Makeshift dildo

The air in your bedroom is thick with the smell of sex—Janice’s scent, your scent, the evidence of two orgasms already spent. Your thighs are slick, your chest still heaving, but the hunger isn’t gone.

It should be.

Any normal woman would be done by now. Janice would be done. Her body knows its limits, knows the soft ache that follows a good orgasm, knows when to roll over and sleep. But you’re not Janice. You’re Marty inside Janice, and your first night as a woman isn’t over yet.

The memories surface without warning.

She’s on her knees. A man stands in front of her, his cock thick and veined, already hard. She takes him in her mouth, and she knows exactly how to do it, how to relax her throat, how to breathe through her nose. He moans her name—David. He was her boyfriend for two years. He liked it when she looked up at him with his cock in her mouth.

The image sharpens, and you feel the phantom weight on your tongue, the stretch of your jaw. Your hand drifts between your legs again, but your fingers aren’t enough anymore. You need more.

She’s bent over a desk. Another man, younger, his hands gripping her hips so hard they’ll bruise. He slides into her from behind, and she gasps, arches her back, pushes against him. His name is Ethan. He was a mistake, a rebound, but he knew how to fuck her. He knew the angle that made her see stars.

Your fingers press deeper, but they’re too small. Too short. The phantom memory of being filled makes your own touch feel pathetic, a pale imitation.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the glow of your phone on the nightstand. Your body—Janice’s body—is sprawled across the sheets, legs apart, breasts heavy, skin still flushed. You look at your hand, at the fingers that brought you to climax twice tonight, and you know they’re not enough.

You need something bigger.

The thought arrives like a command. Janice’s memories flicker, searching her history, her preferences. She’s never used a toy. She’s always relied on fingers, on men, on the occasional tongue. But she knows what she likes. She knows the width, the length, the curve that makes her gasp.

You sit up. The sheets peel away from your damp skin. Your feet find the floor, and you stand, wobbling slightly, your balance still unfamiliar in this body.

Your flat is small. You know every corner of it—the cluttered desk, the stack of textbooks, the drawer where you keep spare cables and old chargers. You’ve never owned a dildo. You’ve never needed one.

But Janice’s memories whisper: Look in the kitchen.

You pad down the hallway, naked, the air cool against your skin. The kitchen tiles are cold under your bare feet. The overhead light is off, but the streetlamp outside casts a pale orange glow through the window.

The drawer next to the sink. You pull it open, and your eyes scan the contents: spatulas, a vegetable peeler, a whisk.

No. Deeper.

Your hand pushes past the utensils, and your fingers brush against something smooth and cylindrical. You pull it out.

A rolling pin.

It’s wooden, worn smooth by use, about twelve inches long and maybe an inch and a half in diameter. It’s heavier than you expected, solid in your hand. You weigh it, feel the heft, and Janice’s memories stir with approval.

This will do.

You carry it back to the bedroom. The wood is cool against your palm, and you can feel the grain, the slight ridges where the handle meets the main body. You lie back on the bed, and your legs fall open automatically, your hips tilting up.

The rolling pin is cold against your inner thigh. You flinch, then guide it lower, pressing the rounded end against your entrance.

You’re still wet. So wet. The head of the rolling pin slides in without resistance, and you gasp—a sharp, surprised sound that belongs entirely to Janice.

It’s not like your fingers.

The width is immediate, a stretch that makes your eyes water, a fullness that presses against every wall inside you. Your hand grips the handle, and you push deeper, feeling the wood slide through your slickness, feeling your body open to accept it.

She’s on her back. Liam is above her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. He’s thick, thicker than she expected, and she has to breathe through the initial stretch, has to remind herself to relax. He waits, patient, until her body opens for him, and then he begins to move.

The memory bleeds into sensation. The rolling pin becomes his cock, thick and alive, sliding into you with a rhythm that’s steady, deliberate. Your hips lift to meet each thrust, and your other hand finds your breast, squeezing, pinching the nipple until it hardens.

The stretch is perfect. The pressure is exactly what you needed, what Janice’s body has been craving for eight months. You push the rolling pin deeper, and the handle bumps against your cervix, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your pelvis.

Your legs are shaking. Your toes curl against the sheets. The wooden shaft slides in and out with a wet sound that fills the quiet room, and you can feel every inch of it, every ridge, every curve.

You angle it differently, searching for the spot that Janice’s memories have marked. There. The head of the rolling pin presses against a spongy patch inside you, and your whole body convulses, a cry tearing from your throat.

Yes. Right there.

Your hand moves faster. The rolling pin pounds into you, and your breast is crushed in your other hand, your nails digging into the soft flesh. The pleasure is building faster than before, sharper, more desperate. Your thighs clamp around your hand, but you don’t stop, can’t stop, not when the pressure is coiling so tight in your belly, not when you’re so close—

The orgasm hits you like a wave.

Your back arches off the mattress. The rolling pin drives deep, and you hold it there, pressed against that perfect spot, as your body clenches around it, squeezing, milking the wood for everything it has. Your vision goes white. Your mouth is open, but no sound comes out—just a silent scream, a raw and broken thing.

The waves keep coming. One after another, each one pulling you deeper, until you’re nothing but a body, a woman, a vessel for pleasure.

You collapse.

The rolling pin slides out of you with a soft sound, landing on the sheets beside you. Your hand is wet. Your thighs are soaked. The smell of sex is overwhelming, and your chest is heaving, and you can barely keep your eyes open.

You don’t clean up.

You don’t move.

The sheets are damp and tangled beneath you. Your body is sticky, dirty, marked by everything you’ve done tonight. But you live alone. There’s no one to see, no one to judge, no one to remind you that this isn’t real.

Your eyes flutter closed. Janice’s memories drift at the edges of your consciousness, soft and warm, like a blanket you’re sinking into.

You’re asleep before you can decide to dream.