Just a fresh start

The hollow Cathy skin lies on the floor like a discarded thought. You stare at it, at the slack mouth and empty eyes, and your own cock twitches against your thigh—small, pale, forgettable. The shame burns, but underneath it, something else is already stirring. Hunger. Not for release this time. For her.

You have pictures. God, you have so many pictures.

You pad back to your desk, still naked, and wake your phone. The Imprimatur app sits there, patient, its black square waiting. Your camera roll is a graveyard of screenshots—Cathy at the coffee shop, Cathy mid-stride across the quad, Cathy laughing at something Matt said, her ponytail swinging. You scroll past the team photos, past the ones where she's shining with sweat after a run. Then you find it. Last month. A candid you'd captured from across the library, zoomed in, grainy but perfect.

She's in baggy jeans that hang off her hips, a wide black t-shirt swallowing her frame. Her hair is pulled back, two loose strands framing her face, and she's looking down at a book, biting her lip. She looks ordinary. She looks like she's trying to disappear. And that, somehow, makes her more devastating than any team photo ever could. You know why she dresses like this. You know the burden of being looked at. And you want to wear that burden anyway.

You tap the image. The app chimes. The printer hums.

You watch it this time. No looking away. The machine feeds out something that isn't paper—warm, pliant, faintly luminous at the edges. First the legs, denim-textured, soft. Then the torso, the black cotton of the shirt spilling into existence thread by thread. Then the arms. The hands. The face emerges last, and it's her. Cathy's eyes, closed in the print, flutter open for just a moment before going still. The suit lies draped over your desk chair, jeans and all, impossibly detailed. You can see the faint wear on the denim, the slight pilling of the shirt's hem, the exact shade of her skin.

You reach out. The fabric is warm. Alive.

You step in.

One leg first. The sensation is familiar now, but no less astonishing—the suit drinking you in, reshaping your calf, your thigh, the architecture of your hips. Your center of gravity drops. Your shoulders narrow. You slide your arms into the sleeves, and your hands emerge smaller, softer, the nails bare. The shirt settles over your chest, and you feel the weight of breasts beneath it, the drag of fabric against nipples that are already stiffening.

Then the head. You guide your face through, and the world sharpens—colors richer, edges cleaner. The ponytail pulls at your scalp, a pleasant tension. Two strands fall loose, brushing your cheeks.

You stand.

The jeans are loose, baggy, exactly as they were on her. They hang off your hips, and the waistband sits low, and the denim is rougher than the leggings you wore before. Coarser. More real. The t-shirt is soft and oversized, the cotton worn thin from countless washes, and when you move, it slides against your skin, a constant, gentle friction. Compared to the athletic gear—the slick compression, the performance fabric—this is casual. Lived-in. Cathy's armor against the world's gaze.

You walk to the mirror.

Cathy stares back. Not the athlete this time. Just a girl. A pretty girl in baggy clothes, her hair pulled back, her face bare. She looks innocent. She looks like someone you'd pass on the street and never imagine—never imagine bent over a couch, a candle buried in her ass, her fingers slick and her thighs shaking.

You pull up the hem of the shirt.

The bra is plain black, no lace, no frills, just a simple cotton cup that holds her breasts with quiet efficiency. The underwire digs in slightly—Cathy's size, her shape, her ordinary choice. You cup one breast through the fabric, and the sensation is muted but warm, a comfortable pressure. Then you pop the button on the jeans.

The zipper parts with a soft rasp. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and pull it forward, and the denim gapes open, revealing plain black panties. Briefs. Cotton. The same utilitarian simplicity as the bra. No thong, no lace, no attempt to be sexy. Just underwear a girl grabs from the drawer without thinking. And somehow that makes your pulse quicken more than silk ever could. The mundanity of it. The intimacy. The fact that this is what Cathy wears under her baggy clothes, every day, and no one knows.

You let the jeans snap back.

You know her schedule without even reaching for her memories—you've memorized it over months of stolen glances and overheard conversations. Today is Wednesday. She spends the whole day in the library, from open until close, hunched over textbooks with her headphones in. Then she heads straight to practice. And after practice, the whole team goes out for drinks. Every week. A ritual. She won't be home until late.

And Matt? You overheard him talking to his friends two days ago, in the coffee shop line. A guys' night. Pool, beers, the usual. Their flat will be empty.

Cathy's memories surface, unbidden but welcome: a ceramic frog on the windowsill of their shared flat, its base hollow. The spare key tucked inside. She's used it a hundred times when she forgot hers. You know exactly where it is.

Your plan crystallizes. Go to their flat. As Cathy. Unlock the door. And see what fun you can have in the space where she lives, where she sleeps, where she fucks.

You turn back to the mirror and assess yourself. The ponytail is slightly off-center—you adjust it, tugging the band tighter. The two loose strands are perfect. You wipe a smudge of dried sweat from your jaw. You practice her smile, and it comes easily, the dimple appearing on your left cheek. You practice her voice.

"Hey," you say. It sounds like her. It sounds like a girl who has no idea what's about to happen.

Your heart hammers. Not from fear. From anticipation.

You're about to walk out your door as someone else. You're about to step into the world wearing a face that belongs to another woman, a woman with a boyfriend, a schedule, a life. The app's warning echoes: be careful not to get caught. One wrong move, one slip, and everything unravels.

But your feet are already moving. Your hand is already on the doorknob.

You're ready.