Leaving her body again

The afterglow holds you like warm water. Your cheek presses into the couch cushion, the fabric rough against Cathy's skin, and every nerve in her body still hums with a low, satisfied current. The candle sits deep inside your ass, a solid, unyielding presence that keeps you tethered to the moment. You breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth, and each exhale shivers through you, a tiny aftershock that ripples down your spine and makes your toes curl against the cushion.

You don't move. You can't. Your legs have folded beneath you, knees splayed, and Cathy's ass stays lifted, presented to the empty room, the candle's base flush against your cheeks. The wax has warmed to your body temperature now, no longer a foreign object but an extension of you, a secret you're keeping from the whole world. Your pussy still throbs, slick and swollen, and a thin trickle of wetness runs down your inner thigh, cooling in the air.

"This is insane", you think. "This is the best thing that has ever happened to me."

Your hand drifts back, almost lazy, and your fingers find the curve of Cathy's ass. You squeeze, feeling the firm muscle give under your palm, the way it fills your hand, heavy and round. You knead it slowly, pressing your fingertips into the flesh, watching the skin dimple and spring back. The candle shifts inside you with the movement, a small, delicious pressure that makes your breath hitch. You grab the other cheek, pull them apart, and the air hits the stretched rim of your asshole, cool against the heat. You hold yourself open like that, exposed, and you can feel the candle's base, the wet gleam of your skin, the raw, used look of the hole that just took something thicker than your fingers.

Your hand slides up your side, over the dip of your waist, and cups your breast. Cathy's breast. You lift it, weigh it, feel the soft pad of fat and gland over the firm muscle beneath. The nipple is still hard, a tight, pink bud that aches when you brush your thumb across it. You pinch it, roll it, and a fresh pulse of heat shoots straight to your clit. Her memories flicker: Matt's mouth there, his teeth, the way he could make her come just from this if he was patient enough. You squeeze harder, pulling the nipple away from your chest until it stings, and the pain is so good you moan into the cushion.

Then the thought lands, and it won't leave.

Cathy. The girl who smiles at you in the coffee shop. The girl who says "don't work too hard, Marty" with that little dimple. The girl who everyone thinks is sweet and modest and maybe a little shy. And here she is, in her own memories, on her knees in a hotel bathroom with Matt's cock down her throat. Here she is, bent over a hot tub, water slapping against her ass while he fucks her from behind. Here she is, begging for it in the back of a car, tying him to a bed, wearing a cheerleader uniform just to watch his eyes go dark.

She's a slut, you think, and the word doesn't feel like an insult. It feels like a revelation. The kind, popular girl, the one everyone puts on a pedestal, and she's filthier than any fantasy you ever had. She loves anal. She loves being filled. She loves the taste of cum and the sting of a hand on her ass. And nobody knows. Nobody but Matt. And now you.

You lie there for another minute, just breathing, just feeling. Then you reach back and take the base of the candle.

You pull it out slowly. So slowly. The wax drags against your inner walls, and the sensation is almost too much—a long, sliding pressure that empties you inch by inch. Your asshole clenches, trying to hold on, and you have to stop halfway, panting, your forehead pressed to the cushion. You pull again, and the widest part of the candle stretches you one last time, a sharp, bright burn that makes your whole body shudder. Then it's out.

The emptiness hits you immediately. A hollow, open feeling, like a door left ajar.

You set the candle on the floor and reach back with both hands, spreading your cheeks wide. The air rushes in, cool and strange, and you can feel it—the gape. Your asshole is still open, a round, pink O that won't close. You touch it with your fingertip, and the rim is soft, pliable, stretched. You push the tip of your finger in, just to the first knuckle, and there's no resistance at all. Just warmth, and wetness, and the faint, musky smell of what you've just done.

God.

You sit up. Your legs shake, Cathy's thighs trembling with the effort, but you manage it. You swing your feet to the floor and stand, wobbling, one hand braced on the arm of the couch. The flat tilts, then steadies. Your pussy is still slick, your ass still open, and every step sends a ghost of sensation through your pelvis. You walk to the mirror, and Cathy walks with you—flushed, sweaty, her dark hair a mess, her lips swollen. She looks like she's just been thoroughly fucked. She looks like she wants to be fucked again.

"But this body is wasted", you think. "And I don't need to wait for it to recover."

The skinsuit.

You find the seam at the back of your neck. It's subtle, a faint ridge that your fingers can just barely find. You pinch it, pull, and the suit peels away from your skin with a soft, wet sound, like the world's gentlest adhesive letting go. The air hits your real skin, cool and sharp, and you gasp.

The transformation reverses itself slowly, a body remembering its true shape. Your shoulders broaden, your hips narrow, your height stretches upward as Cathy's bones give way to yours. The suit slides down your arms, and you feel your own muscles, thinner and softer, reassert themselves. You peel it off your chest, and your flat, bony ribcage emerges, the breasts you were just cupping collapsing back into the suit like deflating balloons. You pull it down past your stomach, your hips, your thighs, and each inch reveals more of the body you've lived in for twenty-two years. Pale. Angular. Unremarkable.

You step out of the legs, and the suit collapses on the floor, a hollow Cathy-shaped shell, her face slack and empty, her dark hair fanned across the laminate. You stand over it, naked, and look down at yourself.

Your cock is rock hard.

It juts up from your body, thin and short, the head flushed and glistening. You wrap your hand around it, and the sensation is familiar but dull compared to what you just felt. You remember Cathy's memories—Matt's cock, thick and long, the way it filled her, the weight of it on her tongue. You remember the way she moaned when he pushed inside her. You look down at your own pitiful erection, and a cold, familiar shame settles in your chest.

"She would have laughed", you think. "If she ever saw this. She would have been kind about it, but she would have laughed."

You let go of your cock and stare at the suit. Cathy's empty face stares back, her dark eyes hollow, her lips slightly parted. The jersey and leggings are still crumpled on the floor nearby, and the candle lies where you left it, slick and forgotten. The flat is quiet. The night is young.

And you have no idea what to do next.