Janice

The sheet is warm.

That’s the first thing you notice when you lift it from the printer tray—it has the temperature of something alive, something that was breathing a minute ago. You spread it across your desk, and it drapes like a discarded costume, but heavier. Denser. It smells faintly of ozone and something else, something floral and skin-like that makes your stomach flip.

The photograph is still up on your phone. Janice, caught mid-laugh with Matilda at a rooftop bar last Saturday. Her white top dips low, and the jeans sit loose on her hips. She’d posted it Sunday morning, and you’d saved it without thinking, one of a dozen women you follow from a distance.

You strip.

The flat is quiet except for the hum of the printer cooling down. Your clothes land on the floor in a pile—hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, socks. Your boxers come last, and your cock is already stiff, curving up against your stomach the way it always does when you’re alone and thinking. Small. You know it’s small. But right now that doesn’t matter, because the thing on your desk is not you.

It’s her.

The suit has a slit down the back, almost invisible, like the seam of a wetsuit. You find it with your fingers and pull it open carefully.

The material is elastic and cool against your skin as you slide one leg in. It clings immediately, molding to your calf, your knee, your thigh—and then it tightens. A sensation like warm water rushing over you, except it’s pressure, it’s reshaping. Your skinny leg fills out, softens, gains weight and curve. The hair on your leg vanishes. The muscle beneath the skin seems to redistribute itself, and when you flex, what flexes back is not your calf but hers.

You pull the other leg in. Your hips widen with a strange, deep ache, bones shifting under the suit’s grip. The waist cinches, the belly softens into a gentle curve. You can feel your body becoming denser, rounder, more substantial.

Then the arms.

You slide them in one at a time, and your shoulders narrow, your biceps thin, your hands—your clever, nervous hands—shrink into smaller, softer versions with manicured nails and faint calluses at the fingertips. You wiggle them, and they move like hers. They feel like hers. There’s a ring mark on the left one, pale and faint; she must have taken it off recently.

The chest comes last.

You pull the front of the suit up over your shoulders and then you feel the weight—real weight—settling against your sternum. Breasts. They aren’t huge, but they’re full, heavy at the bottom, the kind that move when you move. When you breathe, they rise and fall with you. When you shift your shoulders, they sway.

You reach back and seal the slit. It closes with a soft, wet sound, and then the suit tightens one final time, pulling everything into place.

Your face.

You hadn’t even noticed the hood. It slides up over your scalp, and your hair—her hair, dark and thick—tumbles down over your shoulders. The suit’s face molds over yours, and for a second you can’t breathe, your vision goes white, and then—

You blink.

The world looks different. Not optically—you’re still you behind the eyes—but the weight of your head is different. The way your jaw sits. The way your lips feel fuller, your nose narrower, your cheekbones higher and softer.

You stand up. Your balance is off. Your center of gravity has shifted, lower now, anchored in wider hips and heavier breasts. You take a step, and your thighs brush together. You take another, and you feel the gentle bounce of your chest.

You walk to the bathroom.

The mirror is small, framed in cheap chrome, and the light above it is unflattering. But when you step into frame, the reflection is unmistakable.

Janice.

She looks back at you with tired, kind eyes. Late twenties. Brunette. Her face has a softness to it, a weariness around the mouth that you’ve seen a hundred times in the hallway, but up close it’s different. Up close you can see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the small scar on her chin, the way her lips rest slightly parted.

You’ve never been this close to her.

Your hands rise to your face. Her hands. You touch her cheeks, her jaw, the bridge of her nose. The skin is warm. Real. The sensation is doubled—you feel your fingers on your face, and you feel your face being touched. Two sets of nerves, layered.

You look down at your chest. The white top from the photo clings to your breasts, the scoop neck dipping low enough to show the soft swell of cleavage. You’ve seen this view in photos, in stolen glances, but never from behind the eyes.

Your hands move lower. You cup your breasts through the fabric, and a shiver runs through you—through her. They’re heavy and soft, and your thumbs find the nipples through the cotton and the bra beneath, already stiffening.

A sound escapes your throat. Her voice. A small, surprised breath.

You stare at the mirror. At Janice’s face, flushed now, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling faster.

Should I continue?

The thought hangs there. You could stop. You could peel the suit off and go to bed and pretend this never happened. You could take her photo off your phone and never look at it again.

But your hands are still on her breasts.

You slide one hand down, past the waistband of the loose jeans, past the soft curve of the belly, into the warmth between your thighs.

Your fingers find wetness.

Oh.

You’ve never felt this. Your own body never produced this. But Janice’s body does. She’s aroused. You’re aroused. The suit knows, or maybe the suit is just responding to you.

You press a finger inside, and your knees buckle.

The reflection in the mirror gasps, her eyes wide, her mouth open.

You steady yourself against the sink with one hand and keep going with the other, watching Janice’s face change as you touch her. Your face. The face of the woman from apartment 3B who held the door open for you last night and called you “Marty” like it was a real name, like you were a real person.

Now you’re her.

And she’s touching herself in your mirror.

“Oh god,” you whisper in her voice.

Your hips buck against your hand. The pleasure is deeper than you expected, fuller, radiating up into your belly and down into your thighs. Your breasts press against the counter, the cold porcelain against your nipples, and you gasp again.

The phone buzzes on the bathroom tile.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

Your phone buzzes again on the tile. You ignore it.

