he walked over to her and said, “Here, let me help you with that.”
Alice suddenly yelped as her father, without warning, scooped up her tight little butt with his big, strong hands, and lifted her up high. His palms essentially provided a seat for her from which she comfortably could reach the tool she needed. Gilbert then gently put her down again, leaving two big, greasy handprints on his daughter’s rear.
Her father’s sudden display of strength left Alice a bit frazzled. For a moment she just stood there in silence, still facing away from him. She did not know what was happening to her. As a kid she had loved being picked up by her Dad and would cling to him like a koala. But that was ages ago. Now that she was fully grown she felt differently. No man had ever handled her like that, lifting her entire adult weight so easily. It somehow made her heart beat much faster and left her short of breath. She tried to swallow down those strange feelings, yet she still blushed when she tucked her long, brunette hair behind her ears.
Alice was in the middle of turning to face her father, wanting to ask him what that was all about, when she suddenly felt as if her feet were knocked away from under her legs, making her trip and fall chest-first towards him. Gilbert instinctively tried to catch her fall, but by doing so his daughter’s perky mounds landed squarely on his big, greasy hands. His dirty palms molded themselves perfectly around the swell of her pliable breasts. Alice thought she might be going crazy, but she could have sworn she had felt her Dad give her boobs a firm squeeze. Nevertheless, her nipples still visibly stiffened.
“Uhm, … Dad?” Alice squeaked with her father’s hands still cupping her twins. “Yes, princess? Are you alright?” Gilbert asked with worry on his face. “Yeah, … I guess so …,” she mumbled while getting back on her own feet. When Gilbert’s hands finally disconnected from his daughter’s body, they revealed yet another pair of big, black handprints, this time squarely on her chest.
“Are you sure? You seem kinda out of it,” Gilbert said while trying to feel his daughter’s forehead with the back of his hand. Alice swatted his hand away more aggressively than she had intended. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said with a bit of agitation in her voice. “I …, uh …, I need to change.”
Unable to deny the heat welling up inside of her, Alice tried to leave as quickly as she could, but on her way out her Dad surprised her yet again by giving her a not-so-fatherly pat on her ass. She turned her head around one last time and to give her “father” a quizzical look, but the expression on his face betrayed nothing but paternal intentions. Yet, as soon as she had left the garage, “Gilbert’s” warm expression turned sinister and a big, wet stain began to form on the crotch of his pants.
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It was late at night. Christine and Gilbert had gone out earlier that evening and were not expected to return until the next morning, leaving the “kids“ home alone. The whole house was wrapped in silence, except for the blaring of the TV coming from the living room. Josh sat alone on the couch watching a movie when Alice came shuffling into the room. She was completely draped in a giant blanket, dragging a long train behind her, making it almost look like a wedding dress.
“Heeeyy, Josh. What are you doing?” Alice asked drowsily. “Oh, nothing much. Just watching a movie. What’s up with you? Why the huge-ass blanket?” her brother responded. “I’m a little cold. Mind if I join you?” “Sure. Be my guest” he said patting the spot next to him and then placed his arm on the back of the couch. She took up his offer and sat down beside him, putting up her legs and angling them to the side, all while making sure to never leave the comforting warmth of her blanket.
“Oh, hey, isn’t that the movie we used to watch a lot as kids?” Alice asked. “Yeah,” Josh responded. “I happened to come across it while I was flipping through the channels.” “Boy, I haven’t seen it in years. I completely forgot about it. I remember we used to watch it every time it was on. I even used to scour the TV magazines so that I always knew when to catch it,” Alice said excitedly. “Yeah, I’ve been watching it only for a few minutes, yet there are so many lines that come back to me just seconds before they show up in the movie,“ Josh said joining in on the excitement.
The two siblings kept laughing and joking, quoting lines from the movie as they appeared on screen, and reveling in old memories. After sharing lots of heartfelt moments, Alice suddenly asked her brother, “Are you cold, too?” Without waiting for an answer, she began covering him with the excess half of her blanket. “Here, let me give you some of my blanket. That’ll warm you up in no time.” “Well, I wasn’t really cold. But, thanks, I guess,” the young man commented.
Underneath the blanket, Alice sidled up closer to her brother and put her head on his shoulder. They had always gotten along great, yet he was somewhat surprised about how she was acting chummier than usual. But since they were sharing a deeply bonding moment, he didn’t question it any further. Sitting like that with his sister felt comfortable to him, making him relax deeply, and allowing himself to completely get lost in the movie.
For the rest of the night, the two of them kept watching the movie in silence. When it was over, Josh’s immersion finally broke and he came back to the real world. He switched off the TV and was about to turn towards his sister when he noticed that the top of her head was right underneath his nose. Somehow she had sneakily wrapped her arms around his waist and had fallen asleep with her head nestled against his chest. Most of her body laid on top of him in a tight embrace.
Alice’s gentle snores reminded Josh of a cat’s soft purrs. He thought that, in this moment, his little sister was the most adorable. But when the sweet fragrance of her peach-flavored shampoo invaded his nose, it caused something to stir deep inside of him, in a place completely unbeknownst to him. To his shock, he began to grow hard.
Confused about his feelings, Josh just sat there, not daring to make a move. After what seemed like an eternity to him, Alice woke up. Rustling underneath the blanket she looked up at him with bleary eyes. When the vision of her brother’s face came into focus she greeted him with a beaming smile. For a long moment, they just gazed at each other wordlessly. Her big, glimmering eyes looked up at him longingly, which made him blush and melted away all his natural defences. He was now at full mast.
Josh then watched in slow-motion how his sister closed her eyes and moved in closer. When he felt her tender lips on his, he was completly stunned. His jaw dropped in shock, which Alice interpreted as an invitation to sneak her tongue into his mouth. At first he went along with it by pure instinct. But when it finally sank in that he was, in fact, really kissing his sister, he shoved her away in panic, making the blanket slip down a bit, uncovering her bare shoulders.
“Stooooppp!!” Josh yelled. “What are you doing? You’re my sister! We can’t be doing that!” Tears began welling up in Alice’s eyes in response to his sudden outburst. “But Josh …,” she whimpered. “Don’t you love me?” She looked at him expectantly with her watery eyes. “Nooo!!!” he continued yelling. “I-I-I mean, y-yes, I-I m-mean, no!” he stammered. “Aarghh! I don’t love you like thaaat!”
Alice dropped her head seemingly in defeat. But something about her demeanor changed, like a shadow was cast over her eyes. Suddenly Josh felt something scurrying around his scrotch underneath the blanket. He realized it was his sister’s hands trying to undo his belt and zipper. Now even more panicked, he pushed her away more forcefully than before, accidentally throwing the blanket off of her in the process and revealing that she had been naked underneath.
“Alice!! Why the hell are you naked?!?! What is wrong with you today?” Josh kept yelling. With a dark, menacing grin forming on her face, she growled at him, “You better let this happen. We don’t want her to find herself in a compromising situation, do we?” “Wendy…,” Josh gasped, the words getting stuck in his throat. His mind was sent on a rollercoaster, desperately struggling for a solution on how to get out of this situation. But deep down, Josh knew he had nothing against her powers.
Completely dejected, Josh finally resigned himself to his fate. “Alice”, on the other hand, squealed with excitement and, like a child ripping open a present on christmas, frantically tried to get her brother’s dick out of his pants. When she finally freed it from its denim prison, his rigid member sprung out with the energy of a coil spring. She then swung one of her smooth legs over her brother and placed herself squarely on top of him.
Without any further hesitation, “Alice” slowly lowered her unclad, nubile form towards her brother’s penis. His bulbous head at first just barely kissed her velvety folds, but then gently parted them, and finally, by completely piercing her labia, desecrated that holy bond between brother and sister.
“Wendy, we have to stop this! We’re not wearing any protection!” Josh tried to protest one last time. “Don’t be silly, I’m sure this little slut is on birth control” “Alice” hissed. She was straining to force herself down her brother’s girth. “Hhnnnnnghhhoooohhhh my god she is so tight” she said panting. “She must still be a virgin. Well, not anymore, hehe.” Her small, hairless lips formed a tight seal around his thick shaft. To keep going further, she arched her back and angled her hips for maximum penetration.
When she finally bottomed out, “Alice” grabbed Josh’s head and started giving him a deep passionate kiss. Her long, brown hair draped over them, curtailing the world from seeing the forbidden intimacy they were sharing. While they kept kissing, “Alice” started to moan into his mouth, as she began slowly working her way up and down her brother’s shaft. The more their friction and passion increased, the more she ruffled his hair, her hands’ movements becoming more and more frantic.
Meanwhile, Josh moved his hands down his sister’s bare back and glid them first along her waist, then her hips, and finally around the sensual curve of her butt. He gave her firm cheeks a strong squeeze, while at the same time supporting her petite body with his manly hands. At last, he finally gave in to his new-found, forbidden desires and started humping his sister in sync with the rhythm of her movements.
Getting wetter by the second, “Alice’s” juices by now provided enough lubrication for her to easily glide along her brother’s member. She broke off their kiss, sat upgright, and began to drastically increase her speed. As she was bouncing up and down on Josh’s dick, her perky tits kept jiggling wildy about. To aleviate that, she took her brother’s hands and firmly placed them on top of her shapley breasts. He eagerly accepted her offer and began digging his fingers deeply into the tender flesh of his sister’s swollen boobs, ferociously groping and squeezing them like a man who lost all his inhibitions.
Greed seemed to overtake Josh, as he followed his sister’s lead by sitting upright and then tightly embracing her lithe body while she kept viciously riding his cock. Hungrily, he placed his mouth on her delicious breasts and began sucking and licking and biting her nipples, practically devouring her boobs and almost swallowing them whole. His sister rewarded him by giving off a series of high-pitched moans and clamping down on his dick.
“Wendy …,” Josh gasped short of breath and inbetween sucking his sister’s nipples. “What is it, bro?” Alice moaned. “I don’t… I don’t think I can hold it any lo—” was the last thing Josh managed to say before he finally errupted inside his sister like a volcano, spraying his creamy spunk all over his her insides. Feeling her brother’s hot goo coating her inner walls set off “Alice’s” own orgasm, making her join him in his extacy. Her body, which was glistening from all the excertion, began shaking from top to bottom as if a current of electricity ran through her.
When the tension suddenly left her body, “Alice” collapsed on top of her brother. Completely drained, she nestled her head against his chest, breathing heavily and with strands of her sweat-drenched hair sticking to her face. “I love you, Josh,” “Alice” whispered sweetly. “I love you, too,” he sighed unconvincingly. His dick was still inside deep his sister, refusing to go limp.
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For the past month there had been a large shadow hanging over their household. Wendy’s shenanigans had sowed mistrust and uneasiness among the members of her family. It all came to a head when Alice finally confronted her brother. “Josh, I’m begging you: please tell me the truth!” Alice pleaded. “What’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me? You don’t even look me in the eyes anymore.” “I said, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Josh hissed without even facing her. His eyes were red and on the verge of tears.
Gilbert and Christine heard their children argue, so they went to investigate. “What’s going with the two of you? Why are you making so much noise?” Gilbert said as he stepped into the room. “Josh, has been avoiding me for weeks now and he won’t tell me what his problem is,” Alice said unnerved. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that, too. Care to explain yourself, son?” Gilbert asked.
Josh tried to block off their barrage of questions, but, after being relentlessly corned by three people, he eventually broke down in tears and confessed how Wendy had taken control of Alice and forced himself onto her, and how he had been unable to resist. The entire room fell silent. Alice’s stomach turned, sickening her to her core. Gilbert was simply stunned, the news leaving his mind completely blank.
Christine, on the other hand, felt an uncontrollable rage explode inside of her. “That’s it!” she yelled with tears of anger in her eyes. “This is way over the line! I’m so sick and tired of her shit. This has to end now!” “Wait! Where are you going?” Gilbert said to the afterimage of his wife as she had already rushed out of the room. The rest of them slowly began to follow her, one after the other, still trying to process the information they had just received.
An absolutely livid Christine stomped furiously down the hallway and violently barged into her daughter’s room, almost knocking the door out of its hinges. There, Wendy laid on her bed and, like so often, just slept. Without waiting for her to wake up, Christine swiftly approached her sleeping daughter, wrapped her hands around her throat, and began strangling her with all her might. Wendy did not seem to make any signs of struggling against her mother’s assault.
“How could you do that?” Christine sobbed uncontrollably as rivers of tears streamed down her face. “I loved you with all my heart. Why did you become such a hateful peson? Where did I go wrong?” she said gritting her teeth. “This is the only way I can make things right!”
Gilbert and Josh were aghast when they stepped into the room and discovered what Christine was doing. Yet, neither of them intervened and tried to stop her. They just stood there and watched.
When everything was over, everybody went quiet again, except for Christine who was unable to stop her tears. Suddenly, Alice, who everyone seemed to have forgotten about, stepped into the room. They all looked at her in disbelief as they watched a creepy, sinister smile form on her pretty face. “No!” Christine whispered. “Actually, yes, mother,” “Alice” countered. “I’m not so easy to get rid of, you see.” “No!” Christine repeated, this time more emphatically. “And from now on, you will all do exactly as I tell you or the police might get an anonymous tip about what has happened to your dearest daughter. Remember this for the rest of you lives: you got blood on your hands, literally, and I won’t hesistate to take any one of you down!” “Alice” said menacingly. It finally dawned on Christine, Gilbert, and Josh that there was no way of escaping Wendy and that they had to resign themselves to the fact that their lives were now fully under her control, essentially making them her personal slaves.
Meanwhile, “Alice”, who was relishing in the power she had over her family, sauntered over towards her father and lifted the front of her skirt, exposing “her” panty-clad pussy. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, Daddy,” she whispered with lust dripping in her voice. Both of her small, feminine hands then reached out and grabbed one of her father’s big, manly hands and slowly guided it underneath her skirt and panties and gently placed it onto her already sopping wet pussy. Gilbert was too stunned to stop her, and even if he had not been, he would not have dared to go against her.
Suddenly, both Alice and Gilbert shuddered simultaneously. “We sure will, princess,” “Gilbert” said with a lecherous expression on his face. “He” then slipped a finger inside “his” daughter’s smooth folds and began aggressively fingering her hole. The real Alice was dazed and confused when she finally came to again. “D–Dad?” she stammared. “W–What’s going o–o–oooohhhhnnggg?!” she moaned, being overwhelmed by an unexpected orgasm as her “father” quickly sent her over the edge.
Christine was horrified as she watched her husband molest their daughter in front of her eyes. Unfortunately, she was unable to do anything about it as a shiver ran down her spine and the same spell that had taken over her husband and daughter was now taking hold of her. “And let’s not neglect these two here,” “Christine” said while firmly squeezing “her” boobs against each other. “She” then climbed onto Wendy’s bed on all fours, pulled up her dress and her panties to the side, and openly offered up “her own” snatch. “Josh, be a good son and come over here and show Mommy how much my boy has grown up?”
At last it was Josh’s turn. Before he could really process the actions unfolding in front of him, he was no longer in control of his body. “Don’t mind if I do!” “Josh” replied eagerly. As fast as lightning “he” walked over to his mother, dropped his pants, and slammed his rock-hard errection into her sloppy slit. Christine, now back in control of her body, was overwhelmed with the pleasurable sensation of her son’s girthy member ramming in and out of her. When she felt her son mauling her big tits from behind, she went completely limp in his arms, as the last of her will left her while “her son” kept hammering her hole. Eventually, they both climaxed at the same time and Christine felt her son’s hot fluids spread throughout her inside.
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That same night it was raining cats and dogs. Gilbert and Josh, equipped with spades, dug a hole in their backyard to dispose of Wendy’s corpse while Christine and “Alice” watched from the kitchen window.
