Chole takes advantage of this power

"Strip," Chloe-in-Zoe commands, circling you with predatory interest. "I want to see what my body looks like through someone else's eyes."

You nod and begin unbuttoning Chloe's black turtleneck with unfamiliar fingers. The fabric feels expensive against your skin as you pull it over her head, revealing a black lace bra underneath. Inside your shared consciousness, you feel Zoe's presence flickering with a complicated mix of emotions—anger, arousal, professional curiosity.

"This is weird," you mutter in Chloe's smoky voice, dropping the turtleneck to the floor. "Usually I'm the one being watched, not watching myself get undressed."

Chloe-in-Zoe laughs, leaning against a lab bench. "Keep going. Pants too." She runs Zoe's circuit-lined fingers through the blue hair. "God, I've missed touching this body."

You unfasten Chloe's leather pants, finding them tighter than expected. As you wiggle them down her hips, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the darkened screens—tall, pale, black-haired, with purple lipstick now slightly smudged. The body is lean with unexpectedly toned muscles under the goth exterior.

She always had to be in control, Zoe's thoughts leak into your consciousness. Even in bed.

"Shut up, Zoe," Chloe-in-Zoe snaps, somehow hearing the thought. "You don't get to comment when you're not in charge."

You step out of the leather pants, standing in just black lace underwear. The basement lab feels cold against Chloe's exposed skin.

"Turn around," Chloe-in-Zoe instructs, her voice softening. "Slowly."

You comply, rotating in place, feeling strangely **** despite this not being your actual body. Chloe's form is more athletic than you'd guessed, with a tattoo of intertwined serpents curling up her right thigh.

"Do you like what you see?" you ask, trying to maintain some professional detachment despite the bizarre situation.

"I did always look good," Chloe-in-Zoe admits, approaching you with Zoe's familiar gait now adapting to her control. She reaches out with blue-circuitry fingers to trace the line of her own collarbone. "But I like this better."

She leans in, pressing Zoe's lips against yours—Chloe's lips—in a kiss that feels like a short circuit in your brain. The sensation triggers a cascade of memories not your own: late nights in this lab, heated arguments over research protocols, bodies entwined on a narrow dorm bed.

Get out of my memories! Zoe's consciousness flares with panic.

You pull back, disoriented. "What was that?"

"Neural bleed-through," Chloe-in-Zoe explains, looking fascinated. "The three-way connection is creating memory bridges. Fascinating."

Another drop of blood trickles from your nose, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

"We should probably stop," you suggest, suddenly concerned about the implications.

"Oh no," Chloe-in-Zoe replies, her smile turning cruel. "We're just getting started. I paid for four hours, and I intend to use every minute." She runs Zoe's hands over her own body, clearly enjoying the discomfort she's causing her ex-girlfriend trapped inside her original form.

You decide to fully embrace the strange, boundary-blurring encounter. After all, this is what you do professionally—navigate unusual sexual situations with grace and adaptability. You straighten Chloe's back, feeling her lean muscles respond to your command, and meet Zoe's eyes—now inhabited by Chloe.

"You want a show?" you ask in Chloe's smoky voice. "Let's give you one."

You run your hands—Chloe's hands—down the unfamiliar body, exploring its contours with professional curiosity. The black lace underwear feels expensive against your fingertips as you trace the edges where fabric meets skin.

"That's more like it," Chloe-in-Zoe purrs, stepping closer. The blue circuitry in her hands pulses faintly as she reaches out to cup her own face. "God, it's weird touching yourself from the outside."

"Try being the professional body-hopper," you reply with a wry smile. "This is Tuesday for me."

Chloe-in-Zoe laughs, the sound strange coming from Zoe's throat. She presses Zoe's body against yours—against hers—backing you against the cold metal of a lab table. The sensation sends a strange feedback loop of pleasure through your borrowed nervous system.

Stop enjoying this, damn it, Zoe's consciousness flares within your shared mental space, but beneath her protest runs an unmistakable current of arousal.

"She always was a terrible liar," Chloe-in-Zoe murmurs, somehow sensing Zoe's thoughts again. She begins undoing the buttons of her own—of Zoe's—lab coat. "Always pretended not to like it rough, but her body never lied."

You feel a sudden rush of images not your own: Zoe pinned against a shower wall, Zoe's wrists bound to bedposts, Zoe's skin marked with possessive bites. The memories hit with such **** you gasp, feeling Chloe's body respond viscerally to Zoe's remembered pleasure.

"What's happening?" you ask, dizzy with the neural bleed-through.

"The neural pathways are recognizing each other," Chloe-in-Zoe explains, scientific interest momentarily overriding lust. "Our brains were lovers once too." She shrugs off Zoe's lab coat, revealing the crop top underneath. "Now shut up and touch me."

You obey, running your hands up Zoe's bare midriff, feeling the warmth of her skin. The circuitry beneath her flesh pulses in response, creating tiny electric shocks against your fingertips. Chloe-in-Zoe shivers.

"The upgrades are... sensitive," she breathes, pupils dilating. "More than I expected."

She pushes you back onto the lab table, climbing atop you with Zoe's lithe body. Her weight feels different than you'd expect, distributed strangely by the neural circuitry enhancements. As she straddles you, leaning down for a kiss, more memories cascade through your consciousness—fights about research protocols becoming heated encounters on this very table, theoretical debates turning into explorations of nerve endings and pleasure pathways.

Get OUT of my memories! Zoe's presence flares again, but weaker this time, her outrage increasingly diluted with unwilling arousal.

"I've missed you," Chloe whispers with Zoe's lips against your ear. "Even if you'll never admit you miss me too."

The kiss deepens, and you surrender to the experience, professional enough to know when to let the client take control. This is what they're paying for, after all—the forbidden thrill of touching themselves through another's consciousness, of reclaiming something lost.

Another drop of blood trickles from your nose, but neither of you moves to wipe it away.