Carlotta Montelli

For a moment, there was only void.

A suffocating abyss and nothingness where time did not flow and thought echoed endlessly without anchor. Gilberto’s soul, stripped of its bearings, should have dissipated into the aether. It should have withered back into his body—or worse, scattered into oblivion.

But something caught him.

Some kind of warmth.

Then came the rush—violent and chaotic, like being hurled into a hurricane of memory, instinct, and blood. Sights and sounds crashed against his awareness—fabric rustling, the clack of heels, the scent of violet perfume. He tried to breathe, but the lungs were not his. He tried to stand still, but the posture wasn’t his either. Gilberto felt smaller and slimmer.

But then, he opened his eyes, and he saw that he was staring at the familiar sight of the colorful lights of Ragunna. He blinked, confusion settling in... until he looked down.

Hands. Small, gloved, feminine hands. Laced black gloves adorned in thin magenta thread.

His breath caught, though again, not his. The sensation of satin brushing against skin, the tug of a corset beneath polished armor-cloth, the weight of layered jewelry bouncing lightly with each step. His eyes moved to the reflections in a nearby shop window.

Carlotta Montelli.

The second-youngest daughter of the Montelli family, and the one responsible for his arrest. Gloved fingers reached over to brush the strand of silver-white hair tickling his face, staring at the petite figure and elegantly adorable face. His hands would run through his body, feeling up all her curves that her traitorous smile had possessed. The soft plushness of the young Montelli was now his.

Something primal and dark awakened in Gilberto's stolen form at the thought as he explored every inch of Carlotta's body that he now inhabited. The corset hugged her waist tightly, pressing her supple breasts up and together beneath the fitted bodice. His borrowed hands slid over the curves of her hips, relishing how the fabric of her dress clung to every feminine contour. The empty flatness that rubbed against silk fabric in his crotch made a certain fire ignite.

Gilberto struck a pose and grinned, smooth armpits beaming against the mirror's reflection.

"Oh, you pretty little thing..." muttered Gilberto in her voice that dripped with accent, now possessing a sultry shine. His gloved hands held onto those surprisingly large breasts. "I think it's fair to have some payback for what you did to me, yes?"