The four of them would spend the rest of their lives living in fear and terror, as Wendy forced them to live out all of her depraved sex fantasies between sister and brother, father and daughter, mother and son, mother and daugher, and even between father and son.
Eventually, when the last of her family members had passed on, Wendy continued to live on as a formless presence, taking over other people, until the end of time.
It was in the very early morning hours. The whole house was pitch-black and its inhabitants were fast asleep, except for one. The only source of light was the glow emenating from a computer monitor. It illuminated Wendy’s face and the strands of greasy hair glued to it. The synthetic light just faintly revealed the mess in her room: the moldy plates, empty take-out boxes, and dirty clothes, all of which were freely intermixed and strewn about.
Wet sounds and a pungent smell filled the air. Wendy sat in her computer chair in just her underwear and masturbated while playing an erotic dating simulator. She had been an avid fan of video games, especially story-driven ones like visual novels, since she was a kid, but since the twenty-three-year-old failed out of college and moved back in with her parents, she had done nothing but sit in front of her computer and play video games all day long.
She used to be somewhat pretty, but she let herself go quite a bit when she essentially barricaded herself into her old childhood room, only ever leaving to use the bathroom. Since then, she had been escaping more and more into the virtual world of various video games, desperately trying to escape her failures in the outside world. The easily achievable goals in those games provided her with at least a fake sense of fullfilment and purpose.
Initially, she stuck to regular video games and story-driven visual novels. But since moving back home, she got fairly addicted to romantic dating simulators, which provided her a with a substitute for the type of relationship she longed for but could not achieve in real life. Things took even more of a downturn when, a few months ago, after having played through virtually all visual novels, she checked out her first incest-themed eroge, a genre she had not paid any attention to before, but now felt compelled to in order to avoid spending any second alone with her own thoughts.
Right in that moment she was playing through a scene where the main character’s adorable little sister snuck into her older brother’s bed and snuggled up to him under the covers. The game quickly turned erotic and, in response, Wendy let out a long, deep grunt, signaling her climax.
To recuperate from her self-satisfaction, Wendy leaned back into her chair and looked up at her dimmly-lit ceiling. After a few moments an idea popped into her head. She got up and, for the first time in a while, left her room for a reason other than to use the bathroom. She quietly crept through the dark hallway and slowly opened the door two rooms further down, trying to keep it from creaking as to not wake the person sleeping inside.
After entering the room, she managed to silently close the door behind her and then tip-toed towards the bed inside. There, she lifted the covers and carefully laid down next to her older brother Josh who was sleeping soundly. She then cozied up to him under the blanket just like she had seen the little sister do in her video game. She was now right next to him with her foul breath caressing his skin.
Wanting to recreate the scene from her video game, Wendy began carefully fishing her brother’s limp dick out of his pyjama pants and gently rubbed it until it was fully errect. She then rolled on top of him, pushed her panties aside, and stealthily slipped his dick into her hungry snatch.
Meanwhile, Josh was having the most amazing dream. In it, he found himself in an infinite, white void where he was hooking up with the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her long, brunette hair appeared to be silky-soft as it gently swayed around her slender frame with each motion, lending her an ethereal presence. The only things about her that he found more captivating than her radiant smile were her full, ripe breasts, which were practically begging to be devoured. She seemed really familiar to Josh, although he could not quite place where he had seen her before. Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend he had forgotten about. Nevertheless, he did not want to keep this unknown beauty waiting by fretting about it.
Josh and the mysterious girl had already fully shed their clothes and were eager to get things going. He laid down on the most comfortable bed imaginable, which had appeared out of nowhere without him ever noticing. Lying on his back, he watched as his dream lover expertly fondled his privates while looking up at him with hungry eyes. In no time he was ready to take her. The nameless vixen sat on top of him and began immediately riding him, placing her hands on his hard abs for support. Her hot, silky depths engulfed him completely as her smooth, hairless body writhed with pleasure. Biting her lower lip, she failed to stifle the soft moans escaping from her mouth that accompanied the expressions of extacy on her gorgeous face. They caressed Josh’s ears like the sweatest of melodies, bewitching him like a siren. The pleasure that grew in his groin was overwhelming, beyond anything he had ever experienced in real life.
Yet, something about her felt odd to him. Despite her small size and lithe body, the dreamy nymph on top of him felt unusually heavy. This bizarre fact made him realize that he was actually dreaming, which immediately ripped him from his sleep.
Completely disoriented, the only things Josh could perceive in the dark was labored breathing and groaning, and a heavy weight bouncing up and down on him. At first he hoped that this might be a continuation of his wonderful dream, but when a lurid stench crept up his nose he knew for certain that he was awake. Wanting to find out who or what was disturbing his sweet dreams, he turned to his night stand right beside his bed to turn on the light. For a few seconds the sudden presence of light blinded him like a flash of lightning. But when his eyes had acclimated to the new-found brightness, he was horrified by the ghastly figure sitting on top of him.
“Wendy!!”, Josh exlaimed as he recognized his grody younger sister straddling him, wearing only a bra and panties. Her grin was barely visible through her greasy hair and the bra that had failed to adjust to her increased size dug deeply into her chubby shape, almost cutting off circulation to her formless breasts. “What the hell are you doing in my room in the middle of the night? And why are you sitting on top of me?” Josh demanded angrily. “Oh, Josh,” was the only answer Wendy could moan, never breaking with the rhythm of her movements. Hearing these sexual sounds come from his sister’s mouth was like fingernails on a chalkboard to his ears.
Her abhorrent, yet puzzling, response made Josh’s eyes wander lower. He gagged violently when he discovered his dick was burried deep inside his sister’s rancid, unkempt snatch, even feeling her coarse pubes rubbing against his skin as she was grinding her crotch against his. He felt so repulsed by this disgusting sight that he could have projectile-vomitted every meal he had ever had in his life right in that very moment. Luckily, his stomach was completely empty or he would have made an even bigger mess out of this situation.
“Get off of me!” Josh yelled while forcefully pushing his grody sister away. Wendy fell off his dick, off his bed, and on onto the floor, landing there with a strong thud. She quickly scrambled back onto her feet. “Why did you do that?” she hissed. “That’s what I should be asking! Why were you having sex with me, Wendy? You’re my sister! That’s so fucked!” he exclaimed. “But I’m your cute little sister, bro. Don’t you find me adorable,” she said batting her eye-lids, trying to charm her brother, but somehow ending up looking even creepier.
“Eewww, you’re sick, Wendy! Sick and vile!” Josh said disgusted. “And not just that, you’re also fucking filthy. I’d rather rip my own dick off and poke my eyes out with it than have sex with you, even if we were the last two people on earth stranded on a lonely island! I wish you’d just disappear forever and leave us alone.” Her brother’s harsh remarks finally burst the fantasy that Wendy had built up in her mind over the past few months of playing eroges. The reality she tried to run from came crashing down on her right in this moment, as Josh’s cutting words hurt her deeply.
“Fine!” Wendy said scorned and full of anger. “If you want me to disappear, then that’s what I will do, I guess!” With tears of anger welling up, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Wait! Wendy! Nooo—!” Josh exclaimed, trying to stop her. But it was too late. As if something had zapped the life out of her, Wendy instantly lost all the tension in her body and collapsed face-first onto her brother’s bed. At the same time, Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body began convulsing vigorously. Then something inside of him snapped and he, too, lost almost all the tension in his body, just barely being able to stand. His head was loosely dangling from his neck.
After a few moments of silence, Josh seemed to wake up, as both his heads slowly rose up again. But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in control. His sister Wendy had somehow developed the powers to take over other people’s bodies during her early teenage years. At first she was shy and reluctant about them, as she used to be a gentle soul. She simply could not square it with her conscience to control other people. The most she would do was ride along in the friends or family members of a boy she had a crush on at the time. When her parents found out about her powers, they immediately scolded her and forbade her from ever using her powers. But as Wendy grew older, her parents realized that their daughter did not have any ill intentions and began relaxing about the situation.
But when Wendy failed out of college and her mental health declined, things turned scary for her family. She became more and more controlling and petulant, throwing tamper tantrums anytime anyone disturbed her or tried to tell her what to do. She also became increasingly blasé about using her powers, taking over her family, neighbors, and anyone in reach for the smallest of matters, just so she would never have to leave her room.
On a few occasions Wendy had even used her powers to blackmail people into doing what she wanted, even when she was not possessing them. Another time she had stalked a poor guy who she had become at first infatuated and then obsessed with on social media. She had followed him around as different people, watching every step he made, every second of his life for two months. She only stopped because she eventually became bored of him.
These were the myriad of reasons that her family now lived in fear of her. Her parents could not throw her out because of her powers. They themselves could not move out since all their savings were tied into their house. Their youngest daughter, Alice, refused to leave, as she did not want her parents to suffer alone. And even Josh had moved back in as a means to protect his family, which is why he now found himself not in control of his own body.
“Josh” grinned from ear to ear as he patted down “his” flat chest. “He” then flexed his biceps, admiring his own strength. Next, he grabbed his dick, which was already painfully errect, with both his hands and began firmly squeezing it. He could virtually feel the blood pulsing through the thick meat of his sizeable member. “He” then turned to the person lying on his bed and said, “I’m soooo sorry, ‘sis’. I didn’t mean to hurt you. My words came out all wrong. What I meant to say was that you are the most adorable little sister a big brother could ever wish for! Here, let me show you how much I love you.”
With that, “Josh” stepped towards Wendy’s comatose body and snaked his big, strong hands underneath her torso. “Oh, my. When did my cute little sister grow up to be such a woman?” “he” cooed while groping her flabby breasts. Without turning over her heavy frame, “Josh” glid his rough hands along her pudgy waist and onto her even wider hips, firmly grabbing ahold of them. “He” then carefully wormed his prick into “his sister’s” slimy, hairy cunt, before forcefully jamming his entire length into her unconscious flesh.
Without any further hesitation, “Josh” began viciously fucking his sleeping sister, pumping in and out of her like an animal while groaning and grunting like a bull. “He” nearly worked himself into a frenzy. Wendy’s rotten odor began reeking from all the friction and heat they created, which seemed to turn him on even more. For the next two minutes, the clapping of “his” hips against her sizeable cheeks echoed throughout the room until “he” finally hit is climax and then dumped his thick load inside of “his” sister’s gooey slit. Still inside of her, he collapsed on top of her and under heavy breathing whispered into her ear, “I love you, ‘sis’.”
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It was very late in the morning, almost creeping on noon, when Christine, the mother of the house, stood in the kitchen and prepared some food. She was cheerfully humming a tune while cutting up a cantalope and placing slices of ham on pieces of crispy toast. She then artfully aranged the food on a plate, in a way that was worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant. The food was not only delicious but also visually appetizing, and so was her ample bosom that was proudly put on display by a low-cut, floral sundress, which gently hugged her motherly curves.
Still humming to herself, Christine picked up the plate, left the kitchen, and went up the stairs with a joyful bounce to her step, which not only made the hem of her short dress dance around her hips and tickle her thighs but also made her opulent mounds jiggle playfully. Upstairs, she entered her daughter’s dingy room without either knocking or turning on the lights and placed the food on her desk. “Enjoy your breakfast, honey,” she whispered to a sleeping Wendy.
Without any further hesitation, Christine left her daughter’s room and headed straight to the master bedroom. Behind locked doors she made her way over to her full-sized mirror and began admiring herself. Slowly, a big, dirty grin spread across her face. “Thank you, mother, for providing me with such a healthy breakfast,” “Christine” said in a sickly-sweet tone, seemingly mocking herself. “You always taught me to eat my daily share of fruits, and your ‘melons’ are especially delicious,” she said while giving her huge globes a firm squeeze. “She” then slowly moved her hands along “her” waist and hips, closely following and enjoying every inch of her delectable curves, and then began groping her big, womanly ass. “And let’s not forget about your delicious meat! I gotta hand it to you: you got a real meatsuit of a body, mom!”
“Christine” then threw herself onto her bed and immediately began furiously masturbating, not even bothering to undress. One hand tightly squeezed her fleshy tits while the other inserted two fingers into her hungry snatch, dragging her panties along with them as they plummeted the depths of her steaming hot hole that had given birth to three children, one of which was now in control of her body and effectively molesting her own mother.
Regrettably, “Christine” soon had to remove her hand from her supple twins in order to cover her mouth and stiffle her moans, so that she would not alert the whole house to her lewd activities. Meanwhile, the other hand continued to slip in and out of her unabated. Under the assault from such intense stimulation, it did not take long for her to reach her peak, which she celebrated by letting out a long, muffled scream.
The only thing “Christine” was able to do in the immediate aftermath was to lay on her back, breathing heavily, and bask in the afterglow of her orgasm. Her panties and her hand were now drenched in her juices. But, alas, her bliss was soon interrupted by a knock on the door. “Mom, are you in there?” Josh asked loudly through the door. “Have you seen my black shirt? I’ve been looking all over for it!”
“Christine” quickly scrambled onto her feet and straightend out her dress and hair, trying to make herself look as presentable as possible, as to not tip off “her son” to what kept her so busy. She cracked the door open just barely enough to stick her head out, hiding her body behind the door and her dripping wet hand behind her back. “Have you checked the laundry? I’m pretty sure I’ve put it in the wash recently,” she answered his query. “Yeah, I did. I guess I’m gonna check again, just to be sure,” Josh said and was already turning to walk away.
“Wait!” “Christine” suddenly exlaimed a little bit too loudly, as a most devious idea popped into her head. “What?” Josh asked somewhat startled. “You’ve got a smudge on the corner of your mouth” she explained. “Where?” he said while trying to wipe the imaginary stain from his face. “No, it’s still there. Here, let me try,” she said, now fully opening the door and finally stepping out of the room.
Josh was taken by surprise when “his mother” suddenly got so close to him that she was essentially pushing her opulent chest against his torso. Looking down he saw her face with an expresssion of concentration look up at him. Underneath that he caught a glimpse of her soft pillows bulging out of the top of her dress as they were pressed flat against him.
“M–Mom, w–what are you doing?” Jost stammered, as he began to blush. “Hold still! Just let me get it real quick,” “Christine” demanded. Unbeknownst to Josh, though, the hand which “his mother” was now smearing all over his face was still coated in her sticky juices.
Since Josh was quite a bit taller than his mother, “Christine” raised herself up by standing on the tips of her toes to better reach and more closely inspect his face. In the process, she pushed her breasts even deeper into him and slid them up along his chest until their nipples were perfectly aligned with each other.
“M–Mom, s–stop it!” Josh said while struggling to get away from her, as her face was now close enough that he could feel her hot breath on his skin. “Hold still!” “Christine” demanded. “The more you move the longer it will take.” Never having been this close to his own mother, at least not since he was a child, Josh caught a whiff of her perfume which was followed by a strange, musky smell.
Coming into such intimate contact with a woman’s body made the inside of Josh’s pants swell rapidly. His dick did not care who it was, flesh was flesh. But the thought that it was his own mother’s flesh surprisingly made him grow even harder. So hard, in fact, that he was now poking her belly with his manhood.
Appaled by his own reaction, Josh pushed who he thought was his mother away from himself. “Thanks, I think it’s gone now,” he yelled out without looking at her, trying to hide that his face was now a deep crimson. He then hastily fled to his room, almost tripping over himself, as he desperately tried to escape this embarrassing situation. “Christine” on the other just chuckled to herself, as she was highly amused by “her son’s” reaction.
That night Christine and Gilbert could be heard enjoying each other throughout the house.
