Chapter 11

Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, slices through the gaps in my blinds, dragging me from the murky depths of sleep. I groan, rolling away from the light, shoving my face into the pillow. It smells faintly of Emma’s shampoo.

Emma.

The thought sends a confusing jolt through me. I push myself up, blinking against the brightness, my body stiff and protesting. And there she is, moving quietly around the room, already mostly dressed. My eyes immediately lock onto her form, cataloging the changes I wrought yesterday with an almost clinical detachment.

She’s pulling on a light sweater, and even through the soft knit, the large breasts are unmistakable – full, round, sitting high and proud. A significant upgrade. Then she turns, reaching for her shoes, and the tight jeans she wore last night are replaced by leggings, but the effect is even more pronounced. Jesus. Her ass. It’s incredible. Perfectly round, sculpted, straining against the stretchy fabric in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Her thighs flow into it with that dancer’s curve I stole, thick and powerful yet undeniably feminine. The subtle muscle tone I layered on isn’t overtly visible, but there’s a sleekness, a tightly coiled energy to her physique that wasn’t there before. She looks… phenomenal. Like a fitness model mixed with a pornstar, sculpted by divine intervention – or, well, by me.

She catches me staring as she ties her sneakers and offers a soft, slightly shy smile. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she says, her voice warm and familiar.

“Morning,” I manage, my voice thick with sleep.

She walks over to the bed, leans down, and gives me a lingering kiss. Her lips are soft, sweet. “You look amazing, Em,” I whisper against her lips, my hand automatically drifting to her hip, feeling the impossible curve under my palm.

A faint blush dusts her cheeks. She glances down at herself, then back at me, a hint of pleased confusion in her eyes. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “These leggings are new, maybe they’re just… flattering?” She smooths a hand over her thigh, frowning slightly, as if sensing the unfamiliar firmness but unable to place why. “Gotta run, got that early study group. Dinner was amazing last night, James.”

“Yeah, it was,” I agree, pushing down the memory of the hollow climax, the unsettling disconnect.

She gives me one last quick peck, her perfect breasts brushing against my bare arm as she leans over, sending an involuntary shiver through me.

With a final wave, she’s gone, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the heavy silence of the room. I flop back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. She looks incredible. Objectively, undeniably hotter. And she seems… happy? Oblivious, at least. She doesn’t know she’s walking around in a body partially assembled from strangers. She doesn’t know the legs and ass turning heads on campus used to belong to someone else, or that her lean muscle tone came from a random runner. She just thinks her new leggings are flattering.

It’s okay, I tell myself firmly. It’s better this way. She gets the confidence boost of looking like a goddess, even if she doesn’t understand why. Men will notice her more, women might be jealous. Isn’t that what girls want, deep down? To be the center of attention, desired, envied? I’ve given her that. And selfishly, I get the visual upgrade, the perfect body to explore. It’s a victimless crime, a reality tweak with only upsides. She’s better off like this. I’m better off like this. The justification feels thin, flimsy, like a worn-out blanket, but I wrap myself in it anyway.

But as the silence stretches, another thought intrudes, unwelcome but persistent. Last night. The sex. With the physically perfected Emma, the woman literally sculpted to my desires. It was… fine. Good, even, on a purely mechanical level. Her body was incredible to touch, to look at, to move against. But compared to the night before? With Lila? Even swapped into each other’s bodies, even with the danger and the confusion… that felt raw. Real. Connected. There was an awareness, a shared transgression, a mental spark that transcended the physical. Last night with Emma, despite the perfect vessel, felt… empty. Like admiring a stunning photograph instead of living the moment.

Why? Why wasn’t perfection enough? Was it the lack of shared awareness? The absence of that slightly dangerous, taboo edge Lila brings? Or is it something deeper? Things feel different since the device. I feel different. Has it spoiled the ‘normal’ dynamic with Emma?

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me from the spiral. I grab it, screen lighting up. Missed texts. Several. All from Lila. Shit. I completely forgot to reply yesterday after her nude selfie.

Lila: Thinking about you… and what else that little device of yours can do.