Your fingers are still inside her—inside you—and the reflection in the mirror has become a stranger you know intimately. Janice’s eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted, her breathing shallow. The white top is still on, bunched at your ribs, and the jeans are unbuttoned but not removed.

Take it off.

The thought arrives like a command. Your own thought, but it feels urgent, necessary. You need to see. You’ve never seen a woman naked in real life. Pixels on a screen, sure. Magazines in a gas station trash bin. But never like this. Never her.

You pull the white top over your head. It catches on your hair—her hair—and you have to shake it free. The bra beneath is simple, beige, functional. The kind a woman wears on a Tuesday when she’s not trying to impress anyone.

Your hands go to the clasp behind your back. You’ve never done this before, but Janice’s fingers know the motion. A twist, a pinch, and the bra loosens. The straps slide down your shoulders. You let it fall.

And then you’re bare from the waist up.

The mirror shows you a woman’s torso, and you stop breathing for a second. Her breasts are not the perky, airbrushed things from magazines. They’re real. They hang lower than you expected, heavy and soft, with a slight sag that speaks to gravity and time and the simple truth of a body that has lived. The nipples are wide and dark, already stiff from the cool bathroom air. The areolas are large, slightly puckered, and the left breast has a small mole near its underside that you never would have noticed in a photo.

You cup them again, but now there’s no fabric between your palms and her skin. The weight settles into your hands, and you squeeze gently, watching the flesh dimple between your fingers. A shiver runs up your spine. Her nipples press against your palms, and you feel it—the sensitivity, the way the nerves light up like small fires.

More.

Your hands drop to the jeans. You push them down over your hips, and they catch on the curve of your ass. You have to wiggle to get them past, and the motion makes your breasts sway, makes you aware of every inch of this new body. The jeans pool at your ankles. You step out of them, kicking them aside.

The panties are black, cotton, high-waisted. Practical. There’s a small damp patch at the center.

You hook your thumbs under the waistband and slide them down.

The air hits your thighs, your belly, the soft mound between your legs. You step out of the panties and stand fully naked in front of the mirror.

For a long moment, you don’t move.

You stare at the woman in the glass. She’s looking back at you with wide, hungry eyes. Her body is soft in ways your male body never was. Her belly has a gentle curve, not flat but not fat, just there, a place where life happens. Her hips flare out, creating a dip at the waist that your hands instinctively find. Her thighs are thick, touching at the top, and between them—

You look down.

Your cock is gone.

There’s no trace of it. The suit has swallowed it completely, replaced by a smooth mound of soft flesh covered in trimmed brown hair. The hair is neat but not meticulous; she hasn’t shaved recently, and there’s a slight stubble at the edges, a day or two of growth. Janice’s memories flicker at the edges of your mind—she used to keep it bare, used to date a man who preferred it that way, but that ended eight months ago. She hasn’t bothered since.

You part the lips with two fingers.

The skin is darker here, pinker, wet. The hood of her clit peeks out, small and hooded, and when you brush it with your thumb, your whole body jerks.

Oh fuck.

The pleasure is sharp and immediate, nothing like the slow build of a handjob. It’s focused, a tight knot of sensation that radiates outward into your pelvis, down your thighs, up into your stomach. Your knees buckle again, and you have to lean against the sink.

Janice’s memories stir, rising like bubbles from deep water. You see fragments: her hand moving in the shower, the water hot on her back, her fingers working in a specific rhythm. She knows her body. She knows exactly how to touch herself.

You let the memories guide you.

Your hand slides lower, and your middle finger finds the entrance. You press inside, and the walls grip you, hot and slick. Your thumb finds the clit, and you begin to move in a circle, not fast, just steady, the way Janice likes it.

A sound escapes your throat. Her voice again, but deeper this time, more desperate.

Your hips begin to move on their own, rocking against your hand. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, coiling in your lower belly, spreading through your chest. Your breasts bounce with each motion, and you watch them in the mirror, fascinated by the way they move, the way they’re yours.

You add a second finger.

The stretch is perfect, the fit exact. Your palm presses against your clit with each thrust, and the rhythm becomes instinctive, pulled from Janice’s muscle memory. She knows what she likes. She likes it deep, likes it slow at first, then faster, a steady increase that builds pressure like a wave you can’t outrun.

Your thighs are trembling. The muscles in your stomach are tight, and your breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. The reflection in the mirror is beautiful—Janice’s face flushed, her mouth open, her eyes half-closed, her hair sticking to her damp forehead.

You’re close.

The pressure is immense now, a knot that needs to unravel. Your fingers move faster, your thumb pressing harder, and you can feel the edge approaching, the brink of something you’ve never experienced.

Let go.

Janice’s memory whispers the words. She’s done this a hundred times, alone in her apartment, her hand between her legs, the same rhythm, the same build, the same release.

You obey.

The orgasm hits you like a fall.

Your vision goes white. Your back arches, pressing your breasts forward, and a sound tears from your throat—not a word, just a raw, broken cry. Your hips buck against your hand, and the pleasure keeps coming, waves of it, each one deeper than the last, pulling your muscles tight and then releasing them, over and over, until you’re shaking, your legs barely holding you up.

You pull your fingers out, but the aftershocks keep coming, smaller now, fading like ripples in a pond.

You open your eyes.

The mirror shows you Janice, panting, her skin flushed, her chest heaving. Her hand is wet, glistening in the bathroom light. Her thighs are slick.

You’re still standing, barely.

Your phone buzzes again on the tile.