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A lot of clanking, rattling, and cursing could be heard coming from the garage. Christine had asked her husband Gilbert to look after the car, since it had been making a lot of weird noises lately and even had briefly died on her the other day. This is why Gilbert, a man in his early fifties who, despite his thinning hair and slight dad bob, had still retained some of his youthful handsomeness, was now bent over the car’s engine covered in dirt and motor oil, occasionally bonking his head on the hood of the car.
Just as he finished changing the oil, his daughter Alice walked in. Unlike her sister Wendy, Alice had always been a Daddy’s girl. She and her father had been attached by the hip to each other ever since she was born. Even throughout puberty, when most other teenagers vie for their independence, she had stayed close to her Dad who had remained a steadfast anchor for her. Even now, the twenty-year-old college student loved spending time with her father more than anything else. Ever since she was a little child, one of her favorite things to do was to sit in her father’s lap and play Super Mario Bros., earning her the nickname “princess”.
There was something about her father’s presence that was incredibly relaxing to her, which is why the slim brunette did not mind him seeing her in only a pair of yoga pants and a tight spaghetti-strap top without a bra. Her outfit revealed the outline of her nubile form in great detail, including her pert buns and her gravity-defying orbs. Even her nipples were poking through the thin fabric of her top as soon as they got a taste of the chilly air inside the garage.
“Hey, Dad! Watcha doing?” Alice exclaimed with a beaming smile on her face. She threw her arms enthusiastically around her father’s waist, smushing her buoyant breasts against his soft belly in the process. “Not much,” Gilbert replied while reciprocating her loving embrace. He rocked her from side to side, thereby squishing his daughter’s youthful mounds even tighter against himself. “Your mother was complaining about the car so I thought maybe I could get the old can working again. What about you, princess? Wanna hang out with your old man?”
“Oh, I’d love to,” Alice said. “But I just came here to get a screwdriver to fix the recliner on my chair.” “Well, then don’t let me stop you,” Gilbert said and booped her on the nose, coating its tip with black grease from his dirty hands. When they released their embrace and Alice made her way towards the shelf on the other side of the garage, Gilbert watched his daughter’s backside and discovered that he had accidentally smeared black grease all over her. Most of it covered her shoulders and upper arms, but some of it even got on her lower back.
The tool she was looking for was located on the top-most shelf, so Alice had to really stretch herself to reach up high. But, it was not enough, as she was still missing a few inches. She then tried jumping up and down, making her luscious body, and especially her firm cheeks, shake vigorously every time she returned to the ground. Yet, she still came up short. For a while, Gilbert closely eyed his daughter’s antics before he walked over to her and said, “Here, let me help you with that.”
Alice suddenly yelped as her father, without warning, scooped up her tight little butt with his big, strong hands, and lifted her up high. His palms essentially provided a seat for her from which she comfortably could reach the tool she needed. Gilbert then gently put her down again, leaving two big, greasy handprints on his daughter’s rear.
Her father’s sudden display of strength left Alice a bit frazzled. For a moment she just stood there in silence, still facing away from him. She did not know what was happening to her. As a kid she had loved being picked up by her Dad and would cling to him like a koala. But that was ages ago. Now that she was fully grown she felt differently. No man had ever handled her like that, lifting her entire adult weight so easily. It somehow made her heart beat much faster and left her short of breath. She tried to swallow down those strange feelings, yet she still blushed when she tucked her long, brunette hair behind her ears.
Alice was in the middle of turning to face her father, wanting to ask him what that was all about, when she suddenly felt as if her feet were knocked away from under her legs, making her trip and fall chest-first towards him. Gilbert instinctively tried to catch her fall, but by doing so his daughter’s perky mounds landed squarely on his big, greasy hands. His dirty palms molded themselves perfectly around the swell of her pliable breasts. Alice thought she might be going crazy, but she could have sworn she had felt her Dad give her boobs a firm squeeze. Nevertheless, her nipples still visibly stiffened.
“Uhm, … Dad?” Alice squeaked with her father’s hands still cupping her twins. “Yes, princess? Are you alright?” Gilbert asked with worry on his face. “Yeah, … I guess so …,” she mumbled while getting back on her own feet. When Gilbert’s hands finally disconnected from his daughter’s body, they revealed yet another pair of big, black handprints, this time squarely on her chest.
“Are you sure? You seem kinda out of it,” Gilbert said while trying to feel his daughter’s forehead with the back of his hand. Alice swatted his hand away more aggressively than she had intended. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said with a bit of agitation in her voice. “I …, uh …, I need to change.”
Unable to deny the heat welling up inside of her, Alice tried to leave as quickly as she could, but on her way out her Dad surprised her yet again by giving her a not-so-fatherly pat on her ass. She turned her head around one last time and to give her “father” a quizzical look, but the expression on his face betrayed nothing but paternal intentions. Yet, as soon as she had left the garage, “Gilbert’s” warm expression turned sinister and a big, wet stain began to form on the crotch of his pants.
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It was late at night. Christine and Gilbert had gone out earlier that evening and were not expected to return until the next morning, leaving the “kids“ home alone. The whole house was wrapped in silence, except for the blaring of the TV coming from the living room. Josh sat alone on the couch watching a movie when Alice came shuffling into the room. She was completely draped in a giant blanket, dragging a long train behind her, making it almost look like a wedding dress.
“Heeeyy, Josh. What are you doing?” Alice asked drowsily. “Oh, nothing much. Just watching a movie. What’s up with you? Why the huge-ass blanket?” her brother responded. “I’m a little cold. Mind if I join you?” “Sure. Be my guest” he said patting the spot next to him and then placed his arm on the back of the couch. She took up his offer and sat down beside him, putting up her legs and angling them to the side, all while making sure to never leave the comforting warmth of her blanket.
“Oh, hey, isn’t that the movie we used to watch a lot as kids?” Alice asked. “Yeah,” Josh responded. “I happened to come across it while I was flipping through the channels.” “Boy, I haven’t seen it in years. I completely forgot about it. I remember we used to watch it every time it was on. I even used to scour the TV magazines so that I always knew when to catch it,” Alice said excitedly. “Yeah, I’ve been watching it only for a few minutes, yet there are so many lines that come back to me just seconds before they show up in the movie,“ Josh said joining in on the excitement.
The two siblings kept laughing and joking, quoting lines from the movie as they appeared on screen, and reveling in old memories. After sharing lots of heartfelt moments, Alice suddenly asked her brother, “Are you cold, too?” Without waiting for an answer, she began covering him with the excess half of her blanket. “Here, let me give you some of my blanket. That’ll warm you up in no time.” “Well, I wasn’t really cold. But, thanks, I guess,” the young man commented.
Underneath the blanket, Alice sidled up closer to her brother and put her head on his shoulder. They had always gotten along great, yet he was somewhat surprised about how she was acting chummier than usual. But since they were sharing a deeply bonding moment, he didn’t question it any further. Sitting like that with his sister felt comfortable to him, making him relax deeply, and allowing himself to completely get lost in the movie.
For the rest of the night, the two of them kept watching the movie in silence. When it was over, Josh’s immersion finally broke and he came back to the real world. He switched off the TV and was about to turn towards his sister when he noticed that the top of her head was right underneath his nose. Somehow she had sneakily wrapped her arms around his waist and had fallen asleep with her head nestled against his chest. Most of her body laid on top of him in a tight embrace.
Alice’s gentle snores reminded Josh of a cat’s soft purrs. He thought that, in this moment, his little sister was the most adorable. But when the sweet fragrance of her peach-flavored shampoo invaded his nose, it caused something to stir deep inside of him, in a place completely unbeknownst to him. To his shock, he began to grow hard.
Confused about his feelings, Josh just sat there, not daring to make a move. After what seemed like an eternity to him, Alice woke up. Rustling underneath the blanket she looked up at him with bleary eyes. When the vision of her brother’s face came into focus she greeted him with a beaming smile. For a long moment, they just gazed at each other wordlessly. Her big, glimmering eyes looked up at him longingly, which made him blush and melted away all his natural defences. He was now at full mast.
Josh then watched in slow-motion how his sister closed her eyes and moved in closer. When he felt her tender lips on his, he was completly stunned. His jaw dropped in shock, which Alice interpreted as an invitation to sneak her tongue into his mouth. At first he went along with it by pure instinct. But when it finally sank in that he was, in fact, really kissing his sister, he shoved her away in panic, making the blanket slip down a bit, uncovering her bare shoulders.
“Stooooppp!!” Josh yelled. “What are you doing? You’re my sister! We can’t be doing that!” Tears began welling up in Alice’s eyes in response to his sudden outburst. “But Josh …,” she whimpered. “Don’t you love me?” She looked at him expectantly with her watery eyes. “Nooo!!!” he continued yelling. “I-I-I mean, y-yes, I-I m-mean, no!” he stammered. “Aarghh! I don’t love you like thaaat!”
Alice dropped her head seemingly in defeat. But something about her demeanor changed, like a shadow was cast over her eyes. Suddenly Josh felt something scurrying around his scrotch underneath the blanket. He realized it was his sister’s hands trying to undo his belt and zipper. Now even more panicked, he pushed her away more forcefully than before, accidentally throwing the blanket off of her in the process and revealing that she had been naked underneath.
“Alice!! Why the hell are you naked?!?! What is wrong with you today?” Josh kept yelling. With a dark, menacing grin forming on her face, she growled at him, “You better let this happen. We don’t want her to find herself in a compromising situation, do we?” “Wendy…,” Josh gasped, the words getting stuck in his throat. His mind was sent on a rollercoaster, desperately struggling for a solution on how to get out of this situation. But deep down, Josh knew he had nothing against her powers.
Completely dejected, Josh finally resigned himself to his fate. “Alice”, on the other hand, squealed with excitement and, like a child ripping open a present on christmas, frantically tried to get her brother’s dick out of his pants. When she finally freed it from its denim prison, his rigid member sprung out with the energy of a coil spring. She then swung one of her smooth legs over her brother and placed herself squarely on top of him.
Without any further hesitation, “Alice” slowly lowered her unclad, nubile form towards her brother’s penis. His bulbous head at first just barely kissed her velvety folds, but then gently parted them, and finally, by completely piercing her labia, desecrated that holy bond between brother and sister.
“Wendy, we have to stop this! We’re not wearing any protection!” Josh tried to protest one last time. “Don’t be silly, I’m sure this little slut is on birth control” “Alice” hissed. She was straining to force herself down her brother’s girth. “Hhnnnnnghhhoooohhhh my god she is so tight” she said panting. “She must still be a virgin. Well, not anymore, hehe.” Her small, hairless lips formed a tight seal around his thick shaft. To keep going further, she arched her back and angled her hips for maximum penetration.
When she finally bottomed out, “Alice” grabbed Josh’s head and started giving him a deep passionate kiss. Her long, brown hair draped over them, curtailing the world from seeing the forbidden intimacy they were sharing. While they kept kissing, “Alice” started to moan into his mouth, as she began slowly working her way up and down her brother’s shaft. The more their friction and passion increased, the more she ruffled his hair, her hands’ movements becoming more and more frantic.
Meanwhile, Josh moved his hands down his sister’s bare back and glid them first along her waist, then her hips, and finally around the sensual curve of her butt. He gave her firm cheeks a strong squeeze, while at the same time supporting her petite body with his manly hands. At last, he finally gave in to his new-found, forbidden desires and started humping his sister in sync with the rhythm of her movements.
Getting wetter by the second, “Alice’s” juices by now provided enough lubrication for her to easily glide along her brother’s member. She broke off their kiss, sat upgright, and began to drastically increase her speed. As she was bouncing up and down on Josh’s dick, her perky tits kept jiggling wildy about. To aleviate that, she took her brother’s hands and firmly placed them on top of her shapley breasts. He eagerly accepted her offer and began digging his fingers deeply into the tender flesh of his sister’s swollen boobs, ferociously groping and squeezing them like a man who lost all his inhibitions.
Greed seemed to overtake Josh, as he followed his sister’s lead by sitting upright and then tightly embracing her lithe body while she kept viciously riding his cock. Hungrily, he placed his mouth on her delicious breasts and began sucking and licking and biting her nipples, practically devouring her boobs and almost swallowing them whole. His sister rewarded him by giving off a series of high-pitched moans and clamping down on his dick.
“Wendy …,” Josh gasped short of breath and inbetween sucking his sister’s nipples. “What is it, bro?” Alice moaned. “I don’t… I don’t think I can hold it any lo—” was the last thing Josh managed to say before he finally errupted inside his sister like a volcano, spraying his creamy spunk all over his her insides. Feeling her brother’s hot goo coating her inner walls set off “Alice’s” own orgasm, making her join him in his extacy. Her body, which was glistening from all the excertion, began shaking from top to bottom as if a current of electricity ran through her.
When the tension suddenly left her body, “Alice” collapsed on top of her brother. Completely drained, she nestled her head against his chest, breathing heavily and with strands of her sweat-drenched hair sticking to her face. “I love you, Josh,” “Alice” whispered sweetly. “I love you, too,” he sighed unconvincingly. His dick was still inside deep his sister, refusing to go limp.
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For the past month there had been a large shadow hanging over their household. Wendy’s shenanigans had sowed mistrust and uneasiness among the members of her family. It all came to a head when Alice finally confronted her brother. “Josh, I’m begging you: please tell me the truth!” Alice pleaded. “What’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me? You don’t even look me in the eyes anymore.” “I said, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Josh hissed without even facing her. His eyes were red and on the verge of tears.
Gilbert and Christine heard their children argue, so they went to investigate. “What’s going with the two of you? Why are you making so much noise?” Gilbert said as he stepped into the room. “Josh, has been avoiding me for weeks now and he won’t tell me what his problem is,” Alice said unnerved. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that, too. Care to explain yourself, son?” Gilbert asked.
Josh tried to block off their barrage of questions, but, after being relentlessly corned by three people, he eventually broke down in tears and confessed how Wendy had taken control of Alice and forced himself onto her, and how he had been unable to resist. The entire room fell silent. Alice’s stomach turned, sickening her to her core. Gilbert was simply stunned, the news leaving his mind completely blank.
Christine, on the other hand, felt an uncontrollable rage explode inside of her. “That’s it!” she yelled with tears of anger in her eyes. “This is way over the line! I’m so sick and tired of her shit. This has to end now!” “Wait! Where are you going?” Gilbert said to the afterimage of his wife as she had already rushed out of the room. The rest of them slowly began to follow her, one after the other, still trying to process the information they had just received.
An absolutely livid Christine stomped furiously down the hallway and violently barged into her daughter’s room, almost knocking the door out of its hinges. There, Wendy laid on her bed and, like so often, just slept. Without waiting for her to wake up, Christine swiftly approached her sleeping daughter, wrapped her hands around her throat, and began strangling her with all her might. Wendy did not seem to make any signs of struggling against her mother’s assault.
“How could you do that?” Christine sobbed uncontrollably as rivers of tears streamed down her face. “I loved you with all my heart. Why did you become such a hateful peson? Where did I go wrong?” she said gritting her teeth. “This is the only way I can make things right!”
Gilbert and Josh were aghast when they stepped into the room and discovered what Christine was doing. Yet, neither of them intervened and tried to stop her. They just stood there and watched.
When everything was over, everybody went quiet again, except for Christine who was unable to stop her tears. Suddenly, Alice, who everyone seemed to have forgotten about, stepped into the room. They all looked at her in disbelief as they watched a creepy, sinister smile form on her pretty face. “No!” Christine whispered. “Actually, yes, mother,” “Alice” countered. “I’m not so easy to get rid of, you see.” “No!” Christine repeated, this time more emphatically. “And from now on, you will all do exactly as I tell you or the police might get an anonymous tip about what has happened to your dearest daughter. Remember this for the rest of you lives: you got blood on your hands, literally, and I won’t hesistate to take any one of you down!” “Alice” said menacingly. It finally dawned on Christine, Gilbert, and Josh that there was no way of escaping Wendy and that they had to resign themselves to the fact that their lives were now fully under her control, essentially making them her personal slaves.
