Enjoy your new body

Your hand stops just above the skin. The air between your palm and Cathy’s mound feels charged, electric, a gap you could measure in millimeters but that stretches like a chasm.

You let your hand fall.

The touch is soft at first, tentative—the pads of your fingers brushing through the neat triangle of dark hair. It’s coarser than you expected, springy and dense, and the skin beneath it is warm, almost hot. You press a little harder, feel the slight give of the flesh underneath, and a small sound escapes your lips. Cathy’s lips. The voice is high and breathy, unfamiliar in your own ears.

You pull your hand away, startled. Then you bring it back.

This time you’re deliberate. You slide your fingers down through the hair, parting it, until you find the lips beneath. They’re soft, fuller than you imagined, and when you separate them with two fingers, the wetness inside catches the lamplight. You stare. You’ve never seen this up close before—not in person, not like this, not attached to a body that responds to your every touch. The folds are pink and glistening, asymmetrical in a way that surprises you, the inner lips slightly longer on one side than the other. At the top, a small hood, and beneath it, a nub so tiny you almost miss it. You touch it with the tip of your finger, and your whole body jerks.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and the word comes out in her voice, cracked and astonished.

You spread yourself wider, hooking your knees apart, and the position pulls the lips open, reveals the dark, wet opening beneath. Your finger traces the rim of it, circles without entering, and the sensation is maddening—a tickle, a promise, a heat that builds with each pass. Cathy’s body knows what it wants. You can feel it in the way your hips tilt upward, in the way your breath quickens, in the ache that gathers low and insistent.

You slide one finger inside.

The resistance is immediate, a tight ring of muscle that clenches around your knuckle, then yields. The heat inside is shocking—warmer than your own body, wetter, more alive. You push deeper, feeling the walls grip you, and your eyes flutter shut. The sensation is doubled: your finger inside her, and the feeling of being filled, a strange phantom echo that makes your toes curl. You add a second finger, and the stretch is just shy of pain, a pressure that blooms into pleasure as you push past it.

Your thumb finds your clit. You press, circle, and the world narrows to that single point of contact. Cathy’s memories surge forward, unbidden, and you let them come.

She’s on her stomach, the sheets of her own bed cool against her skin. Matt’s hands are on her hips, pulling her up, and there’s a cold trickle of lube running down the crack of her ass. She’s nervous—her first time doing this—but she trusts him. He’s patient, always patient, and his voice is low and steady in her ear. “Just breathe. Tell me if it’s too much.” She feels the pressure, the blunt head of him pressing against a place nothing has ever entered, and she tenses. He stops. Waits. She forces herself to relax, to breathe, and then he pushes, and there’s a burn that makes her gasp, a fullness that feels wrong and right at the same time. He’s halfway in. She’s panting. He’s whispering, “You’re doing so well, baby.” And then he’s all the way in, and she feels impossibly full, stretched, claimed. He waits a full minute before he moves, and when he does, it’s slow, shallow, and the pain fades into something she didn’t expect—pleasure, deep and strange, building with each thrust until she’s pushing back against him, asking for more.

Your fingers are still inside your pussy, but your other hand has drifted lower, tracing the tight ring of muscle between your cheeks. You press, just a little, and the memory flares brighter. You’ve never thought about this. You’ve never imagined Cathy like this. Never thought Cathy would be one to take it up the ass. But the memory is hers, vivid and real, and you feel the echo of that first invasion, the strange pleasure of surrender. And by what you could tell that first time had been far from the last time they ever did it.

The summer trip. A beach resort with infinity pools and white sand. Their room has a balcony overlooking the ocean, and they’ve spent the whole day in the sun, drunk on cocktails and each other. That night, she’s wearing a white sundress, and he’s in linen pants, and they barely make it through dinner before he’s pulling her back to the room. He fucks her on the bed, then on the chair by the window, then in the shower, where the water runs cold and she’s pressed against the tile, his hand around her throat, his cock so deep she can feel it in her stomach. She comes three times. She loses count after that.

Your hips are moving now, grinding against your hand, and the wet sounds fill the room. You’re panting, Cathy’s breath ragged and fast, and more memories cascade through you.

The skiing trip. Matt’s parents paid for a chalet in the Alps, all exposed beams and a stone fireplace. The bedroom has a balcony, and one night, after everyone else has gone to sleep, she steps outside naked. The air is freezing, the snow glows blue under the moon, and her nipples tighten into hard peaks. She stands there, exposed, thrilled by the risk, and then she hears the door slide open. Matt steps out behind her, and his finger traces the crack of her ass, a slow, deliberate line from her tailbone to the top of her thighs. She shivers, and it’s not from the cold.

Your clit is throbbing under your thumb. You’re close—you can feel it building, a pressure behind your pelvis, a tightening in your thighs. But you don’t want to come yet. You want to stay in her head, in her skin, in the endless gallery of her pleasure.

Their last anniversary. She borrowed a cheerleader uniform from a friend at another university—blue and white, with a short pleated skirt and a cropped top that showed her midriff. She’d planned a whole evening: candles, champagne, the uniform under a trench coat. When she revealed it, Matt’s eyes went wide. She rode him in that uniform, the skirt bunched around her waist, the pom-poms forgotten on the floor. She kept the top on the whole time, and he came so hard he had to catch his breath.

Your fingers are moving faster now, a rhythm you didn’t consciously choose, and you’re sliding a third finger inside, the stretch burning in the best way. Cathy’s pussy is greedy, insatiable, and you’re just along for the ride.

A houseparty. A short black bodycon dress that ended mid-thigh. She’d had three shots of tequila and felt invincible. Matt found her in the kitchen, and they slipped into the guest bathroom, locking the door behind them. The room was small, cramped, her back against the sink. He kissed her until her knees went weak, then hitched her dress up and slid his hand into her panties. She came on his fingers, biting his shoulder to keep quiet, the muffled bass of the party thrumming through the walls.

Your thumb circles your clit with frantic precision, and the pressure is unbearable, a coiled spring that’s about to snap. But the memories keep coming, unbidden, a flood you can’t stop.

Her teammates. The locker room after practice, steam rising from the showers, the sound of women laughing and talking. She’s always been casual about nudity—it’s just bodies, after all, just skin and muscle and the tools of their sport. But now, through her eyes, you see them differently. The way Jenny’s breasts swing as she dries her hair. The curve of Sarah’s back as she bends to tie her shoes. The flash of a shaved cunt as another girl steps out of her shorts, unselfconscious, natural.

Cathy never thought twice about these moments. But you do. You’re inside her, and her casual comfort becomes your aching arousal, the sight of her teammates’ bodies feeding something hungry and new.

Your legs are shaking. The muscles in your thighs tremble, and your back arches off the bed, and you’re gone—you’re falling, tumbling, the orgasm ripping through you with a force that steals your breath. Your pussy clenches around your fingers in waves, each contraction pulling a sound from your throat, a high, broken moan that you can’t control. Your legs kick out, heels digging into the mattress, and your free hand grips the sheets so hard your knuckles ache. The pleasure doesn’t peak and fade—it expands, fills every corner of Cathy’s body, until you’re nothing but sensation, a single point of unbearable, exquisite pressure.

Then it recedes, slowly, leaving you gasping.

Your fingers slide out, wet and trembling. You let your hand fall to the mattress, and you lie there, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, Cathy’s heart hammering in your ears. The room swims back into focus: the lamp, the stray sock, the familiar cracks in the plaster above your bed.

You are you. But you are also her.

And you have no idea what to do next.