Class

Students mill about between classes, many of them attractive young people at the peak of physical perfection. Your newfound powers make each of them potential vessels for your pleasure.

The lecture hall is half-full when you arrive, students settling into the tiered seating with coffee cups and laptops. You recognize some faces from Sam's memories – casual acquaintances mostly, people she's worked with on group projects or exchanged notes with.

A slender Asian woman waves from the third row. "Sam! I saved you a seat."

You search Sam's memories... Lily, her project partner for the midterm paper on Transcendentalism. You slide into the seat beside her.

"You look different today," Lily observes, studying your face. "Like, glowing or something. New skincare routine?"

You smile cryptically. "Just had a good morning workout."

"Must have been intense," she says with a laugh. "You're practically radiating."

Professor Harmon enters, a silver-haired woman with wire-rimmed glasses and an armful of books. As she begins discussing Whitman's poetry, your mind wanders back to Vanessa's eager tongue and forward to tonight's possibilities. The day stretches before you, full of opportunity, with the promise of Vanessa's complete submission awaiting you at day's end.

The lecture winds down as Professor Harmon closes her well-worn copy of "Leaves of Grass." Students shuffle papers and zip backpacks around you, the room filling with the low murmur of post-class chatter.

"Remember, your response papers are due Monday!" Professor Harmon calls over the growing noise. "Don't wait until Sunday night—Whitman deserves better than your sleep-deprived ramblings."

A ripple of guilty laughter passes through the room. You remain seated as others file out, including Lily who gives you a questioning look.

"Aren't you coming?" she asks, hovering beside your seat.

"I need to ask about the assignment," you lie smoothly. "Save me a spot if you're heading to the dining hall."

Satisfied, Lily joins the stream of departing students, leaving you alone with Professor Harmon. She's organizing papers at her lectern, silver hair falling forward as she bends over her work. At sixty-something, she maintains an elegant, commanding presence—tall and slender with excellent posture, dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy blouse.

You focus intently on her, channeling your power. The familiar dizziness washes over you, consciousness stretching thin before snapping forward like a rubber band released.

Suddenly, you're looking at the lecture hall from the front. Your vision has changed—slightly blurrier around the edges. You can feel reading glasses perched on your nose. Your body feels different—taller, with a subtle ache in the lower back and knees that speaks of decades lived.

You flex Professor Harmon's elegant fingers, feeling the smooth metal of several rings, including a plain gold band. Married, then. You open her mind, rifling through surface thoughts and immediate memories. Eleanor Harmon. Thirty years teaching American Literature. Husband Robert, semi-retired architect. Two adult children living on opposite coasts.

Across the room, you see Sam's body sitting vacant, eyes unfocused but still upright. You need to work quickly before anyone notices.

Delving deeper into Eleanor's consciousness, you begin the delicate work of memory manipulation. You thread artificial desires through her mind—devotion to Sam, secret longings, willingness to serve. You plant elaborate fantasies of forbidden student-teacher encounters, making her believe she's harbored these thoughts for months.

"You want to please Sam," you whisper with Eleanor's refined voice. "You'll do anything she asks without question. Your greatest pleasure comes from serving her needs."

The manipulation takes root, but you sense resistance—a lifetime of professional ethics and personal integrity creating stronger barriers than Vanessa's mind presented. You push harder, forcing the artificial desires deeper.

A knock at the door startles you. Through Eleanor's eyes, you see a balding man in his sixties peering in.

"Ellie? Still on for lunch?" he asks, his expression warm and familiar.

"Robert," you realize, accessing Eleanor's memories. Her husband, here to take her to their standing Wednesday lunch date.

"I'll need to cancel today," you reply in Eleanor's measured tones. "Last-minute student issue."

Robert's face falls slightly. "Everything alright?"

"Fine, just time-sensitive. Rain check?"

He nods, concern evident but respecting his wife's professionalism. "I'll see you at home then. Don't work too late."

As he leaves, you finish cementing the altered memories, then trigger the return to Sam's body. The disorienting shift happens quickly, and you blink Sam's eyes, readjusting to her perspective.

Across from you, Professor Harmon sways slightly, one hand reaching for the lectern to steady herself. When her eyes focus again, they lock onto you with newfound intensity. Her professional demeanor remains, but something hungry now lurks beneath the surface.

"Sam," she says, her voice lower than before. "Did you need something from me?"