Meanwhile, “Alice”, who was relishing in the power she had over her family, sauntered over towards her father and lifted the front of her skirt, exposing “her” panty-clad pussy. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, Daddy,” she whispered with lust dripping in her voice. Both of her small, feminine hands then reached out and grabbed one of her father’s big, manly hands and slowly guided it underneath her skirt and panties and gently placed it onto her already sopping wet pussy. Gilbert was too stunned to stop her, and even if he had not been, he would not have dared to go against her.
Suddenly, both Alice and Gilbert shuddered simultaneously. “We sure will, princess,” “Gilbert” said with a lecherous expression on his face. “He” then slipped a finger inside “his” daughter’s smooth folds and began aggressively fingering her hole. The real Alice was dazed and confused when she finally came to again. “D–Dad?” she stammared. “W–What’s going o–o–oooohhhhnnggg?!” she moaned, being overwhelmed by an unexpected orgasm as her “father” quickly sent her over the edge.
Christine was horrified as she watched her husband molest their daughter in front of her eyes. Unfortunately, she was unable to do anything about it as a shiver ran down her spine and the same spell that had taken over her husband and daughter was now taking hold of her. “And let’s not neglect these two here,” “Christine” said while firmly squeezing “her” boobs against each other. “She” then climbed onto Wendy’s bed on all fours, pulled up her dress and her panties to the side, and openly offered up “her own” snatch. “Josh, be a good son and come over here and show Mommy how much my boy has grown up?”
At last it was Josh’s turn. Before he could really process the actions unfolding in front of him, he was no longer in control of his body. “Don’t mind if I do!” “Josh” replied eagerly. As fast as lightning “he” walked over to his mother, dropped his pants, and slammed his rock-hard errection into her sloppy slit. Christine, now back in control of her body, was overwhelmed with the pleasurable sensation of her son’s girthy member ramming in and out of her. When she felt her son mauling her big tits from behind, she went completely limp in his arms, as the last of her will left her while “her son” kept hammering her hole. Eventually, they both climaxed at the same time and Christine felt her son’s hot fluids spread throughout her inside.
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That same night it was raining cats and dogs. Gilbert and Josh, equipped with spades, dug a hole in their backyard to dispose of Wendy’s corpse while Christine and “Alice” watched from the kitchen window.
The four of them would spend the rest of their lives living in fear and terror, as Wendy forced them to live out all of her depraved sex fantasies between sister and brother, father and daughter, mother and son, mother and daugher, and even between father and son.
Eventually, when the last of her family members had passed on, Wendy continued to live on as a formless presence, taking over other people, until the end of time.
possession
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Calyope is a bisexual witch who has settled down with a normal guy. But when she discovers a magical rune of transformation, she thinks she might have discovered a way to have the best of both worlds.
Calyope was a novice witch. A witch that had recently had a whirlwind romance and married a man who was everything she’d ever wanted. Almost. Despite loving Eric’s masculine body, there were times she found herself wanting something different in bed. She really did enjoy the feel of her husband’s hard cock sliding between her legs. The way he held her down with his powerful body and the long moan he’d make as he erupted inside of her.
She loved it. She really did. And it should have been enough. Except…Calyope was bisexual. And even though she loved her husband’s cock and the feel of his abs and the way he fucked her with such intensity, she found herself missing the touch of a woman. There was just something about the feeling of running her fingers across gentle curves. The inhale of sweet perfume on impossibly soft breasts. The vibrant feminine moans that escaped as she used her tongue to taste a deliciously wet pussy. The feeling of her soft curves. The sweet smells. The taste of pussy on her tongue.
When Calyope chose to marry Eric, she thought she’d given up on those desires. It had been easy at first. Her high sex drive helped her go out of her way to seduce him the moment he got home from work. She would devour him, enticing him to make love in any and every position he wanted. She was his completely. So why was she still having all these fantasies about being in bed with a woman?! And it was only getting worse. The more she thought about what she’d left behind, the more she craved it. This made her feel guilty, because she had a good thing with Eric. He loved her. Had accepted her being a witch with no issues at all. And he worked so hard to help provide for their home. He had too, since he didn’t have an ounce of magical ability himself.
She told herself it was enough and that she should just move forward with her husband and his hot body. And she might have, until an old book of spells suddenly appeared on her doorstep one day. She was very curious who had dropped it off. She thought about doing a trace spell, but forgot the incantation and would have to look it up. But she got distracted from further investigation as she opened the pages. It contained a lot of advanced magic, some that might take years to master. She was about to put it aside, when she came across an intricate rune called ‘Overlaid’ that contained elements of mind control and physical transformation.
Her heart quickened its pace as she read further. To place the rune, a complicated spell must be uttered while placing hands on a person who was willing to be transformed. While chanting, the caster must envision the new shape they want the subject to take, as well as their state of mind. If done properly, a rune would be created on the person that when activated, would overlay their mind and body with a completely new persona.
It could completely alter their mind, giving them the thoughts, feelings and desires implanted by the caster, while also changing their shape, even their gender. Calyope’s heart began to beat faster as she reread the part about changing gender. It was exactly the kind of spell she was looking for that would allow her to have her cake, and be able to fuck it too.
There were two problems though. This was a very risky spell that used borderline dark magic to temporarily alter a person’s thoughts and appearance. But it also required a willing subject. It was one thing to roleplay in the bedroom. This was on another level entirely. Her husband would have to trust her so much!
Had they even been married long enough for her to ask such a thing of Eric? He’d always been so accepting of her, and had thus far been willing to do whatever she wanted to do in the bedroom. If she asked him in just the right way, perhaps with her legs wrapped around him, he’d consent to this wild idea. She grew wet as she thought of asking him for this erotic favor while his big cock was buried in her pussy.
She looked up from the book, suddenly wondering where Eric was. She wanted to fuck him right now! Why was he at work so much of the time?!
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind her made her jump in her seat. Then she heard her husband’s deep sexy voice ask, “Whatchya reading there?”
Calyope suddenly felt very embarrassed, and turned bright red. They were married. She could talk to him about anything. But this was so kinky, so perverted, and she wasn’t sure he was really ready for that conversation. So she lied. “N-nothing you’d be interested in?”
“Oh, well now I have to see!” Eric said, and he lunged for his wife.
Calyoped giggled and shoved the book out of his reach as he landed on top of her. They mock wrestled and clung to each other for several seconds. But then his hands were squeezing her boobs and she was pulling his shirt over his head between needy kisses. “I need you inside me,” she begged.
Eric smirked as he removed his underwear. “Don’t you always.”
It was true. She’d never been disinterested in sex with Eric. Sex with her man was always on the table. Would she still feel that way if he had different parts? If he exchanged his chiseled pecs for a pair of bouncy double D’s, or his hard throbbing cock for a wet and warm pussy?
The thought of it made her grasp his dick and stroke it while she looked up at him and begged. “Please! Shove it in. Right now!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. Then he tenderly lay her down on the floor, and pushed into her.
“Fuck!” she howled, loving the initial moment of penetration. “Yeah. Give it to me hard baby! Just the way I like it!”
Thoughts of telling him about the transformation rune vanished from her mind. All she could think of was how good his cock felt. Her brain grew wonderfully fuzzy with each thrust, and all she could think to do was wrap her legs around his torso and to pull him deeper.
She came before he did. She always did.
As Eric watched her scream in ecstasy, he said, “Oh fuck! That’ll do it!” He grunted and moaned as he shot inside his wife.
He rolled off and lay beside her on their living room floor, both panting from the sudden but wonderful exertion.
“Not complaining, but what brought that on?” Eric finally asked.
“Um…well, uh, I found a new spell…” Calyope said shyly.
‘Oh yeah?” Eric said bemused. “What kind of spell?”
Calyope decided to just rip the bandaid. She shut her eyes tight and said, “It lets you transform a person!”
Eric laughed. “Want me to have an even bigger dick, is that it?”
“No!” Calyope clarified quickly. “Your dick is perfect!” And she really meant it. She loved his cock the way it was. It fit her perfectly. Stretched her out in all the right ways, like it was made for her. But, if Eric were also a woman, they’d just be getting STARTED with their lovemaking. “This would be transforming you…in other ways. I’d really be swapping out your dick with…something else…” She clenched her fists and sucked in a breath. She was so nervous about telling him, but it was right there.
After a moment of confused silence, Eric asked, “Swap it out for what?”
“Well…You know how I also like girls, right?”
“I am aware,” Eric said, wisely choking down a laugh as he realized how hard this was for his wife to say.
“This spell would let me change you into a woman.”
“A woman?!” Eric repeated with a mixture of shock and amusement.
“Not permanently or anything! Just like, it puts a magical rune on your skin, like a tattoo. And whenever I activate the rune, I could turn you into a girl, and back again, whenever I, er, WE, wanted to.” There was more to it, but she decided to leave out the fact that it also altered the mind. “The spell says the subject must be willing to have it placed on you. So, you’d have to give me consent, and I completely understand if you need time to think about it, and I’ll still love you if you say no so don’t think that you have to-”
“I’m down,” he said, cutting her off with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope’s breath caught as her husband just casually agreed to let her fuse a rune to his skin that would allow her to radically change him! She again thought about letting him know that she’d be able to change his thoughts and personality, but didn’t want to give him any reason to change his mind. She told herself he wouldn’t care, because he’d so quickly agreed. He wanted to make her happy. And during the times he was a girl, she’d definitely go out of her way to make him happy as well.
Eric interrupted her by asking, “So, do you want to do this now or…”
Her eyes went wide, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. It was amazing enough that he was willing to do it, but even sweeter that he was willing to do it immediately. She reached out to play with his short dark hair. “That’s incredibly sweet, but no, not now.”
She noticed his expression change to one of disappointment, so she hastened to explain, “I’ll need time to read over the spell. It’s a long and tricky one and I don’t want to botch it. Plus, I’ll want to think of the type of…um…,” she felt her cheeks turning pink again. “...body I’d like you to have as a girl.”
Eric grinned. “Oh yeah? You got certain attributes in mind?” He looked down at his impressive chest and abs. “Thinking of turning my pecs into some nice round melons you can suck on? Boy, that’d be so weird, but like, yeah, it’d be cool to have your mouth there on a couple of big titties.”
That kind of talk really got Calyope’s motor running. She didn’t admit that was the first thing she’d thought about, but instead picked a more aesthetic detail. “Well, I mean, I love your hair color, but I’d just make it a little longer. Like shoulder length, and straight. I’d round out your face a bit, making it more feminine. Ooh, I’d give you full, luscious lips. And then…” Her eyes drifted down her husband’s body as very vivid details flooded her thoughts.
As if reading her mind, Eric moved a hand between his wife’s legs and began to gently finger her. “Please, keep going. Tell me how else you’d turn me into your dream girl.”
“Oh, uh…” she gasped, suddenly finding it hard to talk as her husband’s skilled fingers went to work. She placed a hand on her husband’s chest. “You’re…you’re right about me swapping out your chest. It’s a really hot chest babe, but…yeah…I’d love to see what it looks like with a pair of double D’s. I’d make them so sensitive that if I just breathed on them, you’d be begging me to suck on them.”
Eric laughed. “I would, huh? Well, I guess we’ll see about that.”
As her mind became consumed with lust, she thought to herself, ‘You wouldn’t have a choice. I’ll turn you into a horny slut that wants my mouth all over your new body.”
Her hand drifted down his abs, and came to his dick, which was semi hard and slippery with their combined juices. “I’d shrink this until it became a slit. A perfect little pussy that I could lick as much as I wanted, making you scream for more.”
“Is that all?” Eric asked, knowing his wife was almost to the brink of climax by the way she was breathing and moving her hips in time with his fingers.
“I’d make you just a little shorter than me!” she cried out. “And I’d make you-Oh fuck! I’d make you my perverted little sex slave! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Ooh!” The powerful orgasm made her shake from head to toe.
When she was finally able to relax, Eric pulled her close and they cuddled. He whispered gently in her ear, “Are you sure you can’t do that spell on me now?”
She laughed softly. “I think I need to get the dishes put away and dinner started,” she said.
Eric said nothing for a moment, then shrugged and said a playful, “Fine.” He stood and helped her to her feet. With a playful swat on her butt he said, “Get to work.”
Her mouth fell open in mock surprise, but then she giggled, and went off to do the housework.
The next few days were a blur, because everytime she had a chance, Calyope was thinking about that spell. Putting eyes on it. Sounding it out. Imagining the ideal feminine shape her husband would become, and the personality she would make him have. She was becoming obsessed, and could think of little else while she did her daily chores. It certainly made them easier.
She thought a tiny bit about maybe altering Eric’s mind to not just be a sex slave, but also be willing to do some of the mundane chores that she did every day. She didn’t mind doing them for her husband. It was part of how she showed her love and devotion to him. But she did wish he’d help out around the house a little more. The vast majority of her thoughts though, were imagining the raven haired beauty he would become, and then making that goddess put her pretty mouth between her legs.
Despite her perverted obsession, it was actually her husband that mentioned using the spell again. She’d been lost in another fantasy while the dishes magically washed, dried, and put away themselves, when her husband pressed himself against her from behind.
“How’s that rune spell coming along, Calyope? Are you ready to turn me into a sexy woman yet?”
Calyope felt his rod twitch against her ass. She instinctively pushed back, wanting to feel it slide between her cheeks. Since she was only wearing an apron, she got her wish. The delightful sensation of that hard cock made her lose her magical concentration though, and a dish crashed to the floor. “Oh shoot,” she pouted, as her husband withdrew behind her. She made a motion with her finger and the dish repaired itself and sailed into the cupboard.
“Sorry,” about that,” she heard her thoughtful husband say.
“She spun around and said, “I think I’m ready.” Goodness knows she needed to be. She needed to alleviate the sexual tension that seemed to be building exponentially inside of her as she thought about turning her husband into a woman. It had felt all consuming these last few days. “I’ve been studying it every time I get a free moment, and should have all the words memorized, so I think we should, um…” she trailed off as she realized how eager she sounded.
Eric laughed. “I can tell you’ve been thinking about it a lot. Every time I look at you while you’re doing your chores, or we’re eating, or, well, after we’re done fucking, you get that faraway look in your eye that makes me think you’re thinking about transforming me into your lesbian lover.”
“Busted,” she giggled, as she looked her husband up and down, undressing him with her eyes and fantasizing about the new curves he’d soon have.
“So where do you want to do this?” he asked curiously. The way his wife was looking at him made him feel like a slab of meat being dangled in front of a hungry lion. He didn’t mind in the least.
“How about upstairs in the bedroom,” Calyope suggested excitedly. “And I’ll need to make contact with you for the spell, so why don’t you just-”
“Get naked,” Eric finished with a wide grin.
Calyope winked at him. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, babe,” he said, winking back.
They raced upstairs. As soon as Eric walked in, he pulled off his shirt. Calyope found herself staring at his toned body, and for a moment, thought about scrapping the spell and just taking his male self right then and there.
He saw her gawking as he pulled off his pants and underwear. She was now staring right at his rigid cock that was pointing straight at her. He snapped his fingers and said, “My eyes are up here, love. I know you love this cock, but let’s try to focus,” he teased, then twisted his body side to side so his dick slapped against his torso.
Calyope felt like she was being hypnotized by the motion of that big beautiful cock. Drool had formed in her mouth. Drool that she could use to slobber all over his impressive man meat with her tongue. She shook her head and closed her eyes. She really did need to focus! She had her husband’s permission, and knew the spell pretty well. She needed to strike while the iron was hot, because who knew, tomorrow he might change his mind.
