together

The mattress dipped as Tom knelt beside her, his eyes tracing the unfamiliar landscape of her body. Tasha's form was so different from the Sarah he'd made love to just days ago—softer somehow, fuller, with that pronounced swell dominating her midsection. Her breasts were heavier than Sarah's had been even after the de-aging, the areolas darkened and broader. Blue veins traced delicate patterns beneath pale skin that seemed to glow with an inner luminescence.

"You're staring," she said, not accusatory but amused, almost shy.

"I know. I'm sorry, it's just..." Tom reached out tentatively, his fingertips grazing the curve of her belly. The skin was taut and warm, stretched smooth over the life growing inside. He felt movement—a flutter, then a distinct push against his palm. His breath caught.

"He's active today," Tasha murmured, covering Tom's hand with her own. "He always is in the mornings." Her voice carried Tasha's inflections, that slight breathiness she had, but there was something of Sarah in the way she looked at him—familiar recognition, deep affection mixed with anticipation.

Tom took the condom from her, setting it aside for the moment. "Can we... I mean, is it safe? For you, for the baby?"

She laughed softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Yes, Tom. Very safe. Women have sex while pregnant all the time." She shifted onto her side, the only comfortable position at this stage, and patted the space behind her. "Come here. This will work better."

He moved to spoon against her back, his body fitting along the curve of hers. The baby bump pressed against his forearm as he wrapped around her. She was shorter than Sarah, more petite overall despite the pregnancy, and the difference heightened the surreal quality of the moment. This was his neighbor. This was his wife. This was a stranger. This was the woman he loved wearing an entirely different life.

"Touch me," she whispered, guiding his hand up to her breast.

The weight of it filled his palm, heavy and sensitive. She gasped when his thumb brushed across her nipple, the bud already stiff and darker than he'd ever seen on Sarah. "Careful," she breathed. "They're really tender right now. Everything is so much more sensitive."

Tom gentled his touch, cupping rather than squeezing, feeling the warmth and fullness. His other hand explored her belly, tracing the taut roundness, following the line where it met her hip. Lower, he found the soft curve of her thigh, the smoothness of her skin. She'd shaved recently—for Christine, presumably, or maybe for herself. The thought sent an uncomfortable pang through him even as his cock hardened against her ass.

"Tom," she murmured, reaching back to touch his hip, urging him closer. "Stop thinking so much. Just feel."

He kissed her shoulder, tasting the faint salt of her skin, breathing in the scent that was distinctly not Sarah's usual fragrance. Tasha smelled like coconut and vanilla, something sweeter, younger. His lips traced up to her neck, finding the pulse point beneath her ear. She shivered and pressed back against him.

His hand slid lower, over the swell of her belly and down between her thighs. She parted her legs slightly, giving him access, and he felt the heat radiating from her before his fingers even made contact. When they did, she was already wet, slick and swollen. Her breath hitched as he explored her carefully, learning this version of her body.

"God, yes," she whispered, her voice catching. "Right there."

He found her clit, circling it with careful pressure. Her hips rocked against his hand, seeking more friction. The baby bump moved with her, a constant reminder of the profound strangeness of what they were doing. Tom's other hand returned to her breast, palm covering it entirely, feeling the weight shift as she moved.

"I need you," she gasped, reaching back awkwardly to find his erection. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking once, twice. "Please, Tom. Now."

He fumbled for the condom, tearing the wrapper with shaking hands. Rolling it on felt mechanical, a break in the intimacy that he resented even as he understood the necessity. When he was ready, she lifted her top leg slightly, hooking it back over his to open herself.

Tom positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was so wet he slid in easily despite the awkward angle, her body accepting him with a slick heat that made him groan. She cried out softly as he filled her, her hand flying down to steady the baby bump.

"Okay?" he asked, freezing.

"Yes, yes, more than okay. Move, please."

He did, slowly at first, shallow thrusts that let him feel every inch of her. The position meant he couldn't go as deep as he wanted, but the restriction somehow intensified everything. Each stroke dragged against her inner walls, and she was making small breathless sounds that went straight to his brain, shorting out thought.

"Harder," she demanded, and that was pure Sarah—that note of command, of knowing exactly what she wanted.

