Cancel your plans with Dan

Your thumb moves before your brain catches up.

"gonna skip tonight sorry feeling off"

Dan replies instantly: "no worries man hope ur ok"

You don't answer. The phone goes face-down on the sink, and the reflection in the mirror is already shifting, the woman's lips curling into something that isn't quite a smile. Janice's face. Your face. Your body.

The bathroom tiles are cold against your bare feet. Your legs are still trembling from the orgasm, the muscles in your thighs twitching with aftershocks that haven't fully faded. You push off from the sink and take a step toward the door. The motion is different now—your hips sway, your breasts shift, and the air moves across your naked skin in ways that make your nipples tighten again.

She's real. She's here. She's you.

The hallway to your bedroom is short, five steps maybe, but each one feels deliberate, weighted. Your hand finds the doorframe, and you lean into your bedroom, scanning the space through Janice's eyes.

The unmade bed is a nest of tangled sheets and a thin comforter that's slid halfway to the floor. A pizza box from three days ago sits on the desk, next to a half-empty bottle of soda. Your clothes are scattered—a hoodie draped over the chair, a sock under the bed. The room smells like stale air and old sweat.

Janice's memory surfaces without warning.

Her own bedroom. White walls. A framed print of a woman reading. Everything in its place. The bed made with hospital corners. She would never leave clothes on the floor. She would never—

You push the memory down.

You're not her. Not really.

You climb onto the bed, and the mattress dips under Janice's weight. The sheets are rough against your knees, your thighs. You settle on your back, and your breasts fall to the sides, heavy and full, the nipples brushing against the cool air. Your hand drifts down your stomach, over the soft curve of your belly, and finds the wet heat between your legs.

Your fingers part yourself easily. The slickness is still there, still warm, and you slide two fingers inside without resistance. A gasp escapes your throat—Janice's throat—and your hips lift to meet the intrusion.

More.

You close your eyes, and the memories rise like heat.

She's on her back. A different bed. A man's hands on her hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises. He's behind her, driving into her with a rhythm that's practiced, familiar. She likes it. She likes the weight of him, the sound of his breathing, the way he moans her name when he's close. His name is Liam. She met him at a work conference. He has a wife in another city.

The image sharpens: Janice's legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head thrown back. You feel the phantom sensation of his cock inside you, the stretch, the fullness. Your fingers push deeper, matching the rhythm from the memory, and your other hand finds your clit, pressing in tight circles.

She's in the shower. Alone. Her hand is between her legs, and the water is hot, and she's thinking about the intern from accounting—the one with the shy smile and the way he blushes when she leans over his desk. She imagines him on his knees in front of her, his tongue—

Your hips buck. The image is vivid, and you can feel her embarrassment, the way she guiltily enjoyed the fantasy, then pushed it away. But you don't push it away. You let it play out. You let the shy intern's tongue find her clit, let her hands tangle in his hair, let her moan his name.

She's at a party. Drunk. A woman's hands on her waist, pulling her into a dark corner. The woman's lips are soft, and Janice is surprised by how much she likes it, how the stubble on the woman's chin scratches her jaw in a way that makes her shiver. They never speak afterward. Janice pretends it didn't happen.

Your fingers are moving faster now, driven by the ghost of that kiss, by the memory of a tongue that wasn't yours sliding against Janice's. Your thighs are trembling again, and the pressure is building, coiling tight in your lower belly.

She's in her car. A Tuesday afternoon. The parking lot of a grocery store. She's crying. She's just ended things with a man who didn't deserve her. She's telling herself she's fine. She's touching herself in the driver's seat, just to feel something, anything, that isn't the ache of goodbye.

That memory hits you like a punch. The raw loneliness of it, the desperation. But you don't stop. Your fingers keep moving, and the pleasure keeps building, and you let the memories carry you deeper into Janice's skin, deeper into the life you've stolen for the night.

Your orgasm is sudden, sharp. Your back arches off the mattress, and a cry tears from your throat—not a word, just a sound that belongs to a woman who's been touched, who's been remembered, who's been wanted.

Your hand collapses onto the sheets, wet and trembling.

You lie there, gasping, staring at the ceiling. Your chest heaves. Your thighs are slick. The smell of sex fills the small room.

And in the silence, you realize: you have access to every single one of her intimate moments. Every lover. Every fantasy. Every secret touch.

The power of it settles into your bones like a low hum.