She stepped directly in front of him, and put the fingertips of her right hand onto his stomach. She could feel the tight muscles there. His body was lean and calloused and tough. Everything she wanted in her man. She almost pushed him down onto the bed so she could fuck him, but with an extra bit of willpower, she began a slow and steady chant. As she did, she put every thought into the woman she wanted him to become.
She pictured a slightly shorter physique than herself. One with shoulder length jet black hair, pouty lips, and a round face. This woman would have large, bouncy breasts, almost but not quite as big as her own. Her body would be a vision of seductive curves and soft skin. She would have a neatly trimmed bush, and an always wet and sensitive pussy.
Calyope’s thoughts turned from the physical to the mental. She knew this would reshape her husband’s mind, but she did not hesitate as she thought how this transformed woman would always desire to have sex with Calyope. She would find ways to seduce Calyope, and be willing to beg for the chance to get between her legs. And housework. She’d want to help with chores and making meals. But most importantly, she’d be a kinky slut, coming up with new and exciting ways to get each other off!
That last thought turned her on so much it threatened to distract her, and she stumbled over a few of the words. She looked down at her fingertips and was disheartened to see no rune had formed. She wondered if her carelessness had ruined her first attempt.
“It’s okay, you can do it,” Eric assured her, and put his hand atop hers encouragingly as she started saying the spell again.
Calyope put all her concentration into it this time. She tuned everything else out as she thought only about the words and the manifestation of her fantasy woman.
Slowly but surely, she felt the spark of magic against Eric’s skin. She looked down, and saw a glowing line etched itself from the top of her middle finger, to the other places her fingertips touched. She became excited as a perfect circle began to form, and inside that circle, a combined symbol of an arrow and a cross that represented the masculine and feminine. As Calyope finished the chant, it glowed brightly, and then faded. But the rune remained. A permanent magical brand on her husband’s stomach.
Eric’s brow furrowed, and he let out a breath he’d been holding. He looked down at himself, and asked with obvious disappointment, “Shouldn’t I be a girl now?”
“Not yet,” Calyope said, and licked her lips. “Now that the rune’s there, I should be able to turn you into a girl whenever I want. No lengthy spell, just a touch, and a one word command.”
“Well go ahead then, babe,” Eric said in his deep voice as he struck out his chest and did a superhero pose. “Let me help you make your bisexual dreams come true.”
Calyope bounced up and down and clapped her hands excitedly. Then she put her hand on the rune, and said, “Transform.”
The rune did not glow, but just remained a faint mark on his skin. “I don’t know what’s wrong? That should have worked!” she said. “Let me consult the-”
But before she could run and get the spell book, Eric took her hand again, and placed it over hers on his stomach. “Maybe I have to help show the magic that I’m willing? I am. I am willing,” he said, looking down at his stomach. “Let’s try again, at the same time. Ready?”
Calyope nodded and said, “Okay. On the count of three, let’s both of us say it. One, two, three…”
Simultaneously, husband and wife both said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed bright on Eric’s stomach.
“I think something’s happening!” Eric said excitedly as his skin began to ripple up and down his body.
“It sure is,” Calyope exclaimed. She stepped back from her husband, and watched with wide eyed fascination as he shrank from his 6 foot 2 self, to about 5 foot 9. This was apparent to Calyope, because it was still an inch taller than her own self. That wasn’t quite to her specifications, but it could be amended at a later time.
Eric’s brown hair darkened until it was jet black, then ran down to his shoulders like a waterfall cascading down from his head. His lips became fuller, his face rounder and softer. His broad chest shifted, narrowing first and becoming slimmer. Then his right pectoral began to protrude. It blossomed into a round jiggly boob.
This caused Eric to chuckle as he reached his hand up to it and gave it a squeeze. He looked at his wife, and saw how much she was enjoying the show. He blew her a kiss, right before a left boob popped out before Calyope’s eyes.
He suddenly shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his crotch. Calyope followed his gaze, and saw his erect penis shrink rapidly into his body, leaving only a slit with a tuft of dark curly hair barely covering it.
“Oh wow, that transformation process feels good!” Eric gasped in a high pitched voice as his smaller hand dipped down to his new pussy.
Calyope was glad that her husband wasn’t mourning the loss of his favorite member. She assumed this was part of the spell, helping him embrace the changes by spiking his lust. She remembered that soon he should be up for anything if the spell did its job.
“Oh!” Eric suddenly exclaimed. “Something else is getting bigger!” He gave a slow turn so his wife could see his hips widen, and his ass expand into a round plump butt that had Calyope drooling. He gave it a shake, and giggled as it clapped. “Certainly a lot more exciting than my flat ass, wouldn’t you say, babe?”
Calyope took a step towards him, as if entranced by the wobble of his new sexy butt.
Eric giggled again and said, “I take it you like what you see?”
“I really do,” Calyope said sincerely as Eric finished a slow spin. She saw that the rune on his stomach had faded into a faint, black outline, a reminder that she’d be able to turn him back to her masculine husband whenever she wanted. But right now, she wanted, no, NEEDED to touch every inch of his feminine skin with her fingertips. And then her tongue.
“This spell is incredible,” she whispered as she put a hand on Eric’s arm. “You look nothing like your original self, Eric! I wouldn’t even know you were my husband if I hadn’t seen you transform before my very eyes.”
When Eric responded, his new high girly voice was silky and seductive. “As long as I look like this, Cal, why don’t you call me Erica.”
“Yeah,” Calyope said, bringing her face closer and closer to her husband’s pouty lips. “Erica.”
And then they were kissing. It was not the kissing of two people that have never kissed each other before. Nor the kind that expresses comfortable familiarity. No. This was rather like the kind where two people have been desperate for each other in the worst way and are finally allowed to express their pent up feelings physically.
Hands groped greedily. Lips migrated from lips to necks to shoulders to breasts. They each attacked each other’s bodies like this would be their only opportunity. What made Calyope so infinitely happy, other than Erica’s sweet moans, was that it wouldn’t be. She could live out her lesbian fantasy a million times over, all because of how wonderfully willing her husband was.
“You want to lick this pink pussy of mine, right?” Erica suddenly asked, interrupting Calyope’s thoughts.
“I do!” she squealed. Erica smiled wantonly and laid back on the bed. The raven haired beauty parted her legs, and moved her fingers in a downward V to spread her lips open. Calyope saw her folds were already glistening with desire. Calyope got on her knees and bent low. She began by kissing up Erica’s inner thigh, letting the passion between them escalate. Then her lips were kissing a pussy that had been molded and shaped just for her. She extended her tongue, and tasted a divine salty tartness that was instantly addictive.
Calyope giggled into her lover as Erica began to moan and squirm. She popped her head up and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fucking great!” Erica replied, and then put her hand on top of Calyope’s head. “But don’t stop!”
Calyope squealed happily as her mouth was shoved back into Erica’s dripping cunt.
For the first time that Calyope could remember, her husband came before she did. Turns out all he needed for that to happen, was a clit. Even after Erica squirted in her face, Calyope found she didn’t want to stop licking. “You taste so good baby! And I gotta say, I think I prefer my face coated with your pussy juice than your cum.”
Erica giggled. “Thank you? I think? You really do have an amazing tongue by the way.”
“Do you wanna try yours out?” Calyope asked as she dropped next to her.
Erica pushed herself up and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
Caloype was keenly aware of the lack of stubble as Erica’s face brushed against her inner thighs. There was only soft, smooth skin. And then a tongue. It was smaller than Eric’s, but there was a sensuality about it that made Calyope arch her back as it began to lick up and down her folds. “You’re my girlfriend!” she moaned.
A soft laugh reverberated between Calyope’s legs, and then her perfect woman looked up and said, “No, I’m your wife.”
A thrill of delight went through Calyope’s whole body, and Erica didn’t stop until she’d given Calyope everything she’d been hoping for.
The session lasted a very long time, and by the end, they were a sweaty, happy mess. The last thing Calyope thought before she drifted off to sleep was how different it was with a woman. It wasn’t a sprint, but a marathon.
The next several days whizzed by for Calyope. She felt like she was in a perpetual state of sex, and she loved it. The second Eric got home Calyope would turn him into Erica, and they’d make each other climax several times, and then a very tired Calyope would finish her chores while Erica basked in the afterglow. After dinner, Erica would change back to Eric, and fill Calyope’s pussy with strong, powerful thrusts. It was a very good routine, and it might have lasted a good deal longer, had Calyope not made an important discovery.
It happened a month after Erica had been introduced into their lives. Calyope had decided to get up early and shower with her ‘wife.’ She’d showered with Eric many times, but never in the morning before he left for work, because she hated getting up early. She LOVED sleep. She often felt like she could sleep the whole day away. In so many ways, her day really didn’t begin until her husband got back home. That was why she always felt behind on chores, because she so often didn’t start them until Eric got back home.
But she’d been thinking about showering with Erica. She wanted to soap up those beautiful curves. To let her fingers glide over those most intimate of areas while making them smell sweet and fragrant. She’d climaxed last night while thinking about it, while her husband had been inside of her. It was something naughty she often liked to do. To think about the ‘other lover’ that wasn’t there with her while she came.
The opportunity finally arrived when Eric’s alarm actually woke up her that one morning. He was still Erica. Calyope realized she’d forgotten to change Erica back to Eric last night, but Calyope did love the sight of her wife sitting up in bed and stretching. It was a fantastic view. She wanted to pull the busty vixen back down into the bed and begin kissing and licking her all over that curvy figure. But she knew time was of the essence. “I want to shower with you,” she said, placing a hand lovingly on the small of Erica’s back.
Erica yelped at Calyope’s voice, and looked back at her in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to see her in their bed. “Oh, shit. Uh, sorry Cal..yope. I totally forgot to, um…”
“It’s okay, I’m up!” she beamed. “I’ll go heat up the water.” She looked back at Erica from the bedroom door. “And if you don’t mind, I’m not gonna transform you back yet until AFTER the shower,” she giggled.
Erica watched Calyope’s cute butt all the way down the hall to their bathroom. She bit her lower lip and said, “Well, I guess a quick shower won’t hurt.”
She heard the sound of water running. And then a scream.
Erica leapt off the bed and sprinted down the hall. When she got to the doorframe, she cried, “What? What’s the matter? You see a mouse?”
Calyope was still facing the shower. But her head was turned towards the mirror, and her eyes were laser focused on something there. She pointed a shaky hand towards her reflection. She didn’t understand why she had one too. It was smaller, but it was there. On her left butt cheek, was a circular rune with the symbol for masculine and feminine.
“I don’t remember putting a copy of the rune on myself,” she whispered.
Erica sighed and folded her arms. “That’s cause you didn’t put it there, sweetie. I did.”
Calyope finally looked away from the mirror, and turned to face Erica. She was so confused. “But…how could you? You can’t do magic?”
Erica gave her a pitying look and said gently. “No, dear. You’re the one that can’t do magic.” WIth a sudden flick of her wrist, a toothbrush sailed into the air and Erica deftly caught it.
Calyope stared at it in disbelief, not just at the magic on display from her husband/wife, but because the toothbrush…looked like a woman’s toothbrush. She looked at the other toothbrush next to the sink. It was a man’s toothbrush. And a chill went down Calyope’s spine, as she could never remember brushing her teeth. Like, ever.
She began taking panicked, shallow breaths. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” she gasped. She flicked her wrist at the other toothbrush. It did not move. Not even a little. “N-no. No I use magic all the ti-WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER EVER DOING CERTAIN THINGS LIKE BRUSHING MY TEETH?!”
Erica held up her hands soothingly and said, “Darling, relax. Let me just…let me talk to my husband, and we’ll straighten this all-”
Calyope’s hands shot down to her sides and clenched into fists as she shrieked, “Your husband?!”
Erica grimaced. “Yeah, this was…well it was his idea. And he’s…inside of you.”
This revelation stunned Calyope to her very core, which gave Erica the time she needed to step forward and hug her. Then she placed a hand on Calyope’s right buttcheek, and said, “Transform.”
_______________________________________________________
Three months ago.
“So, do you know like, transformation magic?” Calvin asked as they laid in bed after another passionate night unbridled lovemaking.
Erica giggled and hit her husband on the arm. “You sick of my body already?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m just like…I’m wondering if you could transform me? I know you also like girls, and I know that you gave that up that part of you when we got married. But…what if you didn’t have to. What if you could transform me into your ‘wife’ sometimes?”
Erica squeezed her man. “And then I transform into a handsome guy with muscular pecs and come home from work and give you the business?”
“Oh…” Calvin uttered curiously. “I mean…I hadn’t thought of that, but…”
“You’d let me fuck you with a dick?” Erica said, mouth opened in a wide grin.
“No! I mean…maybe.”
“No lie, dear, that actually sounds kinda hot.”
“Wait, wait. I’m not sure I’d want to be able to remember something like that. Is there like, memory magic you could use as well?”
Erica licked her lips, then said, “I actually may know of a spell that is exactly what we’re looking for babe. Just remember, this was all your idea.”
_____________________________________________________
Present Day
The panic left Calvin’s body as he returned to his original self. The weight from his former boobs was distributed mainly to his belly. He was not the ripped male version that his wife became, but a rather ordinary looking guy. The memories began to rush in from his time as Caloyope.
“You didn’t change me back last night,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Erica said, letting him go. She stepped past him and turned off the shower. “We let this go on too long, Cal. She’s become like, a whole different person.”
That had been Cal’s decision too. To be transformed into Calyope more and more throughout the week. Erica didn’t complain, because Cal was an amazing lover as a woman, plus he didn’t mind that his wife had instilled within him a desire to take care of the house, because he felt a disconnect to it. It was helping her, helping him, and they’d been fucking like rabbits in different gender combinations. There had seemed to be no downside. Until now. Calyope had become aware of the transformation rune, and that had led to her feeling like she wasn’t a whole person. And in a way, maybe she wasn’t. She only appeared when they wanted her to. She didn’t get to remember anything beyond those few hours she was allowed to exist. Cal could remember, but not her.
“This is my fault,” Erica said. “I should have paid attention to the precautions. I can have the rune removed.”
Cal’s face fell. “No. No please don’t. There’s got to be another way. Calyope means so much to you. So much to me.”
Erica hugged her husband. She was glad he felt this way. Calyope really had become a part of their family. “Give me some time to think. Maybe…maybe there’s something we can do, but I’ll need to research some spell books.”
They held each other, and finally parted ways. Cal going to work. Erica doing the same. She worked at an apothecary, one that had many magical recipes and spellbooks, which she would dive into today, looking for an answer to the mess they’d made.
A week later, the husband and wife reconvened in the bathroom again. They were both naked as if they were about to shower, but Calvin was just watching his wife use her finger to make a large circle over the mirror. Then she took out a sharp stone and began scratching the surface, carving small symbols into it. When it was done, she placed her hand upon it, and said a lengthy spell she’d been memorizing for the last few days. The mirror glowed, and then looked like a regular mirror again, except it didn’t reflect as it once had. It still showed Erica, but as Calvin looked at it, he saw Calyope. But her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be asleep.
“Okay,” Erica said, assessing the small bathroom. “It’s time. Stand right where she was when she got transformed last time. Let’s try to make this as comfortable for her as possible.”
Calvin put his back to the shower, and Erica put her arms around him. “I hope this works.”
“Me too.”
Erica put a hand on her husband’s fuzzy butt, and said, “Transform.”
A few seconds later, Calyope sucked in a huge breath. Her ‘wife’s’ arms were still around as they had been when she felt herself blank out. She fought the urge to panic. “Let me go,” she said firmly.
Erica did, but then quickly said, “Calyope, we both owe you an apology.”