Tom gripped her hip and gave her what she asked for, pulling her back onto him as he thrust forward. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, flesh against flesh, punctuated by her gasps and his ragged breathing. His hand slid around to her front again, finding her clit and working it in rhythm with his thrusts.

"Oh fuck, Tom, yes, just like that," she panted, and her voice was all Tasha now, higher, breathier, cracking with pleasure. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

He couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. The heat of her body, the tight grip of her cunt around him, the impossible reality of the situation—it all crashed over him in waves. He felt her tense, her inner muscles beginning to flutter around him.

"I'm close," she whimpered. "So close, Tom, please—"

He pressed harder on her clit, circling faster, and she shattered. Her orgasm hit with a cry that she muffled against the pillow, her whole body going rigid before dissolving into shudders. The rhythmic clenching of her pussy around his cock pulled him over the edge. He thrust deep once, twice more, then came hard, groaning against her neck as pleasure whited out his vision.

They stayed locked together as the aftershocks faded, both breathing hard. Tom felt the baby move again, a strong kick against his forearm that was still draped over her belly. The reminder of reality crashed down on him—he'd just fucked his pregnant lesbian neighbor who was actually his wife who was actually someone caught between two lives.

"Jesus," he muttered.

She laughed weakly, the sound tired and satisfied. "Yeah. That about covers it."

Tom carefully withdrew, dealing with the condom mechanically before returning to the bed. She'd rolled onto her back, one hand on her belly, the other flung above her head. Her face was flushed, hair messed, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She looked beautiful and alien and heartbreakingly familiar all at once.

"So," he said, not sure where to begin.

"So," she echoed, turning her head to look at him. Her pale blue eyes—Tasha's eyes—studied his face. "That was... something."

"Are you okay? Was it...?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything—the sex, the situation, the identity crisis.

She smiled, and this time it was definitely Sarah's expression on Tasha's face. "It was perfect. Exactly what I wanted." She reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. "And yes, I'm okay. Both of me. All three of us, technically." She patted her stomach.

Tom processed that, trying to sort through the complicated tangle of ethics and emotions. "What happens now?"

"Now?" She stretched, arching her back. "Now I go home, play the doting pregnant wife when Christine gets back. You sit with your grief over your dead spouse." The words should have been cruel, but her tone was matter-of-fact, almost gentle. "We have weeks of this, Tom. Weeks for me to experience pregnancy, to live as someone else, to see what this life feels like."

"And us?" He hated how needy the question sounded.

"We'll figure it out." She sat up slowly, the movement awkward with her belly. "I don't know if this will happen again. It depends on how much of me stays Sarah, how much becomes Tasha. But either way, you're stuck with me coming over daily to 'check on the poor widower.'" She made air quotes around the last part, grinning.

Tom watched her dress, pulling on the maternity underwear and comfortable clothes. She moved with **** grace, cradling her belly as she stood, the gestures so natural that he wondered where Tasha ended and Sarah began. Maybe there was no clear line anymore. Maybe that was the whole point—to blur those boundaries, to live in the space between identities.

She kissed him before she left, a quick press of lips that tasted like possibility and confusion. "Same time tomorrow?" she asked with a wink.

"Yeah," Tom said, because what else could he say? "Tomorrow."

He watched from the window as she walked back to her house—to Tasha's house—one hand on her belly, moving with that particular waddle of late pregnancy. Christine wouldn't be home for hours. Tom had the rest of the day to sit with what had just happened, to examine it from every angle, to wonder what the hell he'd gotten them both into.

The coin sat on his dresser, innocuous and heavy with power. He could end this right now, bring Sarah back, undo the wish. But she'd asked him not to, had asked to ride this out and see where it went.

Tom picked up the coin, Sarah's face stamped on its surface. His Sarah. Who was currently living as someone else, carrying someone else's child, married to someone else. Who had just fucked him with enthusiastic consent while inhabiting a body and life that weren't originally hers.

He put the coin back down.

She wanted weeks. He could give her that, even if it drove him insane with confusion and want and the profound strangeness of it all. Because buried under all the complications was a simple truth—he loved her. In whatever form she took, whatever life she lived, that core remained unchanged.

Even if everything else had transformed beyond recognition.