“Was any of it real?!” she demanded.
Erica hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It was very real, Calyope. But what we did to you wasn’t right. But we think we’ve-”
“Why do you keep saying ‘we?’” Calyope spat. She was so mad, but not just at Erica. She was also mad at herself, because even now the sight of Erica was turning her on. She wanted to kiss her soft lips, and get her mouth between her legs and taste her. She now assumed that this desire was also a part of that rune.
Erica noted the woman’s mixed emotions, but instead of commenting on them, she pointed to the mirror and said quietly, “Calyope, meet your other half, Calvin.”
Calyope looked from Erica to the mirror, expecting to see her and Erica reflected in its surface. But she was mistaken. There was Erica, yes, but instead of Calyope, there was a man where she should be. A man that, in certain aspects, vaguely resembled Calyope herself. Same sandy brown hair color. Same chin. Same eyes.
“Nice to meet you officially,” the reflection of Cal suddenly said, which caused Calyope to jump. The man put his palms out in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, sorry, don’t be scared. The last thing I’d ever want is to hurt you, cause, well, I am you. Erica magicked up this mirror especially for us, so we could talk. It’s very important that you know, Calyope, that you’ve made Erica so happy these last few months.”
“It’s true,” Erica said.
Calyope frowned and looked towards Erica. “I haven’t known you for months,” she countered. “I’ve only known Eric. You know, the person I thought was my husband.”
“Would having him here with you make you more comfortable?” Erica interjected.
Calyope met the woman’s eyes, and nodded sadly. “Yeah. It’d help.” Eric had been her rock. The person she’d do absolutely anything for. She knew this was also probably part of the spell, but just the thought of seeing him calmed her a little.
Erica put a hand to her own overlaid rune and said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed, and Erica’s soft supple form grew taller and became muscular. Her smooth belly gained those chiseled abs that made Calyope go weak in the knees. And suddenly there was his handsome face, looking at her in concern. She threw herself into his strong arms, and he held her tight and patted her head.
“There, there, it’s okay, dear,” he said.
For a few precious seconds, Calyope allowed herself to melt into him. “Do you remember being her?” she finally asked her husband.
He gave her a pitying look. “Um, yes, but…”
“That’s not fair that you get to!” she protested. Then she turned on her male counterpart in the mirror. “Do you remember being me?”
“Also yes,” Calvin admitted. “But for different reasons.”
Calyope looked up into her husband’s dark eyes. She found she wanted to kiss him. To grind against his body until he grew hard, picked her up, and fucked her against the bathroom wall. She tried to keep focused. “What’s he talking about? Why do you both get to remember?”
“Well,” Eric confessed. “I’m still…Erica. Even when I’m Eric, I’m still me. I used the overlaid rune to transform from female to male, but otherwise there were no changes.”
Calyope’s jaw dropped in surprise. “But…you act like a guy when you look like this.” She put a hand on his chest. Being this close to him was having quite the effect on her. If Erica’s body had made her horny, Eric’s body was having even more of an impact.
She looked at her male counterpart while her hand kept descending down to those abs she loved so much. “And what’s your excuse?”
“The magic of the rune allows me to remember everything you thought and did when I transform back,” Cal explained. “It doesn’t feel quite like I was there, but it’s certainly close enough that I feel that you’re a huge part of me.”
Calyope couldn’t stop her hand from going lower as she said, “But that’s not fair. I should be able to feel the same way. I should get to remember being married to Erica, and living your life, and all of it.”
“You’re right,” Cal said. “You’re absolutely right. And the reason Erica and I brought you back, was to tell you that she’s got a way to…” Eric gasped as Calyope’s hand touched the tip of his penis, and Cal noticed. “Um…do I need to give you guys a second?”
Calyope licked her lips as she looked down at Eric’s throbbing member. Then she looked at Cal in the mirror. “Do you remember every time I’ve gone down on my husband?” she asked coolly.
“I…do…” Cal said tentatively. “But, like I said, it’s like remembering something that happened to somebody else. And I certainly don’t dwell on it.”
“Well you’re about to see it,” Calyope said as she began sinking to her knees.
Cal looked at his wife’s Eric persona. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous of the body that his wife had. He looked at her and said, “Look, I’m glad this is working out, but could you take this to the other room.”
Eric shook his head and as he put a hand on top of Calyope’s. “No honey. It’s so much hotter if you’re here to watch your pretty little mouth suck my dick. You can take it so deep too!”
“Yeah, I can absolutely do without the play by play.” But he did watch as Calyope took the cock in her mouth with no hesitation. She sucked it like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she began to moan and rub her clit as she did so. “Fuck, that IS hot,” he finally admitted.
“I knew you’d like to watch you little perv,” Eric groaned. “But I know my precious Calyope. THIS is what she really wants.” With that he lifted her up in his strong arms, pinned her to the wall, and impaled her pussy with his thick cock.
“Yes!” Calyope screamed. “I love you so much, Eric!”
“I love you too, Calyope!”
A moment later, Cal said, “We both do.”
Calyope came hard a minute later. When she did, she knew that her sensitive pussy was a gift from Erica. She bucked her hips and clawed at Eric’s back until he came inside her. When he put her down, she asked, “So…what now?”
Eric kissed her and said, “Now we give you what Calvin has always had. The ability to remember. You’ll remember being him the way he remembers being you.”
“What about some of the other things? Will those change too?”
“What other things?” Calvin asked.
“I’m guessing she means the desire to cook and clean for me.”
“Yeah!” Calyope pouted.
“Ooh, yeah, that was my idea,” Cal admitted.
“Or the fact that just the sight of either of your forms makes me go into heat,” Calyope added.
“Uh, I didn’t actually do that one,” Eric laughed.
“I mean, she is hot as a guy or a girl,” Cal agreed.
“Oh, you want some of this too?” Eric winked, stroking his slippery cock.
Cal rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass, but thanks. I already have plenty of memories of tasting it and having that enormous thing shoved in me.”
“Ohmygosh!” Calyope suddenly exclaimed. “I’ll get to remember fucking you with a dick?!”
Eric hugged her. “Yes, you will, sweetie. But as for the other stuff…well, I’m afraid to redo the rune to make you not want to cook and clean and think you have magic, that won’t go away. Not unless I redid the rune, which…would make the version that is you, go away.”
“Well I don’t want that!” she said quickly. “And I don’t mind too much cooking and cleaning. It is how I’ve always shown you I love you.”
“Again, my idea,” Calvin said.
“Shut it, husband,” Eric snapped playfully.
“Whose idea was it to let me see the book with the overlaid rune?” Calyope asked curiously.
“Oh, that was mine!” Eric answered proudly. “After you brought up wanting to be with a woman, I knew there was a part of you that missed, well, the real me. And that was confirmed when you described me. I thought it would be fun-”
Cal coughed in the mirror.
“Sorry, WE thought it would be fun if we played this out, and…yeah, it was really hot, but we’re both sorry if we ever hurt-”
“Shh,” Calyope whispered, as she put a finger on her husband’s lips. “I’m still really horny. So, I think I’d be fine if…”
“I changed back into your ‘wife’?’” Eric suggested with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope bit her lip. “Yes please.”
Eric swooped up his bride and looked at Cal’s reflection. “You’re gonna enjoy remembering all the kinky lesbian shit we’re about to do, dear.”
Calvin laughed and waved at them. “I know I will. Have fun you two.”
Calyope squealed as Eric ran from the bathroom and threw her onto their bed. He was Erica a moment later, and she dove between Calyope’s legs and began lapping up the cum that had just been deposited by her male self. The two were insatiable all day, and Eric made many guest appearances.
Calvin and Calyope settled into new routines where they shared their time with Erica/Eric, but also loved remembering how happy the other made their spouse.
There are certainly more hijinks to their story, like the one where Calyope got a temporary body from a gollum that Erica created. But that is another story altogether.
The end.
Author's Note
Sorry for my long absence. I hope you enjoyed this new story. The inspiration for it came from the show Severance, and I enjoyed applying the concept of playing it out with a twist with this happily married couple. If you'd like to see more of their story, let me know. I have a few ideas rolling around in my head. Next up though will be more Working Remotely.
Thank you to all my supporters. After I add the next chapter of Working Remotely, you'll be the ones to decide what I work on next.
Calyope was a novice witch. A witch that had recently had a whirlwind romance and married a man who was everything she’d ever wanted. Almost. Despite loving Eric’s masculine body, there were times she found herself wanting something different in bed. She really did enjoy the feel of her husband’s hard cock sliding between her legs. The way he held her down with his powerful body and the long moan he’d make as he erupted inside of her.
She loved it. She really did. And it should have been enough. Except…Calyope was bisexual. And even though she loved her husband’s cock and the feel of his abs and the way he fucked her with such intensity, she found herself missing the touch of a woman. There was just something about the feeling of running her fingers across gentle curves. The inhale of sweet perfume on impossibly soft breasts. The vibrant feminine moans that escaped as she used her tongue to taste a deliciously wet pussy. The feeling of her soft curves. The sweet smells. The taste of pussy on her tongue.
When Calyope chose to marry Eric, she thought she’d given up on those desires. It had been easy at first. Her high sex drive helped her go out of her way to seduce him the moment he got home from work. She would devour him, enticing him to make love in any and every position he wanted. She was his completely. So why was she still having all these fantasies about being in bed with a woman?! And it was only getting worse. The more she thought about what she’d left behind, the more she craved it. This made her feel guilty, because she had a good thing with Eric. He loved her. Had accepted her being a witch with no issues at all. And he worked so hard to help provide for their home. He had too, since he didn’t have an ounce of magical ability himself.
She told herself it was enough and that she should just move forward with her husband and his hot body. And she might have, until an old book of spells suddenly appeared on her doorstep one day. She was very curious who had dropped it off. She thought about doing a trace spell, but forgot the incantation and would have to look it up. But she got distracted from further investigation as she opened the pages. It contained a lot of advanced magic, some that might take years to master. She was about to put it aside, when she came across an intricate rune called ‘Overlaid’ that contained elements of mind control and physical transformation.
Her heart quickened its pace as she read further. To place the rune, a complicated spell must be uttered while placing hands on a person who was willing to be transformed. While chanting, the caster must envision the new shape they want the subject to take, as well as their state of mind. If done properly, a rune would be created on the person that when activated, would overlay their mind and body with a completely new persona.
It could completely alter their mind, giving them the thoughts, feelings and desires implanted by the caster, while also changing their shape, even their gender. Calyope’s heart began to beat faster as she reread the part about changing gender. It was exactly the kind of spell she was looking for that would allow her to have her cake, and be able to fuck it too.
There were two problems though. This was a very risky spell that used borderline dark magic to temporarily alter a person’s thoughts and appearance. But it also required a willing subject. It was one thing to roleplay in the bedroom. This was on another level entirely. Her husband would have to trust her so much!
Had they even been married long enough for her to ask such a thing of Eric? He’d always been so accepting of her, and had thus far been willing to do whatever she wanted to do in the bedroom. If she asked him in just the right way, perhaps with her legs wrapped around him, he’d consent to this wild idea. She grew wet as she thought of asking him for this erotic favor while his big cock was buried in her pussy.
She looked up from the book, suddenly wondering where Eric was. She wanted to fuck him right now! Why was he at work so much of the time?!
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind her made her jump in her seat. Then she heard her husband’s deep sexy voice ask, “Whatchya reading there?”
Calyope suddenly felt very embarrassed, and turned bright red. They were married. She could talk to him about anything. But this was so kinky, so perverted, and she wasn’t sure he was really ready for that conversation. So she lied. “N-nothing you’d be interested in?”
“Oh, well now I have to see!” Eric said, and he lunged for his wife.
Calyoped giggled and shoved the book out of his reach as he landed on top of her. They mock wrestled and clung to each other for several seconds. But then his hands were squeezing her boobs and she was pulling his shirt over his head between needy kisses. “I need you inside me,” she begged.
Eric smirked as he removed his underwear. “Don’t you always.”
It was true. She’d never been disinterested in sex with Eric. Sex with her man was always on the table. Would she still feel that way if he had different parts? If he exchanged his chiseled pecs for a pair of bouncy double D’s, or his hard throbbing cock for a wet and warm pussy?
The thought of it made her grasp his dick and stroke it while she looked up at him and begged. “Please! Shove it in. Right now!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. Then he tenderly lay her down on the floor, and pushed into her.
“Fuck!” she howled, loving the initial moment of penetration. “Yeah. Give it to me hard baby! Just the way I like it!”
Thoughts of telling him about the transformation rune vanished from her mind. All she could think of was how good his cock felt. Her brain grew wonderfully fuzzy with each thrust, and all she could think to do was wrap her legs around his torso and to pull him deeper.
She came before he did. She always did.
As Eric watched her scream in ecstasy, he said, “Oh fuck! That’ll do it!” He grunted and moaned as he shot inside his wife.
He rolled off and lay beside her on their living room floor, both panting from the sudden but wonderful exertion.
“Not complaining, but what brought that on?” Eric finally asked.
“Um…well, uh, I found a new spell…” Calyope said shyly.
‘Oh yeah?” Eric said bemused. “What kind of spell?”
Calyope decided to just rip the bandaid. She shut her eyes tight and said, “It lets you transform a person!”
Eric laughed. “Want me to have an even bigger dick, is that it?”
“No!” Calyope clarified quickly. “Your dick is perfect!” And she really meant it. She loved his cock the way it was. It fit her perfectly. Stretched her out in all the right ways, like it was made for her. But, if Eric were also a woman, they’d just be getting STARTED with their lovemaking. “This would be transforming you…in other ways. I’d really be swapping out your dick with…something else…” She clenched her fists and sucked in a breath. She was so nervous about telling him, but it was right there.
After a moment of confused silence, Eric asked, “Swap it out for what?”
“Well…You know how I also like girls, right?”
“I am aware,” Eric said, wisely choking down a laugh as he realized how hard this was for his wife to say.
“This spell would let me change you into a woman.”
“A woman?!” Eric repeated with a mixture of shock and amusement.
“Not permanently or anything! Just like, it puts a magical rune on your skin, like a tattoo. And whenever I activate the rune, I could turn you into a girl, and back again, whenever I, er, WE, wanted to.” There was more to it, but she decided to leave out the fact that it also altered the mind. “The spell says the subject must be willing to have it placed on you. So, you’d have to give me consent, and I completely understand if you need time to think about it, and I’ll still love you if you say no so don’t think that you have to-”
“I’m down,” he said, cutting her off with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope’s breath caught as her husband just casually agreed to let her fuse a rune to his skin that would allow her to radically change him! She again thought about letting him know that she’d be able to change his thoughts and personality, but didn’t want to give him any reason to change his mind. She told herself he wouldn’t care, because he’d so quickly agreed. He wanted to make her happy. And during the times he was a girl, she’d definitely go out of her way to make him happy as well.
Eric interrupted her by asking, “So, do you want to do this now or…”
Her eyes went wide, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. It was amazing enough that he was willing to do it, but even sweeter that he was willing to do it immediately. She reached out to play with his short dark hair. “That’s incredibly sweet, but no, not now.”
She noticed his expression change to one of disappointment, so she hastened to explain, “I’ll need time to read over the spell. It’s a long and tricky one and I don’t want to botch it. Plus, I’ll want to think of the type of…um…,” she felt her cheeks turning pink again. “...body I’d like you to have as a girl.”
Eric grinned. “Oh yeah? You got certain attributes in mind?” He looked down at his impressive chest and abs. “Thinking of turning my pecs into some nice round melons you can suck on? Boy, that’d be so weird, but like, yeah, it’d be cool to have your mouth there on a couple of big titties.”
That kind of talk really got Calyope’s motor running. She didn’t admit that was the first thing she’d thought about, but instead picked a more aesthetic detail. “Well, I mean, I love your hair color, but I’d just make it a little longer. Like shoulder length, and straight. I’d round out your face a bit, making it more feminine. Ooh, I’d give you full, luscious lips. And then…” Her eyes drifted down her husband’s body as very vivid details flooded her thoughts.
As if reading her mind, Eric moved a hand between his wife’s legs and began to gently finger her. “Please, keep going. Tell me how else you’d turn me into your dream girl.”
“Oh, uh…” she gasped, suddenly finding it hard to talk as her husband’s skilled fingers went to work. She placed a hand on her husband’s chest. “You’re…you’re right about me swapping out your chest. It’s a really hot chest babe, but…yeah…I’d love to see what it looks like with a pair of double D’s. I’d make them so sensitive that if I just breathed on them, you’d be begging me to suck on them.”
Eric laughed. “I would, huh? Well, I guess we’ll see about that.”
As her mind became consumed with lust, she thought to herself, ‘You wouldn’t have a choice. I’ll turn you into a horny slut that wants my mouth all over your new body.”
Her hand drifted down his abs, and came to his dick, which was semi hard and slippery with their combined juices. “I’d shrink this until it became a slit. A perfect little pussy that I could lick as much as I wanted, making you scream for more.”
“Is that all?” Eric asked, knowing his wife was almost to the brink of climax by the way she was breathing and moving her hips in time with his fingers.
“I’d make you just a little shorter than me!” she cried out. “And I’d make you-Oh fuck! I’d make you my perverted little sex slave! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Ooh!” The powerful orgasm made her shake from head to toe.
When she was finally able to relax, Eric pulled her close and they cuddled. He whispered gently in her ear, “Are you sure you can’t do that spell on me now?”
She laughed softly. “I think I need to get the dishes put away and dinner started,” she said.
Eric said nothing for a moment, then shrugged and said a playful, “Fine.” He stood and helped her to her feet. With a playful swat on her butt he said, “Get to work.”
Her mouth fell open in mock surprise, but then she giggled, and went off to do the housework.
The next few days were a blur, because everytime she had a chance, Calyope was thinking about that spell. Putting eyes on it. Sounding it out. Imagining the ideal feminine shape her husband would become, and the personality she would make him have. She was becoming obsessed, and could think of little else while she did her daily chores. It certainly made them easier.
She thought a tiny bit about maybe altering Eric’s mind to not just be a sex slave, but also be willing to do some of the mundane chores that she did every day. She didn’t mind doing them for her husband. It was part of how she showed her love and devotion to him. But she did wish he’d help out around the house a little more. The vast majority of her thoughts though, were imagining the raven haired beauty he would become, and then making that goddess put her pretty mouth between her legs.
Despite her perverted obsession, it was actually her husband that mentioned using the spell again. She’d been lost in another fantasy while the dishes magically washed, dried, and put away themselves, when her husband pressed himself against her from behind.
“How’s that rune spell coming along, Calyope? Are you ready to turn me into a sexy woman yet?”
Calyope felt his rod twitch against her ass. She instinctively pushed back, wanting to feel it slide between her cheeks. Since she was only wearing an apron, she got her wish. The delightful sensation of that hard cock made her lose her magical concentration though, and a dish crashed to the floor. “Oh shoot,” she pouted, as her husband withdrew behind her. She made a motion with her finger and the dish repaired itself and sailed into the cupboard.
“Sorry,” about that,” she heard her thoughtful husband say.
“She spun around and said, “I think I’m ready.” Goodness knows she needed to be. She needed to alleviate the sexual tension that seemed to be building exponentially inside of her as she thought about turning her husband into a woman. It had felt all consuming these last few days. “I’ve been studying it every time I get a free moment, and should have all the words memorized, so I think we should, um…” she trailed off as she realized how eager she sounded.
Eric laughed. “I can tell you’ve been thinking about it a lot. Every time I look at you while you’re doing your chores, or we’re eating, or, well, after we’re done fucking, you get that faraway look in your eye that makes me think you’re thinking about transforming me into your lesbian lover.”
“Busted,” she giggled, as she looked her husband up and down, undressing him with her eyes and fantasizing about the new curves he’d soon have.
“So where do you want to do this?” he asked curiously. The way his wife was looking at him made him feel like a slab of meat being dangled in front of a hungry lion. He didn’t mind in the least.
“How about upstairs in the bedroom,” Calyope suggested excitedly. “And I’ll need to make contact with you for the spell, so why don’t you just-”
“Get naked,” Eric finished with a wide grin.
Calyope winked at him. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, babe,” he said, winking back.
They raced upstairs. As soon as Eric walked in, he pulled off his shirt. Calyope found herself staring at his toned body, and for a moment, thought about scrapping the spell and just taking his male self right then and there.
He saw her gawking as he pulled off his pants and underwear. She was now staring right at his rigid cock that was pointing straight at her. He snapped his fingers and said, “My eyes are up here, love. I know you love this cock, but let’s try to focus,” he teased, then twisted his body side to side so his dick slapped against his torso.
Calyope felt like she was being hypnotized by the motion of that big beautiful cock. Drool had formed in her mouth. Drool that she could use to slobber all over his impressive man meat with her tongue. She shook her head and closed her eyes. She really did need to focus! She had her husband’s permission, and knew the spell pretty well. She needed to strike while the iron was hot, because who knew, tomorrow he might change his mind.
She stepped directly in front of him, and put the fingertips of her right hand onto his stomach. She could feel the tight muscles there. His body was lean and calloused and tough. Everything she wanted in her man. She almost pushed him down onto the bed so she could fuck him, but with an extra bit of willpower, she began a slow and steady chant. As she did, she put every thought into the woman she wanted him to become.
She pictured a slightly shorter physique than herself. One with shoulder length jet black hair, pouty lips, and a round face. This woman would have large, bouncy breasts, almost but not quite as big as her own. Her body would be a vision of seductive curves and soft skin. She would have a neatly trimmed bush, and an always wet and sensitive pussy.
Calyope’s thoughts turned from the physical to the mental. She knew this would reshape her husband’s mind, but she did not hesitate as she thought how this transformed woman would always desire to have sex with Calyope. She would find ways to seduce Calyope, and be willing to beg for the chance to get between her legs. And housework. She’d want to help with chores and making meals. But most importantly, she’d be a kinky slut, coming up with new and exciting ways to get each other off!
That last thought turned her on so much it threatened to distract her, and she stumbled over a few of the words. She looked down at her fingertips and was disheartened to see no rune had formed. She wondered if her carelessness had ruined her first attempt.
“It’s okay, you can do it,” Eric assured her, and put his hand atop hers encouragingly as she started saying the spell again.
Calyope put all her concentration into it this time. She tuned everything else out as she thought only about the words and the manifestation of her fantasy woman.
Slowly but surely, she felt the spark of magic against Eric’s skin. She looked down, and saw a glowing line etched itself from the top of her middle finger, to the other places her fingertips touched. She became excited as a perfect circle began to form, and inside that circle, a combined symbol of an arrow and a cross that represented the masculine and feminine. As Calyope finished the chant, it glowed brightly, and then faded. But the rune remained. A permanent magical brand on her husband’s stomach.
Eric’s brow furrowed, and he let out a breath he’d been holding. He looked down at himself, and asked with obvious disappointment, “Shouldn’t I be a girl now?”
“Not yet,” Calyope said, and licked her lips. “Now that the rune’s there, I should be able to turn you into a girl whenever I want. No lengthy spell, just a touch, and a one word command.”
“Well go ahead then, babe,” Eric said in his deep voice as he struck out his chest and did a superhero pose. “Let me help you make your bisexual dreams come true.”
Calyope bounced up and down and clapped her hands excitedly. Then she put her hand on the rune, and said, “Transform.”
The rune did not glow, but just remained a faint mark on his skin. “I don’t know what’s wrong? That should have worked!” she said. “Let me consult the-”
But before she could run and get the spell book, Eric took her hand again, and placed it over hers on his stomach. “Maybe I have to help show the magic that I’m willing? I am. I am willing,” he said, looking down at his stomach. “Let’s try again, at the same time. Ready?”
Calyope nodded and said, “Okay. On the count of three, let’s both of us say it. One, two, three…”
Simultaneously, husband and wife both said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed bright on Eric’s stomach.
“I think something’s happening!” Eric said excitedly as his skin began to ripple up and down his body.
“It sure is,” Calyope exclaimed. She stepped back from her husband, and watched with wide eyed fascination as he shrank from his 6 foot 2 self, to about 5 foot 9. This was apparent to Calyope, because it was still an inch taller than her own self. That wasn’t quite to her specifications, but it could be amended at a later time.
Eric’s brown hair darkened until it was jet black, then ran down to his shoulders like a waterfall cascading down from his head. His lips became fuller, his face rounder and softer. His broad chest shifted, narrowing first and becoming slimmer. Then his right pectoral began to protrude. It blossomed into a round jiggly boob.
This caused Eric to chuckle as he reached his hand up to it and gave it a squeeze. He looked at his wife, and saw how much she was enjoying the show. He blew her a kiss, right before a left boob popped out before Calyope’s eyes.
He suddenly shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his crotch. Calyope followed his gaze, and saw his erect penis shrink rapidly into his body, leaving only a slit with a tuft of dark curly hair barely covering it.
“Oh wow, that transformation process feels good!” Eric gasped in a high pitched voice as his smaller hand dipped down to his new pussy.
Calyope was glad that her husband wasn’t mourning the loss of his favorite member. She assumed this was part of the spell, helping him embrace the changes by spiking his lust. She remembered that soon he should be up for anything if the spell did its job.
“Oh!” Eric suddenly exclaimed. “Something else is getting bigger!” He gave a slow turn so his wife could see his hips widen, and his ass expand into a round plump butt that had Calyope drooling. He gave it a shake, and giggled as it clapped. “Certainly a lot more exciting than my flat ass, wouldn’t you say, babe?”
Calyope took a step towards him, as if entranced by the wobble of his new sexy butt.
Eric giggled again and said, “I take it you like what you see?”
“I really do,” Calyope said sincerely as Eric finished a slow spin. She saw that the rune on his stomach had faded into a faint, black outline, a reminder that she’d be able to turn him back to her masculine husband whenever she wanted. But right now, she wanted, no, NEEDED to touch every inch of his feminine skin with her fingertips. And then her tongue.
“This spell is incredible,” she whispered as she put a hand on Eric’s arm. “You look nothing like your original self, Eric! I wouldn’t even know you were my husband if I hadn’t seen you transform before my very eyes.”
When Eric responded, his new high girly voice was silky and seductive. “As long as I look like this, Cal, why don’t you call me Erica.”
“Yeah,” Calyope said, bringing her face closer and closer to her husband’s pouty lips. “Erica.”
And then they were kissing. It was not the kissing of two people that have never kissed each other before. Nor the kind that expresses comfortable familiarity. No. This was rather like the kind where two people have been desperate for each other in the worst way and are finally allowed to express their pent up feelings physically.
Hands groped greedily. Lips migrated from lips to necks to shoulders to breasts. They each attacked each other’s bodies like this would be their only opportunity. What made Calyope so infinitely happy, other than Erica’s sweet moans, was that it wouldn’t be. She could live out her lesbian fantasy a million times over, all because of how wonderfully willing her husband was.
“You want to lick this pink pussy of mine, right?” Erica suddenly asked, interrupting Calyope’s thoughts.
“I do!” she squealed. Erica smiled wantonly and laid back on the bed. The raven haired beauty parted her legs, and moved her fingers in a downward V to spread her lips open. Calyope saw her folds were already glistening with desire. Calyope got on her knees and bent low. She began by kissing up Erica’s inner thigh, letting the passion between them escalate. Then her lips were kissing a pussy that had been molded and shaped just for her. She extended her tongue, and tasted a divine salty tartness that was instantly addictive.
Calyope giggled into her lover as Erica began to moan and squirm. She popped her head up and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fucking great!” Erica replied, and then put her hand on top of Calyope’s head. “But don’t stop!”
Calyope squealed happily as her mouth was shoved back into Erica’s dripping cunt.
For the first time that Calyope could remember, her husband came before she did. Turns out all he needed for that to happen, was a clit. Even after Erica squirted in her face, Calyope found she didn’t want to stop licking. “You taste so good baby! And I gotta say, I think I prefer my face coated with your pussy juice than your cum.”
Erica giggled. “Thank you? I think? You really do have an amazing tongue by the way.”
“Do you wanna try yours out?” Calyope asked as she dropped next to her.
Erica pushed herself up and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
Caloype was keenly aware of the lack of stubble as Erica’s face brushed against her inner thighs. There was only soft, smooth skin. And then a tongue. It was smaller than Eric’s, but there was a sensuality about it that made Calyope arch her back as it began to lick up and down her folds. “You’re my girlfriend!” she moaned.
A soft laugh reverberated between Calyope’s legs, and then her perfect woman looked up and said, “No, I’m your wife.”
A thrill of delight went through Calyope’s whole body, and Erica didn’t stop until she’d given Calyope everything she’d been hoping for.
The session lasted a very long time, and by the end, they were a sweaty, happy mess. The last thing Calyope thought before she drifted off to sleep was how different it was with a woman. It wasn’t a sprint, but a marathon.
The next several days whizzed by for Calyope. She felt like she was in a perpetual state of sex, and she loved it. The second Eric got home Calyope would turn him into Erica, and they’d make each other climax several times, and then a very tired Calyope would finish her chores while Erica basked in the afterglow. After dinner, Erica would change back to Eric, and fill Calyope’s pussy with strong, powerful thrusts. It was a very good routine, and it might have lasted a good deal longer, had Calyope not made an important discovery.
It happened a month after Erica had been introduced into their lives. Calyope had decided to get up early and shower with her ‘wife.’ She’d showered with Eric many times, but never in the morning before he left for work, because she hated getting up early. She LOVED sleep. She often felt like she could sleep the whole day away. In so many ways, her day really didn’t begin until her husband got back home. That was why she always felt behind on chores, because she so often didn’t start them until Eric got back home.
But she’d been thinking about showering with Erica. She wanted to soap up those beautiful curves. To let her fingers glide over those most intimate of areas while making them smell sweet and fragrant. She’d climaxed last night while thinking about it, while her husband had been inside of her. It was something naughty she often liked to do. To think about the ‘other lover’ that wasn’t there with her while she came.
The opportunity finally arrived when Eric’s alarm actually woke up her that one morning. He was still Erica. Calyope realized she’d forgotten to change Erica back to Eric last night, but Calyope did love the sight of her wife sitting up in bed and stretching. It was a fantastic view. She wanted to pull the busty vixen back down into the bed and begin kissing and licking her all over that curvy figure. But she knew time was of the essence. “I want to shower with you,” she said, placing a hand lovingly on the small of Erica’s back.
Erica yelped at Calyope’s voice, and looked back at her in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to see her in their bed. “Oh, shit. Uh, sorry Cal..yope. I totally forgot to, um…”
“It’s okay, I’m up!” she beamed. “I’ll go heat up the water.” She looked back at Erica from the bedroom door. “And if you don’t mind, I’m not gonna transform you back yet until AFTER the shower,” she giggled.
Erica watched Calyope’s cute butt all the way down the hall to their bathroom. She bit her lower lip and said, “Well, I guess a quick shower won’t hurt.”
She heard the sound of water running. And then a scream.
Erica leapt off the bed and sprinted down the hall. When she got to the doorframe, she cried, “What? What’s the matter? You see a mouse?”
Calyope was still facing the shower. But her head was turned towards the mirror, and her eyes were laser focused on something there. She pointed a shaky hand towards her reflection. She didn’t understand why she had one too. It was smaller, but it was there. On her left butt cheek, was a circular rune with the symbol for masculine and feminine.
“I don’t remember putting a copy of the rune on myself,” she whispered.
Erica sighed and folded her arms. “That’s cause you didn’t put it there, sweetie. I did.”
Calyope finally looked away from the mirror, and turned to face Erica. She was so confused. “But…how could you? You can’t do magic?”
Erica gave her a pitying look and said gently. “No, dear. You’re the one that can’t do magic.” WIth a sudden flick of her wrist, a toothbrush sailed into the air and Erica deftly caught it.
Calyope stared at it in disbelief, not just at the magic on display from her husband/wife, but because the toothbrush…looked like a woman’s toothbrush. She looked at the other toothbrush next to the sink. It was a man’s toothbrush. And a chill went down Calyope’s spine, as she could never remember brushing her teeth. Like, ever.
She began taking panicked, shallow breaths. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” she gasped. She flicked her wrist at the other toothbrush. It did not move. Not even a little. “N-no. No I use magic all the ti-WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER EVER DOING CERTAIN THINGS LIKE BRUSHING MY TEETH?!”
Erica held up her hands soothingly and said, “Darling, relax. Let me just…let me talk to my husband, and we’ll straighten this all-”
Calyope’s hands shot down to her sides and clenched into fists as she shrieked, “Your husband?!”
Erica grimaced. “Yeah, this was…well it was his idea. And he’s…inside of you.”
This revelation stunned Calyope to her very core, which gave Erica the time she needed to step forward and hug her. Then she placed a hand on Calyope’s right buttcheek, and said, “Transform.”
_______________________________________________________
Three months ago.
“So, do you know like, transformation magic?” Calvin asked as they laid in bed after another passionate night unbridled lovemaking.
Erica giggled and hit her husband on the arm. “You sick of my body already?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m just like…I’m wondering if you could transform me? I know you also like girls, and I know that you gave that up that part of you when we got married. But…what if you didn’t have to. What if you could transform me into your ‘wife’ sometimes?”
Erica squeezed her man. “And then I transform into a handsome guy with muscular pecs and come home from work and give you the business?”
“Oh…” Calvin uttered curiously. “I mean…I hadn’t thought of that, but…”
“You’d let me fuck you with a dick?” Erica said, mouth opened in a wide grin.
“No! I mean…maybe.”
“No lie, dear, that actually sounds kinda hot.”
“Wait, wait. I’m not sure I’d want to be able to remember something like that. Is there like, memory magic you could use as well?”
Erica licked her lips, then said, “I actually may know of a spell that is exactly what we’re looking for babe. Just remember, this was all your idea.”
_____________________________________________________
Present Day
The panic left Calvin’s body as he returned to his original self. The weight from his former boobs was distributed mainly to his belly. He was not the ripped male version that his wife became, but a rather ordinary looking guy. The memories began to rush in from his time as Caloyope.
“You didn’t change me back last night,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Erica said, letting him go. She stepped past him and turned off the shower. “We let this go on too long, Cal. She’s become like, a whole different person.”
That had been Cal’s decision too. To be transformed into Calyope more and more throughout the week. Erica didn’t complain, because Cal was an amazing lover as a woman, plus he didn’t mind that his wife had instilled within him a desire to take care of the house, because he felt a disconnect to it. It was helping her, helping him, and they’d been fucking like rabbits in different gender combinations. There had seemed to be no downside. Until now. Calyope had become aware of the transformation rune, and that had led to her feeling like she wasn’t a whole person. And in a way, maybe she wasn’t. She only appeared when they wanted her to. She didn’t get to remember anything beyond those few hours she was allowed to exist. Cal could remember, but not her.
“This is my fault,” Erica said. “I should have paid attention to the precautions. I can have the rune removed.”
Cal’s face fell. “No. No please don’t. There’s got to be another way. Calyope means so much to you. So much to me.”
Erica hugged her husband. She was glad he felt this way. Calyope really had become a part of their family. “Give me some time to think. Maybe…maybe there’s something we can do, but I’ll need to research some spell books.”
They held each other, and finally parted ways. Cal going to work. Erica doing the same. She worked at an apothecary, one that had many magical recipes and spellbooks, which she would dive into today, looking for an answer to the mess they’d made.
A week later, the husband and wife reconvened in the bathroom again. They were both naked as if they were about to shower, but Calvin was just watching his wife use her finger to make a large circle over the mirror. Then she took out a sharp stone and began scratching the surface, carving small symbols into it. When it was done, she placed her hand upon it, and said a lengthy spell she’d been memorizing for the last few days. The mirror glowed, and then looked like a regular mirror again, except it didn’t reflect as it once had. It still showed Erica, but as Calvin looked at it, he saw Calyope. But her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be asleep.
“Okay,” Erica said, assessing the small bathroom. “It’s time. Stand right where she was when she got transformed last time. Let’s try to make this as comfortable for her as possible.”
Calvin put his back to the shower, and Erica put her arms around him. “I hope this works.”
“Me too.”
Erica put a hand on her husband’s fuzzy butt, and said, “Transform.”
A few seconds later, Calyope sucked in a huge breath. Her ‘wife’s’ arms were still around as they had been when she felt herself blank out. She fought the urge to panic. “Let me go,” she said firmly.
Erica did, but then quickly said, “Calyope, we both owe you an apology.”
“Was any of it real?!” she demanded.
Erica hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It was very real, Calyope. But what we did to you wasn’t right. But we think we’ve-”
“Why do you keep saying ‘we?’” Calyope spat. She was so mad, but not just at Erica. She was also mad at herself, because even now the sight of Erica was turning her on. She wanted to kiss her soft lips, and get her mouth between her legs and taste her. She now assumed that this desire was also a part of that rune.
Erica noted the woman’s mixed emotions, but instead of commenting on them, she pointed to the mirror and said quietly, “Calyope, meet your other half, Calvin.”
Calyope looked from Erica to the mirror, expecting to see her and Erica reflected in its surface. But she was mistaken. There was Erica, yes, but instead of Calyope, there was a man where she should be. A man that, in certain aspects, vaguely resembled Calyope herself. Same sandy brown hair color. Same chin. Same eyes.
“Nice to meet you officially,” the reflection of Cal suddenly said, which caused Calyope to jump. The man put his palms out in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, sorry, don’t be scared. The last thing I’d ever want is to hurt you, cause, well, I am you. Erica magicked up this mirror especially for us, so we could talk. It’s very important that you know, Calyope, that you’ve made Erica so happy these last few months.”
“It’s true,” Erica said.
Calyope frowned and looked towards Erica. “I haven’t known you for months,” she countered. “I’ve only known Eric. You know, the person I thought was my husband.”
“Would having him here with you make you more comfortable?” Erica interjected.
Calyope met the woman’s eyes, and nodded sadly. “Yeah. It’d help.” Eric had been her rock. The person she’d do absolutely anything for. She knew this was also probably part of the spell, but just the thought of seeing him calmed her a little.
Erica put a hand to her own overlaid rune and said, “Transform.”
The rune glowed, and Erica’s soft supple form grew taller and became muscular. Her smooth belly gained those chiseled abs that made Calyope go weak in the knees. And suddenly there was his handsome face, looking at her in concern. She threw herself into his strong arms, and he held her tight and patted her head.
“There, there, it’s okay, dear,” he said.
For a few precious seconds, Calyope allowed herself to melt into him. “Do you remember being her?” she finally asked her husband.
He gave her a pitying look. “Um, yes, but…”
“That’s not fair that you get to!” she protested. Then she turned on her male counterpart in the mirror. “Do you remember being me?”
“Also yes,” Calvin admitted. “But for different reasons.”
Calyope looked up into her husband’s dark eyes. She found she wanted to kiss him. To grind against his body until he grew hard, picked her up, and fucked her against the bathroom wall. She tried to keep focused. “What’s he talking about? Why do you both get to remember?”
“Well,” Eric confessed. “I’m still…Erica. Even when I’m Eric, I’m still me. I used the overlaid rune to transform from female to male, but otherwise there were no changes.”
Calyope’s jaw dropped in surprise. “But…you act like a guy when you look like this.” She put a hand on his chest. Being this close to him was having quite the effect on her. If Erica’s body had made her horny, Eric’s body was having even more of an impact.
She looked at her male counterpart while her hand kept descending down to those abs she loved so much. “And what’s your excuse?”
“The magic of the rune allows me to remember everything you thought and did when I transform back,” Cal explained. “It doesn’t feel quite like I was there, but it’s certainly close enough that I feel that you’re a huge part of me.”
Calyope couldn’t stop her hand from going lower as she said, “But that’s not fair. I should be able to feel the same way. I should get to remember being married to Erica, and living your life, and all of it.”
“You’re right,” Cal said. “You’re absolutely right. And the reason Erica and I brought you back, was to tell you that she’s got a way to…” Eric gasped as Calyope’s hand touched the tip of his penis, and Cal noticed. “Um…do I need to give you guys a second?”
Calyope licked her lips as she looked down at Eric’s throbbing member. Then she looked at Cal in the mirror. “Do you remember every time I’ve gone down on my husband?” she asked coolly.
“I…do…” Cal said tentatively. “But, like I said, it’s like remembering something that happened to somebody else. And I certainly don’t dwell on it.”
“Well you’re about to see it,” Calyope said as she began sinking to her knees.
Cal looked at his wife’s Eric persona. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous of the body that his wife had. He looked at her and said, “Look, I’m glad this is working out, but could you take this to the other room.”
Eric shook his head and as he put a hand on top of Calyope’s. “No honey. It’s so much hotter if you’re here to watch your pretty little mouth suck my dick. You can take it so deep too!”
“Yeah, I can absolutely do without the play by play.” But he did watch as Calyope took the cock in her mouth with no hesitation. She sucked it like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she began to moan and rub her clit as she did so. “Fuck, that IS hot,” he finally admitted.
“I knew you’d like to watch you little perv,” Eric groaned. “But I know my precious Calyope. THIS is what she really wants.” With that he lifted her up in his strong arms, pinned her to the wall, and impaled her pussy with his thick cock.
“Yes!” Calyope screamed. “I love you so much, Eric!”
“I love you too, Calyope!”
A moment later, Cal said, “We both do.”
Calyope came hard a minute later. When she did, she knew that her sensitive pussy was a gift from Erica. She bucked her hips and clawed at Eric’s back until he came inside her. When he put her down, she asked, “So…what now?”
Eric kissed her and said, “Now we give you what Calvin has always had. The ability to remember. You’ll remember being him the way he remembers being you.”
“What about some of the other things? Will those change too?”
“What other things?” Calvin asked.
“I’m guessing she means the desire to cook and clean for me.”
“Yeah!” Calyope pouted.
“Ooh, yeah, that was my idea,” Cal admitted.
“Or the fact that just the sight of either of your forms makes me go into heat,” Calyope added.
“Uh, I didn’t actually do that one,” Eric laughed.
“I mean, she is hot as a guy or a girl,” Cal agreed.
“Oh, you want some of this too?” Eric winked, stroking his slippery cock.
Cal rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass, but thanks. I already have plenty of memories of tasting it and having that enormous thing shoved in me.”
“Ohmygosh!” Calyope suddenly exclaimed. “I’ll get to remember fucking you with a dick?!”
Eric hugged her. “Yes, you will, sweetie. But as for the other stuff…well, I’m afraid to redo the rune to make you not want to cook and clean and think you have magic, that won’t go away. Not unless I redid the rune, which…would make the version that is you, go away.”
“Well I don’t want that!” she said quickly. “And I don’t mind too much cooking and cleaning. It is how I’ve always shown you I love you.”
“Again, my idea,” Calvin said.
“Shut it, husband,” Eric snapped playfully.
“Whose idea was it to let me see the book with the overlaid rune?” Calyope asked curiously.
“Oh, that was mine!” Eric answered proudly. “After you brought up wanting to be with a woman, I knew there was a part of you that missed, well, the real me. And that was confirmed when you described me. I thought it would be fun-”
Cal coughed in the mirror.
“Sorry, WE thought it would be fun if we played this out, and…yeah, it was really hot, but we’re both sorry if we ever hurt-”
“Shh,” Calyope whispered, as she put a finger on her husband’s lips. “I’m still really horny. So, I think I’d be fine if…”
“I changed back into your ‘wife’?’” Eric suggested with a twinkle in his eye.
Calyope bit her lip. “Yes please.”
Eric swooped up his bride and looked at Cal’s reflection. “You’re gonna enjoy remembering all the kinky lesbian shit we’re about to do, dear.”
Calvin laughed and waved at them. “I know I will. Have fun you two.”
Calyope squealed as Eric ran from the bathroom and threw her onto their bed. He was Erica a moment later, and she dove between Calyope’s legs and began lapping up the cum that had just been deposited by her male self. The two were insatiable all day, and Eric made many guest appearances.
Calvin and Calyope settled into new routines where they shared their time with Erica/Eric, but also loved remembering how happy the other made their spouse.
There are certainly more hijinks to their story, like the one where Calyope got a temporary body from a gollum that Erica created. But that is another story altogether.
The end.
Author's Note
Sorry for my long absence. I hope you enjoyed this new story. The inspiration for it came from the show Severance, and I enjoyed applying the concept of playing it out with a twist with this happily married couple. If you'd like to see more of their story, let me know. I have a few ideas rolling around in my head. Next up though will be more Working Remotely.
Thank you to all my supporters. After I add the next chapter of Working Remotely, you'll be the ones to decide what I work on next.
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Chapter by
barackobrahma · 03 Feb 2026 -
They say your body is a temple, but for some, it’s just a rental. Lena thought she knew the rules of the night, until a chance encounter at a bar shattered the boundaries of her own skin.
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A glitchy holographic rain poured down the facade of "Mandarin," a digital drizzle that shimmered over the sleek obsidian and glass of the Heights. The bar sat in the most exclusive pocket of the city, where holographic cherry blossoms drifted slowly from a ceiling that mimicked a midnight sky over Neo-Tokyo. Slender glass pillars filled with bubbling blue bioluminescence acted as room dividers, and the air smelled of expensive sandalwood and filtered ozone. It was a place for people who wanted to be seen—a high-end sanctuary for the elite.
She didn’t usually go for the insistent types, but there was something hypnotic about the stranger at the end of the bar. He had the kind of face that seemed painted by an artist who couldn't decide on a subject: sharp, masculine bone structure softened by unnervingly delicate, feminine features. High cheekbones, a rose-bud pout, and eyes too large and luminous for a man of his build.
"You're staring," he said. His voice was a rich, vibrating baritone that seemed to hum right through the obsidian of the bar.
Lena didn't look away; she couldn't. "You're weird-looking," she replied, trying to sound bored, but her heart gave a traitorous thud.
He didn't take offense. Instead, he turned his stool fully toward her, a slow, predatory grace in his movements. "Weird is just a lack of imagination, Lena."
She bristled. "How do you know my name?"
"The bartender called it out three minutes ago when he brought your drink. You didn't notice because you were too busy trying to decide if I was a dream or a warning." He leaned in, the scent of expensive tobacco and something else—like the air before a storm—enveloping her. "I'm a bit of both. But trust me, babe, the warning is way more fun than the dream."
He smiled, and it was devastating—a flash of perfect teeth and a crinkle at the corners of those haunting eyes that made her feel suddenly, dangerously exposed. "Give me a chance to show you I’m the good kind of weird. The kind you don't just look at, but the kind you want to remember."
Two hours later, the "weirdness" had followed her home.
***
The air in Lena's apartment felt suddenly, impossibly heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by lead. They were on the brink of a shared, explosive climax, the room thick with the heat of …
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